“Kale. I had a great salad for lunch.” She picked it out with her nail. “So how are you feeling about everything?”
“Not good.”
“That’s not a feeling.” Usually, when Cathy puts on her family counselor hat, I find it burdensome. But not today. Today, it’s exactly what I need.
“I don’t know. I feel pissed off. Angry. Resentful. How’s that?”
“Better.” She stood up and walked toward the kitchen. “Something to drink?”
“No thank you.”
“I won’t bother asking if you want something to eat.” She returned with a glass of water for herself and fell back into the threadbare couch. “Are you sad?”
“No.”
“That was a quick reply.”
“You know I hate him.”
“I do, my love.” And I hate it even more when people call me that. I wonder why I’ve never told Cathy that it was my father’s term of endearment for me, which was disorienting because—as far as I could tell—he didn’t love much beyond his whiskey, his rifles, and his dinner on the table at precisely six o’clock or there’d be hell to pay. He used to say, “Jordana, my love, why don’t you find something to busy your pretty little self with in the backyard while your mother and I have a talk?” Then he’d shove me along with a firmly pressed hand to the bottom. As a child, those words paralyzed me, but not for long enough to stay and watch. The thing is, if you witness something with your own two eyes, then you have to admit it’s real. And acknowledging that my father split my mother’s jaw with his fist more than once was more reality than I was primed to confront.
But I’m not going to think about that. Not today. Not anymore. I’ve come too far and tolerated too many of Cathy’s therapy sessions to allow myself to slide beneath the sanity threshold. Again.
“Then what else is there to say?” Cathy’s heard every detail of my story. When I first met her she wanted to call the Bridgeport Police and have my father arrested. I begged her not to. As much as I wanted to save my mother, I’d just extracted myself from the situation and I couldn’t bear to think about commingling my new life with my old one. She respected my wishes, against her better judgment.
“Well, you can hate him and be sad at the same time.” She took a sip of water. “That’s completely normal.”
“I don’t care whether it’s normal or not. I may not have all my feelings in order, but I’m certain that sadness isn’t one of them.”
“Okay.” She shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
“Do you think I should go home?”
“Funny you still call it that.”
“You know what I’m saying.”
“And you know my answer.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“But why?” I was really hoping she’d say no. Or at the very least, that it was up to me.
“Because you never said good-bye, and now is your chance.”
“Why do I have to say good-bye? Who’s going to make me?”
“You asked what I think.”
“I was happy when I left. You must remember that.” I let my mind travel back in time, to when I first moved to New York City.
I was running. I wasn’t sure what I was running toward, but I knew that whatever it was, it would be bigger and better. I had a substantial amount of cash, but no credit card—in other words, no trail. Fortunately, I found a scrapheap of an apartment. That’s when I met Cathy and Stan, who said cash would be fine. I also met Gilda, a struggling hair-and-makeup artist living next door, who gifted me my first spray can of Mace. Gilda’s brother was a line cook at one of the hottest new restaurants in midtown, where all the bankers went to loosen their ties over thick cuts of steak and heaping portions of mashed potatoes. He introduced me to his boss, Leon.
Leon offered me a job on the spot as a hostess. I’ll never forget how he foamed at the mouth like a rabid dog and said, “Oh, the boys will love you.” Then he invited me to discuss the details of the job in his pinprick of an office, but I said I was fine right where I was. I’ve never been that naive.
During the week, the crowd consisted of rich, horny, overworked men who probably had small dicks and large trust funds. On the weekends, their wives would accompany them, flaunting their couture clothing and flashy diamond rings—the gaudier the better. I wanted so badly to be one of them. To be glamorous and refined. I wanted people to look at me and think, She is someone. Someone who’s not fleeing from her impoverished past and struggling to make ends meet. I wanted to exchange my welcoming smile for a life that was effortless and comfortable. A life full of caviar wishes and champagne dreams.
Sure, I could have been persuaded into a liaison with the less faithful of those men, who would have lavished me with promises and praise and the expectation of a blow job in the backseat of their chauffeured Rolls Royce. But I wasn’t looking for a cheap thrill or a wad of cash on the nightstand.
I wasn’t a side dish. I was the main fucking course.
And I knew it.
“Are you sure you’re not confusing happiness with relief?” Cathy asked. “If you want to know what I remember, it’s a seventeen-year-old girl who was scared shitless, but ambitious as hell.”
“So I’m going home.”
“I’d offer to come with you.”
“But I need to do this on my own.”
“You do.”
“I’m not going to see him.”
“Then why go?”
“Because my mother won’t leave me alone. And if I don’t appease her, she threatened to come to New York.”
“That sounds like a great reason.” Cathy rolled her eyes.
“I realize you’re being sarcastic, but it’s the truth. She’s making me. I can’t very well let her come here and meet John. He thinks she’s dead. And that I grew up in Westport, where the rich people live. Not Bridgeport, where the people who work for the people in Westport live.”
“Maybe it’s time to stop living a lie, then. Ever thought of that?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If John knew I wasn’t everything he signed up for, he’d divorce me without a second thought.” I imagined bringing him to my old neighborhood, where the houses did not have fresh paint jobs, pared lawns, and flower beds. Not even close. Our lawn was always weedy, with brown patches that had been dehydrated by the sun.
