Pretty Revenge

by Emily Liebert

  “Slacker.”

  “Not a chance. I’ll be there.”

  “Excellent. I could use a few drinks and a listening ear.”

  “I think I can manage that.”

  “Great. I really appreciate it.”

  “Of course.” I nodded, even though I knew he couldn’t see me. “Until Friday, then.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  “I’m looking forward to it too.” I hung up, feeling a little lighter. Maybe I was flirting just a bit. But only because I’m not stupid enough to think someone like William would ever look twice at me in that way. Regardless, it’s nice to have a playful repartee with someone of the opposite sex. God knows I never had that with Matthew.

  By the time Jordana arrived, I was in the thick of arranging a jewelry presentation for Lucy Noble and I’d long forgotten about my conversation with William. My armpits were damp and my eyelashes were sweating. On day one, Jordana told me never to adjust the thermostat under any circumstances. I already knew she was cold-blooded, but the heat can be oppressive. It’s hard to think, much less strategize.

  “Good morning.” She blew past my desk, visibly distracted.

  “Jordana.” I hailed her down like a taxicab.

  “Can it wait?” She’d already sat down at her computer and was stabbing at the keyboard like a concert pianist approaching her crescendo.

  “I don’t think so.” I didn’t move.

  “What is it?” Finally, she looked up.

  “Sorry, it’s just that Caroline Doonan has called six times.”

  “About what?” She appeared strained and impatient, which irritated me. I can barely stomach her when she’s being nice to me.

  “She said there was some kind of big mistake with the flowers and that she emailed you over the weekend but didn’t hear back.”

  “I have no idea what she’s talking about. It’s been red roses all along and that’s the way it still is.” Jordana dismissed me without actually doing so. “I’ll call her back later.”

  “The last time I spoke to her she said she’d be here at noon.” I consulted my watch. “Which is in two minutes.”

  “It must be my lucky day.” Jordana balled her hands into fists.

  “Is everything okay? I mean, are you okay? You seem . . .”

  “I’m fine.” She spread her fingers on the desk, flattened her palms, and pushed herself to her feet. “Thank you for asking.”

  “Of course. You can always talk to me if—” Before I had the opportunity to probe any further, the front door flung open and Caroline stalked toward us with a serpentine glare and a bite that was sure to be al dente.

  “So you are still alive, then.” It wasn’t a question. But she expected a response.

  “Hello, Caroline. It’s lovely to see you again.” Jordana smiled. She mimics authenticity so skillfully it’s almost authentic.

  “I emailed you on Saturday night and I’ve been calling all day.” She glowered at me, as if I hadn’t relayed the messages.

  “My sincerest apologies, but I never received your email. And I was in meetings outside the office until now.”

  “Unacceptable.” She twisted one of the buttons on her Chanel suit. “There’s been an enormous error. I’m absolutely livid. If this is the way you do business, then—”

  “Caroline,” Jordana cut her off. “Why don’t we step into the back so we can speak privately.”

  “Very well,” Caroline conceded. Grudgingly.

  Once they’d closed the door behind them, I lingered right outside it, pretending to reorganize the filing cabinet I’d sorted at least three times already.

  “We have a serious issue,” I overheard Caroline declare, as if the Bubonic Plague was sweeping the Upper East Side. “I ran into Gail Foster at the American Cancer Society gala on Saturday evening. And she said that she ran into Ron Wendt in the Hamptons. Apparently, he told her that we’re doing all white roses for the wedding. White.”

  “I assure you that’s not the case.” Jordana maintained her composure.

  “Well, you’re wrong.” It’s amazing how many mistakes are made when planning a wedding, even ones I’m not responsible for. I sat back down at my desk and dialed Ron Wendt’s office number.

  “I’ll take care of it,” I heard Jordana say.

  “Ron Wendt Design. This is Clarissa.”

