by Roxy Sloane
* * *
At the salon, I gossip with my stylist Byron as usual, but I let him do most of the talking. The familiar busy chatter of the room washes over me, comforting after all the upheaval of the last day. Around me, the cream of New York society sits under dryers and at the manicure stations, flicking through glossy magazines and planning their next party.
This is how I spend my days now: spa treatments, hair appointments, luncheons and charity events. Growing up, it was all I ever wanted. I looked at those same magazines and imagined what it would be like if I were one of those beautiful women, so perfect and removed from the real world. I thought if I could be one of them, everything would be OK. No worries, no stress.
And then Ashcroft adopted me, and I learned, I couldn’t be more wrong.
But for today, just today, I decide to pretend. Like I really am the frivolous socialite people think I am, and the most important decision I have to make is whether to pick ‘ballet slipper’ or ‘daydream’ for my manicure color.
My phone buzzes while I’m waiting for the polish to dry. I carefully tap the speaker button.
“Izzie, babe, I’m sitting alone at a table for six, where are you?”
My friend, Olivia. Shit. I’d totally forgotten our lunch date.
“I’m sorry, I’m on my way!” I lie. “The others aren’t there yet?”
“You know Nicole,” Olivia sighs. “She loves to make an entrance.”
I smile. “I promise I’ll be there soon.”
I finish up at the salon and hail a cab. Lunch with my friends is exactly the distraction I need.
Bistro Minou is bustling when I arrive. It’s the latest hot spot for one to see and be seen: white leather and glass banquettes, with a polished bar and the best wine list in the city.
“Miss Ashcroft.” The elegant French hostess greets me on sight. “Please, this way.”
I spot the girls across the room. They’re seated at a prime table near the window. Of course, Nicole and her minions want to be seen dining here. One of them has probably already sent in a tip to the gossip columnists so they can run an item in their blogs talking about our outfits, our shoes, our fabulous lives.
Olivia sees me coming and waves brightly. Nicole and Lulu, staring at their cell phones, don’t even notice me until I sit down and loudly say, “Hi.”
“Isabelle, sweetie.” Nicole air kisses me from two feet away. Lulu just stares blankly at me as if it’s the first time we’ve met. Ugh. Suddenly, I realize I’m not really in the mood for them today. But Olivia is a sweetheart and I always enjoy hanging with her, so it’s kind of a trade-off.
The waiter swings by to take our order. Nicole treats him like a servant. She orders a bottle of pricey champagne for the table, even though it’s barely past noon. He must be used to dealing with snobby socialites, though. He’s unfazed.
My first foster mom was a waitress, and I remember how tired she’d be when she came home from work. How she’d rub her feet and count her tips as she smoked a cigarette. Once, trying to educate me about life, I guess, she told me about each of her customers as she sorted the paper bills into ones, fives and tens.
The best tip that day had come from an elderly couple in town to visit their son and his new wife. Newly retired, they told her how much they appreciated her help getting a low-salt meal for the husband.
The worst tip, two dollars on a forty-five dollar tab, had come from a couple of business executives who drank their lunch and snickered about my foster mom’s crooked, yellow teeth.
She told me that the richest people were often the least generous. If you didn’t have to work for your living, she said, you didn’t appreciate those who did.
I’d never forgotten her words, and at Bistro Minou, I watch her theory in action.
“And it all needs to be gluten-free,” Nicole says, still listing her demands. “Organic only. Can you check the provenance of the tuna in the Nicoise salad?” she adds. “I only eat wild-caught fish from sustainable sources.”
Olivia and I exchange a smile.
“Of course,” the waiter nods, scribbling it all down before turning to me. “And you, miss?”
The two older men at the next table are happily digging into juicy steaks with sage cream, sautéed mushrooms and crispy pomme frites. I eye their plates with envy. But I know Nicole and Lulu will tease me if I order anything more than rabbit food, no matter how hungry I am. Every once in a while, I sneak off to Shake Shack for a bacon cheeseburger and peanut butter custard shake. It’s my version of heaven on earth.
But heaven will have to wait.
“The salad for me too, thank you.” I send him an apologetic smile. I’ll be sure to tip him extra to make up for Nicole’s bitch act.
