Pretty Revenge (ARC)

by Emily Liebert

  He laughed. “I bet you are. Super impressive, even more so now that I know you can hold your own against a prick like Spencer.”

  “I guess pricks are my specialty.” I laughed with him.

  “It’s funny, this conversation reminds me of the way I used to be able to talk to Tatiana. It’s so easy with you.”

  “I remind you of Tatiana?” I was flattered, even though I know Tatiana and I have nothing in common. In fact, she’s everything I’m not. Sophisticated, cultured, rich. Engaged to William.

  “A little, yeah. It’s a compliment, don’t worry.” He thought for a moment, while he kept his eyes focused on me. “I used to be able to sit down with her over pizza and a beer and just say what was on my mind. She used to listen, like you do. But if I’m being truly honest, it hasn’t been that way for longer than I realized.”

  “What about your friends? You must be able to talk to them.”

  “Not so much. Tatiana and I have the same social circle. Our families know each other—as do all their friends. It’s kind of incestuous.”

  “Sounds . . . convenient.”

  “Good word choice.” He smiled. “I like that I can say whatever I want to you because you’re not intertwined with any of our lives, yet you’re still exposed to it through your job. You have a unique perspective, which is so valuable—in more ways than one. You know what I mean?”

  “I’m happy to help in any way I can. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Right. My faithful servant.” He held up his beer and hesitated for moment. “To friendship.”

  I did the same. “To friendship.”

  “And to things being uncomplicated for a change.”

  “To things being uncomplicated.”

  If only he knew.

  18KERRIE

  “Hey, lady!” Sara rasped over the pounding pulse of the music. “Sorry I’m late. You look hot!”

  When Sara and I had originally made the plan to meet at a bar two blocks away from our apartment, she said she’d meet me there since she’d be coming from downtown. So I decided to arrive a few minutes early, to save us two seats and to order a white wine for me and a vodka martini for her—extra olives. It was still early and the place was pretty empty. The “scene” on the weekend doesn’t really amp up until ten or eleven. Fine by me. I’m not one for congested spaces. Extra surprising that I like this city so much, considering there’s no space in Manhattan that isn’t congested.

  “Really? You think?” It had taken me forty-five minutes to riffle through the mess of pencil skirts and silk blouses in my cube-like closet.

  After trying on three or four of the skirts and then unfolding a stack of jeans that were all shapeless and far too . . . Kerrie, I finally settled on a pair of fitted black pants that I coordinated with a silvery tank top, minus the blazer I’d typically wear over it, and the highest of high heels—par for the course in New York. I flat ironed my hair, curling it at the ends as Blake trained me to do, and then I applied a little more makeup than I normally would during the week. I have no idea how people put in this much effort all the time. It must take Tatiana and Ethel hours to get ready just to step outside their apartments.

  “Hell yeah! You’re one fine piece of ass.” Sara always tries to buoy my confidence. It almost feels like a normal friendship. You know, despite the fact that she has no idea who I really am.

  “Thanks.” I smiled. The thing is, I’ve lost a significant amount of weight since I moved here; the relentless pace of this city will do that to you. Sara told me it would be much less expensive to have a few pieces taken in than to buy a whole new wardrobe. And she was right. “What’s with the conservative attire?” I’d noticed her crisp blue pants suit and white button-down shirt immediately, mainly because she never wears anything like that. She’s usually in workout pants and a T-shirt.

  “Job interview.” She swung her purse over the back of her stool and sat down next to me.

  “On a Saturday?” I took a sip of wine.

  “It was the only time he could do it. And the only time I knew Dante would be with Joel. He took him to his parents’ house in Westchester. They live on seven acres with a swimming pool, a tennis court, and one of those offensive jungle gym things. The whole shebang.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “Does it?”

  “Sure, why not?” I thought about where I grew up. No one had those jungle gym things, offensive or otherwise. We were lucky if someone stole a tire and jerry-rigged it to a tree. It’s pretty amazing that it’s only been seven weeks since I moved here. And already my old life in Connecticut feels out of reach. Maybe even like it never existed. This is who I am now. This is who I was meant to be all along.

  “Let’s see. Maybe because his parents make me itch all over.”

  “That’s not good.” I laughed. “I take it you don’t like them?”

  “No, they’re fine. I guess. His mother is passive-aggressive as all hell. She’ll say things like, ‘Oh wow, Dante got a haircut. Do you think he likes it that short?’ And I’m like, No, bitch! I don’t think he knows he fucking has hair! Or she’ll say, ‘It must be lovely not to feel pressured to take off the baby weight.’ And his father’s about a hundred and three. He tells the same stories about his childhood on a loop. Over and over and over. It may be the only thing worse than sitting through Dante’s music class.”

  “A hundred and three?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “Okay, he’s eighty-two, but you get my point.”

  “So how did it go? The interview.”

  “Eh.” She slid an olive off the miniature plastic sword in her martini and popped it in her mouth.

  “Eh?”

