Pretty Revenge

by Emily Liebert

  “It just didn’t work out. He was almost too nice.”

  “Ugh, that’s the worst! When you want to be like, ‘Buddy, grow a set.’ ” Sara’s phone rang inside her purse, but she ignored it. “So you’re back on the market?”

  “I guess.” Another thing I haven’t considered. I’ve been so focused on Jordana that dating hasn’t been on my radar. Not even remotely. “Although I’m not really looking right now.”

  “Good for you. I’d give anything to be single again. Most of my girlfriends would never admit it, but I think they would too.” She leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs. “You said you’re not from around here, right?”

  “Right. I just moved to Manhattan.”

  “Perfect! Promise me you’ll let me take you out on the town. I need to leave my apartment with someone who doesn’t have a pacifier, for a change, and you need someone to officially introduce you to this city.”

  Her cell rang again.

  “Crap.” Sara glanced at the incoming number and then answered. “What is it?” she snapped. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mom. Just start running the bath”—she rolled her eyes again—“and I’ll be there in five minutes.” She grunted before standing up and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “My genius of a mother struggled to think of a solution when the baby shit himself. Aren’t you jealous of my glamorous life?”

  “So jealous.” I trailed her toward the front door.

  “Thanks for letting me vent. You probably think I’m crazy. I don’t actually hate my child. Only my husband.” She winked. “Kidding. It’s just a lot. You’ll see one day.”

  “I get it.” I smiled, even though I didn’t get it at all.

  “Anyway, to be continued. We are so going out for drinks. And dancing! My treat.”

  “Sure. That sounds great.”

  “Okay. See you soon.” She cocked her head. “By the way, you look amazing. And that’s a great blouse. Red is your color.”

  9  JORDANA

  By the time I reached my office, Olivia was waiting for me outside, trying too hard to appear alert and purposeful. She’s a trier, which I appreciate. I’m one too, in certain ways. Visually, there’s work to be done, even though I do believe she’s put forth some effort. Still, you can always tell when someone’s moved to the city from out of town, even if only from an hour north in the suburbs. In her case it’s Florida, which is a worst-case scenario. Today she’s wearing black slacks that are begging for a decent tailoring job and a flowing blue silk top in the same style as the red one she wore to her interview. At any rate, all things considered, she’s not bad-looking. Her features are simple—brown eyes, brown hair with blond highlights that I can tell were expensive, and a narrow, pointed nose that doesn’t complicate anything. She’s not fat. Or thin. Just average, like the rest of her. I’ll have to set her up with my personal shopper at some point. But for now, there’s far too much to accomplish.

  “Let’s go inside and get you up to speed.” I unlocked the door, and she followed me in.

  “Great.” She bobbed her head.

  I sat down and motioned for her to do the same. I’m going to have to teach her not to stare. At least not so obviously.

  “Here’s the deal. We have a number of weddings in the pipeline, but there are three that we’re handling right now. Lucy Noble and Donald Cooper. Alexa Griffin and Grey Wilder. And Tatiana Doonan and William Blunt.” I paused while she scribbled furiously in a notebook. “Lucy is a prosecutor for one of the top law firms in the country. I’ve only met her twice. Donald, aside from being a little dim, is actually lovely to deal with. You’ll develop an affection for him in the way you would an abandoned puppy. Their wedding is in five months and practically everything is in place.”

  “Okay,” Olivia acknowledged.

  “Alexa and Grey are also a nice couple. He’s a hedge fund guy and has left all the decision-making to Alexa, who needs a lot of coddling. Not because she’s difficult, but because she’s an innately nervous person. It will make you anxious at first, but you’ll get used to it. The key is to reassure her over and over again that the choices she’s made are—without a doubt—the best in every way. Their wedding is in seven months. So that’s those two.”

  “Right.” Her pen moved back and forth across the page.

  “As for the Doonan-Blunt wedding, it is by far the most important of the three. By far. Everything hinges on this event being absolutely perfect. My reputation. The continued success of the company. And possibly my marriage. The Doonans are longtime friends of my husband, John’s, family. And John works for Arthur.”

