19KERRIE
As I sat at my desk, alive with anticipation, I thought about my fortune cookie from Saturday night: He who hesitates is last. I mean, if that’s not a call to action, then what is?
The phone rang and I recognized the number of Ethel’s seamstress, Nina, on the caller ID.
“Good morning, Jordan Pierson Wedding Concierge.” The first thing Jordana told me about Nina is that she’s extremely talented. The second thing she told me is that she’s completely scatterbrained and very disorganized. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her yet, which works to my advantage.
“Hi, Jordana. It’s Nina”— I didn’t correct her—“I’m checking in to confirm . . .” I heard a loud thud and an “Ow, shit!” A few seconds passed. “Sorry. I dropped the phone. My office is such a mess. So what I was saying is that I want to confirm that Ethel Doonan’s shrug is supposed to be black velvet, right?”
“Hold on.” I didn’t want to say too much, for fear of outing myself. Silently I pulled up the order on my computer. Black duchess satin. “Velvet is correct.”
“It just seems like a heavy fabric for June.”
“Yeah.”
“But I know Ethel. She wants what she wants.”
“Always.”
“Okay then, thank you. Have a good one.”
“You too.” I hung up and smiled to myself. Now, that wasn’t so hard. Ethel will be apoplectic. Nina will blame Jordana. Jordana will blame Nina. No one will even think to blame me. And I don’t feel badly about it at all, especially because shrugs are completely absurd to begin with. They’re like half a jacket. Honestly, I’d never even heard of one until I started working with these ridiculous people.
I walked around Jordana’s desk to log into her email again. I figured I’d remove a few random appointments from her calendar—a bikini wax, a haircut, and a trip to the dentist. Nothing business related. And nothing too obvious. Just enough to encourage her to mistrust herself and—if I’m vigilant—to rely on me even more than she already does.
The thing is, though, Jordana and I have developed a nice rhythm in the seven weeks since I started working for her. I’d hardly say we’re best friends, but she definitely likes me. And Olivia likes her. I’m not softening or anything like that. It’s just that it’s gratifying to finally be acknowledged by her. To be appreciated once and for all.
Would you believe that the other day she practically swooned over my new shoes? Then she told me how impressed she’s been by my dedication. And added that not only have I been an enormous help to her, but that our clients have noticed too.
In order to keep up appearances, I returned to Equinox’s salon last week for a refresher. The full workup, even though it’s not even remotely in my budget anymore. I had highlights and a trim with Blake. An eyebrow tweezing with a willowy blond named Renee, who smelled of lavender and vanilla extract. And a facial with Olga, a bulky Swedish woman with persuasive hips and legs that resembled Redwood trunks—on average the tallest trees in the world. Some can grow higher than the spire of Notre Dame Cathedral.
I even treated myself to another massage with Katya. Because, why not? What’s an extra two hundred dollars when you’ve already spent far more than you should?
While I was at the salon, I also spoke to Blake about working with some of our brides. It’s important to maintain fresh and varied vendors for our clients. Jordana gave me another pat on the back for that.
I keep telling myself that this is my life now and I think I’m finally getting the hang of it, save for the overspending. Not to mention that people are noticing. A guy at the bodega around the corner said I looked like Jennifer Aniston. He may have been drunk, but so what? I’d be thrilled if I resembled her third cousin twice removed.
I was such a plain Jane when I was growing up, the girl that faded into the woodwork. Yet here I am today—single and successful in the city. The city that never sleeps. It’s hard not to savor every minute of it. But I can’t allow my self-interest to distract me. I need to focus all my attention on retribution.
I know it seems like such a prickly word. Still, I have to see this through. And appearances are part of that. I can’t very well show up at places like Cartier with William looking unkempt.
The phone rang again, and I noticed it was him, just at the same moment he’d popped into my mind. How serendipitous! I picked up quickly. “Jordana Pierson Wedding Concierge. How can I help you?” I answer that way, even when I know who it is. Jordana expects formality across the board. She’d told me that, after our wedding band shopping, William asked if I could be his point person for all things groom-related and that she agreed. I could tell it made her a little nervous, but with everything going on around here, she said she has to be able to count on me without hovering over my shoulder. Exactly.
“Is this my faithful servant?” I pictured William smirking. He has just one dimple on his left cheek, right beneath his eye. I wonder if Tatiana loves it. I do.
I laughed. “Present and accounted for. You’re never going to let me live that down, huh?”
“Unlikely.”
“Well then, what can I do for you today?”
“I saw the whiskey tasting in my calendar for this Friday. Just confirming that you’re coming with me.”
“I think I’m the one who’s supposed to confirm with you.”
“Slacker.”
“Not a chance. I’ll be there.”
“Excellent. I could use a few drinks and a listening ear.”
“I think I can manage that.”
“Great. I really appreciate it.”
“Of course.” I nodded, even though I knew he couldn’t see me. “Until Friday, then.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“I’m looking forward to it too.” I hung up, feeling a little lighter. Maybe I was flirting just a bit. But only because I’m not stupid enough to think someone like William would ever look twice at me in that way. Regardless, it’s nice to have a playful repartee with someone of the opposite sex. God knows I never had that with Matthew.