  “Well, I mean, I killed it. Obviously. I’m a fucking rock star. But I won’t get the job.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I haven’t gotten one single job I’ve interviewed for in the last six months.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Sure it does. The world of print journalism isn’t what it once was. There are fewer editorial positions out there than ever before. And I’m not some hungry, responsibility-free twentysomething anymore. I’m a mom.” She drained her glass and signaled to the bartender for a refill.

  “So?”

  “So that’s how I’m seen. You take one measly year off to raise your child so he actually knows that the nanny didn’t birth him, and you’re done.” She shrugged. “Listen, I’m not a moron. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I never operated under the misconception that people would be knocking down my door. There’s always someone younger and more eager to step up. Someone who doesn’t demand as high of a salary or have to hightail it out the door when her kid has strep throat. But I was fucking amazing at my job. I honestly didn’t think it would be this hard to break back in.”

  “That sucks.” I thought about how effortless it was for me to land the job with Jordana, and how I’ve been keeping my head down at work lately, as I incrementally secure my position as Jordana’s faithful employee. I may even become her trusted friend, with a healthy dose of maneuvering. I have to admit I’m struggling with that piece of it. I know that my purpose is to make Jordana pay for what she did, but I haven’t figured out exactly how I’m going to achieve that. I can’t just come out and tell her who I am and threaten to expose her. What if she doesn’t care? What if she threatens me right back? Something tells me she could ruin me in this “town” with a half-dozen well-placed phone calls. It may sound strange, but I’m realizing that there’s a certain degree of intimacy in Manhattan, despite its 8.5 million inhabitants.

  My lack of strategy has rendered me restless and doubtful. That’s one of the reasons I finally carved out time to join Sara for a drink. We’ve both been so busy. Her with Dante. Me with Jordana. And even though she pops in somewhat regularly for quick catch-up sessions, this feels different
. Like having a real friend.

  “Yeah, it does suck. Especially since I’ve exhausted almost every contact on my list.”

  “So do you regret taking the time off?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. Hindsight is twenty-twenty; all that bullshit. And I can actually tolerate Dante most of the time, but—at this point—I feel like I could tolerate him better if I wasn’t with him all day long. It’s grueling. More so than being in an office. In the beginning, I felt guilty every time I hired a babysitter so I could run some errands alone. I used to agonize over whether or not I could leave him for the long hours that a full-time job requires. What if I blink and he’s thirty-five? What if I miss his school play because I’m on deadline? Those were the kinds of questions I asked myself.”

  “I see how it’s a tough decision.”

  “Believe me, I know I’m not alone in this. Most mothers struggle with the same stuff. How do I balance everything? Am I a terrible parent if I don’t stay home? Am I going to become insipid if I do? All the ‘lean in’ crap.” She traced air quotes with her fingers. “I just never thought that would be me. I’ve always had things figured out. So I assumed this wouldn’t be any different.”

  “But now you do think you want to go back to work?”

  “I know I do. I need to use my mind. Unfortunately, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse isn’t enough stimulation for me, even though the theme song is pretty damn catchy.”

  “And Joel supports you?”

  “Yeah, he does. Mainly because he knows what a pain in the ass it can be to take care of Dante. He’s not the easiest kid, if you haven’t noticed.” The bartender returned with Sara’s second martini, and Sara pressed her palms together in prayer, bowed in his direction, and said, “You’re a God.” Then she winked at him and took a big slug of it before continuing. “I’m sure Joel wouldn’t mind having a second income, either. He does well. But so did I. It would allow us to finally buy an apartment. Shit is expensive in this city we call home. It ain’t Kansas, Dorothy.”

  “No kidding.” My chest constricted at the reminder of my own waning financial situation.

  She went on. “Then again, in the same way that I do, he wants one of us to be around for Dante and everything else that comes with having a child.” He has mixed feelings about Dante being raised by a nanny. And since he’s not quitting his job anytime soon, that leaves me.”

  “Right.” The great thing about Sara is that she can ramble endlessly without interruption, which is convenient, especially when alcohol is involved.

  “Anyway, they’re sleeping at Joel’s parents’ for the night, so I’m a free woman for a change. Any hotties?” She scanned the room.

  “What’s your type?” I peered over my left shoulder and then my right.

  “Not for me!” She slapped me on the arm a little harder than necessary. I had noticed a couple of cute-ish guys checking me out, which is new for me. “I’m talkin’ about you. I assume you’re not getting laid yet?”

  “At the moment, no.” I suppose I should care, but I don’t.

  “Such a shame.” She shook her head. “Now is the time, my friend. Once you’re an old married hag like me you’ll wish you’d done a little more wading in the man pool. Trust me.”

  “I don’t know. It’s not really my focus right now.” An image of William flashed in my mind.

  “What is your focus?”

  “My job.” Revenge.

  “The wedding planning?” She considered this. “So you’re liking making dreams come true?”

  “I am. The opportunity to work for Jordana has been . . .” I paused to find the right word. “Enlightening.”

  “Wait a minute. I didn’t catch this the first time you told me, but you mean Jordana Pierson, right?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I know that name.” She thought for a few seconds. “She’s like a socialite, right? Married to John Pierson, managing director at Arthur Doonan’s firm.”

