Pretty Revenge

by Emily Liebert

  “That’s not good.” I laughed. “I take it you don’t like them?”

  “No, they’re fine. I guess. His mother is passive-aggressive as all hell. She’ll say things like, ‘Oh wow, Dante got a haircut. Do you think he likes it that short?’ And I’m like, No, bitch! I don’t think he knows he fucking has hair! Or she’ll say, ‘It must be lovely not to feel pressured to take off the baby weight.’ And his father’s about a hundred and three. He tells the same stories about his childhood on a loop. Over and over and over. It may be the only thing worse than sitting through Dante’s music class.”

  “A hundred and three?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “Okay, he’s eighty-two, but you get my point.”

  “So how did it go? The interview.”

  “Eh.” She slid an olive off the miniature plastic sword in her martini and popped it in her mouth.

  “Eh?”

  “Well, I mean, I killed it. Obviously. I’m a fucking rock star. But I won’t get the job.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I haven’t gotten one single job I’ve interviewed for in the last six months.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Sure it does. The world of print journalism isn’t what it once was. There are fewer editorial positions out there than ever before. And I’m not some hungry, responsibility-free twentysomething anymore. I’m a mom.” She drained her glass and signaled to the bartender for a refill.

  “So?”

  “So that’s how I’m seen. You take one measly year off to raise your child so he actually knows that the nanny didn’t birth him, and you’re done.” She shrugged. “Listen, I’m not a moron. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I never operated under the misconception that people would be knocking down my door. There’s always someone younger and more eager to step up. Someone who doesn’t demand as high of a salary or have to hightail it out the door when her kid has strep throat. But I was fucking amazing at my job. I honestly didn’t think it would be this hard to break back in.”

  “That sucks.” I thought about how effortless it was for me to land the job with Jordana, and how I’ve been keeping my head down at work lately, as I incrementally secure my position as Jordana’s faithful employee. I may even become her trusted friend, with a healthy dose of maneuvering. I have to admit I’m struggling with that piece of it. I know that my purpose is to make Jordana pay for what she did, but I haven’t figured out exactly how I’m going to achieve that. I can’t just come out and tell her who I am and threaten to expose her. What if she doesn’t care? What if she threatens me right back? Something tells me she could ruin me in this “town” with a half-dozen well-placed phone calls. It may sound strange, but I’m realizing that there’s a certain degree of intimacy in Manhattan, despite its 8.5 million inhabitants.

  My lack of strategy has rendered me restless and doubtful. That’s one of the reasons I finally carved out time to join Sara for a drink. We’ve both been so busy. Her with Dante. Me with Jordana. And even though she pops in somewhat regularly for quick catch-up sessions, this feels different. Like having a real friend.

  “Yeah, it does suck. Especially since I’ve exhausted almost every contact on my list.”

  “So do you regret taking the time off?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. Hindsight is twenty-twenty; all that bullshit. And I can actually tolerate Dante most of the time, but—at this point—I feel like I could tolerate him better if I wasn’t with him all day long. It’s grueling. More so than being in an office. In the beginning, I felt guilty every time I hired a babysitter so I could run some errands alone. I used to agonize over whether or not I could leave him for the long hours that a full-time job requires. What if I blink and he’s thirty-five? What if I miss his school play because I’m on deadline? Those were the kinds of questions I asked myself.”

  “I see how it’s a tough decision.”

  “Believe me, I know I’m not alone in this. Most mothers struggle with the same stuff. How do I balance everything? Am I a terrible parent if I don’t stay home? Am I going to become insipid if I do? All the ‘lean in’ crap.” She traced air quotes with her fingers. “I just never thought that would be me. I’ve always had things figured out. So I assumed this wouldn’t be any different.”

  “But now you do think you want to go back to work?”

  “I know I do. I need to use my mind. Unfortunately, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse isn’t enough stimulation for me, even though the theme song is pretty damn catchy.”

  “And Joel supports you?”