By the time Jordana arrived, I was in the thick of arranging a jewelry presentation for Lucy Noble and I’d long forgotten about my conversation with William. My armpits were damp and my eyelashes were sweating. On day one, Jordana told me never to adjust the thermostat under any circumstances. I already knew she was cold-blooded, but the heat can be oppressive. It’s hard to think, much less strategize.
“Good morning.” She blew past my desk, visibly distracted.
“Jordana.” I hailed her down like a taxicab.
“Can it wait?” She’d already sat down at her computer and was stabbing at the keyboard like a concert pianist approaching her crescendo.
“I don’t think so.” I didn’t move.
“What is it?” Finally, she looked up.
“Sorry, it’s just that Ethel Doonan has called six times.”
“About what?” She appeared strained and impatient, which irritated me. I can barely stomach her when she’s being nice to me.
“She said there was some kind of big mistake with the flowers and that she emailed you over the weekend but didn’t hear back.”
“I have no idea what she’s talking about. It’s been red roses all along and that’s the way it still is.” Jordana dismissed me without actually doing so. “I’ll call her back later.”
“The last time I spoke to her she said she’d be here at noon.” I consulted my watch. “Which is in two minutes.”
“It must be my lucky day.” Jordana balled her hands into fists.
“Is everything okay? I mean, are you okay? You seem . . .”
“I’m fine.” She spread her fingers on the desk, flattened her palms, and pushed herself to her feet. “Thank you for asking.”
“Of course. You can always talk to me if—” Before I had the op
portunity to probe any further. The front door flung open and Ethel stalked toward us with a serpentine glare and a bite that was sure to be al dente.
“So you are still alive, then.” It wasn’t a question. But she expected a response.
“Hello, Ethel. It’s lovely to see you again.” Jordana smiled. She mimics authenticity so skillfully it’s almost authentic.
“I emailed you on Saturday night and I’ve been calling all day.” She glowered at me, as if I hadn’t relayed the messages.
“My sincerest apologies, but I never received your email. And I was in meetings outside the office until now.”
“Unacceptable.” She twisted one of the buttons on her Chanel suit. “There’s been an enormous error. I’m absolutely livid. If this is the way you do business, then—”
“Ethel,” Jordana cut her off. “Why don’t we step into the back so we can speak privately.”
“Very well,” Ethel conceded. Grudgingly.
Once they’d closed the door behind them, I lingered right outside it, pretending to reorganize the filing cabinet I’d sorted at least three times already.
“We have a serious issue,” I overheard Ethel declare, as if the Bubonic Plague was sweeping the Upper East Side. “I ran into Gail Foster at the American Cancer Society gala on Saturday evening. And she said that she ran into Ron Wendt in the Hamptons. Apparently, he told her that we’re doing all white roses for the wedding. White.”
“I assure you that’s not the case.” Jordana maintained her composure.
“Wel, you’re wrong.” It’s amazing how many mistakes are made when planning a wedding, even ones I’m not responsible for. I sat back down at my desk and dialed Ron Wendt’s office number.
“I’ll take care of it,” I heard Jordana say.
“Ron Wendt Design. This is Clarissa.”
“Hi, Clarissa.” I spoke softly so I could still hear Ethel and Jordana going at it. “This is Olivia Lewis at Jordana Pierson Wedding Concierge.”
“Oh, hi Olivia!”
“Listen, Jordana needs a favor. Quickly. Can you help me out?”
“Of course. Anything for Jordana.”
“Can you please fax over confirmation that the flowers for the Doonan wedding are red? All red roses.”
“You’ve got it. I’ll do that right now.”
“Thank you. You’re the best.” I hung up and continued to eavesdrop.
“Jordana, I would appreciate if our vendors do not discuss the details of my wedding with anyone.” I noted the use of my. Poor William. “Especially a loud mouth like Gail Foster.”
“It’s very hard for me to believe that Ron would be so indiscreet. He knows better than that.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” Ethel’s voice rose an octave.
“Absolutely not. I’m sure this is some kind of misunderstanding that will be solved today.”
“It better be.”
“I’ll personally reconfirm that all the roses will be red. Each and every petal.”
“Good. Because as you well know, I will not tolerate any more oversights. If every last thing isn’t perfect, it will be the last wedding you ever plan.” Frankly, I wasn’t sure who to root for.
“I understand,” Jordana appeased her. She had no choice. Ethel’s upper hand was winged and waiting to swat her like a fruit fly if she didn’t comply.
Just as I was about to skulk away—it seemed like the conversation was closed—the phone rang yet again. I lunged to answer it. No need to draw attention to the fact that I wasn’t at my desk.
“Hello, Jordana Pierson Wedding Concierge.”
“Hello, is Jordan there? I mean, Jordana.” The woman corrected herself immediately and instantly my interest was piqued.
“Let me see if she’s in. May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Gillian Butler.” She coughed and then sniffed. “I’m her mother.”
