The One That Got Away

by Leigh Himes

  “But sometimes I get tired. Sometimes I say and do the wrong thing. Sometimes I feel sorry for myself, even though I know I shouldn’t. Sometimes I want to give up and throw in the towel. Or have a good, long cry.”

  I took a deep breath. “And sometimes, like all of you, I just need a break. Need to get away from everything, sneak off, and steal a few minutes to myself. To sit on a barstool, have some friendly conversation, and down a nice, cold beer.”

  No one spoke. Or moved. It was if they didn’t know what to do.

  Neither did I. All I knew was that I had lifted the veil on Abigail van Holt and shown the world the real woman underneath, and it felt good. Especially when I saw that the woman in the yellow raincoat was smiling at me. I smiled back. My only regret? That Jules wouldn’t see this. But then again, the cameras had been rolling the whole time. Maybe she would.

  Only, Jeremiah was not so easily thwarted. “But, Mrs. van Holt, what about the guy in the bar? Who was he?”

  The question sent me reeling. For the past two hours, I’d been so fixated on crisis control and fixing my screw-up, I’d forgotten there was another person involved—Jimmy. What if he had seen it? What if it was causing problems in his life too? What if he felt used, like a pawn in a political game? And worse—what would he think about what I was about to say?

  The guy. The guy. Who was the guy? It should have been simple. But for me, the question was so complex.

  “The guy” was a guy who would be mortified to be caught in a video “canoodling” with a married woman, who would probably never live this down to his family and friends. He was a guy who always offered a kind word, some commiseration, maybe even a joke or two, whatever the situation called for, even when he was dead tired, and even when he might have wanted a moment alone. He was a guy who made people feel special—or, always made me feel special—and never asked for anything in return.

  That was the guy. My guy.

  As I stood there in Holy Trinity, I silently begged the man I had promised to have and to hold, for better or worse, until death do us part, to forgive me for what I was about to say. It didn’t matter if it was meant in part to protect him from the jackals; I still felt more unfaithful at this moment than I had when I first slept with Alex days ago.

  I leaned into the microphones and lied: “He was no one.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  What the hell happened?” gasped Bobby Bacco as he gazed from the door of the bathroom into my closet. He and his brother, Francis, had been doing my hair and makeup for tonight’s post-election party but had yet to see the rock star–style trashing I had given the closet earlier.

  “Jesus,” added Francis. “It looks like you got robbed. Or a tornado came through.”

  I stood behind them in a towel and strained to find an excuse. But after the long day, my mind was blank.

  Luckily, both men just sighed and waded in. I had completely forgotten about what I had done, but looking around now, I was as shocked as they were. The room was like a designer debris field, fabric strewn and twisted, shoes upended and scattered from their partners, a lone G-string caught on the chandelier. Except for Alex’s side. His beautifully tailored suits and polished shoes were still lined up perfectly.

  “I… I had a little trouble figuring out what to wear this morning,” I said finally.

  “A little trouble?” asked Bobby, looking back at me. “This is more like a… a… couture crime scene.”

  He leaned down to poke a wrinkled Armani jacket for signs of life.

  “Why didn’t you Skype us?” cried Francis. “There was no need to do this to these… these innocents.” He scooped up a beaded Reem Acra sweater, held it close, then shushed it like a baby.

  By now I knew that the Baccos’ overdramatic shtick was part of the service they provided, but tonight I was not in the mood. I was exhausted from the emotional roller coaster of the day, and I really just wanted to be alone. Trying to hurry them along, I plucked a simple black ponte knit dress off the floor and asked, “So, how about this?”

  “Another night, maybe,” said Bobby, back to the business at hand. “But even if Alex loses, you’re not going to a funeral. Something more fun.”

  I pulled out a short, sparkly number with fringe, a sarcastic smile on my face.

  “Definitely not,” replied Bobby, not realizing I was joking. “Not after today, missy.” He scanned the dresses and pulled out a slate blue A-line Victoria Beckham dress. It was so prim and ladylike, I knew right then that they had both seen the video. I nodded my head in approval and understanding. From now on, there was only one “look” we’d be shooting for: demure.

