Pretty Revenge

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Pretty Revenge Page 8

by Emily Liebert


  “Everything okay?” Olivia sat back down at her own desk.

  “It looks like you’re going to have to cancel your plans for next Wednesday.”

  “I don’t have any plans.” She smoothed her blouse and straightened her posture. She’s always adjusting herself in my presence. Though I have to admit, I’ve noticed a marked improvement in her appearance.

  “Well, that’s convenient.” It occurred to me then that she may not have a life outside of work, which is strange for someone her age. She’s never mentioned a significant other, and she’s pretty tight-lipped about anything personal. If she weren’t so one-dimensional, I’d be suspicious. “You’re going shopping with William for his wedding band.”

  “Me?” Her cheeks turned pink. She better not have a crush on the groom.

  “Yes, you. I know this is a first. And quite honestly, I’m not thrilled about it. I’d rather be there myself, but William had to reschedule, and of course next Wednesday is the only evening I can’t make it happen. Can you handle it?”

  “Absolutely. How hard can it be to pick a ring? Men are usually very decisive.”

  “True. Still, I’ll put in a call to Cartier ahead of time to guide their selections for you. I’m sure Caroline will want him to have the latest and greatest. I hope, for your sake, that she doesn’t come with him.”

  “Me too.” Olivia shifted in her chair. Looks and growing self-assurance aside, we’re still going to have to improve her social awkwardness. “I can’t imagine having a mother-in-law like that.”

  “Wait until you meet Arthur Doonan.”

  “Worse?”

  “Possibly. He’ll charm you at first. He’s very charismatic.”

  “And then?”

  “Just stay on his good side. If he has one.”

  “He and Caroline must make quite a pair.”

  “They do. Though if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this line of work, it’s that marriages are complicated. And they’re not always as they seem. I mean, they’re not always bred from love or a desire for true companionship. We see a lot of . . . arrangements around here.” Olivia nodded, but I could tell she didn’t really understand. “I know that may seem harsh, but it’s true. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been married?”

  “Nope, can’t say that I have.”

  “Are you seeing anyone?” I probed. Normally I wouldn’t waste my time, but there’s something interesting about Olivia. She’s so innocent. Life hasn’t pummeled her yet.

  “No.”

  “Well, there are plenty of men in Manhattan. You’ll meet someone.”

  “It’s actually fine. I was seeing someone, but we broke up when I moved here.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It was my decision. I needed a change.”

  “Then I’m not that sorry.” I smiled. Nobody understands the need for a fresh start better than I do.

  “Do you think Tatiana and William are in love?”

  “I’m not sure, and frankly, it’s not my business to care. What I do know is that—whether they love each other or not—the wedding must and will go on. At this point, anything short of that would be a catastrophic embarrassment.”

  “Of course.” Olivia nodded.

  “Remember this. It’s one of my cardinal rules. Never, ever become invested in the relationships of our brides and grooms. We’re not marriage counselors. Our job is to execute the wedding itself. Understood?”

  “Yup.”

  “Listen, if Tatiana and William figure out they don’t like each other in a few months, they’ll get divorced, or they’ll pay for an annulment and go on their merry ways. It happens. But it’s not our problem.”

  “That’s sad. Don’t you think?” Olivia stared at me, presumably searching for sentiment on my face.

  “Maybe.” Our eyes met then. I still can’t escape the feeling that there’s something so familiar about her. Like she’s an old friend. If I had any old friends. “I mean, yes. It is sad. But it’s just the way it is.” I paused to find the right explanation. “Happiness isn’t always a choice.”

  15  KERRIE

  By six thirty the following Wednesday, I was standing beneath the succession of bold red awnings outside the Cartier building at 767 Fifth Avenue.

  It’s April, and springtime has officially blossomed in New York City.

  In Litchfield County, the season signaled songbirds humming, woodpeckers drumming, owls hooting, trees and flowers budding, and the earthy aroma of the ground and ozone thawing—a heady concoction of soil, grass, and pollen that no amount of chemical wizardry could emulate. But not in Manhattan. And definitely not in the heart of Midtown.

