There was only one thing left to do: play dumb.
As he closed in on her, Bridget sidestepped, her heart pounding, and practically sprinted for the exit. “Oh, wow!” she said in a high-pitched voice. “Oh, gosh! Would you look at the time? My father will be wondering why I’m not home yet!” And then, without waiting for an answer, she hightailed it back through the parking lot and into the car, sliding into the front seat, next to the startled driver.
“Sorry! I get carsick in the back,” she trilled, batting her eyelashes and smiling apologetically as McDonald peered at her through the passenger-side window, his face pinched in anger.
For a moment she held her breath, wondering if he was going to reach in and yank her out of the car; wondering if his driver would help her, or just go back to reading his magazine, ignoring her desperate screams.
McDonald paused, darting a look at her, then at the driver, then back to her again. She swallowed, but didn’t break eye contact, keeping the desperate smile plastered on her face.
Finally, he shook his head and with a look of annoyed resignation, yanked open the back door and slid in.
The driver started up the car.
For a moment Bridget just breathed. She waited for her hands to stop trembling.
Then she squared her shoulders, turned around, gave him another dose of her best smile and began talking again.
By the time they made it back to the city, she had worn him down. No, he was not going to hire her as his GC, but yes, he would rent her the unfinished loft space at the back of the building for her office, and if she fixed it up herself, she could get it at four hundred dollars a month.
* * *
It turned out that Ava Martinez wasn’t just a good friend, she was a steady professional contact for Bridget. Whenever she could, she would throw jobs Bridget’s way. Unfortunately, she was at the bottom rung at her architecture firm, the only woman, and at least a decade younger than anyone else there, so she was mainly limited to residential renovations. Of course, Bridget was grateful to get any kind of work, and if updating kitchens and refinishing floors was all there was—she wasn’t dumb enough to turn her nose up at even the smallest renovation. So when Ava called Bridget one morning while Bridget was working out and left a message to call her back right away, Bridget wasn’t expecting anything too exciting.
Another bathroom, whoop-de-do, she thought to herself as she dialed her phone. Maybe some walk-in closets or a kitchen pantry, if I’m lucky.
“Oh, my God,” squealed Ava as soon as she picked up. “Why did you take so long to call?”
“It’s leg and butt day,” said Bridget. “Squats take time.”
“Shut up about your butt! You know who Kendall MacKenzie is?”
Bridget rolled her eyes. Who didn’t know who Kendall MacKenzie was? “Yes, I know who Kendall MacKenzie is. I’m not an idiot,” she replied. “Bisexual supermodel. Muse. It Girl. Dated Johnny Depp and Madonna at the same time. They all trashed a hotel room together. Has been to rehab five times in the last three years. Probably needs to go again.”
“Yes!” answered Ava. “Yes! Exactly! Well, guess who just bought a five-story Federal-style townhouse on Bank Street in the West Village and wants the whole thing renovated from top to bottom?”
“Gee, let me take a wild guess. Kendall MacKenzie?”
“Kendall MacKenzie!” shouted Ava. “She marched in this morning to meet with our senior partners and she saw me pass by in the hall and she said, ‘Wait, are there women architects?’ and so they brought me in and then I told her that not only are there women architects, I have a woman contractor she can work with, as well, and she got so excited that she offered to hire us on the spot!”
Bridget’s heart sped up. “Seriously? A five-story renovation? Oh, my God.”
“See?” crowed Ava. “See! I told you! She wants you to come over to meet her and do a walk-through tomorrow!”
* * *
Bridget agonized over what to wear. Her tried and true Stella McCartney suddenly seemed matronly and stiff when she thought about the hip young model. Besides, they were doing a walk-through, not meeting at Le Cirque. She should keep it casual. Good jeans, her work boots, a slouchy purple T-shirt that skimmed her torso in just the right way.
Kendall answered the door in nothing but a black, see-through negligee and a sleepy smile.
“Oh,” she said in a mellow Californian drawl. “You’re the lady builder, right? I’m sorry. I was asleep. I totally forgot you were coming.”