I wonder what it would have been like to be raised by normal parents who cared for me, both physically and emotionally. A normal family—where everyone goes to the movies together on Sunday afternoon. A family in which the mother’s eyes weren’t black and blue and her lips weren’t split. I envision a father who was anyone but my own.
If things had been different then, would things be different now, too? Would I be in a loving relationship with two-point-three kids, a Goldendoodle, and a sports luxury vehicle with an I’m a proud soccer mom! bumper sticker? I shook off the idea.
“I’ve always thought John sounded like a winner.”
“It’s not just him. If they found out about my past, all the people we socialize with and all my clients would disappear faster than vintage Gucci at an estate sale.”
“God forbid.” She looked at me disbelievingly.
“I’ll get out eventually.” I stared into my lap.
“I hope so. I don’t know what you see in that husband of yours anyway.”
But I remember what I saw the night I met John: money.
A man I was casually dating at the time, Allen, had brought me as his date to the annual Juvenile Diabetes gala. I was looking especially radiant in a strapless red Valentino gown I’d swiped from the bargain bin at Bloomingdale’s. When I found it, there was a gaping slash down one side and the saleswoman said it would never fall the way it was supposed to, thus the rock-bottom price. I didn’t care. The opportunity to own a dress of that caliber was wor
th the investment to have it repaired. So I bought it and took it to a tailor around the corner from my apartment—a Japanese woman the size of my pinky finger who worked her magic. Then I asked Gilda to work hers. The results were everything I’d hoped for. My makeup was fresh but sophisticated, and my newly blond hair was coiled into loose ringlets that fell effortlessly around my face and down to my collarbone. Call it luck, but I knew exactly what I was doing.
I’d met Allen at the restaurant where I was working. He’d asked me out a number of times and I’d declined because he wasn’t my type. Allen was an investment banker. Real buttoned-up on the surface. He wore wire-rimmed glasses low on his arched nose. And had hair misting from his nostrils, even though he was bald on top. Allen was a nattering fool when you tried to have a conversation with him that wasn’t about stock prices and number crunching. But when he asked me to accompany him to a charity event, I knew I couldn’t say no. It was my first entrée into a world I’d never been a part of.
Then in walked John. With Sylvia. She described herself as a powerhouse prosecutor, but I couldn’t look past her sunken eyes and protruding forehead. I didn’t care about her. All I cared about was that the opportunity had been handed to me. God must have said to himself, Well, this girl’s had a dreadful excuse for a life so far; time to throw her a bone. I could practically hear him whispering it in my ear. So I pinched that bone between my teeth.
I sidled right up to John—who was handsome and clearly successful, and who had a full head of hair. I ignored my own companion and his, because our connection was instant. I told myself not to fall for him, but to focus on the big picture instead. To devote myself to keeping him happy in order to secure my silver spoon. I fluttered my eyelashes and grazed his thigh with my hand when no one was paying attention. I laughed too hard at his jokes and replied to every question he asked with the answer I knew he wanted—perfect little lies. By the time dessert arrived, John said he was ready to leave. I slept next to him in his bed that night, but I didn’t have sex with him. I made him pursue me. I knew I’d lose him if I made it too easy.
John later told me that he’d been drawn to me because I didn’t throw myself at him. And also because I was stunning to look at, confident, clever, and street-smart, unlike so many of the tediously banal women he’d dated prior to me. But I know that what really hooked him was my constant attention to his every whim. Men are like children. They need to be coddled and cared for above everyone else.
Four months later, we were married at seven o’clock in the evening at the Metropolitan Club on Sixtieth Street and Fifth Avenue. I was resplendent in a strapless Vera Wang ball gown. The bodice was embellished with thousands of Swarovski crystals and the skirt was bolstered with tulle and overlaid with lace. My hair was pulled back in a loose chignon and fastened with a two-tier, cathedral-length veil, which I wore shrouding my face. It’s very important for the bride to appear virginal.
John, for his part, was dashing in a double-breasted Prada tuxedo he’d purchased specially for our big day. I carried long-stemmed, bloodred calla lilies, and guests dined on foie gras followed by lobster and filet mignon. We were the picture of wedded bliss before three hundred of John’s friends and family. An audience of strangers to me.
Planning our wedding was my first foray into an industry I’d eventually take by storm. It afforded me a glimpse of how the insecurity and daydreams of rich people impel them to pour endless amounts of money into one fleeting event. While I didn’t know back then that owning a concierge service was in my future, I did know that there was a prospect there. And I knew I’d be very good at it, if and when the time came.
“Forget John. This isn’t about him,” I said, returning from my reverie.
“Isn’t it?”
“Cathy. I’m not in the mood for a lecture.”
“Then you’ve come to the wrong place, honey.”
“I am not seeing my father.”
“So you said.”
“I don’t care what you think.”
“Of course you do.” Cathy stood up and so did I. “I adore you. You know that. And I’m sympathetic to your predicament. But I also believe that you know what you have to do.” She opened her arms and I folded myself into them. “Sorry to cut this short. I have a paying client who will be here in five minutes.”
