by Lila Monroe
“Even when there’s nothing else we can count on—we can count on family.”
The ad cut to a black and white photo of a man with a seriously ridiculous mustache and a twinkle in his eye.
“In 1963, Charles Devlin founded the company that would become Devlin Media Corp. And today, more than sixty years later—” the picture shifted to that of a young handsome couple with a smiling child on their lap, oh god that must be Grant’s parents, and then to a paparazzi shot of Grant and I smiling adoringly into each other’s eyes at the gala—“it’s still in the family.”
The picture faded out to a shot of the Devlin Media Corp headquarters, silhouetted by a setting sun blazing gold, orange, and bright pink. Fancy lettering blooming beneath the silhouette: Devlin Media Corp. Family continuity. Family stability.
The lights came back on. “We’re blitzing with stuff like this,” Ken said gleefully. “And man, people are just eating up all this stuff about continuity, all that jazz about stability and stuff.”
My stomach felt the opposite of stable. My stomach felt less stable than a war-torn country in the Balkan Peninsula.
“Good work, everyone,” Grant said. “Keep it up. Be sure to make regular progress reports to Lacey, and come to her or me with any questions.”
Everyone filed out, Grant forestalling any more congratulations by slinging an arm around my shoulder and leaning in to whisper in my ear in a way that broadcast ‘this is an intimate communication, stay the hell away if you want to retain your jobs and also possibly all of your internal organs’ to even the most body-language-impaired of our employees.
“Jennings is back on board with the buyout talks,” he whispered in my ear. It was absolutely goddamn criminal how his dark honey voice and hot breath made that sound sexier than the most explicit dirty talk. “You’re an absolute wonder with that man; he couldn’t be more wrapped around your little finger.”
“That’s right,” I sassed, trying to keep my breathing under control. “I’m the brains of this operation. You just stand there and look pretty.”
He laughed and took my hand. “Come on down to my office, Lacey. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Somewhere, in an alternate universe where up was down, red was green, and Grant did things without an ulterior motive, the person Grant wanted me to meet was my new assistant, finally hired and overflowing with qualifications, great ideas, and a can-do attitude.
In this universe, the person Grant wanted me to meet was an event planner named Siobhan, who wore a series of gauzy rainbow veils and a general sense of disdain.
“So pleased to meet you,” I managed to muster in response to Siobhan’s greeting of a pointedly raised eyebrow and half-sigh at my presence. Then I rounded on Grant. “I said no wedding plans! You promised.”
“And I have delivered,” Grant assured me. “Siobhan is solely here to help us plan our engagement party.”
“Our—you rules-lawyering little weasel—”
“Don’t worry,” Grant said with his trademark wicked grin. Did he actually have that trademarked? I’d be willing to bet real money that he had that trademarked, and probably insured for several million. “It’ll be an intimate little affair. Just me, you, and oh, five hundred of our closest friends.”
“Oh, you won’t have to lift a finger,” Siobhan murmured, as if speaking any louder might cause her irreparable pain, or else exhaust her to the point where she had to drop onto the carpet in a deep sleep. “I’ll take care of everything. But, if inspiration should strike—” she threw me a look that suggested inspiration would be more likely to strike a lamppost or small potting shed—“here’s my card.”
She languidly extended her hand with the card in it, and after I took it, glided from the room as if she were dancing underwater.
“She really is quite brilliant,” Grant said, though he was struggling to keep a straight face. “Eccentric, certainly, but she’ll take care of everything. Jennings recommended her.”
“Ah, so that’s why you went for Sleeping Beauty,” I said. “Everything makes much more sense now.” I wandered around to the other side of the desk and sank into the lush upholstery of his leather chair. “Are you done complicating my life, or is there anything else you want to throw at me?”
“Well, I had planned on just handing this to you, but if you want to test your hand-eye coordination—”
Grant tossed a small object into the air and without thinking, I caught it. It was a key.