Bridget was startled to realize that although she knew the model’s face and body—even the nipples she could clearly see through the sheer nightgown were familiar to her thanks to countless half-naked Vogue editorials—she had never actually heard Kendall’s voice before.
“I’m Bridget,” she said. “Bridget Steele.”
Kendall yawned again. “Hi. What time is it, anyway?”
Bridget looked at her watch. “Um. Three p.m.”
Kendall nodded. “Wow. No wonder I’m tired. It’s so early. Come on in.”
As they walked into the house, Bridget couldn’t help sneaking a glance at the butt that was rumored to have been insured for ten million dollars before noting the narrow staircase and sloped wide-board pine floors of a typical 1800s-era house. “You could knock out the staircase and make it bigger,” she suggested. “Level the floors. It would make the entryway feel much more airy and dramatic.”
“Cool,” said Kendall as she led her farther down the hall. They passed by the parlor and Bridget glimpsed the topless torso of a very well-built man lounging on a green velvet couch and playing guitar. She couldn’t help turning back around to double-check.
“Hey,” said the man.
“Hey,” croaked Bridget back. Yup. Lenny Kravitz.
Kendall airily waved her hand in unimpressed dismissal. “Don’t mind him. He crashed here last night after the party. He is such a frigging lightweight.” As they continued down the hall, Kendall grabbed a crumpled pack of American Spirit cigarettes and a lighter and took a deep drag. “Aaaah, yeah. That’s better,” she said. Her lips were even fuller than Bridget’s. Her eyes were huge and slanted and an eerie violet-blue that Bridget had only ever seen on Elizabeth Taylor. Her skin was golden and flawless and looked lit from within. She didn’t have a stitch of makeup on and she was easily the most beautiful person Bridget had ever seen in real life.
She offered a cigarette to Bridget, who shook her head. “No, thanks.”
“God,” said Kendall, “I know you’re supposed to see the house now, but I’m totally famished. Like, I don’t think I’ve actually eaten anything in the last forty-eight hours. You mind if we skip down to Nobu and have a bite first?” She yelled down the hall. “Lenny, do you want to get some food with me and this lady builder?”
“Sure! Why not?” Lenny yelled back.
“Okay, cool. I’m just going to go get some shoes or something.” Kendall gazed down at what she was wearing with a confused expression on her face. “Oh, wow, there’s my boobs.” She giggled. “I guess maybe I should change my clothes, too?”
She drifted up the stairs and left Bridget standing in the hall. Bridget swallowed, itching to see the rest of the house, but also super-excited to be having lunch with Kendall and her famous entourage. Maybe they would become best friends. She imagined herself drinking cosmos, dancing at clubs, jet-setting off to LA and Paris at a moment’s notice, comforting Kendall after her latest breakup...
“Hey, lady builder,” said Lenny Kravitz as he poked his head into the hallway. “I can’t find my moccasins.”
* * *
That Nobu lunch—which somehow Bridget had ended up paying the enormous bill for—was the first and only time Bridget spent any time with Kendall before she got a message from Kendall’s assistant, letting her know that the model was going to Marrakesh for six months, but that she
had okayed Ava’s plans and Bridget should get to work and spare no expense. She expected the whole place to be done by the time she arrived home.
Bridget worked round the clock, seven days a week, taking advantage of the blank check Kendall had essentially left her to hire an enormous crew who would work overtime. Kendall had left a small army of experts who needed to be consulted on every move. Besides Ava, there was her assistant, her manager, two interior designers—who never agreed with each other—her personal chef, who had endless opinions about the kitchen, and Kendall’s younger sister, Pam, who reminded Bridget of a gerbil. Apparently, Kendall had helped herself to all the good genes before Pam had a chance.
But despite all the cooks in the proverbial kitchen, Ava and Bridget managed to pull together and make an absolutely stunning space before Kendall, wearing a gem-encrusted caftan, stepped back off her plane.
“She loves it!” breathed Ava to Bridget over the phone. “She wants you to come to a housewarming dinner party tomorrow night. It starts at ten.”