  “Hi, Clarissa.” I spoke softly so I could still hear Caroline and Jordana going at it. “This is Olivia Lewis at Jordana Pierson Wedding Concierge.”

  “Oh, hi Olivia!”

  “Listen, Jordana needs a favor. Quickly. Can you help me out?”

  “Of course. Anything for Jordana.”

  “Can you please fax over confirmation that the flowers for the Doonan wedding are red? All red roses.”

  “You’ve got it. I’ll do that right now.”

  “Thank you. You’re the best.” I hung up and continued to eavesdrop.

  “Jordana, I would appreciate if our vendors do not discuss the details of my wedding with anyone.” I noted the use of my. Poor William. “Especially a loudmouth like Gail Foster.”

  “It’s very hard for me to believe that Ron would be so indiscreet. He knows better than that.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Caroline’s voice rose an octave.

  “Absolutely not. I’m sure this is some kind of misunderstanding that will be solved today.”

  “It better be.”

  “I’ll personally reconfirm that all the roses will be red. Each and every petal.”

  “Good. Because as you well know, I will not tolerate any more oversights. If every last thing isn’t perfect, it will be the last wedding you ever plan.” Frankly, I wasn’t sure who to root for.

  “I understand,” Jordana appeased her. She had no choice. Caroline’s upper hand was winged and waiting to swat her like a fruit fly if she didn’t comply.

  Just as I was about to skulk away—it seemed like the conversation was closed—the phone rang yet again. I lunged to answer it. No need to draw attention to the fact that I wasn’t at my desk.

  “Hello, Jordana Pierson Wedding Concierge.”

  “Hello, is Jordan there? I mean, Jordana.” The woman corrected herself immediately and instantly my interest was piqued.

  “Let me see if she’s in. May I ask who’s calling?”

  “This is Gillian Butler.” She coughed and then sniffed. “I’m her mother.”

  “I see. Can you please hold?” I pressed mute and placed the receiver down. “Gillian Butler,” I said her name aloud. This woman who positively had no idea who I was, but yet we had one major thing in common—Jordan left both of us. I picked up again. “It turns out Jordana is in an important meeting at the moment. Can I take a message and have her get back to you as soon as she’s available?”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t believe you that she’s not there. She can’t avoid me forever.” I closed my eyes and considered my options, of which there were none. I couldn’t interrupt Jordana and Caroline. That would be inappropriate. Still, there was a large part of me that empathized with Gillian. I had to help her.

  “I’m so sorry. I promise you I’ll let her know that you want to hear from her. Right now, I’m afraid that’s the best I can do.” At least it was the truth.

  “I understand.” She withdrew. “Would you mind passing along something to Jordana for me?”

  “Of course not.” I reached for a pen and a pad of paper. “I’m ready.”

  “Tell her that if she doesn’t call me back today, I’ll be at her apartment first thing tomorrow morning. And if she thinks I don’t know where she lives, she’s wrong.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes.” She practically whispered it, and I struggled to hear her over the sound of an incoming fax. “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t need to apologize.” You are the victim. We are the victims. “She’ll be in touch. You have my word.” />
  As soon as we hung up, Jordana and Caroline resurfaced.

  “Olivia, please get Ron Wendt’s office on the phone. We need to confirm that all the flowers for the Doonan-Blunt wedding are red roses.”

  “Already done.” I picked up the fax that had just come in and handed it to her. I watched her mouth curl into a satisfied grin.

  “There you have it. Red roses in black and white.” She showed it to Caroline, whose face warped into a scowl.

  “Very well, then. You’re off the hook for now,” she sneered. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Caroline stalked off without so much as an acknowledgment of my existence. And Jordana slumped back into her chair, appearing uncharacteristically defeated. I didn’t care.

  “While you were—” I began.

  She shook her head. “I can’t right now.”

  “I’m pretty sure you’re going to want to see this.”

  She didn’t say anything, so I just passed her the note I’d transcribed from her mother and turned back toward my desk.