  As I waited for William, I thought about what Jordana said last week. That happiness isn’t a choice. I think she’s wrong. Because I’m finally on the path to being happy. After two decades spent marinating in my own misfortune, I’m choosing to take my life back. I refuse to allow the crappy circumstances that have defined me thus far to hinder me from moving forward.

  I’m not going to feel sorry for myself anymore. I have a new purpose in seeking revenge on Jordana. I have a new job that I’m enjoying so far, and I’m living in the most amazing city in the world. I may have started out faking it, but this is going to be who I am now. And yes, I know that bad shit happens to everyone. I’m well aware that there are plenty of people who’ve suffered far worse than I have. It’s sort of like when you have the flu and all you want to do is complain about the fact that you have the flu, but then someone points out that you should be thankful that all you have is the flu. Because it’s impermanent. And you could be dying from a brain tumor instead.

  I never believed that until now. I never saw past my own hardship. But here I am, taking a good long look at what surrounds me. And I like it. A lot.

  I’m actually relieved that I saw Jordana on television that day. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have summoned the courage to leave. I wouldn’t have convinced myself that I could do better, and that I deserved to do better. What Jordana did all those years ago was horrific, but I can still make things right. I’m more motivated than ever. And let me tell you, it feels damn good to come out of my shell and define myself by my own ambition, for a change. Like this is who I was meant to be all along.

  I sucked in a breath of air, coated with the fragrance of car exhaust fumes, moist gravel, hot dogs, and honey-roasted peanuts, as I delighted in the realization that Jordana is finally going to learn what it feels like to have someone ruin your life. And she’s going to have to atone for her sins.

  How many afternoons did I sit perched on my windowsill with my nose practically pressed against the glass, watching the beautiful, mysterious older girl from down the block?

  Sometimes she’d do cartwheels across her lawn or just dance around in her stonewashed jean shorts, spaghetti-strap tank tops, and black knockoff Adidas trainers when no one else was home. Of course, there was nothing special about those replica Adidas trainers, except that they were hers. And except that I’d never owned a pair myself. Real or otherwise, they were way too cool for me. But not for Jordan.

  During the hottest summer days, I could reliably find her camped out on a flimsy beach chair outside her dilapidated house, with a bottle of baby oil, a sheet of aluminum foil, and her cracked Sony Discman, which she probably picked out of the trash. Sometimes I spent hours observing her from a distance. Sometimes I used my father’s old binoculars, so I could get a closer look and come one step closer to figuring out what she had that I didn’t.

  It’s funny how the minutiae we recall from childhood isn’t trifling because it’s a window to a singular place in time. A series of moments that, when looped and threaded together, become the fabric of our youth. Memories that make us who we are today.

  I knew I’d never be like Jordan. I was who I was. Plain. Boring. Mostly awkward. And while I probably should have cared—maybe even been jealous or resentful of her external confidence, despite what she endured behind clos
ed doors—I was strangely content just knowing I could absorb her grandeur from a distance.

  It’s almost impossible to believe that the Jordana I work for now was that girl. She’s a silhouette of her former self—an outline that’s no longer colored in. Although the truth is, I know very little about the woman she’s become. She rarely talks about her home life or her husband.

  She has been very respectful of me as her employee, though. She asks for my opinion about everything from color schemes to cake flavors. She’s tasked me with being the liaison between her and all our vendors. And, most recently, she allowed me to transfer our bills from paper to online. If I didn’t hate her, I might genuinely like her.

  I’m learning we’re similar in many ways. For starters, we’re both introverts, but we’re also both extroverted enough to satisfy our objectives. We could be friends. Though come to think of it, I’m probably too low on the social totem pole to qualify. That’s another thing: I’ve never heard her mention so much as an acquaintance. Doesn’t she have anyone to confide in? It goes without saying that she’s denying her past. New name. New look. New perfect life. I haven’t asked any questions, which has been a unique challenge for me, because I want to know everything about her.