“Of course it does. Just me?”
“No, the lady architect was invited, too, but it’s my parents’ anniversary. I have to lift a glass of wine to thirty-seven years of passive aggression.”
Bridget bought a new dress. Then returned it and bought another one. Then changed her mind, returned that and decided to wear jeans instead. She added a gold silk tank top that showed off her shoulders and ample cleavage. She did not return the four-inch-heeled gold Christian Louboutin sandals she bought to match. She paid for a blowout at the salon. She got a Brazilian wax just for the hell of it. Images of the villa she and Kendall would rent for their yearly girlfriend retreat on the Amalfi coast danced in her head as she knocked on the carved mahogany door that she had personally selected and hung.
Younger sister Pam met her at the door. “Hiiii,” she breathed. “Like, thank God you’re finally here. There’s a big problem in one of the downstairs powder rooms and Kendall is not happy.”
Bridget blinked. “Um, did anyone call a plumber?”
Pam shook her head impatiently. “Why would we do that when we knew you were coming?”
Knowing that she couldn’t afford to alienate a celebrity, Bridget followed Pam down the hall, wishing she was wearing different shoes.
Kendall intercepted them on the way in. She was carrying a lurid green cocktail, wearing a gingham bikini top and cutoff shorts and had a crust of white powder around her nose and a giant zit on her chin. She was still the most beautiful person Bridget had ever seen.
“You suck at building, lady builder,” she slurred. There was a dumb, mean look in her pretty eyes. “My new bathroom is all wet and it ruined my babouches that I brought all the way from Morocco and you should give me my money back. I’m probably going to have to sue you.”
For a moment Bridget considered telling Kendall where, exactly, she could stick her frigging babouches, but seeing the room full of A-list celebrities behind her—all potential dream clients—sipping their drinks and silently watching this scene play out, she decided it would be best to keep her mouth shut, get to the bathroom as quickly as possible and hope for something simple to fix. After all, although it was unlikely, she supposed the problem could have been her fault.
But it was not Bridget’s fault. The toilet was merely clogged, though there was no evidence of what was blocking it. Apparently, Kendall hadn’t even been smart enough to turn off the water, so it had overrun all over the Spanish tiles that Bridget’s tile guy had so carefully laid. Bridget removed her shoes, and, shaking her head, quickly shut the valve off at the back of the toilet. After a few moments of fishing around with a snake, she dredged up a sparkly pink cell phone, which had apparently been dropped into the toilet bowl and wedged itself halfway down the pipe.
Bridget rolled her eyes and wrapped the phone in a hand towel before marching out into the living room and wordlessly presenting the dripping evidence to Kendall.
“That’s not mine,” said Kendall like a little kid caught drawing on the walls. “Maybe your plumber dropped his phone down my toilet and then didn’t tell anyone. Like I said, you should give me my money back. This place is a total dump.”
Bridget gaped at Kendall for a moment, feeling her face go red and her temper surge. The plumber who worked on this job was a sixty-year-old Filipino guy named Fred and imagining him wielding a glitter-covered phone roughly the color of a nine-year-old girl’s nail polish was ridiculous. But before she could splutter out an outraged answer, a dignified, red-headed figure detached herself from the crowd and took Kendall’s arm.
“Now, Kendall,” came the famously Southern and honeyed voice of Scarlett Hawkins, “stop being such a world-class bitch. I know for a fact that is your phone. I was there with you last week in the Fez medina when you bought it. Just because you were probably too drunk to remember dropping it into the crapper, that’s hardly a reason to publicly humiliate this poor girl, who, by the way, did a most splendid and professional job with your new home, as you know very well.”
Scarlett firmly steered a drunken Kendall toward the dinner table and gave her a long kiss goodbye right on the mouth, then she offered a ride home to Bridget.
“You look like you might still lose your temper and my driver is waiting outside,” said Scarlett. “I wasn’t going to stay for dinner, anyway. Kendall thinks weed and a small pile of cocaine constitutes a proper second course.”