  “Yeah, he does. Mainly because he knows what a pain in the ass it can be to take care of Dante. He’s not the easiest kid, if you haven’t noticed.” The bartender returned with Sara’s second martini, and Sara pressed her palms together in prayer, bowed in his direction, and said, “You’re a god.” Then she winked at him and took a big slug of it before continuing. “I’m sure Joel wouldn’t mind having a second income, either. He does well. But so did I. It would allow us to finally buy an apartment. Shit is expensive in this city we call home. It ain’t Kansas, Dorothy.”

  “No kidding.” My chest constricted at the reminder of my own waning financial situation.

  She went on. “Then again, in the same way that I do, he wants one of us to be around for Dante and everything else that comes with having a child. He has mixed feelings about Dante being raised by a nanny. And since he’s not quitting his job anytime soon, that leaves me.”

  “Right.” The great thing about Sara is that she can ramble endlessly without interruption, which is convenient, especially when alcohol is involved.

  “Anyway, they’re sleeping at Joel’s parents’ for the night, so I’m a free woman for a change. Any hotties?” She scanned the room.

  “What’s your type?” I peered over my left shoulder and then my right.

  “Not for me!” She slapped me on the arm a little harder than necessary. I had noticed a couple of cute-ish guys checking me out, which is new for me. “I’m talkin’ about you. I assume you’re not getting laid yet?”

  “At the moment, no.” I suppose I should care, but I don’t.

  “Such a shame.” She shook her head. “Now is the time, my friend. Once you’re an old married hag like me you’ll wish you’d done a little more wading in the man pool. Trust me.”

  “I don’t know. It’s not really my focus right now.” An image of William flashed in my mind.

  “What is your focus?”

  “My job.” Revenge.

  “The wedding planning?” She considered this. “So you’re liking making dreams come true?”

  “I am. The opportunity to work for Jordana has been . . .” I paused to find the right word. “Enlightening.”

  “Wait a minute. I didn’t catch this the first time you told me, but you mean Jordana Pierson, right?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I know that name.” She thought for a few seconds. “She’s like a socialite, right? Married to John Pierson, managing director at Arthur Doonan’s firm.”

  “Yes.” The fact that she knew that much off the top of her head riled me. What the hell is so special about these people?

  “I used to write about John and Arthur all the time. I told you I was a business editor at The Wall Street Journal. I mean, it’s not like I know them personally, but Arthur Doonan is a total fucking crook. My colleagues and I pursued him for a long time, but there was never a paper trail or even a source willing to go on the record, which meant no evidence for a story. Man, I wanted to expose him. And then of course there’s John Pierson. He may not be a crook like Arthur, but he’s still an asshole. Word on the street is that he’s a skirt chaser and a sexual harasser. Apparently, he sleeps with all the new interns and support staff to welcome them aboard, if you get my drift. Well, at least the pretty ones with perky tits. I told my bosses a million times, but do you think they gave a shit? Nope. They’re all horny men too. They told me to stick to covering the serious facts.”

&nb
sp; “So John cheats on Jordana?” I clarified, even though that was obviously what she was saying. Regardless, I wanted to hear her spell it out.

  “I’d say so. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’ll nail anything with a hole. I bet she knows. The wives always do.” She finished her second martini. “I never witnessed it with my own two eyes. But let’s just say I wouldn’t want to be married to a guy like that. Sometimes all the glitz and glamour—that big, fancy life—just isn’t worth the price you pay.”

  “I guess.” If what Sara was saying is true, then maybe Jordana doesn’t exactly have it all. She probably staggered into a world of misery all on her own. On some level I already suspected that, but until now, I wasn’t sure why. Did she know John was like that when they first met? When he proposed? When she walked down the aisle? Is that why she decided to devote her career to other people’s eternal bliss? And why she thinks happiness isn’t a choice? That’s sad. Not that I feel too sorry for her.

