“And he got angry?” I purse my lips with irritation. “Men are so annoying. It’s okay for them to put work first, but when a woman dares to prioritize her career–”
“He didn’t get mad,” Willa cuts short my feminist rant. “In fact, he was really nice about it. He offered to drive me to the client’s, which was quite a distance from his house, and he very sweetly wrapped up a piece of white chocolate cake for me to take home. It had strawberries between the layers and sugared rose petals on top; it was so delish, though the layers were kind of uneven and his frosting technique could use a little work. Anyway, he dropped me off at the client’s, and we parted on what I thought were good terms. He thanked me for coming over for lunch and said something about seeing me soon . . .”
“And? Did he follow up with a call or text?”
Willa frowns and shakes her head. “Neither. Finally, when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I texted him, assuring him that the cake was scrumptious since I knew he was worried about how it’d turned out.”
“How did he respond?”
“A smiley face.”
I am outraged on my sister’s behalf. “That’s it? A freakin’ smiley face? You haul butt out to the man’s house and humor him by eating his rabbit food and all he can offer in return is an emoji?”
“I thought maybe he just wasn’t into communicating via technology, so I dropped by here on Wednesday while he was working on the roses, just to see how he’d react, you know . . . face-to-face. He was pleasant, but really focused on his work. He didn’t mention us getting together again, so I started to wonder if I’d misread the whole lunch thing. Maybe it was never a date. Maybe it was just a ‘let’s-hang-out-as-buddies’ kind of lunch. I don’t know anymore. I’m so confused! He held my hand, Sloane. That’s not something a guy who was just a friend would do, right? I must have blown it somehow.”
“Okay, stop right there. You didn’t blow anything.” It drives me nuts when my sister takes the blame for other people’s (usually men’s) bad behavior. “Brody is giving you major mixed signals. It’s one step forward, two steps back with him. I don’t think he’s doing it intentionally. He’s probably just gun-shy, or in this case lady bits-shy, because of his divorce. It’ll take him some time–”
“I can wait!” Willa declares, her cheeks flushing and the spark of hope illuminating her eyes once again. “I think you hit the nail on the head, Sloane. I really do. It wasn’t that I did anything wrong. That lunch was perfect! It’s just that everything was happening too fast for Brody. He felt the same connection I did the other day, all along actually, probably since the first time we met, but he’s hesitant to open himself up to love again because of what happened with Justine.”
And now she’s segueing from depression to delusion. Time for me to step in with a reality check.
“Why are you using the L word? You ate rhododendrons and touched palms with the guy; that’s hardly the basis for a–” My phone beeps, stopping me from delivering the lecture I promised I wouldn’t. This is only a temporary reprieve for my sister, though. As soon as I see what this text is about, Willa will be getting a very strongly worded–
“Car’s here. Be at your place in ten.”
“Shit!” I go into panic mode, flinging my phone down. “Josh and the McAllisters are on their way, and I don’t even have my dress on yet. Are you done with my hair?”
“Just a sec.” Willa springs into action, running behind me to stick the pearl-encrusted pins in my chignon. “I need to use some hairspray. Take off your glasses and close your eyes,” she instructs, then douses my hair with some cement-strength extra hold spray for what seems like an eternity.
“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” I say when I start choking on the fumes. I wave my hands to try and get the dewy, citrus-scented cloud out of my face. Popping my glasses back on my nose, I stand and unbelt my kimono, pushing it off my shoulders and letting it slide to the floor so that I’m left standing in the short, silky chemise I’m wearing over my lace bra and matching undies.
“Can you help me put that on?” I point to the gown, which is spread out on my bed. It really is gorgeous. I’m amazed that Willa was able to create something so detailed and complicated in a little over a week. I don’t even hate the big purple flower on the waistband. It makes a statement, and I think that’s what fashion should do.
