Pretty Revenge (ARC)

by Emily Liebert

  “I see.”

  “My father passed away while I was there.”

  “Oh my God.” Her eyes widened. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I had no idea.”

  “No one did. No one does. And it’s fine. We weren’t close at all.”

  “Still . . .”

  “He wasn’t a good person. To say the least.”

  “I understand.” She didn’t. She couldn’t, even though it is nice to have another person in my new life, aside from Cathy and Stan, who knows what happened.

  “He was abusive,” I revealed. Maybe I just wanted to say it out loud. Or maybe I want Olivia to know more about me.

  “That’s so awful. I can’t even imagine.”

  “Well, you should be thankful for that. It wasn’t easy.” My eyes stung. “I know it may seem like I live in this perfect world, but it hasn’t always been that way. Appearances can be deceiving.”

  “I really am sorry.” She reached out and touched my arm, as a few tears escaped down my cheeks.

  “Anyway,” I sniffed and wiped the tears away quickly, “I left eighteen years ago and I finally have the closure I need. I hope.”

  “I hope so too.” She hesitated. “You can talk to me any time, you know.”

  “I do. At least now I do.” I nodded faintly. “Thank you again, for being a friend.”

  “Of course. I just feel terrible for you, for everything you’ve been through. No one should have to endure that.”

  “Isn’t that the truth.” I took a long, deep breath. “Please keep this between us. Not a word to anyone.”

  “I will. If there’s anything I can do . . .”

  “There’s nothing to do at this point.”

  “How’s your mother doing? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “She’s heartbroken. She loved him, despite everything.”

  “I see.”

  “She’ll be happier without him though.” I smiled at Olivia.

  “That’s good.” She smiled back.

  “We both will be. Soon enough.”

  35JORDANA

  “You’re going to have to meet me at the Doonan wedding.” I sat up in bed, next to John, watching him scan through emails on his iPhone and occasionally murmur something tetchy under his breath.

  “I’m not doing that,” he answered moments later, as if he’d only just heard me.

  “What do you mean?” It was midnight already, and I’d worked long hours to catch up on everything since my return from Connecticut. The first thing I wanted was a decent night’s sleep before waking up early to get back at it. The last thing I wanted to do was argue with my husband.

  “Jordana”— he turned to me then—“we’re invited as a couple, and that’s how we’ll go. Anything else would be tacky.”

  “I have to get there first thing that morning so I can make sure everything is in place. And I’ll be there all day. I’m just not sure I’ll have time to come home in between.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a way.” He picked up his reading glasses and set them on the bridge of his nose.

  “Well, I’m not. And you know this has to go seamlessly. You do want that, right?”

  “Of course I do,” he grumbled. “I just don’t see why I need to keep sacrificing for this silly hobby of yours.”

  “It’s not a hobby.” I pinched the underside of my thigh beneath the sheets.

  “Oh really?” He placed his phone on the nightstand in a show of exasperation. “If it doesn’t make money, it’s not a job.”

  “Well I’m hoping to turn a profit this year.” As I have every other year.

  “How much?” he challenged.

  “I don’t know.” I wasn’t prepared for such a direct question.

  “You don’t know?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Let me put it this way. Will it make a difference in our lifestyle?” He swept his hand across the room as if to say, Look at all that I provide for us.

  “That’s not a fair question, and you know that.”

  “Sure it is,” he sighed. “Jordana, I’m sick of this. I don’t want a wife who works late. Or who goes out of town for business. I want a wife who accompanies me to my boss’s daughter’s wedding. I expect you to be by my side, literally and figuratively. This isn’t what I signed up for.”

  “It’s not forever.” I tried to placate him. I’m not ready to leave just yet.

  “No, it’s not. This has to be it. You’ve been more invested in Tatiana and William’s happiness than in mine, and I don’t like it.” He looked me directly in the eyes, a rare occurrence. “If the company doesn’t make a significant amount of money by year’s end, you’re shutting it down. Understood?”

  “John,” I objected.

  He shook his head to silence my protest.

  “I’ll meet you at the wedding. This once.” He held up his index finger. “As long as we’re in agreement.”

  “Okay,” I relented, as resentment and fear rose in my chest. I refuse to be “the wife of.” I won’t.

  “That’s my girl.” He smiled contentedly. “Now, come over here.” He pulled me close to him and then climbed on top of me. John likes to be the one to look down.

  One day, I thought, One day soon. This will all be over.

  36KERRIE

  I was roused at seven this morning, first by the trill of my cell phone, and then to instant vigilance by the crash of Sara’s deafening voice through the receiver. She explained swiftly and at the top of her vocal register that a contact at one of the biggest banks in Grand Cayman—someone with whom she’d worked closely throughout her years at The Wall Street Journal, someone who owed her a big favor—had given her a list of all the shell corporations that held accounts at the bank. And that after sifting through pages and pages of names, she eventually came upon one that stood out. Camp David.

  “This could be it!” she shouted. “This is no coincidence. I’ll let you know what else I find.”

  “Great,” I said, as enthusiastically as I could. I wasn’t sure how I felt about her revelation, but I didn’t tell her that.