“I know you think I’ve been doing a good job, but I think the key to the city can wait,” I snarked. “Give me another couple weeks, at least.”
“While I have no doubt you will one day earn that privilege, this is another matter entirely,” Grant said. “It’s a duplicate of the key to my apartment. You’re moving in tonight.”
“What? No way!” Of all the entitled, pigheaded—
“Anticipating your objections, I’ve had your things packed up and moved. And I’ve called the press.” He raised his hand to forestall objections, smirking. “Don’t worry—I very discreetly boxed up your book collection myself. No one will ever know of your penchant for shirtless Highlanders with inexplicable Maori tribal tattoos.”
“What the hell gives you the right—”
“Lacey, Lacey, Lacey.” Grant shook his head at my obtuseness, and took my hand across the table. “Obviously we have to live together. We want people to think we’re a real couple, don’t we?”
“Yes, because no other couple in the history of the universe has ever lived apart before marriage,” I snapped. “People really will be shocked and horrified at the state of our morals, living apart like this. There will probably be fainting and fetching of smelling salts. Jane Austen will be set spinning in her grave.”
Grant laughed and kissed my hand. “Jane Austen will be fine. Are you really so attached to that apartment? There are gunshot holes in the front door.”
I tried not to let myself be swayed by this reasonable argument or by the press of his lips against my skin and the memories that evoked.
“Some of those gunshot holes have nostalgic value.”
“The entire neighborhood smells of sewage and overly greasy take-out,” he pointed out, beginning to kiss his way up my wrist.
“It adds to the ambience.”
“Your landlord is overcharging on the utility bills and skimming the profits.”
“What? Seriously? That slimy, no-good—” I coughed, got ahold of myself. “Um, I mean, adversity builds character.”
Although if that were really the case, this thing with Grant would have built me enough character to populate all seven Harry Potter books.
I was weakening, and Grant could sense it.
“Just try it for a few weeks,” he promised. “If it doesn’t suit you, we’ll smuggle you back to your apartment and have you drop by every once in awhile to maintain the pretense. Just give it a chance—there’s a pool on the roof, you know. Organic produce gets delivered weekly. I have contacts in the video game industry that can give us sneak previews of games!”
“All right, all right,” I said. “You can call off the cavalry, Mr. Charm Offensive. You had me at the pool.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said. He reached into his pocket. “Everything you need should be there, but just in case you need to pick up any odds and ends—”
And then he tried to hand me a credit card the deep black of empty space, embossed with letters in gold so thick I’d be willing to bet it was the actual metal.
I tried to knock his hand away. “Grant, I told you, no money.”
“Haven’t you heard? Credit cards aren’t real money.”
“Yeah, I heard that on a 60 Minutes episode about why the economy is in the toilet!”
“Well, then, you can think of this as your civic duty to go out there and rejuvenate American’s failing domestic goods market.”
“Grant, how much shopping do you think I can do?!”
“Look, this isn’t abo
ut the money.” He tried to look sincere, but the smirk was ruining it. “What would it look like if a Devlin was getting married and yet not lavishing gifts upon his fiancée? I have a reputation to uphold.”
“What reputation, that the Devlins are all secret shopaholics?” I snapped. “What next, are you all hoarders too? Is there a house in the Hamptons somewhere that’s just crystal goblets and designer shoes and giant stacks of moldy newspaper?”
“Oh no, you’ve stumbled upon our most dreaded secret,” Grant said, still grinning as he let go of my hand and stood up. “Now I must wall you away in the attic and pretend you're anguished screams are the cries of the ghost that haunts our manor.”
He waved goodbye and swooped out of sight before I could point out that he was tragically muddling the plots of at least three different Gothic mysteries.
I stood there fuming for several seconds, then kicked the desk as a stand-in for Grant. The desk was solid mahogany and did not appreciate being kicked.
Gritting my teeth and swearing creatively, I decided on a less painful way of expressing my feelings. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the one person I could count on above everyone else to enable me in seeking this particular path of revenge.