  Where does she tell people she’s from? Does she admit that her mother and father are still alive and residing in the same home on Cherry Creek Lane? Has she gone back since that night? Does her husband know that Jordan ever existed, or is her entire relationship based on deceit? I’m counting on the latter. After all, I am learning what it means to start over as someone else. It’s hard to keep everything in a straight line when you’re operating as two different people.

  Jordan. Jordana. Kerrie. Olivia. The four of us are a crowd. But she’s beginning to trust me. I can tell. Which is really the whole point. The first stage of my plan—to get her to rely on me before I sabotage both her professional and personal lives—is evolving just as I’d hoped. Now I need to figure out what comes next.

  Twenty minutes passed, as I transferred my weight from one high heel to the other, in an attempt to mitigate the torture I’ve slowly become accustomed to in the near five weeks that I’ve been here. I can’t leave. I can’t call Jordana—she made that very clear. She’s at her swanky event with John, not to be disturbed unless “the circumstances are dire.” I skipped lunch in favor of work and am, therefore, on the brink of irritability.

  Until I notice William lacing his way down the busy sidewalk, waving frantically, with reddened cheeks and an inviting grin. Even though this is my job, it’s hard to deny William’s appeal. So far he’s defied every stereotype I expected of him. He seems laid-back, kind, and humble.

  William stopped in front of me, his hands on his hips and his torso tilted forward. He sucked in a mouthful of air and then exhaled exaggeratedly. “I feel awful that I’m so late. I thought my five o’clock meeting would never end.” He panted as he returned to standing. “Then I couldn’t get a cab and, once I did, there was so much traffic I could have jogged here faster. Which I did for the last ten blocks.”

  “It’s really okay. It’s not like I had anything better to do.” True story.

  “Mind if I have a sip of that?” He motioned to the bottle of Evian I was holding.

  “Yeah, sure. Of course.” I handed it to him. Normally it would gross me out to share my water with a virtual stranger, but oddly, I didn’t mind. And anyway, what else could I say? I’m afraid you might have cooties. “Are you ready to go inside?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be!” He smiled and reached for the door just as a uniformed security guard opened it for us. “After you.” William indicated for me to go ahead.

  Once I entered the lobby, my hand flew to my mouth as I took in the elaborate architecture, the imposing vaulted ceilings, and the sleek glass cabinets showcasing what must have been millions of dollars in watches, bracelets, earrings, and necklaces, all dribbling diamonds. “Holy shit.”

  “You’ve never been to Cartier before?” He smirked, evidently entertained by my inexperience.

  “No, never.”

  “Not even the one on Worth Avenue?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Remind me where that is again? I’m still learning the lay of the land here.”

  “Worth Avenue. In Palm Beach. Didn’t you say you were from there?”

  “Oh yeah. Of course I know that Worth Avenue. But I’ve never been to the Cartier there, no.”

  “Well, you’re here now. Shall we?” He directed me toward a saleswoman who was greeting customers with a spritz of Cartier’s signature scent.

  “Hello, we’re here to meet with Samantha,” I said, unfolding the piece of paper I’d scribbled her name on. “It’s in regard to William Blunt’s wedding band. I was told she’d be expecting us.”

  “Yes, of course. Follow me.” She led us toward the back of the store and into a private room with a desk and three chairs. “She’ll be right with you.”

  “Thank you.” William nodded and we took a seat next to each other on one side of the desk.

  “This is exciting, huh?” I widened my eyes.

  “I suppose.” He didn’t look excited.

  “It’ll be fun,” I encouraged.

  “Can I admit something?” His brow creased.

  “To me?”

  “Yes, to you!” He shook his head, visibly amused.

  “Oh, okay. Sure, go ahead.”

  “I’m a little nervous.”

  “Nervous about picking a ring?”

  “I don’t know. Kind of. I mean, there’s that.” His shoulders slumped forward.

  “And?”

  “The wedding. Walking down the aisle. Tatiana looking like she hasn’t eaten in three months, which she barely has. There’s so much pressure,” he sighed. “Caroline was insistent on rushing the wedding the minute we got engaged, so the planning has been a lot. To say the least. And I’ve only been tangentially involved. Typically couples have much more time.”