  Tatiana’s final fitting is this afternoon—precisely seventy-two hours before The Wedding of the Century. Since Jordana returned from Connecticut, we’ve been dousing fires left and right, some that I kindled myself, and others that ignited from the sheer volatility of Ethel’s fluctuating whims. Miraculously, I haven’t been held accountable for one misstep.

  The phone rang for what felt like the hundredth time this morning.

  “Jordana Pierson Wedding Concierge,” I answered as naturally as I breathe. “I’m sorry, but the bride and groom have elected not to be interviewed by the media,” I told the woman calling from News 12. It’s our blanket statement to every writer, reporter, producer, blogger, and journalist of any kind. Tatiana and William are not talking.

  Trust me when I say that the lead-up to a wedding of this magnitude is a healthy dose of adrenalin you can’t spoil. Beyond the details inherent in such an elaborate affair, when the Doonans and Blums are the key players, there are also issues of press and privacy to consider. Every outlet from Vanity Fair to the New York Post is vying for a slice of socialite pie.

  “What is this about, then?” Jordana looked up from her computer with a questioning expression. “I see. I’ll have to see if she’s available. Give me a minute.” I put the woman on hold and covered the receiver with my hand, just in case. “It’s Jan Marshall from News 12. She said that our building manager contacted them to say that we’re not paying rent and now they want to speak to you about a story they’re doing about rich people who think they’re invulnerable.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Sorry, I’m not.” I shook my head. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Didn’t he come by to get the check?”

/>   “Yes, and I gave it to him. I put the check right into his hand,” I lied, as the adrenalin pulsed through my veins. And it’s true: I did give him the envelope.

  “Of course you did. How ridiculous. He’s just trying to screw us for five minutes of fame.” Since I’ve managed to convince Jordana that I can do no wrong, she didn’t even think to blame me.

  She stood up and walked over to my desk. “Give me the phone.”

  “Jan? This is Jordana Pierson. It seems you have some misinformation. We pay all of our bills on time.” She paused. Presumably Jan had something to say about that. “No, I have no comment and I never will. Please do your homework before you decide to badger us with baseless accusations. We have real work to get done. Have a lovely day.” Jordana hung up and stalked back to her desk. “I don’t have time for this crap. If she calls back, don’t answer.”

  “Okay.” I nodded obediently, just as the phone rang yet again.

  “Is that her?” Jordana was ready and eager to decapitate Jan.

  “No, it’s Ethel. I’ve got it.” I picked up and in my sweetest voice said, “Hello, Ethel. It’s Olivia. How can I—” Before I could finish, she’d taken off on a tirade about how fabricated sketches of Tatiana’s gowns had been released, and that the rumor was she’d be wearing eight different styles between the rehearsal dinner, the ceremony, the reception, and the after-party, when the reality is that there are only five. She said that TMZ had also reported (accurately) that there will be four-hundred-and-twenty-five family and friends in attendance, half of whom the bride and groom can’t identify in a police lineup. “I understand that this is upsetting. Of course we’re sensitive to your desire for privacy.” Jordana rolled her eyes at me. “I believe Jordana is on the phone with TMZ right now.” I took a chance, and Jordana smiled. “I assure you, this wedding is our sole focus . . .we’re doing the best we can to keep things a discreet as possible . . .you’re on your way here? Okay then, we’ll see you—” The line went dead abruptly.

  “That woman is batshit crazy.” Jordana said as soon as I’d hung up. “I’m not kidding. She may need to be institutionalized.”

  “I hear you.”

  “I mean, how insane is it that she’s trying to pretend she doesn’t want everyone in the Western world to know about this wedding. She’s thrilled that TMZ and all the others are broadcasting every last detail. I just wish she didn’t have to go through the motions of pretending that she’s up in arms. It’s a waste of everyone’s time, including hers.”

  “She probably doesn’t have anything better to do.”

  “You’re exactly right.” She nodded. “Anything else of major concern that I should know about?”

  “Still no wedding band for William.”

  “Is this some kind of sick joke? I don’t understand why he can’t just pick a platinum or gold band—he can choose sterling silver, for all I care—like every other groom on the face of the Earth. What’s his problem?”

  “I’m not sure.” I was sure. But there was no way in hell I could tell Jordana that he was having second thoughts about marrying Tatiana. “I’m on it, though. You do not need to worry about it.”

  “Thank you. Because if one more thing goes wrong I might hang myself from our chandelier.”

  “Nothing else will go wrong,” I said, even though I was thinking the exact opposite. With less than three days to go, there is a very real possibility that the proverbial shit is about to hit the proverbial fan. Fortunately, Jordana is the one who will be buried, and I’ll remain completely spotless.

  The thing is, while I still believe that Jordana deserves to pay for her mistakes, I do have the smallest amount of sympathy for her. Losing a parent is never easy. And I’m touched that she confided in me about it. I’m just trying not to let it set me off course, even though yesterday I thought, What if I don’t expose her at all? I’ve finally reached an abundant place in my life and my career, if you ignore my dwindling funds. I could just go on this way. Take my raise. Take my promotion. I’d have to manage my money better, but so what? I like Olivia a lot more than I liked Kerrie, anyway. Maybe that’s enough of a payback.