“Kate? Hey, girl, pull up your wish list. After work, we’re going shopping.”
17
Anger is a powerful force. It has started and ended wars, won the vote for marginalized groups like women and people of color, and inspired artists to create masterpieces ranging from Picasso’s Guernica to Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist.
Anger was currently powering me and Kate through the twelfth department of the evening, our arms draped to the brim with thousand-dollar watches, purses straight from Paris fashion shows, and dresses so exquisitely crafted that future archaeologists would probably deem that they had been created for royalty.
“And then he just smirked and said, ‘It’s not about money!’” I ranted to Kate as I slung a tennis bracelet into the cart; had to stock up on stocking stuffers early! “You know who says things like ‘it’s not about money?’ People who have so much money they’ve never had to worry about it in their entire lives! It’s like a fish saying ‘it’s not about water’ to a dehydrated camel!”
“Oooooh, look at this!” Kate held up a retro skirt in an adorable floral pattern that complemented her eyes. “Girl, keep hating Grant for as long as it takes for me to get this to the checkout counter.”
“I’m serious!”
“Oh hon, I know you are,” Kate said. She put the skirt over the rack, and patted my shoulder. “But I also know that there’s a pretty thin line between love and hate sometimes. Stevie’s reading The Taming of the Shrew right now: ‘And where two raging fires meet together—’”
“Please, Katie, do not do Shakespearian analysis on my relationship with my boss!”
“‘Relationship,’ huh?” Kate waggled her eyebrows. “Sounds like it’s getting more serious. Have you two hooked up again? Was it as super-hot as last time?”
I was beginning to regret telling Kate about the hookup, but it had been unavoidable. When we met up after work, she had refused to budge one single inch until I dished about why I was so pissed at Grant, and somehow, between all the other stuff about the keys and credit card and the five hundred guest engagement party, the revelation of Grant eating me out against the hallway wall had come spilling out of my lips.
“No, we did not ‘hook up’ again, and believe me, I wish I could forget the last time.”
“Girl, never regret good sex,” Kate advised. “So it’s making your life rough right now, yeah, but ten years from now, when you’re in a tight spot and you need a little memory nudge to push you over the edge, you know what memory’s going to be your friend? Good sex is the gift that keeps on giving.”
I just shook my head. Kate had always been better at the sex-without-feelings thing than me, so how had I ended up the one in a loveless relationship while she was happily settled down?
As we rounded the corner into the jewelry department of the store, an advertisement caught my eye: a life-size photo of two ridiculously attractive models, the man on one knee with a ring box in his hand as he gazed adoringly into the eyes of the woman, her lips framing the word ‘yes.’ Little gold roses twined around the diamond of the ring he was offering her, and red roses twined around the edges of the billboard, framing the perfect couple.
It’s just a stupid advertisement, I told myself. It has nothing to do with you.
But there was something about the fairytale imagery they’d used, the roses and slight princessy cut of the woman’s dress, that made my heart twist. Maybe my dreams of love were childish, but sometimes those dreams were the hardest to let go of. Someone to kiss my forehead, someone to hold me tight, someone to look at me as though I were the most beautiful—no, the only—woman in the world…
It probably didn’t help that the male model in the picture had sun-kissed brown hair and blue eyes, and thus bore a slight but telling resemblance to Grant.
I didn’t want him! Not really. Not in my heart. I just liked his body, and the way he smiled, and the way he fit into that silly fairytale dream…
God, but it was hard when the man of your dreams was also the asshole who’d pressured you into a fake engagement.
My extended interior monologue gave Kate the opportunity to spot the ad, too. “Has he gotten you the wedding ring yet?”
“I’m sure he’s got an entire team working on it right now,” I said waspishly.
Kate rolled her eyes at me, but I was saved from further lecturing by the arrival of a salesperson. “Hello, ladies! May I just say you are looking divine today? Can I help you find anything, anything at all? I was just so excited to see the news about your engagement! You are just looking fabulous!”