  “Got it.”

  “Do you know who Arthur and Caroline Doonan are?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me what you know.”

  “Okay, sure.” She cleared her throat. “Arthur owns a major investment firm called A. Doonan and is a board member for a handful of charitable organizations. Caroline is a socialite and also very philanthropic. From what I can tell, she helps raise money by throwing extravagant parties. They have four kids—Tatiana is the youngest—and six grandchildren.”

  “Excellent.” She did her homework. I like that. “And Tatiana and William?”

  “He also works in the finance industry. I don’t think she has a job anymore, but I read that she was a fashion publicist, briefly.”

  “Very briefly.”

  “They both come from wealthy families.”

  “That’s right. And they’ll be in later this afternoon. I have yet to meet William, so this will be a first for both of us. Between you and me, Tatiana is fine, Caroline is a pain in the ass. She puts the term high maintenance to shame.”

  “Understood.” Olivia didn’t flinch. I like that even more.

  “And she will be a pain in your ass too. She changes her mind on a whim. She rarely smiles. You can do no right in Caroline’s eyes. Remember that and you’ll be fine. She may insult you. She may dismiss you. It’s her problem, I realize. But it’s also ours until the big day is over and done with.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Now for the details. Write them down and commit them to memory. Screwing this up in not an option.” Olivia listened intently as she watched me. Carefully. There’s something about her I can’t quite put my finger on. “The wedding date is Saturday, June tenth. That means the festivities commence in just shy of twelve weeks, so it’s crunch time. The venue is the main branch of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue. Very few people are fortunate enough to get married at the New York Public Library—it requires a generous donation. Think seven figures. Do you know where it is?”

  “Sort of. I mean, I remember it from the Sex and the City movie. And I know that they have Jack Kerouac’s crutches and Truman Capote’s cigarette case in their collections. But I’m not sure of the exact location.”

  “Well, figure it out,” I replied, impressed and somewhat surprised by her random knowledge. There’s no doubt that she’s smart. “Anyway, moving on, the music is Alex Donner Entertainment. There will be a thirteen-piece band, possibly larger if Caroline has her way. All three of Tatiana’s dresses are Oscar de la Renta. The main gown isn’t my style, but that’s neither here nor there. Along those lines, never ever offer your opinion, unless someone asks for it. Speak only when spoken to. And in that event, be very cautious with what you say. One negative word can do irreparable damage.”

  “Sure, I understand.”

  “It’s black tie, so the groom will be in a Giorgio Armani tuxedo, as will Arthur. And Caroline has customized a beaded, floor-length number that’s over the top, as are her breasts, which I believe are brand-new. You’ll see. Just don’t gasp when you do. I already made that mistake. The flowers will be designed by Ron Wendt. Red roses, red roses, and more red roses. Again, not my taste.” I exhaled. “I believe I’ve hit some of the main points, but there’s a lot more. A lot. Fireworks at the after party, a whiskey tasting at the rehearsal dinner, a celebrity magician, and so on. I’ll show you where t
he binders are so you can fill in the holes. Any questions before I throw you to the wolves?”

  “How do you envision my role? As in, are there daily tasks I should follow through with? Is there a to-do list of some kind that I can relieve you of?” Eager beaver. I’m giddy!

  “I haven’t had the chance to complete a list, but the main thing is handling the flood of calls that are coming in since the announcement of the Doonan-Blunt wedding. Aside from that, just follow my lead. Once we get to know each other better, I’m sure we’ll find a rhythm and develop a division of labor. Can you handle that?”

  “I’m on it.” She’s confident. With any luck, not to a fault.

  “This may seem overwhelming at first,” I baited.

  “Not at all.”

  “Well, then. If you’re as capable as you are cool, we’re going to get along famously. I want you to be able to trust me. And it’s imperative for me to be able to trust you.”

  “I’m counting on that.” Olivia smiled placidly. “In fact, there’s nothing I’d like more.”

  I smiled back. “That makes two of us.”

  10  KERRIE

  Once Jordana stepped out for lunch, I took the opportunity to thoroughly observe my new surroundings and fully digest where I was and what I was doing. Finally being here, working for her, feels dizzying and impetuous. It’s the binge without the purge; there’s so much to absorb.

