by Dani Wyatt
HIS RESOLUTION
By
Dani Wyatt
Copyright © 2019
by Dani Wyatt
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,
events and incidents are either the products
of the author’s imagination
or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
www.daniwyatt.com
Cover Credit PopKitty
Editing Nicci Haydon
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Chapter One
Doralee
DOES A NUMBER ON THE scale define everyone?
My chest feels tight as I glare at the number staring back at me, but it’s not changing.
I snap a picture with my phone and send it to my father, because I refuse to send it direct to Melany. It might only be a small rebellion, but I take them where I can get them. The timestamp shows 6PM exactly, and right on cue my stomach growls.
“Eat something, for God’s sake.” My only friend in the whole world, January Jones from Los Angeles, glares at me through the Skype screen.
I take the glass from the bathroom vanity and chug down half the water inside, making me breathless and more lightheaded. Then I take one look at the pills sitting on the side and draw a deep breath. Gritting my teeth, I pick them up, hold them out in my palm, and throw them down the drain. “I’ll get something at the party,” I lie.
“When are you leaving?”
“Half hour.”
I turn to grab my Egyptian cotton robe off the hook, pulling it around me before I step out onto the inch-thick pile of my bedroom carpet. Most girls my age might be self-conscious talking naked on Skype, but January and I have known each other a long time and my upbringing has made me immune to embarrassment when it comes to my body.
Throughout my teenage years I’ve grown used to undressing in rooms with dozens of other girls as I change from one outfit to another for junior fashion shows and photo-shoots. I pull the door to my bathroom closed, humming as I play an imaginary tune on an imaginary piano in the air, and a soft growl draws my attention to the two velvet-lined doggy baskets.
“Hey, Blubson,” I trill, blowing a kiss. “Hey, Glubson.”
The two pugs regard me with something between love and inquisitiveness. Is it time for a walk?
“Not now, you be good while I’m out.”
Blubson continues to watch me a moment longer, but Glubson—always the laziest of the two—yawns and lays back down. It took three years of begging, negotiating and achieving certain goals—which Melany and my father set forth—before I was finally allowed them, and they are my favorite things in the entire world. They are my heart and soul and I can’t imagine a day without their goofiness to offset my overly serious world. A fact that Melany is well aware of.
“Half an hour?” January’s voice is sharp and her disdain for the constraints of my life is on full display. “And then there’s the journey to get there, followed by an hour watching your stepmother work the room before you even get close to any food. Eat something now. Order a pizza. Better still, let me order one for you.”
“January...” I let out a sigh. “First, Melany is not my stepmother.”
“As good as...”
I shiver involuntarily as I drop onto the edge of my bed. “Second, I have to watch what I eat. I mean, pizza? How many calories are in even a single slice? A billion and one? I don’t think I’ve eaten carbs since I was ten...”
“Hey.” She snaps through the phone. “I care about you, and this is bullshit. People don’t live like this. Logging every sip of water, every crumb, and reporting it back to the very people that should be the ones caring for you and keeping you healthy instead of heroin chic?”
“I’m fine. I just have to get through this party. It’s an important night.”
“To whom?” The sarcasm in her voice is clear and it makes me snap.
“To me!” I draw a breath as I stand, throwing the phone onto the bed. Let her stare at my ceiling. “This is my dream too, you know.” I step to where the sapphire blue, beaded gown is hanging on the back of my bathroom door and take it down, dropping the robe and slipping the dress over my head.
“Is it though? Or are you just saying what you’re supposed to say? Being a model is fine, I get it, you want to follow in your mom’s footsteps. But models don’t have to be stick insects anymore. They’re allowed to eat a burger and fries once in a while.”
I zip up the side zipper on the dress, admiring myself in the mirror on the back of the door. There’s a humiliating pride that it’s looser on me than it was when I went to pick it up at the designer’s studio a few days ago. I note the waves of bone that show in the plunging neckline. There’s no cleavage. If there was, the neckline would dip inches below where I would feel over-exposed. But, one thing I’ve learned in the modeling I’ve done so far, is you put up and shut up—or you don’t get to join in the parade.
“January, this is what I’ve worked for since I was like fourteen, ever since my mother died. It’s finally happening and I just have to get through tonight. Make a good impression.”
“Wanting to honor your mom, sure, that’s you. Wanting to make a good impression to some creepy agency guys, though? That’s your father and fucking Melany. I can see the headline on Page Six now... ‘Billionaire widower, Thomas Hinson, soon-to-be-fiancé Melany Bitch-Face, and his cotillion-attending, aspiring-model daughter, Doralee, grace the Hart Agency annual post-Christmas party, as Doralee prepares to open the runway season in Europe...’”
I giggle and drop my voice. “Stop!”