  “Such a blast from the past, I’ll tell you,” Sara mused. “Feels like forever ago.” She gestured to the bartender again. The girl can hold her liquor. “There’s this hotel down by Wall Street. What the hell is it called? It starts with an A . . . fuck, do I have mommy brain. Hold on, I’ll come up with it.”

  “What about it?” I choked back my desperation.

  “All the finance guys take women there. Interns. New hires. Assistants. Anyone who wants to ascend the ranks without actually working for it. Supposedly the general manager is a real guys’ guy and promises absolute discretion. So much for that, right?”

  “Do you think he goes there? John, I mean.”

  She shrugged. “Hell if I know. Why? Are you thinking of blowing the whistle on him?”

  “No!” Maybe.

  “Easy there, tiger. I was just kidding. You don’t want to get involved in that, especially with your boss. I’m sure a chick like her chooses to turn the other cheek.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Of course.”

  “Andaz!” Sara shouted, splashing her third drink on her blouse.

  “What?”

  “That’s the name of the hotel. Andaz. I knew it would come to me. Real modern kind of place. Wall Street and Water.”

  “Interesting.” I chugged my second glass of wine. Wall Street and Water.

  “Anyway, enough about those jerk-offs.” She motioned to the small patch of dance floor, which was wide open, save for two drunk women in midriff-baring tube tops, stumbling around and lip-syncing to the music. “You wanna get out there?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m pretty tired.” I couldn’t get home fast enough to do more research on John and his possible connection to the Andaz.

  “You’re bailing on me already?” Sara rolled her eyes. “The night is young! Stay for one more drink and then I’ll let you walk me back.” She smirked. “As long as you don’t try to take advantage of me.”

  “No worries there. I may not be getting laid, but I’m secure in my heterosexuality.”

  “Noted.” She laughed rowdily and clinked my glass. “And cheers to that!”

  By the time I’d escorted Sara to her apartment—there’d been a lot of faltering involved—it was just past ten o’clock. I ordered Chinese food and sat down at my computer with a container of sweet and sour chicken, to find out just how sweet or sour Jordana’s life is. After typing every possible configuration of the words, “Andaz Hotel” and “John Pierson,” disappointingly, I came up empty-handed.

  So instead, I decided to log into Jordana’s email. I watched her type in her password the other day when I was standing behind her at her desk. It’s not the first time I’ve taken a peek, but I’ve yet to discover anything important or even curious. Just a bunch of back and forth with clients and vendors.

  But before I did, I paused for a moment. I’m not sure if it was guilt or sympathy that caused my hesitation. I could have just gone to sleep and called it a night. Regardless, I forged forward.

  I scanned through Jordana’s emails one at a time. There were a handful from Caroline griping about this or that. There was one from William dated a few days before, explaining that, while we did not have the great fortune of selecting a ring he liked at Cartier, he was very impressed with me and looked forward to my continued company in his pursuit. Company seemed like a nice word to choose.

  Finally, just as I was about to turn in, a new message appeared from Caroline Doonan.

  Jordana,

  It’s urgent that I speak with you tomorrow. I know it’s Sunday, but it can’t wait. Call me first thing.

  —Caroline

  Urgent. When it comes to Caroline, that could mean just about anything from an ingrown toenail to World War Three. But I pressed delete anyway.

  And it felt damn good.

  19  KERRIE

  As I sat at my desk, alive with anticipation, I thought about my fortune cookie from Saturday night: He who hesitates is last. I mean, if that’s not a call to action, then what is?

  The phone rang and I recognized the number of Caroline’s seamstress, Nina, on the caller ID.

  “Good morning, Jordana Pierson Wedding Concierge.” The first thing Jordana told me about Nina is that she’s extremely talented. The second thing she told me is that she’s completely scatterbrained and very disorganized. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her yet, which works to my advantage.

  “Hi, Jordana. It’s Nina”—I didn’t correct her—“I’m checking in to confirm . . .” I heard a loud thud and an “Ow, shit!” A few seconds passed. “Sorry. I dropped the phone. My office is such a mess. So what I was saying is that I want to confirm that Caroline Doonan’s shrug is supposed to be black velvet, right?”