  I dropped my towel and the two men helped me into some lingerie and a slip, and as I felt their cold hands on my arms and legs, I realized that it had become perfectly natural for me to be naked in front of them. To them, I wasn’t flesh and blood, but a window that needed dressing. But then I remembered the extra pounds I’d put on recently and sucked in my stomach.

  They pretended not to notice, their indifference to weight fluctuations an important part of the stylists’ code, but I saw them exchanging a glance. Luckily, the dress zipped up easily. They snapped on a Tiffany T bracelet and some chunky platinum earrings, rolled a lint brush over my torso, and placed a pair of black patent Christian Louboutin heels in front of me. I stepped into them dutifully and turned to face the brothers.

  Suddenly, Francis let out a little gasp. “What about a bag?”

  “I don’t care,” I said. “Anything is fine.”

  He looked aghast. “Oh no, no, no. This is a big night. You need something really special.”

  He perused my shelf of bags, a finger to his lips, rejecting a woven Bottega Veneta, a boxy black Balmain, and a petite cream Chanel, until he arrived at the orange-and-brown box at the end of the shelf. His expression turned reverent.

  He lifted it down and set it gently on the marble-topped dressing table. He took off the lid, brushed aside the tissue paper, and using just his fingertips—like an archbishop lifting a jewel-encrusted crown from its pedestal—brought out the red Hermès Kelly bag.

  “Hello, gorgeous,” he said, addressing the bag in a hushed tone.

  “Don’t you think that’s a little much?” I asked. “I want voters to like me.”

  “Who gives a shit about voters now?” said Bobby. “Polls are closed.”

  “No, she’s right,” said Francis. “What about four years from now? If we’re going to get to the White House, she’s got to be careful.”

  White House? I wasn’t sure I was hearing correctly.

  “Look at all those photos of Hillary Clinton. Do you think she would have worn those awful padded headbands if she’d known she’d have to see them again and again for the next thirty years? You have got to start thinking about your look now.”

  I continued to stare, gob smacked.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” said Francis, offended. “You’re the one who always talks about it. You and Mirabelle.”

  As I continued to process, Bobby jumped in. “Ha! I never thought I’d ever hear those words—‘you and Mirabelle’—together. God, how you used to hate her.”

  “She still does,” added Francis. “She just doesn’t want to piss off the golden goose!”

  “What?” I asked, interrupting.

  “Well, sure, darling. If Mirabelle quits funding you guys, you’re going to have to get out there and beg,” he said, swatting my behind. “Even more reason to look amazing.”

  Mirabelle “funded” us? My face reddened under its NARS blush. The room suddenly felt smaller. And warmer. I pulled at the neck of my dress, but Francis slapped my hand down with a scowl. He slipped an iPad mini out of his jacket pocket and held it up to take a photo.

  Bobby joined his brother behind the iPad and the two men chirped in unison, “Smile like you mean it!”

  As I forced a smile and waited for the digital click, I flashed back to the last time I’d heard this catchphrase from the Bac
cos: a little over a week earlier, when they had styled me for the Ballantine Ball. At the time I’d assumed they were photographing the moment because it was such a special occasion. But now it occurred to me that this might be something they did whenever they styled Abbey van Holt.

  I was suddenly curious about what else Francis’s iPad held.

  “May I?” I asked him, nodding to the device.

  “Sure,” he said, then hesitated, cautioning, “but it’s too late to change your mind about the outfit.”

  “I won’t. Promise.”

  He handed me the iPad and then turned to assist his brother in straightening the closet, hanging clothes back up and reuniting shoes with their mates.

  I retreated to a corner of the closet with the iPad. On its home screen was a pink folder icon labeled with my name. I tapped it and a window opened with the picture Francis had just taken. I swiped it away to find a photo of the night of the Ballantine Ball—me wearing navy satin and diamonds, as well as the shell-shocked look of a woman who had just woken up in a stranger’s life.