  The thing about the job interview is that it went by so quickly. There was no time to dwell on what was happening, while it was happening. But now that I have unlimited access to her, I can really dig in and hit the ground running.

  She’s noticed me watching her. I’ve caught her in the act. Only, I can’t tell if she’s watching me back. And if she is, is it because she’s sizing me up or because I was watching her in the first place? Or, is it because she’s beginning to recognize me? It’s been eighteen years. I’ve slimmed down considerably. My features have sharpened, as has my mind. My nose is no longer crooked. My teeth no longer overlap. My hair is shorter and lighter, and my skin is finally unblemished. Though my face is still mine. If eyes are the windows to the soul, then she doesn’t see me at all. She probably never did.

  I sat down at my desk and picked up a list of our go-to vendors, which Jordana left for me. Ron Wendt Design was number one. I recognized his name as Tatiana and William’s florist, so I pulled up his website.

  There’s a fraction of my brain that’s rooting for Jordana to figure out who I am before I set her life off course the way she did mine. A small part of me wants her to remember what I did for her and what she did to me in return. But there’s a much larger section of my brain that’s energized by the anticipation of shocking her. And of maintaining the upper hand until I’m ready for her to know. Now that I’m Olivia, I have a deeper understanding of why Kerrie was who she was—a spectator. Maybe even a bystander. Albeit a bystander who wore comfortable shoes.

  Olivia, on the other hand, rises high-and-mighty in one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar pumps, which are chafing my heels and savaging my toes. It doesn’t help that Jordana calibrates the temperature to seventy-six degrees, swelling my feet and moistening my armpits. I’m a hog in heat to her delicate swan.

  I got up and walked around the office, gazing at the sketches of bridal gowns on the walls, running my fingers along the expensive furniture, and riffling through the filing cabinets. I sniffed the sweet scent of white lilies cascading from a tall crystal vase on the entryway console, as I wondered what my nana would think if she could see me now—fighting for her. She’s been on my mind often lately. She is, of course, where this all began.

  If only she’d been as prudent about where she squirreled her money as she was about spending it. Nana was a planner. She set aside a designated portion of her paycheck every week for what she called my college fund, which was reflected by a detailed budget she outlined at the beginning of each month. She didn’t believe in banks. Nana always said, “Hold your money close to your heart,” which—to her—meant storing it in the bottom drawer of her bedroom dresser.

  Every Sunday she would open that drawer and take out just enough cash for grocery shopping, so she could prepare and freeze our dinners for the week. This meant the entire house, all thirteen-hundred-square-feet of it, would be permeated with vying aromas for a zesty twelve-hour span. She’d invite me to hop up onto a barstool next to her so we could work side by side, crafting a velvety chicken pot pie for Monday and a stout meat sauce for Tuesday’s linguini, although neither contested her jarringly pungent tuna casserole for Friday.

  While Nana insisted that it was important for me to know my way around the kitchen, what she cared most about was that I got good grades in school. As luck would have it, my studies were the one thing that came as naturally to me as the acne on my chin. Nana said I inherited both from my father, who—unlike my mother—did not have a flawless complexion or his head stuck in the clouds. Apparently, he used to read to me from the encyclopedia every night when I was a baby, and by the time I was eighteen months old he was encouraging me to watch Jeopardy! beside him on the couch. It’s still one of my favorite shows.

  In third grade I overheard my teacher, Mr. Abraham, tell my nana, “Kerrie has an inspiring gift, not only for the English language, but for math and science as well.” (Thank you, Alex Trebek!) After that, she enrolled me in an advanced program and insisted that I plan to take every honors class available throughout high school, with the goal of attending Yale University when I graduated. Nana said it was one of the finest educational institutions in the country and close enough to Bridgeport for regular visits. Sometimes, on a sunny Sunday afternoon, we’d drive up there listening to show tunes, her favorite. Then we’d stop for lunch in New Haven before meandering around the campus. Nana would say things like, “You could live in that dormitory right there!” and “Look how smart everyone is! They all have their noses buried in books.”