“I get what you are saying, but trust me, I live in Los Angeles, where being a size zero is practically obese and I hate that shit. You’ve been killing yourself to lose weight for as long as I’ve known you and it never ends. It’s never enough. My dream is to sit down with you at some skeezy diner and watch you polish off a triple burger, cheese fries and a chocolate shake, then start all over with deep fried twinkies, macaroni and cheese...”
“January!”
She falls silent and I say a little prayer of thanks. I won’t admit it, but my mouth is watering just at the thought.
Before my mother died, she kept me on a strictly healthy, ‘clean’ diet. She was a former model herself, and while she loved me, her own obsession with her weight was pushed onto me at every opportunity. Hard to believe now, but it was my father who argued against it, sneaking me little tasty treats whenever her back was turned. That all changed when she passed away. I never saw him as broken as he was after the cancer took her. He needed someone to talk to and while I tried to be there for him, I don’t think he ever wanted to put that on me.
Enter Melany, his therapist—psychiatrist, to be more exact. Not mine, at least not at the time. That was the start of his obsession with
making me “better”.
A loud knock on my bedroom door makes me jump. “Are you dressed?” My father’s booming voice comes through, then there’s a click and I spin around to find him standing in the doorway, peering inside.
“Yes, father. I’m almost ready.”
“Hurry. Car is waiting downstairs. I’m not pleased with your numbers today. I just received your evening weigh in. We will have to reevaluate.”
I hear January groan from where the phone is tossed on the bed, and panic tips my voice as I try to cover her obvious contempt: “Okay. Be right there.” A little smile and he huffs as he turns away.
I wait to hear his footsteps at the end of the hall, then grab the phone.
“January, I have to go.”
“Fine, call when you get home. I want to know what happens.”
“It’s just a party, a chance to mingle. All the models that are with the agency will be there, it’s a great opportunity for me to meet everyone before I start my contract. It’s a big deal to be signed with the Hart Agency.”
“Uh huh. Like they have a heart.”
“Goodbye, January.”
“Fine...I’ll expect your call—”
I click off, because knowing January she will keep talking until I hang up. For being just twenty, she’s a mother hen. I met her ten years ago, when we both happened to be on vacation in Aruba. I slipped and fell into the pool, practically right on top of her, but instead of being a dick about it, she thought it was funny and told me I knew how to make an entrance. Her father has gobs of money, and you might have expected her to be an entitled bitch, but that’s just not in her nature. We instantly formed a bond, and although she lives in Los Angeles and I’m in New York, we’ve stayed friends through Skype and text messaging ever since.
I check myself one last time in the mirror, smoothing my jet-black hair down my shoulders, then head out of the room and down the stairs. My father had my hair and makeup professionally done, leaving me responsible for putting on my dress and not mucking up the work that was done—which I think I’ve handled well.
Although his opinion may vary, of course...
The stylist flat-ironed my hair until I looked like Morticia Addams, while my makeup makes me look older than my eighteen years; blood-red lipstick contrasting with my pale skin finishes off the Addams Family vibe.
As I descend the stairs, I see my father standing by the door to our three-story penthouse, talking on the phone. He’s nearly always on his phone, his computer or in a meeting. He’s the man who can make or break companies with a single phone call, after all. He silently waves me into the elevator, finishing up his call as we travel down, and I try to ignore the details of the meeting he’s setting up. When the elevator bell rings and the doors slide open on the first floor, Antonio our driver is already there waiting.
He holds out a long white coat and I slip it on as my father and I follow him past the silent doorman, out into the chilly post-Christmas evening air and to the waiting limo. Antonio shoots me a friendly wink as I slide into the back of the limousine, my father following close behind. Then the door closes and my father looks me up and down as the car lurches forward into traffic.
“You look beautiful.”
“Thank you, father.”
That is his highest compliment these days, and as horrible as it sounds it’s something I’ve worked hard to get from him, because it’s as close as he ever comes to telling me he loves me.
“I overheard your conversation with January. She’s a bad influence. I don’t want you talking to her anymore.”
“Dad, she’s like my only friend...”
“A friend that encourages you to eat greasy diner food? A friend that doesn’t respect your professional goals? I expect better from you, Doralee. You always did want to overeat as a child. You want that fat girl inside you to find her way out and ruin everything we’ve worked for?”
I shake my head, feeling the tears start to sting the corners of my eyes as I turn away, watching out the window at the packed traffic and holiday lights that line the streets and wrap around the trees. Yesterday was Christmas day. Once upon a time, he would have ignored my mother’s irritated glares as he fed me chocolate and candy. His phone rings and I know from the ringtone it’s Melany. My stomach turns on itself as he answers.