  Finding the word “All,” I clicked to bring up the entire contents of the folder and watched as the screen filled with dozens and dozens of tiny photos, each labeled with a date going back nearly a decade.

  I was holding a “look book” of Abbey van Holt’s life, a high-fashion catalogue of couture dresses, exquisite shoes, elaborate updos. And yet it wasn’t the clothes I was interested in.

  With a shaking finger, I scrolled through the thumbnails until I found the earliest photo in the file—more than ten years ago—and tapped it open.

  The thumbnail bloomed open into a photo of a decade-younger me, ears still double pierced, hair long and loose, eyebrows untidy. She had the dazed look of someone in a mug shot, like a debutante being booked on a DUI.

  The clothes and hair were different in the next photo, but the expression remained the same: a little startled, as if I’d just been ambushed by paparazzi.

  I began swiping faster and faster and found images of me wearing a flowered sundress; a serious-looking suit; jeans and braids (some sort of charity hoedown?); an embroidered cerise sheath; a green suede pencil skirt, crisp white blouse, and tall brown boots; and a lovely gray chiffon gown, its beaded bodice reflecting light in white pinwheels.

  Viewed in quick succession, like a child’s flip-book, the photos showed my transformation from the newlywed Abbey into the thinner, sleeker, more polished version—one with the poise of a moneyed heiress, the confidence of a future congressman’s wife. It was impressive to behold, even a little awe-inspiring. But it was also unsettling, as if with the transformation came a curse: the woman in the photos slowly morphing into something inanimate, like a marble statue.

  I lingered on the photo dated “October 18th,” taken just days before I tumbled down Nordstrom’s escalator and fell headlong into Abbey van Holt’s life. In the photo, she was elegant as always, in a Valentino red silk cocktail dress and black satin pumps. But the uncertain look of her earlier days was gone, replaced by a weary resignation.

  And something else.

  I enlarged the photo to its maximum amplification so I could peer closely at Abbey van Holt’s gray-blue eyes—the only parts of her that hadn’t been touched or tweezed or tweaked by the Baccos, and Botox, and self-tanner, and personal trainers. The only parts of her that remained unchanged.

  I knew those eyes. They were mine. Ours. Knew the look in them too, though it took me a few moments to find the word to describe it.

  Loneliness.

  “Finished with that?”

  It was Francis—suddenly appearing beside me—making me jump. I must have looked ashen, because his eyes widened with concern.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “I told you; we’re not changing the dress. It photographs great.”

  “No. Yes. I mean—the dress is fine. I’m fine. Can I just have another minute?”

  His lips formed a disapproving pout. “Just one—you’re late as it is.”

  He grabbed the iPad, then left to join his brother cleaning up in the bathroom.

  I looked around the now-tidy closet, clothes and shoes returned to their proper places, order restored. I ran my fingers along the row of clothes on padded hangers, setting the satin and silk sleeves rippling like a wave.

  I shut my eyes and leaned my forehead against the dressing mirror’s cool glass, steeling myself for the night ahead. And suddenly knew, with the spooky intuition of a twin, that Abbey van Holt had done the same—on more than one occasion. I understood then, at some primal level, that she and I were the same.

  This time it didn’t take as long to find the word for what I was feeling toward her: sympathy.

  I opened my eyes. Saw her looking back at me from inside the mirror. For a few heartbeats, neither of us moved. Then I silently swore to her—to both of us—that things were going to change.

  “All done!” the Baccos shouted from the bathroom. I followed them out to the living room, the suitcase wheels rumbling on the hardwood, and walked them to the door.

  “Good luck!” said Francis, giving me an air-kiss.

  “See you Friday!” added Bobby with a wink.

  “Actually, boys, before you go—I want to tell you something.”

  Their heads cocked in unison.

  “Thank you for everything. I really appreciate your hard work—”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Bobby. “Our pleasure.”

  “You are our favorite client,” added Francis.