  “Yes.” The fact that she knew that much off the top of her head riled me. What the hell is so special about these people?

  “I used to write about John and Arthur all the time. I told you I was a business editor at The Wall Street Journal. I mean, it’s not like I know them personally, but Arthur Doonan is a total fucking crook. My colleagues and I pursued him for a long time, but there was never a paper trail or even a source willing to go on the record, which meant no evidence for a story. Man, I wanted to expose him. And then of course there’s John Pierson. He may not be a crook like Arthur, but he’s still an asshole. Word on the street is that he’s a total skirt chaser and a sexual harasser. Apparently, he sleeps with all the new interns and support staff to welcome them aboard, if you get my drift. Well, at least the pretty ones with perky tits.

  “I told my bosses a million times, but do you think they gave a shit? Nope. They’re all horny men too. They told me to stick to covering the serious facts. The whole #metoo movement hasn’t touched the finance industry yet, but when it does, heads are going to roll!”

  “So John cheats on Jordana?” I clarified, even though that was obviously what she was saying. Regardless, I wanted to hear her spell out every last morsel.

  “I’d say so. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’ll nail anything with a hole. I bet she knows. The wives always do.” She finished her second martini. “I never witnessed it with my own two eyes. But let’s just say I wouldn’t want to be married to a guy like that. Sometimes all the glitz and glamour—that big, fancy life—just isn’t worth the price you pay.”

  “I guess.” If what Sara was saying is true, then maybe Jordana doesn’t exactly have it all. She probably staggered into a world of misery all on her own. On some level I already suspected that, but until now, I wasn’t sure why. Did she know John was like that when they first met? When he proposed? When she walked down the aisle? Is that why she decided to devote her career to other people’s eternal bliss? And why she thinks happiness isn’t a choice? That’s sad. Not that I feel too sorry for her.

  “Such a blast from the past, I’ll tell you,” Sara mused. “Feels like forever ago.” She gestured to the bartender again. The girl can hold her liquor. “There’s this hotel down by Wall Street. What the hell is it called? It starts with an A . . . fuck, do I have mommy brain. Hold on, I’ll come up with it.”

  “What about it?” I choked back my desperation.

  “All the finance guys take women there. Interns. New hires. Assistants. Anyone who wants to ascend the ranks without actually working for it. Supposedly the general manager is a real guys’ guy and promises absolute discretion. So much for that, right?”

  “Do you think he goes there? John, I mean.”

  She shrugged. “Hell if I know. Why? Are you thinking of blowing the whistle on him?”

  “No!” Maybe.

  “Easy there, tiger. I was just kidding. You don’t want to get involved in that, especially with your boss. I’m sure a chick like her chooses to turn the other cheek.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Of course.”

  “Andaz!” Sara shouted, splashing her third drink on her blouse.

  “What?”

  “That’s the name of the hotel. Andaz. I knew it would come to me. Real modern kind of place. Wall Street and Water.”

  “Interesting.” I chugged my second glass of wine. Wall Street and Water.

  “Anyway, enough about those jerk-offs.” She motioned to the small patch of dance floor, which was wide open, save for two drunk women in midriff-baring tube tops, stumbling around and lip-syncing to the music. “You wanna get out there?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m pretty tired.” I couldn’t get home fast enough to do more research on John and his possible connection to the Andaz.

  “You’re bailing on me already?” Sara rolled her eyes. “The night is young! Stay for one more drink and then I’ll let you walk me back.” She
smirked. “As long as you don’t try to take advantage of me.”

  “No worries there. I may not be getting laid, but I’m secure in my heterosexuality.”

  “Noted.” She laughed rowdily and clinked my glass. “And cheers to that!”

  By the time I’d escorted Sara to her apartment—there’d been a lot of faltering involved—it was just past ten o’clock. I ordered Chinese food and sat down at my computer with a container of sweet and sour chicken, to find out just how sweet or sour Jordana’s life was. After typing every possible configuration of the words, “Andaz Hotel” and “John Pierson,” disappointingly, I came up empty-handed.

  So instead, I decided to log into Jordana’s email. I watched her type in her password the other day when I was standing behind her at her desk. It’s not the first time I’ve taken a peek, but I’ve yet to discover anything important or even curious. Just a bunch of back and forth with clients and vendors.

  But before I did, I paused for a moment. I’m not sure if it was guilt or sympathy that caused my hesitation. I could have just gone to sleep and called it a night. Regardless, I forged forward.

  I scanned through Jordana’s emails one at a time. There were a handful from Ethel griping about this or that. There was one from William dated a few days before, explaining that, while we did not have the great fortune of selecting a ring he liked at Cartier, he was very impressed with me and looked forward to my continued company in his pursuit. Company seemed like a nice word to choose.

  Finally, just as I was about to turn in, a new message appeared from Ethel Doonan.

  Jordana,

  It’s urgent that I speak with you tomorrow. I know it’s Sunday, but it can’t wait. Call me first thing.

  —Ethel

  Urgent. When it comes to Ethel, that could mean just about anything from an ingrown toenail to World War Three. But I pressed delete anyway.

  And it felt damn good.