The minute he leaves, Nicole launches into the latest scandal involving her friend, Paige. “And you know what the worst part is? Now he’s divorcing her.”
Lulu gasps, like it’s the first time she’s heard it. “She should’ve ignored the affairs.”
“For real,” Olivia sighs, refilling her glass. “I mean, what man doesn’t cheat?”
“He’s rich. She gets plenty of perks,” Nicole sneers. “But she signed a pre-nup. She’ll lose everything. The apartment. The house in the Hamptons…”
“Stupid cow,” Lulu adds, giggling.
“Right?” Nicole sips at her champagne, then wrinkles her nose. “I mean, she’ll be practically broke. Why would we even hang out with her anymore?”
“She won’t be coming to places like this,” Lulu agrees. “And we’ll have nothing to talk about.”
Usually I just play along with their mean spirited gossip, but after everything that happened over the last twenty-four hours, I wonder why I’m even here. What would they say if they knew about Brent and my former relationship?
Olivia turns to me. “You’re quiet. Everything ok?”
I force a smile. “Thanks for checking, but I’m fine. Just a headache.”
Olivia looks like she doesn’t believe me. “Well, if you change your mind, you’ve got my digits. Sometimes I get ‘headaches,’ too.” She smiles warmly and I’m grateful that she doesn’t push.
Of all my socialite friends, she’s the nicest and the most genuine. I wish I could confide in her, but we’re just too different. Her family owns several prestigious art galleries and she’s lived her whole life surrounded by wealth and luxury. The best schools, summers abroad, European vacations…she even had a pony at her family’s Connecticut farm. And would she still be interested in me if she knew about the skeletons in my closet?
Olivia only knows me as Isabelle Ashcroft. I may be protected by my trust fund and last name now, but my position in this world is still fragile. I should know: I learned the rules from scratch, watching carefully to learn all the things that they take for granted.
A sudden swell of insecurity rises in my chest. I look around the table. Can I even call these women my friends? I can’t confide in them, or in anyone, not really.
The truth is, I’m all alone. The only person who’s ever seen even a bit behind this perfect façade is Cam.
I try to push the thought aside and focus on lunch. I gossip and chat with the others, but it’s hard to go through the motions. By the time the check comes, I’m relieved to get away.
“See you soon!” I promise, after another round of air-kisses. I exit the bistro and try to plan my day. There are some boutiques nearby, and even though Cam promised to get everything I need, I decide to drop in and pick up some essentials.
I’m halfway down the block when I see a familiar face leaving Armani.
Brent.
I duck back into an alleyway, praying he didn’t see me on the street. My heart is beating a mile a minute and I have to take deep breaths to calm myself.
I peer around the building in time to see him get into a cab. When it drives away, I feel waves of relief.
Thank god. I’m safe.
I hate feeling this way. But Brent is so unhinged now, so uns
table. I could always predict how he would act, what he would say, how to behave to avoid upsetting him. But I don’t want to play this game anymore. And yet I’m too afraid to tell him.
But how long can I hide?
EIGHT: CAM
Just because my personal life is in turmoil, it doesn’t mean my professional life slows down for a minute. As soon as I get to the office, I’m plunged into the usual high-octane business that keeps the multi-billion dollar company running smoothly. I try to get my head in the game, but by the time I get to my afternoon meetings, my concentration is shot.
All I can think about is Isabelle.
I stare blankly at a spreadsheet, trying to follow the fight in front of me. My CFO is facing off against my VP of marketing. It’s an important discussion about a division rebrand, but I’m too distracted to follow them. Isabelle’s face keeps popping into my mind, and with it, an unwelcome surge of lust. All I can think about is the mess I’ve gotten myself into.
Why did I have to play the hero and butt into something that isn’t my business?
The answer comes, and I don’t like it one bit.
It is your business. You feel responsible for her now.
I sigh. It’s true, Ashcroft was my mentor, and his heir, Keely, asked me to keep an eye on Isabelle, but that doesn’t explain why I feel so protective of her. Why I want her so badly that it’s ruining my meeting, distracting me completely.
It’s more than her astonishing beauty, or the chameleon quality of watching her switch from bratty socialite to a vulnerable and thoughtful woman. I know there’s much more to her than