Darlene blushed and ran her tongue over her bottom lip.
“Come on in, lovebirds,” Imogene called from the front door. Behind her, his mother was peering at them, intrigued.
“For the ruse,” Darlene said, taking his hand.
Of course: Darlene’s kisses were for the money. Dinner with his family was in their newly signed contract, after all. And even though the whole lunatic scheme was his idea, Zach was surprised by how much that hurt.
38
Darlene accepted a warm hug from Imogene and a Don’t wrinkle my outfit air-hug from his mother, Catherine. She shook hands with Zach’s father, Mark, and was introduced to their house manager, Debra, a brisk, friendly woman in her forties, who looked Indian or Caribbean. They exchanged a smile and small nod of recognition. Darlene was relieved not to be the only nonwhite person in a fifty-mile radius, even though Debra, despite working on a laptop and not serving drinks, was still technically staff. It was hard not to think of Get Out. When Debra disappeared into a study to work from one of the comfortable leather chairs, Darlene stopped herself cracking a joke about the Sunken Place.
“I thought we’d start with a little tipple on the patio,” Catherine said, resplendent in a red silk wrap dress and fresh round of Botox. “Just something casual.”
It was neither little nor casual. The patio was the size of a ship, looking out over a spangled Olympic-size pool and acres of immaculately landscaped green. Catherine handed Darlene a rum-based cocktail she needed two hands to wrangle.
Zach requested a seltzer. His mother looked shocked. “Zach, you’re not drinking?” She said this in the same way one might exclaim, Zach, you can fly?!
Zach explained he was driving, laying a hand on Darlene’s knee. The sensation zipped up her spine with such hot, unexpected electricity, she twitched. Reading this as reproach, Zach removed his hand.
“Why didn’t you get a driver?” Mark asked. Casually, Zach’s dad was in a three-piece suit, and shoes a crocodile had casually sacrificed its life for. “Don’t you usually get a driver?”
“Don’t you get it?” Imogene sipped her cocktail, her blue eyes flashing. “They wanted to be alone.”
“Oh,” Zach’s parents said. They exchanged a slightly mystified look. Unclear whether it was because of Zach’s sobriety, or that Darlene would want to be alone with their son.
The conversation moved on to Imogene and Mina’s upcoming wedding, an event Darlene was expected to attend with the family. On one hand, she felt guilty. The Livingstones were investing in her emotionally, and she was lying to them. But another, less noble part of herself was looking forward to it. Not just because she’d be attending a wedding with Zach that they wouldn’t have to work at. Because she’d be attending a wedding with Zach.
It was odd witnessing Zach at home with his family. Darlene was used to him being the life of the party, which was sometimes fun and sometimes annoying, but here Zach was muted. Perhaps he saw entertaining people as work. He wasn’t working now. He and Imogene seemed like partners in surviving two dramatic narcissists, in a place where expectations were so impossibly high he wasn’t even bothering to please them with a performance. And the irony was Zach’s parents still treated him like a clown.
Zach-as-annoying-idiot was a role he’d written for himself and played with aplomb ever since Darlene met him. But it had become less circumstantial, based on fact, and more institutional, based on assumption. Zach put himself down a lot, and often set up everyone around him to do the same. The heir and the spare. He wasn’t the spare. He wasn’t inferior. He was thoughtful and sensitive and flustered by her in a way that really was very cute. Darlene had realized that if she gave Zach the benefit of the doubt, she liked him more than she expected.
She scooted her chair closer and took his hand. An almost shy smile quirked his lips in a way she found absolutely adorable. Their hands settled between the two chairs, connected.
Imogene watched with a curious tilt of her head.
After they were all well on their way to getting drunk, it was time to head into dinner. Darlene excused herself to use the restroom. Gold-plated taps and instead of a hand towel, a pyramid of tiny rolled towels the size of handkerchiefs. On her way out, an abstract expressionist painting caught her eye. Bold slashes of color, as alive as it was unapologetic. She knew this painting.
“Fantastic, isn’t it?”
Darlene started at the sound of Imogene’s voice. “Absolutely.”
Zach’s sister came to stand next to her, admiring the colorful artwork. “So spontaneous. Unrestrained.”
