“I’m so sorry I walked out on you that day, when you told me about the divorce,” I say. “It was a rash and, um, immature reaction. I should have stuck around to talk to you about it. And I’m sorry I’ve been ignoring your calls.”
“Oh, darling…” My mother’s voice is soft with emotion. “I understand. I should have broken it to you more gently, and not in public. Your father had just called me that morning and, well, I was in shock, you see—” She takes a deep breath.
“He’s getting married. And she’s pregnant.” My voice is totally flat. “I know. I ran into him last night.” Was the Minetta Tavern just last night? It feels like so long ago.
“I was hoping he’d call you to tell you.… I’ve been so worried about it. I should just have told you.”
“No, it’s okay. You shouldn’t have to do his dirty work for him.” And neither should I. “How do you feel about it, Mom? Are you okay?” I can’t remember the last time I said that word. Mom. I always called her Annabel. I de-Mommed her. Like a punishment. What a brat I was.
“I am. I really am!” Her voice suddenly brightens. “We were finished a very long time ago.… And my life is good. I’ve decided to stay in Boston, all my friends are here and he doesn’t own the city, does he? I’m renting the most darling little apartment and I fill it with flowers twice a week, because who can be miserable when they’re surrounded by flowers? And I’ve been so busy with volunteer work. We’re throwing a domino party for charity!” She starts laughing with glee. “Can you imagine? Isn’t it wild?”
“Sounds killer … but why are you friends with those women?” I ask. “The rich bitchy socialite women.”
“Honestly, darling? I like them because they’re always doing something. I know an awful lot of women my age who just do nothing with their lives. They just watch TV and gossip. It’s depressing. And, well, they pay me very well to help organize their functions. I’m not relying on your father ever again, in any way, shape, or form. It feels wonderful.”
My mother likes to work. Revelation.
“Now, I didn’t know what you wanted for your birthday, so I simply transferred fifteen hundred dollars to your account. A little birthday surprise.”
“No, no, I don’t need that,” I say quickly. “Really, Mom, I swear—”
“Too late, it’s all done! Come on, if there’s one thing I remember about being twenty-three it’s that I never had enough money.… So what else is new with you, darling? How’s Pia?”
And boom, we start talking, really talking, for the first time in years. I tell her all about Rookhaven, and my roommates, about how I’ve been trying to get a job and working at the Gap.…
“And boys?”
I sigh. “I’m failing there, too.”
“It’s not called failing, darling. It’s called living. Just keep trying. It’s the trying that makes it fun. If you want to go to L.A., I think it’s a wonderful idea. The most important thing to me is that you’re happy.”
I think about that for a moment.… Okay, maybe she shouldn’t have sent me away to school without asking, but she thought she was doing the right thing. She was only trying to make me happy.
While I did everything I could to make her unhappy. But I know I can’t fix that in one phone call. It’ll take time.
She continues. “I’m so glad you rang. I didn’t know whether you wanted to hear from me; I’ve been thinking about you so much.”
“Me too, Mom.” I pause. “Maybe you could come out to L.A. to see me. Or I’ll come to Boston and see you.”
“Of course! I would love that! Anytime. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mom.”
As I hang up, I’m smiling.
Who can be miserable when they’re surrounded by flowers.…
I have an idea.
CHAPTER 38
“I can’t believe you get to live in that brownstone.” Edward claps his hand over his mouth in disbelief. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are?”
I look up at Rookhaven. “It’s nice, huh?”
“Nice? Amazing is what it is. You’re brand-new to the city and you land a place like that? Do you know what my first apartment here looked like, before I met Adrian? It had bloodstains in the bathtub, Angie, and the remnants of chalk body outlines on the floor.”
I crack up. “I know, I know. I was lucky.”
“And you’re talking about leaving,” Edward says, opening the back of his truck. “You’re out of your cotton-picking mind.”
I’m standing outside Rookhaven with Adrian’s boyfriend, Edward, the guy I met in the Gap, next to his floral delivery van. His second van is right behind us.
And we’re going to fill Rookhaven with flowers for Julia.