  In other news, I haven’t spoken to William since he kissed me in the taxicab. He’s called and texted—it hasn’t been easy to avoid him—but I’ve had no choice. For one, I’m sure that it was just a drunken mistake, an intoxicated peck on the lips. How humiliating is that? Jordana cannot find out.

  Don’t get me wrong, there have been many moments when I’ve wanted to run to William and divulge everything. But I haven’t. In part so I can see my plan through. And also because I really don’t want to hurt him. Plus, I know he doesn’t see me that way. He’d chalk it up to a silly crush, and I’m not sure my ego would survive that kind of rejection. Even though he’s out of my league, a girl can still dream. The dream is always better than the reality.

  “They’re here!” Jordana called out suddenly, averting me from distraction. Then she got up, readjusted the two white leather coach chairs surrounding our long, rectangular glass coffee table, and waited for Ethel to burst through the door.

  “I don’t think it’s the Doonans. They’re not due for another ten minutes.” Ethel is never late. But she’s rarely early, either. I walked toward the door and spotted a young woman I didn’t recognize, carrying two bulky garment bags, standing outside. “I’ll get it.” I let her in and relieved her of one of the bags.

  “Thank you.” She smiled gratefully. “These are heavy.” I showed her where to hang them. “There’s one more. I’ll be right back.” She left and reappeared again. “So now you have the two bride’s dresses and the mother-of-the bride’s dress. Can you please sign here?”

  “What do you mean the two bride’s dresses?” I pretended to be shocked, even though I wasn’t.

  “Is that not right?” She stared at me blankly. She was probably an intern or a low-level gofer. Bright eyed. Bushy tailed. And dressed head to toe in “designer” clothing she’d bought off the sales rack at someplace like Marshall’s or T.J. Maxx. She’d touched up the scuff marks on her black leather pumps with a Sharpie.

  “Not unless you’re hiding one of the gowns somewhere. The bride is supposed to have three. I confirmed with Ilana.” You tell one lie, it leads to another . . .

  “Oh yeah, Ilana is no longer with the company.”

  “I see.” Duh.

  “What’s going on here?” Jordana rushed over and unzipped the garment bags to reveal dress number two and dress number three. “Where is the main gown?” Her tone was arctic. My hands were on my hips in a show of solidarity.

  “I . . .I don’t know. I’m new. I . . .I just started yesterday,” she stammered. Poor little lamb.

  “Well you better get your boss on the phone.” The girl didn’t move. “Now!” Jordana barked.

  “Yes, yes, of course . . .I’ll just be a minute.” She stepped outside again. For fear we might eat her alive, one scrawny limb at a time. It didn’t take long for her to return. “I’m so sorry, my boss said that there’s been a little mix-up, but that she’ll get to the bottom of it immediately.”

  “Listen to me,” Jordana’s eyes were ferocious. “I need you to go back to that store and find the dress immediately. Got it?”

  “I’ll try.” She took a step backward. I thought Jordana might lunge at her.

  “You’ll try?” If it’s possible to actually see steam coming out of someone’s ears, I believe I did. Because that was when Tatiana and Ethel made their grand entrance and little lamb was hastily dismissed. All in the bat of an eyelash extension. I couldn’t wait to see how Jordana was going to scrape her way out of this hole.

  Needless to say, neither Tatiana nor Ethel received the information well. But Ethel was the one who launched a full-scale tantrum, especially once she realized there was a second mistake. That her shrug was made of velvet not duchess satin. Oops.

 
“Let’s speak privately,” Jordana suggested to Ethel, before physically guiding her into the back room, leaving Tatiana and I, somewhat awkwardly, alone.

  “What?” She caught me staring at her. It’s so hard to envision her as William’s wife. Sure, they look the part. But to know William is to understand that they don’t make sense beyond aesthetics. It’s not that Tatiana is a bad person—remarkable given her genetics—it’s just that I don’t think she’s William’s person. And the fact that she wouldn’t want to have kids with him is unthinkable.

  “Nothing.” I shook my head.

  “This must all seem outrageous to you.”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know—this larger-than-life wedding and everything that comes with it. I’m sure you deal with it all the time, but it’s still over-the-top, don’t you think?”

  “I think if it’s what you want, then it’s as it should be.” I hesitated. “Is it? What you want?” I asked brazenly. Strangely, she didn’t appear at all surprised by my question. She even waited a few seconds before answering.

  “I guess so.” She shrugged. “Either way, it’s happening. My mother’s been planning it in her head since we started dating.”

  “I believe that!” I smiled.

  “I know it may not seem like it, but she means well. She just wants me to be happy. And she does love to throw a killer party.”

  “I believe that, too!” I laughed lightly. “Anyway, all that really matters is that you and William are madly in love.”

  “Right.” She looked down at her feet.

  “You are in love with William, right?” I couldn’t help myself.

  “Of course I love William,” she answered, too quickly.

  “But are you in love with him?” I nudged. “As in, are you prepared to spend the rest of your life with him?”

  “Does anyone really know that?”

  “I expect that they think they do.”