“Hello.” I listen and I can hear Melany’s chirping voice as he nods along. “Yes, we are on the way now. Yes, I’m sure she did...No, I haven’t. I can ask—okay I’ll ask her...” He pauses and turns to me, holding the phone slightly away from his ear. “You took your medication before you left, correct?”
I bite the inside of my cheek as I nod. I hate lying, but I hate the medications more. I don’t think they help me at all. They make me dull and unfocused, even though Melany diagnosed me with ADHD and anxiety years ago. That’s right. Diagnosed me. After she finished with my father, at her suggestion to work through my grief, I became her next patient.
“She says yes. Okay, we will see you there, darling. We are about twenty minutes away.” He goes quiet, listening again, and I wonder what a man like him sees in a woman like Melany. But she’s got his ear and his wallet, and for whatever reason he can’t see passed his nose when it comes to her. “Yes, I’ll remind her. No, no need for that right now. We’ll see you there.”
“Remind me of what?” I ask as he hangs up.
“The dogs. She wanted me to remind you about the deal we made.”
My throat tightens and immediately my eyes burn, and I’m having trouble breathing.
Deal we made? He means the deal she made and he went along with. Bitch.
I’m sorry, but she is.
I don’t know why she hates the dogs so much. They stay in my room most of the time, they don’t bark, they never make a mess in the house. But then, she knows that I love them, and that gives her power over me.
And power is something Melany always wants more of. Look up the word control freak in the dictionary and there will be a picture of Melany.
“I know, father. You know I love them more than anything. Please, don’t ever let her get rid of them. I’ll die. Promise me.”
“Just stick to our deal and nobody will get rid of anyone or anything. One year in Europe, work hard, stick to the plan. They will be safe in the kennel.”
“Yes, but she said she would take them to the shelter—”
He reaches over and lays his hand on mine. He rarely touches me, and it makes me wince. “Only if you don’t abide by the agreement. Just do as you’re told. By Melany, by the agency, by me. The dogs will be fine. We all just want the best for you.”
I nod, my lip quivering. “I’ll work hard.”
“Good girl. She’s just trying to keep you focused. Be on your best behavior tonight. In three days, you’ll be on your way to Europe and you’ll see, everything will fall into place. Your dream is coming true. Before New Year the agency will be starting to put your name forward for some of the biggest shows of the early season. Your mother would be so proud of you.”
Twenty minutes later we are on the fiftieth floor walking into the party. The space is impressive, even by our usual standards. Two-story ceilings and sweeping staircases, with a view from the second-floor balcony right over to the other side of Central Park. This place makes our apartment look like a walk up somewhere in the Bronx.
It’s still lavished with Christmas décor, all white trees and white lights giving it more of a homely warmth than my stark Christmas at home with Melany and my father.
She spots us as soon as we enter and looks me up and down with her usual pursed lips, but her eyes darken as she turns her focus onto my father. Truth is, he’s aged a lot in the years since my mother died. I mean, he was twenty years older than my mother, and he’s twenty-five years older than Melany, so it’s not that he’s old beyond his years, not really. But there was always an energy about him before. He worked hard for what he had, and although he was already semi-retired when my mother was alive he still
made sure everyone knew he was the boss.
Now, the way he lets Melany push him around...my mother would hardly recognize him.
She turns to a tuxedoed staff member tending the bar beside her, one of many that line the walls, and indicates two with her fingers. He smiles, a little too familiarly if you ask me, and pours her two drinks, which she picks up before heading our way.
“Thomas.” Melany leans into my father, giving him a kiss before wiping her lipstick from his lips as she hands him one of the glasses and nods toward me. “Doralee.” She releases a disappointed sigh as she examines my face, making me want to ram my fist into her botoxed lips. “You have a pimple.”
I open my mouth to say something, but luckily for me someone calls to my father and Melany’s focus shifts, her eyes widening in delight.
“Oh, that’s Patrick Remington the actor? I simply adored him in that movie last year...oh, what was it called? You know the one I mean...” Melany runs her hand down my father’s chest. “You know him?”
He nods. “Yes, I helped him with some financing for his new production company.”
“Well, let’s go talk to him.” Melany turns to me, pointing to the floor at my feet. “Stay right here. We’ll be back, and then we need to go talk to Andre and Michael from the Hart Agency. We want to make a good impression and I do not want you talking to them without us. And water only tonight. You’re looking bloated.”
“Melany, really. That’s enough.” My father interjects, one of the rare occasions when his old self shines through.
But when Melany gives him a shrug, the curtain comes back down. “I’m just doing my job. For all of us.”
With that, she takes his hand and leads him away, leaving me standing alone but thankful to be away from her. I turn to scan the room, irritated but staying put as I’ve been told. A string quartet is playing in the center as filter-perfect faces mill about, chatting and laughing and no doubt genuinely enjoying themselves.
And then it happens.