The moment I got off the phone with my mother this morning, I texted Adrian to get Edward’s number, then called him and explained the situation. Together, we tracked down every hydrangea—Julia’s favorite flower—in New York City. Enough to fill the hallway and living room and every bedroom in Rookhaven. And every other place I could think of.
It cost over half my birthday money, even though Edward got me a serious discount. Never underestimate the cost-cutting power of a florist on a mission. But it was worth it. It’s going to look amazing.
Edward’s even loaning me vases. And two of his delivery boys to help unload and arrange the flowers. He won’t take any extra payment for his help, either.
“It’s for a good cause,” he scoffed, when I tried to protest. “I told you that you need your friends to survive in this city! You do whatever you can to hang on to them. Anyway, I owe you. We got you fired from the Gap, remember?”
Even with four people, it’s backbreaking work to unload and arrange all the flowers and vases perfectly. Every time I climb the stoop, I glance down to Vic’s apartment. The front door is open. I hear occasional thumps and shouts, and there’s a big generator outside, with hoses going in and out. I guess they’re pumping all the water out. I wonder if Sam is in there, helping to fix everything. But if he is, he’s avoiding the front door.
Well, good. I don’t want to see him anyway.
An hour later I’m sweaty and pink, and Rookhaven is transformed. Huge pots bursting with hydrangeas line the stoop, and inside, every room is overrun with gorgeous blooms, nestling in vases of every height and size. After the longest, coldest winter I can remember, it’s like the house exploded with spring.
And when Julia gets home from work tonight, she’ll see her favorite flowers everywhere she looks.
Maybe that will help her to consider forgiving me for being such a bad friend.
“Thank you,” I tell Edward, when the place is done. “I could not have done this without you.”
“Not a problem, sweetface,” he says, triple-cheek-kissing me good-bye. “By the way, my heartbreak radar is going bananas around you. You wanna talk about it?”
I gaze at him. My body is so tired of making tears that I can’t even muster up a throat-lump. “I think if I started talking about it, I would break into little pieces.”
“Oh, honey.” Edward sighs and gives me a huge hug. Man, I am really into the hugging thing these days. It’s so goddamn nice.
I head upstairs to take a long shower and dress. Later, when Coco gets back to Rookhaven from her preschool, I can hear her mewing with delight as she walks up the stoop. When she walks into the front hall, her jaw drops. “Wowsers! Oh, my God! This is so awesome! Who did this?”
“I did,” I say, from my vantage point by the kitchen door.
Coco’s smile drops when she sees me. Sisterly loyalty trumps friendship. Every time.
“It’s for Julia,” I say quickly. “I want to tell her that I’m sorry about Sam, I’m sorry that I hurt her. You know, he told me they were just friends, that the date was terrible. And I had this crazy evening, um, anyway, no excuses, but I thought I had feelings for him. And we didn’t sleep together, we just kissed.”
Coco looks at me for a few seconds, narrowing her eyes s
uspiciously. “I always wondered why you didn’t like like him. You get along so well, and he’s so, you know, gorgeous.”
“We were just friends. I swear. Last night, I thought that maybe there was something more there.… But I was wrong. He’s a total sociopath. He said he was Joe Normal working on yachts to make ends meet, and it turns out he’s just the kind of rich, entitled, lying fuckpuppet I’ve been trying to avoid.”
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why did he lie?”
“Because that’s what people do. People keep secrets and people lie.”
“No, I mean … why would he lie to you? He’s been working on yachts for years, right? It’s not like he was doing it just so he could lie if he ever met a girl called Angie who hates rich boys.”
I stare at Coco, trying to cover up my genuine surprise. “Are you telling me that everything isn’t all about me?”
She giggles.
I take that as a sign of forgiveness. “Coco, I swear I would never try to hurt Julia.… I’m going to write her a little note, okay? Can you give it to her when she gets home?”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to visit Vic at the hospital.”
Plus, I want Julia to see the flowers, read the note, and then decide if she forgives me without me being there. When you’re angry at someone, sometimes just seeing them is enough to make you blow up. This is like sneaking in the side door and asking for forgiveness.