“Here, step into it.” Willa’s kneeling on the floor, holding the gown open for me. “Watch the heels of your shoes, so you don’t rip the lace,” she cautions. Once I’ve managed get my feet safely inside the pool of fabric, she slides the dress up my body and assists me with getting my hands through the armholes. There are a zillion tiny buttons up the side of the garment that she fastens for me very deftly. Circling me so that she can see the dress from every angle, she makes some adjustments with the way the lace bodice is sitting on my shoulders and the position of the train in the back. When she’s done, she claps her hands together and proclaims, “You look beautiful, Sloane! Just like you stepped out of one of those old sepia-toned photographs.”
“The dress is what’s beautiful. Thank you for making this for me. I owe you big time.”
“No, you don’t. I was happy to help, and it was fun for me. You know I love a sewing challenge!”
“Good thing one of us does. I need to find my purse and get downstairs.” I look around the room, trying to remember where I put it earlier.
“Uh . . .”
“What?” I turn back to Willa.
“You’re not planning to wear your glasses tonight, are you?”
“I need to see, don’t I?”
“Yeah, but they’re kind of spoiling the effect. The dress and your hair are so pretty and feminine while the glasses are so . . . not. You want to be Jane Bennet at this gala, not Mary.”
I know she’s referencing Pride and Prejudice, but the only Bennet sister I remember is Lizzie. So, her analogy is lost on me. “As long as Mary wasn’t the silly, slutty one, I’m fine with being her. You know I hate wearing contacts. Besides, they hadn’t been invented back in 1914.” Ha! Got her on that one. I start tearing up the bed, looking for my missing purse. I know I had the damn thing earlier.
“Actually, I was reading this pamphlet at the optometrist’s office recently and was surprised to learn that the idea for contact lenses was introduced back in the 1500s . . . by Leonardo Da Vinci! Of course, it wasn’t until almost four hundred years later that a wearable pair of–”
“Willa, please!” I’ve checked my closet and dresser and the bag wasn’t in those places either, so now I’m even more panicked. “I don’t have time for a history lesson on contacts. The car will be here any minute, and I need my purse!”
“What about the bathroom?”
“Yes!” I was putting on my lipstick there earlier when Willa arrived and distracted me.
I leave my room and cross the hallway to get to the bathroom. Sure enough, the small, beaded bag that was once owned by my grandmother is sitting on the counter next to the tube of rose-colored lipstick I’m wearing. I stop and take a quick look at myself in the large mirror. Not bad. I might be able to pull off this hundred-year-old look after all. I stuff my lipstick into the bag and make use of the facilities before returning to the hallway, where Willa’s waiting with my cell phone. (I don’t care if this form of communication didn’t exist in 1914; I cannot do without access to my e-mail, even for a few hours.)
The two of us head downstairs, and I get my foot caught in the train of my gown twice before I hike it up and carry the extra fabric. (Not very lady-like, I know. I’ll just have to avoid stairs at the party.) Once I safely reach the main level of the house, I rush over to the front door and peek through the glass to see if a limo or town car is waiting out in the street, but the only vehicle in sight is my Lexus. Sharing a ride to the gala was Mr. McAllister’s idea. I would have rather driven myself or taken a cab, but I couldn’t say “no” to one of the partners at my firm. Fortunately, it’ll be a relatively short ride f
rom my Victorian to the Stanfield Hotel, so I won’t have to make small talk with McAllister and his family for more than ten minutes. Of course, I’d rather spend that time reviewing my pitch to all the prospective clients I’m planning to meet at the event. Business cards! Damn, I almost forgot them and I’ll have to give contact info to my new BFFs when they express interest in ATM’s services.
“Gotta get my briefcase!” I tell Willa, brushing past her on my way to the living room where I dumped all my work stuff earlier.
She follows me back up the corridor. “What’s in your briefcase?”
“These!” I say, extracting a handful of cards that are imprinted with the silver-and-blue ATM logo from the side pocket of the leather case. That’s when I see a bright yellow envelope, something else I forgot about. “Can you give this to Gav when you’re at dinner tonight?” I hand the birthday card to Willa.
“Sure.” She takes the card from me, frowns at it, then brings the envelope up to her ear and gives it a shake. “Sloane!” she gasps. “Please tell me you didn’t put a gift card in here.”