  I returned to my desk, in case Jordana came back sooner than expected, and stared at the screen, with its vibrant photos of celebrations so spectacular it was hard to believe they were real. I read the bold print: EVENT DESIGN MANAGEMENT & PRODUCTION, LUXURY BRAND EXPERIENCES, PRIVATE PARTIES & SOCIAL GALAS, TECH AND FORTUNE 500 EVENTS, WEDDINGS.

  It’s a world I’ve never been exposed to—all the money and prestige. And a world that Jordan hadn’t been exposed to, at least not when I knew her. When did that change? When did she transform into a woman so distant from the girl she used to be? Did someone tell her that being Jordan wasn’t good enough?

  I suppose that’s one of the things I loved most about my nana—she never pressured me to be anyone but myself. She didn’t force me to play soccer or tennis or any other sport. She didn’t suggest that I try out for a role in the school play or dance recital. She didn’t push me to invite my friends to sleep over. Because she knew I didn’t have any friends. The truth was, as the girls my age began caring about things like popularity and started developing crushes on boys, I was content occupying myself with a book or a good TV show. While they were interested in gossiping about who was wearing what, where they were going, and whom they were going with, I was more interested in learning about the world outside of school and outside of my little town, from the confines of my bedroom.

  Fortunately, my nana recognized what my strength was—academics—and she drew that to the forefront. She got me like nobody else did, at least for the twelve years she was mine.

  I sat still for a moment and squeezed my eyes shut. I pictured Nana smiling down at me, as she so often did. And it made me hate Jordana that much more. I should have been less trusting. I should have seen her for who she really was. A thief.

  I was the one to blame. I invited her into our home.

  I opened my eyes again and started scrolling through pictures of a Red, White, and Blue party Ron Wendt had conceived. The tables were covered in bright blue fabric, with a long line of thin white vases spraying hundreds of red flowers, from one end to the other
. At each place, there were white plates with gold scalloped edges and bowls brimming with strawberries and blueberries, in keeping with the theme. It’s almost impossible to believe that this level of perfection exists. It’s even more impossible to believe that it’s my job to work with people whose July 4 barbecues cost more than the house I grew up in. But here I am. Employed by the woman who took everything from me.

  I didn’t have the chance to make things right for my nana while she was alive. But I can sure as hell honor her spirit now that she’s gone. I’ve wasted enough of my life going through the motions without purpose. I let indifference and lethargy hobble me.

  Nana may have believed that senseless revenge will “whip its neck and snap you on the bottom.” Well then, it’s a good thing this isn’t senseless, because I’m more motivated than ever.

  I took one more look around. And laughed bitterly. This time I’m the one who’s been invited in. And I’ll be the one who takes everything.

  11  JORDANA

  “Don’t look around, the place is a mess. Stan is such a slob.” Cathy ushered me inside her feebly lit apartment, located in a prewar building on the Upper West Side. It’s a far cry from across town. Though the anonymity it provides is a relief.

  “It’s not that bad.” I looked around. Their dark purple chenille sofa was mostly shredded, fully torn in spots. Stan’s T-shirts and jackets were tossed over rickety wooden chairs that appeared burdened by the extra weight. And there was a selection of coffee-stained mugs littering just about every vacant surface. “I thought you had a housekeeper.”

  “Maria?” Cathy shook her head. “Her father got sick last year and she had to return to El Salvador to help take care of him. She said she was coming back, but you know how it goes.”

  “That’s sad. I always liked her.”

  “Me too.” I followed Cathy into the kitchen and watched her sweep her hand across the table. A flurry of crumbs trickled to the floor. “Have a seat. I got us all salads from the place around the corner.” She opened the refrigerator door, which had a Chinese takeout menu, the number for a local plumber, and a list of emergency contacts fastened to it with magnets she’d collected from her travels. There was one in the shape of a key lime pie from Key West. And another that read, EVERYTHING IS BIGGER IN TEXAS! She set a plastic container packed with lettuce, vegetables, and grilled chicken at each of our places. “Can I interest you in some tea?”