  “Olivia.”

  “Yes?” I swiveled to face her again.

  “I may have to go out of town for a day. For work. I’m not sure when yet, since my next two weeks are an impossibility.”

  “Okay.”

  “I realize it’s not ideal what with the Doonan-Blunt wedding sneaking up on us, but I don’t think I have any other choice.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’ll need you to oversee everything, including the other weddings. We can’t let those fall by the wayside.”

  “Got it.”

  “Another thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Please don’t say anything to anyone about my mother. She’s—” Jordana paused for a second. “Troubled. She can’t be trusted.”

  “My lips are sealed.” I feigned understanding, despite my reflex to defend Gillian and to remind Jordana that she’s lucky to even have a mom.

  “You know what, I’m going to work from home for the rest of the afternoon. I need some peace and quiet.” She closed her laptop, stood up, and slung her purse over her shoulder.

  “Sure, I’ll be here.” She walked toward the door, stopped just short of it, and turned around.

  “I almost forgot, the building manager is coming by to pick up this month’s rent check. I’ve been so distracted that I forgot to mail it. He’s a little annoyed and completely irrational, but that’s another story. He said he’ll be here around three. The envelope is in the second drawer on the right side of my desk. All you have to do is hand it to him.”

  “That sounds easy enough.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled wearily. “By the way, excellent work with Caroline today. I assume you overheard her rant and called Ron Wendt’s office without being asked.”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded. “Well done. That’s exactly what I needed you to do. It’s really remarkable how easily you’ve adapted to this job, and how good you’ve become at it. Thank you for being an excellent assistant. And a friend.” Our eyes met, and she lingered there for a moment.

  But she didn’t say anything else. So I just nodded back and replied, “You’re welcome.”

  20  JORDANA

  “Your old man is finally on his way out, huh?” Cathy leaned against the armrest of her sofa and coiled her legs beneath her. I sat across from her in a patchwork chair that still reeked of cat litter, even though their twenty-three-year-old Maine Coon, Dolly, passed away a few months ago. I abhor cats, mostly because my father doted on the ones we had when I was growing up. I never understood how he could display such tenderness for an animal, while being so cruel to his own family. He said it was because they didn’t talk back to him the way we did. They showed him respect. There may have been something to that. Still, I developed a strange fondness for Cathy’s cat, Dolly. She was one serious alpha bitch. “Frightening thing is, he’s not much older than I am.”

  “Don’t say that.” I came straight to Cathy’s apartment from my office. I needed to talk to someone about my mother’s efforts to lure me home. Obviously, that person could not be John. And while I briefly considered confiding in Olivia—maybe just that my father was ill and that we’ve been estranged for a long time, nothing more—I knew it wouldn’t have been a prudent decision. The simple fact that she knows my mother is alive hits too close to home.

  “What? Aging is a bitch. We’re all going to die at some point.”

  “You should write greeting cards, you know that. By the way, you have something green wedged between your front teeth.” I couldn’t look at it dangling there for another second. Death talk or not.

  “Kale. I had a great salad for lunch.” She picked it out with her nail. “So how are you feeling about everything?”

  “Not good.”

  “That’s not a feeling.” Usually, when Cathy puts on her family counselor hat, I find it burdensome. But not today. Today, it’s exactly what I need.

  “I don’t know. I feel pissed off. Angry. Resentful. How’s that?”

  “Better.” She stood up and walked toward the kitchen. “Something to drink?”

  “No thank you.”

  “I won’t bother asking if you want something to eat.” She returned with a glass of water for herself and fell back into the threadbare couch. “Are you sad?”

  “No.”

  “That was a quick reply.”

  “You know I hate him.”