Darlene nodded. “Joan Mitchell was ahead of her time.”
An approving noise sounded from the back of Imogene’s throat. “You know your stuff.”
“I did a minor in postwar American art,” Darlene said.
“At…”
“Princeton.”
Darlene watched the typical expression of impressed approval flit over Imogene’s face. She didn’t add that Princeton was much like the rest of society—a place where she had to work twice as hard for the same reward.
Imogene looked back at the painting. “You’re not really Zach’s girlfriend. This is all so he gets that stupid trust.” Imogene side-eyed her. Not accusatory. Just certain. “It was so obvious he was lying the night he told us. So you’re not really together. Right?”
If Zach hadn’t told Imogene the truth, Darlene wasn’t going to. Her allegiance was with Zach. “What makes you think we’re not together?”
Imogene gave Darlene an easy-breezy smile. “Darlene, you have your shit together in a thousand ways that he doesn’t. I love my little brother, but we both know women like you don’t go for train wrecks like Zach.”
Darlene’s skin burned. She wasn’t sure if this was something Imogene actually believed, or if it was some sort of test. Darlene cocked her head at the painting. “It’s funny: I never saw Joan Mitchell as a particularly spontaneous artist. To me, this is very controlled. Deliberate.” Darlene gave Imogene an easier, breezier smile. “Guess it just depends on your perspective.”
* * *
Dinner was served in a room the size of a small country. The cutlery was heavy, solid silver, sliding through the juicy steak as if it were butter. Catherine offered Darlene a smile. “So, Darlene. Imogene mentioned you’re a Princeton grad. Scholarship? Sports team?”
“Mum!” Zach choked on his steak. “Darlene’s a straight-A student!”
“Well, I didn’t know,” Catherine said, so unflustered it was almost funny. “I hear Princeton’s quite expensive. Do you miss college, Darlene?”
“Sometimes,” Darlene said. “But I’m enjoying working as a musician. I’m actually getting ready to record an album of my own songs.”
Catherine’s frozen forehead mimed delight. “Congratulations. One day we’ll say we knew you when.”
“Are you doing it with Zach?” Imogene asked.
An image of her and Zach in flagrante barged into Darlene’s mind. The two of them on her couch but with distinctly less clothes. “Excuse me?”
“Are you and Zach collaborating?” Imogene clarified.
Her mind had moved so quickly to the gutter it had basically time-traveled. “Oh. Well, no.”
“Why not?” asked Imogene.
Zach affected confusion. “Yes, babe: why not?” He forked some peas into his mouth and slipped her a grin. “Don’t you think I’m talented?”
“Of course you’re talented. I just have a sneaking suspicion you’d show up late to every recording session, drunk as a skunk,” she teased.
“Hey,” Zach replied, affecting outrage. “That’s… accurate. I’m a terribly stinky creature who can’t tell time. Pepé Le Pew, without a watch.”
Darlene giggled.
Mark wiped his mouth with his napkin. “It’s because Zachary doesn’t have the brain for business.”
It was like witnessing someone slap a child: a quick, domestic horror. Darlene chilled.
“Making a living out of mu
sic isn’t just about boozing and parties,” Mark continued. “It takes discipline. Commitment. Intelligence. Not really Zachary’s strengths.”
Zach kept his head down, focused on his meal. The suggestion of pink colored his cheeks.
Darlene took a large gulp of wine, hoping it would mute the angry throb of her heart. “I just want to make a solo record.”
“And you probably will,” Mark said. “But even for someone as clearheaded as you, it’s not really a financially stable career, is it? And that’s what you need, son,” he added, addressing Zach.
“C’mon, Dad,” Imogene said. “Plenty of people work as full-time musicians.”
Mark’s expression said, Not people like Zachary.
“I think making your own record is marvelous, Darlene.” Catherine cut a tiny bite of steak. “You’re so ambitious. Focused. You could really learn a thing or two from her, Zach.”
Darlene let out a sharp puff of surprise. Her voice was a few decibels louder than she intended. “Zach is not an idiot.”
The four Livingstones glanced at Darlene. Equally surprised.
“We know,” said Catherine. “But he does have plenty of room for growth.”