It takes me a while to write the note. I’m just not used to expressing how I feel. But finally, it’s just right. I hope.
Julia,
I’m so sorry about Sam. I don’t know how much you want to know, but this is the truth: he told me that you and he had a bad date, that you were just friends. I’d just found out some stuff about my dad. I was upset, he was there, we kissed. I thought I had feelings for him. I was wrong.
I would never, ever intentionally hurt you, and I hate that I caused you misery. Our friendship is the only thing I’m proud of since coming to New York. I really hope it isn’t over.
I’m sorry.
A x
Then I pick up my little gold clutch, the one I made all those weeks ago, and walk to the hospital. It feels good in my hand, this clutch. I guess I have to leave Drakey and my sewing machine behind when I leave.… I hate that. But I can just get new ones in L.A., right?
Today is the first time in ages that I can remember the afternoon sky being blue, truly blue. Like the storm ushered winter out and washed everything clean. It felt like the cold would last forever this year, but it never does. Spring always arrives eventually. I should really stop being surprised by that.
“Knock knock…” I whisper, at the entrance to Vic’s hospital room. Vic is lying in bed with the New York Times crossword, wearing pale blue pajamas. “Why are you doing the crossword?” I ask. “What, you like being stressed out?”
“Girlie! Hiya … What, you mean this?” He gestures to the newspaper. “It reminds me of my wife. Eleanor did it every day, from 1942 when it started, and she was just a teenager, until the day she died. So every day I try to do it, just like she would, and I say to myself, damnit, Eleanor always knew how to make my head spin.”
“She sounds smart.”
“She was smart. And difficult and wonderful.” He folds the paper up and puts it on his little sliding hospital table. “Like all the best things. Take a seat.”
“How are you feeling?” I ask. It’s weird seeing Vic in pajamas. He looks almost more vulnerable than he did when he was lying unconscious, fully dressed and soaked with floodwater, outside Rookhaven last night.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Enough voltage went through me to start a car, can you believe that? From that damn lamp. I was paralyzed.… It threw me onto the bed. Next thing I know, you were there. My little guardian Angie.”
I laugh. “No one’s ever called me that before.”
“You ever been electrocuted?”
“Nope.”
“It’s strange.” Vic’s voice is suddenly hoarse. “For a few seconds, the entire world flips. I knew what was happening, but I couldn’t move, I couldn’t do anything about it.… I feel like I’m still catching my breath.”
There’s an impatient knock on the door. A nurse. “Excuse me, visiting hours are over.”
“This is my granddaughter.”
“She signed herself in as a friend.”
“Well, we’re a friendly family. I have five granddaughters. They’re very important to me.”
I turn to Vic and he winks at me. But he does look tired.
“I should go, anyway,” I say. “You rest. Will you be coming home tomorrow?”
“I promise.” Vic smiles at me, his craggy old face creasing up. “You be good to that boy of yours, you hear me? He’s a keeper. One of the good ones. He stayed with me in the hospital all night, you know that?”
“He did?” I’m surprised, though I shouldn’t be. That’s just the kind of thing Sam would do.
But he’s not my boy.
“Didn’t leave my side until my niece turned up this morning. You know, I’ve never seen a storm like that in Brooklyn. People could have been killed. I’m just glad luck was on our side.”
I walk out of the hospital, Vic’s words ringing in my ear. One of the good ones.
Ha.
For a few seconds the other night, my entire world flipped, too. For a brief moment, I loved Sam and Sam loved me, and everything made sense. I thought it was real. The kind of easy, warm, true love you always read about in romance novels. (Well, I always do, anyway.) For the first time in my life I felt … full. Complete.
And why did Sam make up all those lies? He must have a reason. I could find out right now. I could talk to him, I could let him explain.…
But I won’t. First, it would upset Julia, and second, I have to go buy a plane ticket to L.A. with the rest of the money from my mom. It’s time to start over. I won’t have any spare cash, but I’ll get a job as soon as I land—at the goddamn Gap if I have to—and figure it out from there. Life will change.
