“He is, but he’s just along for the ride like I am. Ethel’s the ring leader, if you haven’t noticed.” William tilted his head back and finished off a rye called Dad’s Hat, which seemed appropriate given the conversation.
“Right,” I said, nodding soberly even though I was far from it. “I’ve definitely noticed.”
“Arthur, on the other hand. He just signs the checks. I don’t think he gives a crap about the actual wedding.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“He must care about Tatiana’s happiness. She’s his daughter.”
“One would think. But all Arthur really cares about is money and power and getting what he wants no matter the cost or the collateral damage. That’s about it.”
“Oh.” I thought about what Jordana said about him, and also what Sara said at the bar about him being a crook. “He doesn’t sound like the nicest guy.”
“Nice?” William laughed. “That’s definitely not how I’d describe him.”
“Sorry.”
“Eh, he is who he is. But enough about Arthur.”
“Yeah, of course.” I took that as a cue to drop the subject. “So I think we’re set with most of your stuff for the wedding. My checklist is pretty much complete.”
“That’s awesome. Thank you so much for all of your help, Olivia. It’s been really great knowing that you’re on top of everything and that you have my best interest at heart.”
“That’s my job!” I declared, a little too enthusiastically.
“Yeah, but you’ve gone above and beyond. You’ve been a friend, too, and I truly appreciate it.”
“Thank you,” I practically whispered to overcompensate. And again reminded myself of Jordana’s cardinal rule: Never, ever become invested in the relationships of our brides and grooms. “Is there anything else you want to go over? Like the time line for that day. Or which cigars you want for the men? Obviously, we still need to find you a ring.” I searched my brain for any other outstanding business items, but everything was so fuzzy.
“You know what? Let’s not talk about the wedding anymore. I know it sounds odd, since we’re here for that reason, but lately it feels like it’s been consuming my life and I need a break, if that’s okay.” He propped his elbows on either side of his plate and rested his chin in his palms, like a little kid would. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you planning to get married?” It seemed like a strange question, coming from someone who wanted to move away from the subject.
“I’ll probably need a boyfriend first.” The heat from my chest rose to my cheeks, which had to be bright red.
“You don’t have a boyfriend?” He sounded surprised, which—in turn—surprised me.
“I did, but we broke up.” I wanted William to know I’m not a complete loser.
“Oh, I’m really sorry.”
“It’s fine. It was my decision.”
“Why?”
“Why?” I paused to find some clarity. On the one hand, I want to be honest with William. If we really are friends, like he says, I feel like I should be as truthful as I can be without revealing something that might give me away—as contrary as that sounds. “I guess I realized that I wasn’t passionate about him in the way that I should be, you know, if I wanted to be with him forever.”
“Forever is a long time.” William looked past me with glazed eyes. I could tell he was thinking about something beyond me and Matthew. “Why else?”
“He didn’t inspire me. We sort of found ourselves in a rut. And at some point I knew that if I didn’t make a change, I might never figure out who I really want to be.”
“That’s so profound.” He bobbed his head up and down in slow motion.
“I’m not sure about that.” I snorted. Damn whiskey. “I think it just sounds that way because we’ve had a lot of alcohol.”
“I don’t know. It makes a lot of sense to me.” He shrugged but didn’t say anything else, so I took the opportunity to draw the conversation back to business and away from Matthew.
“If we could just talk about the rehearsal dinner for a minute?”
“Okay,” William relented, though he looked disinterested.
“Do you know which of the whiskeys you want me to order?” I asked. “I want to make note of them now. I’m a little concerned that they’ll all blend together if we wait until tomorrow.”
“You’re probably right.” He straightened up and attempted to look sober. “All right, so I’d say my favorites were the Irish, the Japanese, and the White. Also, there were a couple I liked from the Lowlands and the islands. Can you ask for a list of those?”
“Absolutely.” I keyed his selections into my phone.
“Oh, and Dad’s Hat. That one was delicious.”
“I agree.”
“So, your ex-boyfriend. He’s back in Palm Beach?” Just when I thought he’d forgotten about Matthew . . .
“Yup.” Or Connecticut. Tomato, tom-ah-to.
“Do you still speak to him?”
“Not since I left.”
“How long were you together?”
“Three years.”
“Wow.” William was somewhat alert again. “And just like that you were able to walk away?”
“It was a long time coming. Sometimes you need a nudge; an impetus to propel you forward and dislodge you from a situation that’s comfortable but not stimulating.”
“You are so right.” He studied my face. “You’re really smart, Olivia. Where did you say you went to school?”
“I don’t think I did. Nowhere prestigious.” I looked down. “I’d hoped to go to Yale, but it didn’t happen.”
“Why not?”
“My plan got derailed.” I couldn’t very well tell him it was because my life—financial and emotional—went haywire when Nana died. That someone—Jordana—stole everything from us.