“I see. Can you please hold?” I pressed mute and placed the receiver down. “Gillian Butler,” I said her name aloud. This woman who positively had no idea who I was, but yet we had one major thing in common—Jordan left both of us. I picked up again. “It turns out Jordana is in an important meeting at the moment. Can I take a message and have her get back to you as soon as she’s available?”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t believe you that she’s not there. She can’t avoid me forever.” I closed my eyes and considered my options, of which there were none. I couldn’t interrupt Jordana and Ethel. That would be inappropriate. Still, there was a large part of me that empathized with Gillian. I had to help her.
“I’m so sorry. I promise you I’ll let her know that you want to hear from her. Right now, I’m afraid that’s the best I can do.” At least it was the truth.
“I understand.” She withdrew. “Would you mind passing along something to Jordana for me?”
“Of course not.” I reached for a pen and a pad of paper. “I’m ready.”
“Tell her that if she doesn’t call me back today, I’ll be at her apartment first thing tomorrow morning. And if she thinks I don’t know where she lives, she’s wrong.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.” She practically whispered it, and I struggled to hear her over the sound of an incoming fax. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize.” You are the victim. We are the victims. “She’ll be in touch. You have my word.”
As soon as we hung up, Jordana and Ethel resurfaced.
“Olivia, please get Ron Wendt’s office on the phone. We need to confirm that all the flowers for the Doonan-Blum wedding are red roses.”
“Already done.” I picked up the fax that had just come in and handed it to her. I watched her mouth curl into a satisfied grin.
“There you have it. Red roses in black and white.” She showed it to Ethel, whose face warped into a scowl.
“Very well, then. You’re off the hook for now,” she sneered. “I’ll be in touch.”
Ethel stalked off without so much as an acknowledgment of my existence. And Jordana slumped back into her chair, appearing uncharacteristically defeated. I didn’t care.
“While you were—” I began.
She shook her head. “I can’t right now.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re going to want to hear this.”
She didn’t say anything, so I just passed her the note I’d transcribed from her mother and turned back toward my desk.
“Olivia.”
“Yes?” I swiveled to face her again.
“I may have to go out of town for a day. For work. I’m not sure when yet, since my next two weeks are an impossibility.”
“Okay.”
“I realize it’s not ideal what with the Doonan-Blum wedding sneaking up on us, but I don’t think I have any other choice.”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ll need you to oversee everything, including the other weddings. We can’t let those fall by the wayside.”
“Got it.”
“Another thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Please don’t say anything to anyone about my mother. She’s—” Jordana paused for a second. “Troubled. She can’t be trusted.”
“My lips are sealed.” I feigned understanding, despite my reflex to defend Gillian and to remind Jordana that she’s lucky to even have a mom.
“You know what, I’m going to work from home for the rest of the afternoon. I need some peace and quiet.” She closed her laptop, stood up, and slung her purse over her shoulder.
“Sure, I’ll be here.” She walked toward the door, stopped just short of it, and turned around.
“I almost forgot, the building manager is coming by to pick up this month’s rent check. I’ve been so distracted t
hat I forgot to mail it. He’s a little annoyed and completely irrational, but that’s another story. He said he’ll be here around three. The envelope is in the second drawer on the right side of my desk. All you have to do is hand it to him.”
“That sounds easy enough.”
“Thank you.” She smiled wearily. “By the way, excellent work with Ethel today. I assume you overheard her rant and called Ron Wendt’s office without being asked.”
“Yes.”
She nodded. “Well done. That’s exactly what I needed you to do. It’s really remarkable how easily you’ve adapted to this job, and how good you’ve become at it. Thank you for being an excellent assistant. And a friend.” Our eyes met, and she lingered there for a moment.
But she didn’t say anything else. So I just nodded back and replied, “You’re welcome.”
20JORDANA
“Your old man is finally on his way out, huh?” Cathy leaned against the armrest of her sofa and coiled her legs beneath her. I sat across from her in a patchwork chair that still reeked of cat litter, even though their twenty-three-year-old Maine Coon, Dolly, passed away a few months ago. I abhor cats, mostly because my father doted on the ones we had when I was growing up. I never understood how he could display such tenderness for an animal, while being so cruel to his own family. He said it was because they didn’t talk back to him the way we did. They showed him respect. There may have been something to that. Still, I developed a strange fondness for Cathy’s cat, Dolly. She was one serious alpha bitch. “Frightening thing is, he’s not much older than I am.”
“Don’t say that.” I came straight to Cathy’s apartment from my office. I needed to talk to someone about my mother’s efforts to lure me home. Obviously, that person could not be John. And while I briefly considered confiding in Olivia—maybe just that my father was ill and that we’ve been estranged for a long time, nothing more—I knew it wouldn’t have been a prudent decision. The simple fact that she knows my mother is alive hits too close to home.
“What? Aging is a bitch. We’re all going to die at some point.”
“You should write greeting cards, you know that. By the way, you have something green wedged between your front teeth.” I couldn’t look at it dangling there for another second. Death talk or not.
Pretty Revenge (ARC) Page 12