  “Hold on.” I didn’t want to say too much, for fear of outing myself. Silently I pulled up the order on my computer. Black duchess satin. “Velvet is correct.”

  “It just seems like a heavy fabric for June.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But I know Caroline. She wants what she wants.”

  “Always.”

  “Okay then, thank you. Have a good one.”

  “You too.” I hung up and smiled to myself. Now, that wasn’t so hard. Caroline will be apoplectic. Nina will blame Jordana. Jordana will blame Nina. No one will even think to blame me. And I don’t feel badly about it at all, especially because shrugs are completely absurd to begin with. They’re like half a jacket. Honestly, I’d never even heard of one until I started working with these ridiculous people.

  I walked around Jordana’s desk to log into her email again. I figured I’d remove a few random appointments from her calendar—a bikini wax, a haircut, and a trip to the dentist. Nothing business related. And nothing too obvious. Just enough to encourage her to mistrust herself and—if I’m vigilant—to rely on me even more than she already does.

  The thing is, though, Jordana and I have developed a nice rhythm in the seven weeks since I started working for her. I’d hardly say we’re best friends, but she definitely likes me. And Olivia likes her. I’m not softening or anything like that. It’s just that it’s gratifying to finally be acknowledged by her. To be appreciated once and for all.

  Would you believe that the other day she practically swooned over my new shoes? Then she told me how impressed she’s been by my dedication. And added that not only have I been an enormous help to her, but that our clients have noticed too.

  In order to keep up appearances, I returned to Equinox’s salon last week for a refresher. The full workup, even though it’s not even remotely in my budget anymore. I had highlights and a trim with Blake. An eyebrow tweezing with a willowy blond named Renee, who smelled of lavender and vanilla extract. And a facial with Olga, a bulky Swedish woman with persuasive hips and legs that resembled Redwood trunks—on average the tallest trees in the world. Some can grow higher than the spire of Notre Dame Cathedral.

  I even treated myself to another massage with Katya. Because, why not? What’s an extra two hundred dollars when you’ve already spent far more th
an you should?

  While I was at the salon, I also spoke to Blake about working with some of our brides. It’s important to maintain fresh and varied vendors for our clients. Jordana gave me another pat on the back for that.

  I keep telling myself that this is my life now and I think I’m finally getting the hang of it, save for the overspending. Not to mention that people are noticing. A guy at the bodega around the corner said I looked like Jennifer Aniston. He may have been drunk, but so what? I’d be thrilled if I resembled her third cousin twice removed.

  I was such a plain Jane when I was growing up, the girl that faded into the woodwork. Yet here I am today—single and successful in the city. The city that never sleeps. It’s hard not to savor every minute of it. But I can’t allow my self-interest to distract me. I need to focus all my attention on retribution.

  I know it seems like such a prickly word. Still, I have to see this through. And appearances are part of that. I can’t very well show up at places like Cartier with William looking unkempt.

  The phone rang again, and I noticed it was him, just at the same moment he’d popped into my mind. How serendipitous! I picked up quickly. “Jordana Pierson Wedding Concierge. How can I help you?” I answer that way, even when I know who it is. Jordana expects formality across the board.

  After my wedding band shopping with William, she told me that he asked if I could be his point person for all things groom-related and that she agreed. I could tell it made her a little nervous, but with everything going on around here, she said she has to be able to count on me without hovering over my shoulder. Exactly.

  “Is this my faithful servant?” I pictured William smirking. He has just one dimple on his left cheek, right beneath his eye. I wonder if Tatiana loves it. I do.

  I laughed. “Present and accounted for. You’re never going to let me live that down, huh?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Well then, what can I do for you today?”

  “I saw the whiskey tasting in my calendar for this Friday. Just confirming that you’re coming with me.”

  “I think I’m the one who’s supposed to confirm with you.”