“Well, Yale or not, you seem to be doing well.”
“I guess so.”
“Come on! Give yourself a little credit. You ended a long-term relationship, moved away from home, landed a great job, and have the fabulous fortune of planning The Wedding of the Century.” We laughed together.
“Oh, you’re calling it that now too?”
“Only in jest. But don’t tell Ethel, she would not approve.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“Thank you.” He sat still for a moment and then stood up abruptly, steadying himself on the back of his chair. “Shall we?” He bent his elbow so I could loop my arm through his.
“We shall.” William stumbled a bit as we made our way out onto the street. I helped him into a cab, despite his insistence that it was ungentlemanly for him to leave first.
And then I stood there inhaling the balmy spring breeze and allowing the unrelenting vibration of the city to eddy around me.
I’ve arrived, I thought. My plan is unfolding.
Still, it’s not enough. I need to move things forward faster. Tinkering with details of the weddings alone isn’t going to achieve my goal. I’m just not sure what my next steps should be. And the clock is ticking.
I walked a few blocks, allowing my mind to ramble, as it often does. I thought about Jordana. About her poor mother. About how she must have felt when Jordana abandoned her. I thought about the fact that Jordana doesn’t give a shit about anyone but herself and her fancy life. I thought about Sara—a true friend and a genuine person. A wife and a mother just trying to figure things out for herself, without screwing anyone else in the process. I thought again about what she’d said about Arthur Doonan and the new insight I’d gleaned from William. And why it is that people like Jordana and Arthur seem invincible, while people like me and Sara have to struggle to get what we want.
That’s when the idea came to
me. In a flash of genius. Or it could have been the blurring effect of all the booze. Either way, if what I was thinking made sense, it could be the very thing that would solve all my problems. It would be a risk. But a risk worth taking.
I fished my cell phone out of my purse and texted Sara.
Meet me at my apartment in fifteen minutes.
Then I took one last breath of life, made my way toward the subway station, and headed home.
22 KERRIE
By the time I’d reached my front door, Sara was already there, sitting Indian-style in her pajamas on the intricately patterned industrial carpet that blankets my dimly lit hallway. Ick. Doesn’t she realize that people have chewing gum stuck to the bottom of their shoes? Or that they may have stepped in yellow snow?
“It took you long enough,” she grumbled.
“Sorry.” I turned my keys in the locks and let us in. “Drink?” I could hardly wait to tell her my idea.
“No thanks.”
“Really?” I set my purse down on the kitchen table and poured myself a tall glass of cold water from the sink. My body was still feverish from all the whiskey.
“Really. I’m not in the mood.”
“Is everything okay? You seem cranky.” I’d never seen Sara this irritable before. Come to think of it, I’d never seen her irritable at all. Sarcastic, often. Frenzied, most of the time. Entertaining, always. But never deadpan. It’s not her shtick.
“The good news is that no one is sick or dying. I just had a crap day.”
“Dante?” He’s usually the culprit.
“Surprisingly, no. Just more job shit. Three more rejections. One of which I was really counting on. It’s defeating.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She nestled her body into the corner of the couch. I took a seat on the very edge of the chair across from her. “Although I think I may be able to help you.”
“Help me with what?” She hugged a throw pillow to her chest like it was a flotation device. Or a shield.
“Your job search.” I took a few gulps of water and felt the cool liquid spread throughout my body before placing the glass on the coffee table.
“I appreciate that, but unless you have connections at a major newspaper . . .”
“Not exactly, just hear me out.” I gestured for her to remain silent. “I know this is going to sound crazy. So don’t discount it until I’m finished. Okay?”
“I guess.” She let go of the pillow and started picking at her chipped manicure.
“Promise me.”
“Oh my God, just say it!” She looked up and widened her eyes at me.
“I want to help you take down Arthur Doonan,” I announced without flinching.
“What are you talking about?” She laughed but sat up a little straighter.
“This isn’t funny. I can help you take him down. For real.” I stood up to make my point.
“You sound like Arnold Schwarzenegger. It’s hard not to find it comical.”
“You said Arthur is a crook, right?” I continued, pacing back and forth.
“Yeah,” she said with a nod.
“And you said you’re absolutely sure, right?” I stopped in front of her.
“Yes. I already told you that. When I was at The Wall Street Journal, it was considered fact, even though no one could actually prove it.”
“Well, then it’s not really a fact, if you want to be literal.”
“It’s a fact.” She rejected my attempt at accuracy.
“Then don’t you think he should pay for his purported crimes?” I sat back down and leaned toward Sara. I looked her directly in the eyes with an expression that said, I mean business. Or at least I hoped it did.
“Of course I do, but it’s not that simple, Olivia. He’s a giant in the financial world. A big-ass fucking giant.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Have you? Because it’s no joke. He’s no joke. It’s been said that Arthur has predicted every major turn in the stock market in the last twenty-five years. I know he owns a significant percentage of Manhattan commercial real estate. And he funds all sorts of shit, like really important think tanks. Mark Cuban might as well be his goddamn housekeeper!”