  “I do, my love.” And I hate it even more when people call me that. I wonder why I’ve never told Cathy that it was my father’s term of endearment for me, which was disorienting because—as far as I could tell—he didn’t love much beyond his whiskey, his rifles, and his dinner on the table at precisely six o’clock or there’d be hell to pay. He used to say, “Jordan, my love, why don’t you find something to busy your pretty little self with in the backyard while your mother and I have a talk?” Then he’d shove me along with a firmly pressed hand to the bottom. As a child, those words paralyzed me, but not for long enough to stay and watch. The thing is, if you witness something with your own two eyes, then you have to admit it’s real. And acknowledging that my father split my mother’s jaw with his fist more than once was more reality than I was primed to confront.

  But I’m not going to think about that. Not today. Not anymore. I’ve come too far and tolerated too many of Cathy’s therapy sessions to allow myself to slide beneath the sanity threshold. Again.

  “Then what else is there to say?” Cathy’s heard every detail of my story. When I first met her she wanted to call the Bridgeport Police and have my father arrested. I begged her not to. As much as I wanted to save my mother, I’d just extracted myself from the situation and I couldn’t bear to think about commingling my new life with my old one. She respected my wishes, against her better judgment.

  “Well, you can hate him and be sad at the same time.” She took a sip of water. “That’s completely normal.”

  “I don’t care whether it’s normal or not. I may not have all my feelings in order, but I’m certain that sadness isn’t one of them.”

  “Okay.” She shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

  “Do you think I should go home?”

  “Funny you still call it that.”

  “You know what I’m saying.”

  “And you know my answer.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why?” I was really hoping she’d say no. Or at the very least, that it was up to me.

  “Because you never said good-bye, and now is your chance.”

  “Why do I have to say good-bye? Who’s going to make me?”

  “You asked what I think.”

  “I was happy when I left. You must remember that.” I let my mind travel back in time, to when I first moved to New York City.

  I was running. I wasn’t sure what I was running toward, but I knew that whatever it was, it would be bigger and better. I had a substantial amount of cash, but no c
redit card—in other words, no trail. Fortunately, I found a scrapheap of an apartment. That’s when I met Cathy and Stan, who said cash would be fine. I also met Gilda, a struggling hair-and-makeup artist living next door, who gifted me my first spray can of Mace. Gilda’s brother was a line cook at one of the hottest new restaurants in Midtown, where all the bankers went to loosen their ties over thick cuts of steak and heaping portions of mashed potatoes. He introduced me to his boss, Leon.

  Leon offered me a job on the spot as a hostess. I’ll never forget how he foamed at the mouth like a rabid dog and said, “Oh, the boys will love you.” Then he invited me to discuss the details of the job in his pinprick of an office, but I said I was fine right where I was. I’ve never been that naive.

  During the week, the crowd consisted of rich, horny, overworked men who probably had small dicks and large trust funds. On the weekends, their wives would accompany them, flaunting their couture clothing and flashy diamond rings—the gaudier the better. I wanted so badly to be one of them. To be glamorous and refined. I wanted people to look at me and think, She is someone. Someone who’s not fleeing from her impoverished past and struggling to make ends meet. I wanted to exchange my welcoming smile for a life that was effortless and comfortable. A life full of caviar wishes and champagne dreams.

  Sure, I could have been persuaded into a liaison with the less faithful of those men, who would have lavished me with promises and praise and the expectation of a blow job in the back seat of their chauffeured Rolls Royce. But I wasn’t looking for a cheap thrill or a wad of cash on the nightstand.

  I wasn’t a side dish. I was the main fucking course.

  And I knew it.

  “Are you sure you’re not confusing happiness with relief?” Cathy asked. “If you want to know what I remember, it’s a seventeen-year-old girl who was scared shitless, but ambitious as hell.”

  “So I’m going home.”

  “I’d offer to come with you.”

  “But I need to do this on my own.”

  “You do.”

  “I’m not going to see him.”

  “Then why go?”

  “Because my mother won’t leave me alone. And if I don’t appease her, she threatened to come to New York.”