  “Was. I was your favorite client,” I said. This got their attention. I took a breath and broke the news: “With the election over, I won’t be needing you guys anymore.”

  Their mouths dropped in shock.

  It was a small step, but for the first time in forever, I knew it was in the right direction.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The polls had only just closed and it was anyone’s game. Only the first few districts had reported, and those along with the mail-in ballots put Alex and Amanda in a statistical dead heat, though technically Alex trailed by half a point. Even though this was still within the margin of error, and even though we were waiting it out in the calm luxury of the Ritz-Carlton penthouse suite, tensions were understandably high. No one laughed or made jokes; no one ate or drank. Everyone just stared at computers, phones, and the television, waiting for news.

  At least the weather was finally cooperating. The rain had stopped and voters who had stayed away all day now stood under tranquil skies to cast their ballots. Our volunteers at all the major polling places had reported long lines, some even extending down sidewalks and around buildings. And according to minute-by-minute updates from Alex’s overeager groupie, Gerald, the longest line was in East Falls, where William Wallace had made good on his promise. In a video texted to Alex’s phone, we watched as voters stood patiently in a quarter-mile trail running from the tiny post office polling station down to the churning, rain-sodden river.

  I thought of my e-mail to Larry. Would anything come of it? Had she even gotten it? So far, no story had run. So far, only Wallace was keeping up his side of the bargain. But given the day’s events, maybe it was for the best.

  As the clock slowly wound down on the election, and the air got even thicker with worry and dread, I mostly hid out in the suite’s tiny kitchen or in the bedroom. I was trying to stay out of the way, trying not to cause any more trouble. But mostly I was trying to avoid the television, where the local news programs had been rerunning clips of my Holy Trinity speech all afternoon. I was terrified to be in the same room as Mirabelle when she watched the same sound bite—“down a nice, cold beer”—being played over and over again.

  But every few minutes, I had to step into the main room to check on the kids, and when I did, I could see my van Holt world as it had become. And all the players in it.

  There was Frank, on his phone and computing poll numbers on the back of a room service menu; Calvin toggling between his iPad, BlackBerry, and laptop for
updates, and Sunita flipping between local affiliates on the TV. In a corner, Aubyn babysat her father, plying him with diet Sprite and gin rummy. The only person who was relaxed was Collier’s nurse, Luis, who tuned everything out with his iPod. He knew, as did everyone else, that he wouldn’t be needed until, well, he was needed.

  The only character in this cast who was missing was May. I knew that if she had still been working for us, she would have been mouthing a silent Thai prayer for Alex’s sake, picking up dishes and newspapers, and following the kids around with a washcloth. It was hard to believe I was the only person, besides Sam, who felt her absence. When he asked for his beloved “May May” for the fortieth time today, all I could do was hug him close and whisper, “Sorry, Mr. Magoo. You’re stuck with me from now on.”

  Mirabelle flitted around at a faster pace than normal, fussing over the food and barking at the Ritz staff while eavesdropping on everyone’s conversations, anxious for any news in our favor. She also toyed with me, making comments like “such an unusual day” and referring to me as “Alex’s outspoken wife” when I came up in conversation. I could tell she was only biding her time for when she would try to convince Alex of her troubling theories. I felt like I was trapped in a cage with a viper, waiting for the day that she would strike.

  And of course, there was Alex, perched on the edge of a sofa beside Frank, staring blankly at some notes, the television, or his phone. He seemed subdued, as if saving his strength for what was to come later tonight.

  Despite the close quarters, everyone except the children ignored me, speaking to me only when they needed to, or to ask me for more shrimp/napkins/tonic. Because of the trouble I had caused, I was no longer to be trusted and therefore barely worthy of acknowledgment. I felt the same way I had felt in high school and, lately, at my PR job: invisible.

  Now I understood why Abbey van Holt had changed so much over the past ten years. She must have learned, through her own missteps, that being yourself, making your own decisions, and occasionally going rogue carried a price tag. It meant being questioned, watched, worried over, and, eventually, excluded. A person made to disappear in plain sight.