“No, of course. Thank you for the impromptu therapy session.”
“Anytime.” She released me from her embrace. “Now, go on. You can do this. You’re one of the strongest women I know.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” I shook my head.
“Well I am,” she said with a nod. “Call me if you need me.”
“I may take you up on that.”
“Good.” She walked me to the door. “And tell your mother that her daughter has someone looking out for her. Two people.” Then she opened the door and smiled. “A mother needs to know that.”
21KERRIE
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about whiskey tastings—because, as you might imagine, this is my first—it’s that it’s impossible not to end up marginally drunk. Of course, it wasn’t my intention to get drunk. My intention was to remain focused and clearheaded. In part because I’m here in a professional capacity. Fortunately, William is three sheets further to the wind than I am, and he seems to find the whole thing entirely amusing, which is a relief because—for the last four days—I’ve been investing all my energy in stepping up my sabotage game and I’m ready to relax for a change.
Let’s just say that the envelope with the rent check that the building manager picked up did not actually have the rent check in it. Somehow that made its way into the trash can on the corner of Eighty-Seventh Street. Go figure.
I also started tweaking details of the other weddings we’re planning. For example, both Adam Levine and Lady Gaga, whom Alexa Griffin had her heart set on performing two songs apiece—no expense spared—passed on the opportunity. Their managers emailed Jordana, but somehow the messages got deleted. When Alexa checked in this afternoon, I said, “We’re still working on it! Fingers crossed!” Once Jordana realizes, there will never be enough time to get another artist of equal caliber. Or likely even close. She’ll be calling dive bars in the village in search of a halfway decent cover band. Madame Levine anyone?
Then there’s Lucy Noble and Donald Cooper. Donald’s mom, Mindy, phoned on Wednesday to tell me she’s planning a surprise for their reception. I said, “Fabulous!” Who doesn’t love surprises? Lucy. Especially when it comes to her mother-in-law-to-be, who’s a sloppy drunk known for her inappropriate public displays. I’m only privy to this information because I read an email to Jordana from Lucy’s fiancé, Donald, saying exactly that. Oops.
I know how all of this seems. And I’ll admit there’s a large part of me that feels icky that innocent people are being entangled in my mission, but I can’t let myself be derailed. Hearing the urgency in Gillian Butler’s voice amplified my thirst for revenge.
“Are you having fun yet?” William leaned toward me conspiratorially. We’ve been at a spot called The Flatiron Room for the last hour or so, drinking a lot and eating very little. It’s located in the heart of New York City’s Flatiron District—another area I’ve never been to before. It’s so exciting discovering new neighborhoods!
The space is rich and masculine, with coffered ceilings, wood moldings, leather banquettes, and oversize chandeliers. Countless bottles of whiskey are showcased in see-through, back-lit cabinets surrounding us, and there’s a grand stage with thick red velvet curtains, even though we’re the only ones here. It’s like everything around us is glowing beneath the softest candlelight. If I had to choose one word and one word only to describe the atmosphere, it would be sexy.
“I am having fun. I’ve never done anything like this.” I took a sip of a thirty-year-old scotch blend and set my glass down on the table next to the others, as the liquid filled and
warmed my chest. There are a few things I’ve gathered thus far. For one, whiskey can be spelled two different ways—with or without an e. Who knew? And there are about a zillion different kinds of whiskey (or whisky)—Irish, American, Canadian, Japanese, and White, to name a few. There are whiskeys from the Highlands, the Lowlands, the islands, pretty much from everywhere across the globe. Also, and this was a revelation for me, scotch and bourbon are types of whiskey, too. Again, who knew?
“You’ve been missing out, then.” William smiled and his eyes glinted.
“Clearly.” I smiled back. Once our server had finished presenting our choices, he’d left us to our own devices—to sit for as long as we liked, and continue to taste. “This isn’t where you’re having the rehearsal dinner, though?” I slipped my heels off underneath the table and wiggled my toes.
William laughed. “No. The dinner is at one of Ethel’s friends’ apartments on Central Park South. It’s spectacular, and the view is among the best in the City. Eric Ripert is cooking everything on site, and I heard Billy Joel is going to rattle off a couple of songs on their Steinway.”
“Who’s Eric Ripert?”
“You know, he owns Le Bernardin.” He pronounced it with a terrible French accent, which was adorable.
“Can’t say that I do, but I’ll take your word for it.”
“You have heard of Billy Joel, right?” He smirked.
“Very funny. My nana loved the song ‘Only the Good Die Young.’ ” Ironic, I know.
“She had good taste. Anyway, we’re just here to get an idea of which varieties we like for the private tasting that night. Can you imagine Ethel and Arthur hosting a party here?”
“I guess not. It’s a really cool place, though.”
“Exactly. And would you consider Ethel and Arthur cool?”
“I’ve never met Arthur, but definitely not Ethel.” I picked up a different glass and sampled something called a Black Bull forty-year Duncan Taylor. It went down smooth. “But isn’t your father throwing the rehearsal dinner?”
Pretty Revenge (ARC) Page 13