My phone is ringing. I look at it: Cornelia? What does she want?
“Hello?”
“Angie! Sweetie. Emergency! I need you. The Met Ball is tonight, and I picked up this fucking douchebag PA in France who just left me high and dry, the hairy bitch. I’ll pay you twice the usual; I just need you to organize the car and things like that. How quickly can you get here?”
I look at the time. It’s 5:00 P.M. “I’m in Brooklyn. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
“I am so fucking sick of everyone living in Brooklyn. Make it faster!”
And click, she hangs up.
CHAPTER 39
Cornelia lives in a loft apartment in the West Village. It’s all boutiques and trees and tiny cafés, the kind of picture-perfect Manhattan neighborhood that makes you feel a mixture of longing and resentment.
She’s also going through her “downtown intellectual slum” phase, or at least that’s what her mother told my mother. (Cornelia’s mother is a Boston society doyenne who married Cornelia’s much older and very rich father, moved to New York, and had Cornelia and her brother. She moved back to Beacon Hill in Boston two years ago, about a minute after he died.)
The loft was professionally decorated, naturally, and it’s perfectly disheveled arty chic. Piles of books (that she hasn’t read) everywhere, lots of bijou Paris flea-market finds resting on $15,000 side tables, thick plush carpets and big fat sofas, you know the drill. Slightly overstuffed with things, slightly too impeccable, and all with that immaculate sparkle you only get with a full-time housekeeper.
I’m buzzed in and arrive to find the loft in a state of uproar.
“FUCK!” I can hear Cornelia screaming from her bedroom. “This is a FUCKING nightmare! Why does this shit always happen to me?”
“Hi, Cornie!” I call. “It’s me! Angie!”
I quickly kiss her makeup artist hello. His name i
s Keith. We bonded last year during the holiday season, when Cornie went out every single goddamn night and I was the idiot running around picking up the right shoes and trying to help her borrow the right jewelry and making sure she had spare Spanx and extra MAC Face and Body Foundation and ugh, everything.
But the pressure of that is nothing compared to tonight. The Met Ball is a $25,000-a-seat gala held every year to celebrate the opening of the Metropolitan Museum’s fashion exhibit at the Costume Institute. For the fashion world, it’s like the Oscars plus Christmas plus New Year’s Eve combined, and everyone who is anyone attends, from designers to Vogue editors to models to fashion-aware celebrities, and even sports stars, all wearing the most exquisite, glamorous dresses you’ve ever seen in your goddamn life. If you’re into fashion, the Met Ball is your mecca.
“Hi, sweetie,” Keith whispers. “We’re in for a rough night.”
“Angie!” screams Cornie. “Come here! Fuck!”
I run through the living room and down the tapestry-lined hallway into the pristine white-on-white master bedroom, through a walk-in closet (which, honestly, is bigger than my bedroom and would make you cry with envy) to the dressing room, where Cornie is staring at herself in the mirror while getting her hair blow-dried by Bibi, her personal hairdresser.
“Bibi, stop,” she orders, clicking her fingers. “Angie. Lauren just texted me. That bitch Olivia is wearing the same Zac that I was going to wear. Little whore. I need to speak to Zac about it. Get him on the phone.”
“Um, okay—” I walk back out to Keith. “I need Zac Posen’s number.”
“Well, only Cornelia has that.” Keith has a habit of speaking in italics. “She’s freaking out. She only got a ticket because this Rutherford guy is on the board or some shit.” He lowers his voice. “This is way out of her league.”
“Angie!” Cornelia is screaming. “Do you have Zac yet?”
Suddenly, I understand why she’s hysterical. Cornelia’s been swimming around the lower echelons of the socialite food chain for a couple of years. She’s rich, but not superrich. She has a car service but not a permanent driver, a hairdresser but not a stylist. She’s ambitious: she wants to be a Page Six name, have a purse named after her, open a lifestyle boutique in the Hamptons, and launch a makeup line in Japan. Tonight is her chance to climb up the society ladder. This is a job interview.
Love and Chaos: A Brooklyn Girls Novel Page 24