“I hear you,” I acknowledged, even though I refused to let her intimations daunt me.
“He’s untouchable,” she added, in case I hadn’t gotten it.
“So are you saying you wouldn’t want to take him down if the opportunity presented itself?” I pressed on, undeterred.
“No, but—”
“And do you think that maybe, if you did take him down, you’d have editors knocking down your door to hire you?”
“I suppose. I mean, yeah, definitely. But people have been trying to take him down, as you say, for years. What makes you think I could even begin to do it on my own? I don’t work in that space anymore.”
“You wouldn’t have to do it alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’d have me.” I grinned. “And I have personal access.”
“Olivia, I’m so impressed that you’d even think of something like this.” She smiled. A smile that was so genuine, it reaffirmed my instinct to help her. “But I could never put you in a position like that. You do realize you could lose your own job in the process.”
“I do.” Which is why, if Sara decides to get on board, I’ll have to explain to her how Arthur’s demise serves my purpose as well as hers. That is the genius of it.
“And that’s crazy. You said it yourself.”
“So what?”
“You have no idea who you’d be dealing with, Olivia. Screwing with Arthur Doonan isn’t a game.”
“I’m well aware that the stakes are high.”
“To say the least. It seems pretty impossible, actually.”
I felt spurned on her behalf. This wasn’t the scrappy Sara I knew.
“We’re friends, right?” I asked, even though our relationship is founded on lies.
“Of course.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Sure.”
“Then just think about it, okay?”
“Olivia.” She stood up, and I did the same. “As I said, I’m so flattered that you want to help me. It means a lot. I just don’t see how this could work. And I kind of need to get back down to Dante. He’s been really fussy all day, and Joel is trying to get some work done.”
She started to walk toward the door, and I followed her. “Please just think about it.”
“Okay,” she conceded, and then turned around to hug me. An uncharacteristic display of affection. “I’m really glad you’re in my life, Olivia.”
“I feel the same way.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Sleep tight.” She patted me on the arm.
“Sounds good.” I smiled, sensing in that moment that I might be able to bring her around.
And also knowing that, if that was the case, I’d have to tell her everything.
23JORDANA
“I won’t be home until late tonight,” I announced. I sensed John’s shadow hovering behind me as I folded a light sweater into my bag. Connecticut can be chilly at night, even at the end of May.
Yes, I’m going. With just under three weeks left until the wedding that will either secure my position as the preeminent wedding concierge in New York City or eternally tarnish the reputation I’ve worked tirelessly to curate, I’m returning to where it all began.
Believe me when I say that anything else would be less excruciating. Anything. I’d rather be photographed in last season’s Chanel at the Met Ball. Or be seated in the third row at New York Fashion Week. I’d even maroon myself on a desert island with Ethel Doonan and her lap dog.
“Oh?” John’s attention was piqued.
“I’m going to Boston for the day,” I answere
d, even though he didn’t ask. “There’s a fabric store on Newbury Street that’s supposed to be spectacular. One of my brides asked if I could meet her there in person to help design her gown.” I stopped myself from saying any more. Providing too many details is what liars do. I know better.
“That’s a lot of driving,” he said.
“I’m fine with it.”
“That’s not the point,” he bristled. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you that time is money. So the question is: Is it necessary? Is it the best use of your whole day? Not: Are you fine with it?” John doesn’t mind being apart. But he does mind when I’m the one to leave. I know this because, in the past six months alone, he’s been working much later hours and taking more “business” trips than he has in the last five years. He says he’s been meeting with Arthur Doonan, but I suspect otherwise. Either way, he doesn’t complain then.
“I think it’s necessary.”
“There are no suitable fabric stores in Manhattan?”
“Of course there are, but this one is supposed to be the best. That’s what my clients command. You know that.”
“Well then, I suppose I can pick up my dry cleaning. And make myself dinner.” His tone was light, though trodden with meaning.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” John is well aware that we have a housekeeper and a chef who are salaried to do these sorts of things, but he never communicates with them directly. He tells me what he wants done and then, miraculously, it happens. Or, more accurately, I anticipate his needs and desires and guarantee they’re taken care of—by anyone but me. I don’t even think he knows our housekeeper’s name. And that we pay her cash under the table. He could get in trouble for that. Because of his line of work, John is meticulous about keeping his hands clean. It may be the one thing I admire about him. “Dora will pick up your suits and shirts and hang them in the closet, as she always does. And Chef will make you whatever you’d like for dinner.” I avoided eye contact, which is another sure sign of a liar.
“Forget about it. I’ll just go out.” I didn’t bother to ask with whom.
Pretty Revenge (ARC) Page 14