I shrug, not understanding what she’s so horrified about. “What’s wrong with a gift card?”
“Everything! It’s totally impersonal. It says you care so little about the recipient that you couldn’t be bothered to get him a real present.”
“I spent real money on that gift card, which makes it a real present.”
“You give a gift card to your nail girl, or the person who grooms your dog, not one of your closest friends! Gav will know you put no thought or effort into this, and he’ll be hurt.”
“Gav knows how busy I am.” I stick the business cards in my purse and pull out the lipstick, deciding I need a touch-up. “The last thing I have time to do is shop. And I did put thought into that gift card. He likes coffee, so I got him a gift card from Four Barrel.”
“Which is where you buy yourself a cup of coffee several times a week, so you didn’t even make a special trip.”
Truth be told, I made no trip at all. I gave Josh’s assistant my AmEx and told her to pick up the gift card for me when she was out running errands for him. “Don’t guilt trip me,” I grumble as I swipe the lipstick over my mouth. “I’m doing the best I can right now. If you think Gav will be upset about the gift card, tell him that your present is from both of us. I’m sure you got him something fabulous, unique, and thoughtful that he’ll treasure for the rest of his life, and you probably wrapped the gift in some elaborate fashion and rigged it so that confetti would explode from the box when it’s opened.”
“Ooooo, a confetti explosion!” Willa enthuses. “What a fun idea! You can be very creative when you put your mind to it, Sloane. But I’m afraid I can’t put your name on my present to Gav because I already gave it to him before I came over here to help you with your hair. It was big, so I didn’t want to lug it around.”
Great, so Willa got Gav a big gift and she’s taking him out to dinner on his birthday when I had to cancel. Thanks for making me look bad, sis! I guess she’s right. I am going to have come up with some kind of real present for Gav that I can give him whenever he and I get together for birthday celebration number two. Maybe I can find him something online. I really do hate shop– The doorbell rings, reminding me that I should be focusing on the present, instead of presents. I’ll worry about Gav and his birthday later.
“Party time!” Willa jumps up and down excitedly.
“Time to sell myself and the firm to some major players.”
“And have some fun!”
“Achieving my professional goals is always fun.” I give my sister a wink, then head toward the front door, hopeful that I’ll remember this night as the one that catapulted me straight to the top at Ashby, Terhune, and McAllister.
Chapter 20
(Sloane)
“What’s this?” I ask when Josh hands me a frothy green cocktail topped with a sprig of mint in a martini glass.
Leaning into me so that I can hear him over the jazzy music being played by the band, he says, “A Clover Leaf. The bartender told me they were really popular back in 1914. Made with gin and lime juice.”
He had me at “gin.” I’m not usually much of a drinker, but eleven-and-a-half minutes locked in the back of a town car with Monica McAllister has driven me to the hard stuff. I’ve never met a more vapid creature in my life! She’s the second coming of Paris Hilton right down to the droning voice, burnt orange spray tan, and vacant look in her eyes. The whole ride over she treated everyone in the car like her audience, blathering on about all the presents she received for her recent graduation from college (The fact that this intellectual void has any kind of a degree says a lot about the lax standards of higher education these days.), how she couldn’t wait to go to Ibiza with her friends for a much-needed vacay (Daddy wouldn’t mind if she extended the trip another month, would he?), and her hope that there wouldn’t just be “old people” at this hotel thing her parents were dragging her to. And yes, she directed a pointed look at me when she said “old people,” because thirty-two is practically decrepit when you were using a fake ID to buy beer until recently.
Although Josh is older than me by a few years, he was not similarly dissed by Princess Ombre, she of the stupid two-tone hair, as she invited her former tutor’s opinion on a variety of subjects during our drive. “Don’t you just love this feather headdress I’m wearing, Josh-u-a?” “Should I stay on Ibiza all summer or go island-hopping, Josh-u-a?” “Josh-u-a, don’t you think I should have Mother’s personal assistant write my thank-you notes since my carpal tunnel’s been acting up?” “Josh-u-a, Josh-u-a, Josh-u-a!!!!!!” How Josh was able to smile and answer every one of her inane questions with not just civility, but charm, is beyond me. I kept checking the control panel on the console next to me to see if there was an EJECT button for Monica’s seat.