The roles of Darlene-the-fake-girlfriend and Darlene-the-real-person mixed and merged. She was playing a part, and speaking entirely from the heart. Which felt equally terrifying and thrilling. She kept the smile on her face but now, it had a glint of steel. “We all have room for growth,” Darlene said. “But surely we can acknowledge that Zach is a very talented and charismatic musician. Perfect ear, fast learner, fun to work with. All our clients adore him.”
Mark raised an eyebrow in sarcastic acknowledgment. “Being liked is not the same as being successful.”
Darlene’s smile dropped. She sat up straighter and addressed Mark and Catherine directly. “I’m sorry, but the way you talk about Zach is really limiting. You’ve raised a kind, warm, open-minded young man. He deserves your support and your respect.”
Silence blared.
No one said a thing.
Zach’s expression started on bewilderment, whipped to awe, before settling on openmouthed disbelief.
Darlene’s mouth went dry. Oh God. I just chastised my fake future in-laws. Who were looking equally embarrassed and irate. Darlene coughed and got to her feet. “I’m just going to excuse myself for a minute.” She took a few steps, pivoted back to grab her wine, and then beat a hasty retreat.
39
Per Savannah’s suggestion, Liv ordered the Uber to be five minutes late. “There’s nothing wrong with making Sam wait,” Savannah assured her. “To build up a bit of tension.”
Liv watched the black town car round the corner, the service her mother was convinced was a convoluted kidnapping racket. Perhaps Savannah used the five-minutes-late strategy with Eliot. The prospect didn’t make Liv as furious as she expected. She still loved Eliot, but she was no longer in love with him—ridiculous semantics she’d always pooh-poohed but now rang true.
Savannah mimed smiling, tapping both cheeks with her forefingers. “Bye!” She waved both arms above her head, as if Liv was leaving for life on a new continent. “Have fun!”
Liv stared back, feeling out of her depth. Savannah had approached the date like she approached everything: with fervor. Like she wanted to live vicariously. Had she met someone, too? Hopefully not. The business could only handle one love-distracted person, and right now that person was Liv. Savannah Shipley would do well to focus her drive and smarts on hitting another wedding out of the park. She was turning out to be quite a valuable asset.
Ten minutes later, Liv walked into a farm-to-table restaurant Sam had suggested. It was lively without being unbearably noisy, which was good: like neck tattoos and nail art, shouting to be heard in restaurants was something best left to Generation Z. A hefty wooden bar ran against one wall, while a few dozen tables were scattered over creaking floorboards. This place was new: Liv hadn’t even heard about it. The persistent evolution of the city regardless of her personal tragedy recalled the old Robert Frost quote: “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.”
“I’m meeting a friend,” she told the maître d’, just as she spotted Sam sitting at the bar, chatting to the bartender. He was dressed in dark jeans and a denim shirt rolled at the sleeves. Even dressed up for a date, he looked like the kind of man who could chop down a tree and build a table with it. Her pulse, at a steady trot while she got ready, began cantering freely, showing off with jumps and little kicks. She hadn’t felt this nervous in years. It recalled her early days of auditioning, hoping desperately to be picked from a sea of faces and invited to be someone else. But tonight she was auditioning as herself.
Liv placed her purse on the bar next to him.
Sensing movement, Sam flicked his gaze at her. And then turned back to his beer.
Was this what the kids meant by ghosting? “We did say Wednesday, didn’t we?”
Sam glanced back up. “Liv! Holy…” Disbelieving eyes raced from collarbone to calf. “I didn’t recognize you.”
And suddenly, the two-and-a-half hours of preparing and plucking and painting of color onto skin and nails were entirely worth it. Liv had been worried that putting herself into the hands of Savannah Shipley would result in a look more suited to a tequila-soaked bachelorette. But the dress Savannah pulled from the back of the closet was her Elan Behzadi: black silk with capped sleeves, V-neck, falling just below the knee.
“Oh, this dress.” Liv’s eyes had lit up. It’d been her go-to for art openings and the theater, things she and Eliot did every other week before Ben was born. Back when she was always on. “It can’t still fit me.” But it did.