There’s something a little alarming about being suddenly fawned over by people who would have turned up their nose at you before. It makes you start looking around for the mad scientist with the mind control ray.
“We’re fine, thanks,” I said, hoping the salesperson would just go away.
As though my words had been a magic spell, another salesperson popped up, this one identified by her name tag as the manager. “Jane, why don’t you take five.”
She smiled at me, not a fawning smile, just a regular smile like a normal human.
“Sorry, ma’am. She’s a bit of a gossip mag junkie. I’ve had to ask her a couple times to tone it down with the customers.”
“It’s all right,” I said, not wanting to get Jane in trouble.
“So, finding everything okay?”
The manager managed to treat me like a human being for our whole interaction, and in the end, I ended up buying so much stuff that most of it had to be shipped to my new address: shoes, dresses, almost every single item that had reminded me of what Portia had worn to our lunch date (I was going to outclass that icy bitch if it gave me hypothermia and I died), and a whole boatload of thanks-for-being-such-a-good-friend gifts for Kate, including about seventy pounds of lingerie that she was intending to cut up and analyze for research. Weird girl, but I love her.
I was just dithering over a potential gift for my mom, a necklace of emeralds cut and polished into the shapes of leaves—on one hand, she might feel that it was just a representation of capitalist alienation and oppression, but on the other hand, emeralds were supposed to resonate with positive energy and help align her aura or something—when I heard my name called in a voice like a puppy being strangled.
Only one person had ever called my name like that, and I’d really hoped to never run into her again.
“Laaaaaaaaaacey!”
Annabelle Featherstonehaugh bleated my name again, like a sheep in gastric distress. She spread her arms wide in what could have been delight, but was probably just a calculated gesture to show off her exquisitely woven merino wool jacket.
“Oooooooh, it is you! I saw you and I thought, ‘could that be Lacey Newman? Oh it just couldn’t be
Lacey Newman! It’s completely impossible that it could be Lacey Newman!’ But just look at you, Lacey—it’s you, Lacey Newman! This is too, too thrilling!”
She’d only been talking for thirty seconds and already I wanted to strangle her with my mom’s emerald necklace.
“Oooh, Lacey, you are just looking too gorgeous,” she gushed. “You finally grew into that fuller figure of yours—” because why compliment someone without taking the opportunity to draw attention to your relative slimness?—“and that dress you were wearing last night was divine! Wherever did you get it? You must tell me your secrets.”
Hard to believe that this was Annie Featherstonehaugh, the girl who had marked up all the girl’s restrooms in our high school with such witty aphorisms as ‘Lacey’s parents take welfare money’ and ‘Lacey gives blowjobs for cash.’
She’d ended up going to the same college as me—thanks to her mother’s money and regular donations, not any academic standing—where she’d refined her techniques; instead of out and out telling any potential friends or boyfriends that I was an ugly, desperate, money-grubbing loser, she just insinuated it.
Kate and I exchanged looks, and like the telepathic best friends that we are, formed an evil plan.
“My dress?” I echoed. “You’d have to ask my fiancé, he got it for me.”
“Oh, whatever have I been thinking, congratulations! Such a catch, with that jaw-line, he reminds me of when I was dating Chris—you remember Chris, from that superhero film? They have the same jaw-line, don’t you think? Oh, same taste in men! We’re practically twins!” She giggled. “What are the wedding plans? Chosen a honeymoon yet?”
“Paris,” I said. Thank heavens for that seventh grade scrapbook. “Or possibly the Caribbean. It’s so difficult to decide. Grant wants to do both, but I said to him, sugarplum, just because you have the money doesn’t mean you have to flaunt it, and we’re already planning to go to Tokyo for a fashion show the week after, I’ll be absolutely exhausted.”
“Tough luck with that break-up with Chris, though,” Kate jumped in. “It got pretty ugly when he accused you of stalking, didn’t it?”