“Mmmmm, not bad,” I decree after taking a sip of the Clover Leaf. I continue to enjoy my libation while scanning the room. Lots of wealthy-looking men in evening dress, black tuxedo coats or tailcoats with white waistcoats and ties, and of course, white gloves, which were de rigueur for men in the early 1900s according to my sister. Some of the women are wearing opera-length gloves that go up past the elbow. (I decided against these as I thought they’d be too hot and restrictive.) I also see some really spectacular jewelry hanging from the wrists, throats, and earlobes of the other female guests.
With no diamonds of my own, I feel a bit bare, but I take consolation in the fact that my gown’s the prettiest one in the ballroom. Of course, every other woman here probably feels the same– Aha! That’s it! My way in. Rather than approach all these potential clients directly with talk of business, which might come off as pushy and uncouth, I can take a more circuitous route and get to them through their wives, girlfriends, and daughters. Everyone is susceptible to flattery. All I have to do is hand out compliments on dresses, hairstyles, and glittery baubles to the right ladies who will then strike up conversations with me and introduce me to their men (If the lady I’m speaking to happens to be the CEO in the family, all the better!). That’s when I’ll slide in, very subtly, what I do and where I work. Brilliant!
Now to implement this sure-to-be-successful plan. Step one: Ditch Josh. This is a solo endeavor, and I don’t want him horning in on my action.
“Didn’t you promise the boss’s daughter a dance?” I nod in the direction of the table where the McAllisters are sitting. “She keeps staring at you, like she’s trying to lure you over there with the power of her mind . . . limited though it may be.”
He winces, then glances over his shoulder to confirm my observation. “I guess I should go ahead and get it over with. Will you be okay on your own?”
“I’ll be fine. Have fun, Josh-u-a.” I send him off, with a smirk.
To the task at hand . . . I zero in on a portly, middle-aged man who’s emitting an air of self-importance. The woman by his side is in an ivory gown that has a bright blue sash tied around the waist and gold tasse
l-y things hanging from the bodice that remind me of something a stripper would wear. I kind of hate it and think the dress makes her look top-heavy, but no matter. For the purposes of furthering my career, I will gush over that gown like I’m convinced it came off the runway in Paris. I stop a waiter, who’s passing by with a tray full of cocktails, and give him my now empty martini glass in exchange for an orange concoction (I find out later it’s called a “Bronx Cocktail.”) Not that I plan to drink this thing, I’m just going to use it as a prop to make myself look like I’m a fun, sociable, party kind of gal.
I’m making my way over to the Rich and Pudgys when I spy a face in the crowd I recognize – EEP! It’s Walter Hill, President of Bay Beverage. That company has been raking in money since it debuted the Zap! line of energy drinks, which became an international sensation, five years ago. I can confirm that the Go-Go Guava is quite tasty, but it will keep you up half the night.
Okay, course change. New target – Hill’s wife. She’s chatting with her husband and another couple, so I have to find a way to interrupt without being rude . . .
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say after bumping into her. “I cannot get used to walking in these shoes. They’re so pointy, and the heels aren’t very sturdy. How did the women back in 1914 manage it?”
Mrs. Hill smiles. “It does make one appreciate the comfort of modern shoes, doesn’t it?”
“Absolutely. Forgive me for staring, but that headdress you’re wearing is exquisite. I love the dragonfly design.”
“Thank you.” She blushes with pleasure at the compliment and touches the tiara nestled in her curly brown hair. “This is a Tiffany’s piece from the early 1900s made from moonstones. It’s an heirloom passed down from my husband’s family. Walter . . .” She taps her husband on the arm with her fan, and he stops talking to the man next to him and turns toward her. “What was the name of the great-great-aunt of yours who received this tiara as a gift from an admirer?”
Twin Piques Page 20