Savannah had swept Liv’s hair back off her face, a bold look she’d never tried. But when paired with darkened eyebrows, a pinky-red lip, and just a hint of cream blush, she looked quite… chic. The only thing left was shoes. Liv was angling for black flats, even as she knew they weren’t entirely right. Savannah held up a tote bag. “I brought a pair of mine to try: we’re the same size. Just keep an open mind, okay?”
“All right.” Liv wanted to giggle, so she did.
With the panache of a game show host, Savannah presented a pair of patent leather, sunshine-yellow stilettos.
Liv had gasped. “They’re so pretty.”
“I know! Aren’t they fun?”
“Oh, I can’t wear these.” She slipped them on. Savannah was right: they were the exact same size.
“Whoa.” She wobbled toward the mirror. “Don’t know if I can walk in heels anymore.”
“You already are.”
Liv examined her reflection. It was like looking at an actress chosen to play the movie version of Olive Goldenhorn: someone thinner, younger, and a lot better-looking. She was certainly in need of a workout or twenty, but she definitely did not look shlubby. The black dress and sleek hairstyle was classy, but the heels made the whole look… fun. Even sexy. Not bad for almost fifty. “Are yellow heels age appropriate?”
“Liv,” Savannah had said seriously, “there’s no such thing as age appropriate. Wear whatever you want.”
Liv flicked her a suspicious look. “When did you get so wise?”
Savannah shrugged, brushing a bit of fluff off the dress. “Maybe when I started working for you.”
“With me,” Liv had corrected, adding a bangle. “We work together.” She busied herself with selecting a purse. But Liv did not miss the slow, thrilled smile that crept onto Savannah’s face. It wasn’t a smile she saw often, and it made Liv think, again, of Savannah’s courtship with her husband. The idea didn’t hurt her. Curiously, she felt aligned with Savannah, and the sense of mystery that came along with an exciting first.
Eliot was a question mark again: something to be turned over and reconsidered.
Now, Sam’s eyes lingered on Liv’s feet as they sat at a table by the window. “And I really like the shoes,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Liv
permitted herself a grin. “Foot fetish?”
Sam spread the napkin over his lap. “Never too old to cultivate a new interest,” he said, and Liv laughed.
Two glasses of pale champagne appeared on the table, set by a woman with a buzz cut, who bowed elaborately. “On the house.”
Sam introduced her as Nico, one of the owners. Nico had two sleeves of tattoos and black-rimmed glasses: the look of those new Brooklyn chefs photographed laughing on cool cookbook covers. Generous, with a slightly wicked streak.
“I sous-chef here,” Sam explained, looking a little embarrassed. “But I told them not to make a fuss.”
“No fuss will be made,” Nico said, evidently enjoying making Sam squirm. “Just wanted to say hello.” She grinned and addressed Liv. “And tell you that this is a rare breed of man.”
Sam put his head into his hands.
“We all love Sam.” Nico indicated the bar where the maître d’ and bartender were pretending not to be watching them; caught, they both waggled their fingers in greeting. “He’s one of the good ones.”
Sam groaned. “This might’ve been a mistake.”
But Liv didn’t think it was. She thought it was cute. They ordered a selection of small plates, and when the champagne was drained, two glasses of a New Zealand sauvignon blanc. Even though it had been a good few decades since she’d been on a date, she still recalled alcohol as a primary component.
Their conversation was fluid, intimate; interesting. Formative years: Liv’s on the Upper East Side, Sam’s in coastal Maine. College: NYU, Berkeley. Childhood dreams: actress, firefighter.
“Firefighter?” Liv forked a salted peewee potato in her mouth. “I always had a thing for firefighters.”
Sam cocked an eyebrow. “Maybe I’ll have to ditch the cooking.”
It wasn’t until they were onto an ooey-gooey chocolatey dessert and glasses of exquisitely sweet port, the room emptying of patrons and Ella Fitzgerald crooning over the speakers, when the heavier stuff came up.
“We were married for fifteen years.” Sam’s eyes were soft and serious. Liv could tell this was a painful memory but not one he was going to burst into tears over. Eliot was a regular crier. Sam seemed like the once-a-year type.
It Had to Be You Page 19