Safely in the Mercedes, Bridget could not help being starstruck by the fact that she was sitting across from a famous billionaire and tastemaker. Scarlett looked even more impressive in person, with her slight, elegant figure clothed in a navy blue cashmere jacket, and her taut, glowing skin that belied the fact that she was at least fifty years old.
Everyone knew Scarlett. She was world famous for her cooking shows, her multibillion-dollar lifestyle brand, her chain of nationwide craft and baking stores, her own personal cable network and her unabashed appetite for young, beautiful women. Hardly a week went by without Page Six splashing her across the headlines, smiling primly, perfectly turned out and escorting some six-foot, half-drunk, blonde model-of-the-moment to a never-ending series of Manhattan’s most exclusive events—and, it was whispered, the city’s most scandalous S and M clubs. Kendall was just her type.
“Stop gaping, dear. You look like an idiot,” said Scarlett as she settled back into her seat. “I have a very good dermatologist, and a backup plastic surgeon, and oodles of money to pay them both whenever I need it. When you are ready and if you are wealthy enough to afford them, I shall give you their names.”
Bridget laughed then, the tension broken, and as they drove uptown, Scarlett engaged her in a conversation about the possibility of building a new studio kitchen for filming her show at her private home in the Hamptons.
Bridget was dazzled. Scarlett was funny and down-to-earth, and doing this kind of work for her would take Bridget’s business up to an entirely new level. So perhaps that was why she decided to just sit still and see what happened when, at the end of the ride, Scarlett, murmuring, “You are so lovely, dear,” leaned over and kissed her full on the mouth.
After a moment Scarlett leaned back, and seeing the look on Bridget’s face, slapped her leg and guffawed. “For the devil’s sake, girl, why didn’t you just say something and save me the effort? Believe you me, I have exactly zero interest in chasing straight women when there is a world of pretty, willing queer ones just out there for the taking.”
Bridget thought of Martin McDonald and something must have shown on her face, because Scarlett leaned over and patted her hand in a comforting sort of way.
“Oh, don’t you worry, now, darlin’. You haven’t spoiled a thing. Let’s just see where the road will take us, shall we?”
* * *
Bridget’s father had been laid off and he was not coping well. Every time Bridget called home, she would ask how he was, and if it was
her mother on the other end of the line, she would say, “Terrible. You know, he could just retire early. We’re fine financially. We’ve put enough away. But instead, he’s still putting on a suit every day and going out looking for work that’s just not there. And then he comes home and sits in front of the television watching the stock market on CNN or CNBC, or reads his stock market books on the terrace until it gets dark and he can take his suit off. The poor man doesn’t know what to do with himself.”
But if Bridget managed to get her father on the line instead and ask him how he was doing, he would just say, “Fine, darling. I’m perfectly fine. But tell me about you.”
Bridget had finally moved into the Mt. Vernon office, and she was delighted with it. It was a huge, echoing loft space with soaring ceilings and a wall of enormous metal-framed windows. She had given it a sleek industrial makeover, polishing the concrete floors and leaving the ductwork exposed, making what was already there look purposeful and chosen. It was an impressive, professional space, but she was still lacking many clients to show it to.
“Listen, Daddy,” she said after another round of I’m perfectly fine, what about you? “Can you come into the office today? I want to build a big conference table and I could use your help.”
Her father chuckled. “With all the carpenters you know? Why would you need me?”
“They won’t make it like you will. Come on, please? It would be doing me a huge favor.”
Her old neighborhood was only twenty minutes from Mt. Vernon, so her father was there by lunch. He brought her a pastrami sandwich he had made himself, and they sat at her desk together, sketching out the table she had in mind.
The table took two weeks to build. Bridget could have had one of her guys knock it off for her in an afternoon, but she loved the chance to look up from her desk and see her father on the other side of the room, his gray head bent, intent upon making the best piece of furniture he possibly could for his little girl. She loved having lunch with him every day. Sometimes he brought her something from home; sometimes she convinced him to go out for a tuna sandwich at the local deli. But he never let her pay.
Heels of Steel Page 4