  “I’m sure it’s just jitters. That’s very natural.” Suddenly I’m an expert on marital bliss.

  “You know I wanted to elope?” he continued, as if we were lifelong friends. “Tatiana and I always said we didn’t need anything more than each other. That the two of us declaring our commitment was all that mattered.”

  “So what happened?”

  “All this happened. If you haven’t noticed, this is Caroline and Arthur’s wedding, not ours.” He threw his hands in the air and then let them drop into his lap. “I mean, do you have any idea how much this is going to cost?”

  “Actually, I do.” I’ve seen the numbers. In fact, I’ve been trying very hard not to show how irate they make me or say aloud how fucking astronomical they are. But let me tell you, they’re end-world-hunger big. Still, William isn’t paying for a cent of it. The Doonans are footing the bill. What does he care?

  “Well, then you know how ridiculous the whole thing is.”

  “It’s not ridiculous if it’s what you and Tatiana want.” It is completely ridiculous.

  “That’s just it. I’m not sure that it is what I want. I love Tatiana. We’ve been together since our sophomore year of college. She used to make fun of all the stuff her mother did—the ladies’ lunches, the charity boards, the obsession over looking a certain way and being perceived as someone you’re not—and now I’m afraid she’s being sucked in. Tatiana used to be more relaxed, more carefree.”

  “Really?” I wasn’t buying it.

  “Oh yeah. She used to let her hair air-dry and she wore practically no makeup. She went to fraternity parties and drank beer from a keg. Now she won’t leave our apartment without her ‘face on,’ and if her champagne isn’t a specific vintage or her purse isn’t the newest style, it’s like the universe is going to combust. Don’t get me wrong, I like nice things too, I just don’t need all of this. And I certainly don’t care what people think.”

  “Then why don’t you say something?”

  “Say something? Yeah, righ
t. It’s too late now. Arthur and Caroline would throttle me.”

  “It’s never too late to be happy. Happiness is a choice.” Despite what Jordana may think.

  He laughed. “If only it was that simple. This is why I wanted you to come with me today. I figured your outlook would be refreshing, since you’re still pretty new at all this.” Fair enough. “Jordana is fine, but she’s a little too intense for my taste.”

  “I hear you. And thank you.” I looked away to conceal a full-on flush, as the door to the room swung inward.

  “Mr. Blunt. I’m Samantha Dupont.” A woman in a crisp, cream-colored suit with long, straight black hair, rosy skin, and narrow green eyes entered and extended a stiff arm. “Welcome to Cartier. We’re absolutely thrilled to be part of your big day,” she said with a very unthrilled, austere expression. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  William turned to me before answering. And I offered a nod of reassurance. “All right, let’s do this.”

  As I listened to Samantha recite the bullet points on each ring she presented to William, I made note of how expensive they all were. Samantha didn’t dare mention prices, but I could see the tags tucked furtively beneath them. Three thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars! I swallowed my rage.

  What I’ve come to realize is that there’s very little mention of what things cost where our brides and grooms are concerned. The assumption is that they can afford it. Whatever it is. Of course something as simple as a wedding band is a given.

  I wonder what it would feel like to never have to worry about money. To be able to waltz into a store like Cartier and say, “I’ll take three of those huge-ass diamond necklaces.” Just like that. Where I grew up, people didn’t have options. They had to put in long, arduous hours on the job just to feed their families.

  When I first moved to New York City and started working for Jordana, I had no idea how much everything was going to cost. Even in Litchfield, which was a step up from Bridgeport, things were infinitely cheaper. I estimated that I could maintain my current lifestyle for about three months—strangely, the exact amount of time until Tatiana and William’s big day. Unfortunately, I’ve been spending more than I ever accounted for without even knowing it. Last time I checked my bank statement, funds were dwindling too quickly, which is not good. I’ll definitely have to readjust some things in order to sustain myself.

 

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