by Cat Lavoie
I breeze through the last of the press releases and stack them neatly on the corner of Greta’s desk. As soon as I close the door to her office, I get a mental image of a frantic Greta calling me in the middle of dinner at Ethan’s parent’s house asking me where the press releases are. So I go back into the office, scribble ‘press releases’ on a Post-It and stick it on the pile of paper. I take another Post-It and stick it on Greta’s computer screen. ‘The press releases are on the corner of your desk’ I write. Better safe than sorry.
I pack up my stuff and head towards the elevators, stopping at Tali’s desk on the way.
“What a crazy day,” I say, rummaging through the bowl of fruit candies that Tali keeps on her desk, picking out the red and green ones.
“Tell me about it. The phone kept ringing so much I had to start over four times.” Tali shows me a pair of bright red fingernails. Freshly painted, of course.
“You know I have the authority to fire you when’s Greta’s not here,” I tell her, popping a green candy in my mouth.
She winks at me. “But you won’t because if you fire me, Greta will make you look for a new receptionist and with everything that’s been going on lately with the wedding and Ollie and your sisters, the last thing you need is to have to start interviewing people.”
I smile and I’m about to tell her how right she is when she holds up her hand to stop me. “And I know that at this exact moment you’re worried because you have nothing to wear for dinner tonight. Am I right?”
“Yes, but I have the perfect person to help me.”
Chapter Seven
When I get back home, Steffi is exactly where I knew I’d find her: on the couch, knitting what looks like gloves for a baby with giant hands.
“Hey, Steff,” I say, throwing my keys on the table. “I need your help picking out an outfit for...”
She doesn’t look up from her knitting. “You’ve got mail. It’s on the table.”
I’ve always got mail. I’ve got bills and more bills and a few cooking magazines I’m subscribed to but never have time to read.
I spot the small pile of mail in the middle of the table. The usual suspects are there. Visa. MasterCard. But there’s something else, a package wrapped in brown paper.
“What’s this?” I ask, holding it up. I immediately recognize Ollie’s neat handwriting and burst out laughing when I see he’s addressed the package to Lady Roxy of Rule.
Steffi looks up and I can see curiosity lighting up her face. She does her best to jump off the couch and waddles over to me. “Open it!”
I feel a tiny jolt of excitement as I rip the brown paper. “It’s a book. A cookbook. ‘Best of British Cuisine.’” I flip through the pages and see pictures and recipes for steak pies and Yorkshire Pudding.
Steffi stops me when we get to the Traditional English Trifle recipe. Custard and whipped cream and fresh fruit. “Oooooh, I want you to make that for me,” she says, grabbing for the book. A postcard falls from between the pages and lands softly on the floor at my feet. I pick it up. There’s a picture of the most magnificent cheese display I’ve ever seen. The caption reads “Borough Market” and I suddenly want to be there. I turn it over and read Ollie’s message.
Here’s a new cookbook to add to your collection. I’m pretty sure your version of heaven looks something like Borough Market. Wish you were here. Ollie. x
Damn you, Oliver Frost. How can I stay mad at you for not keeping in touch when you pull something like this?
I want nothing more than to curl up with my new book and some hot chocolate and spend my evening doing something I like instead of trying to impress a woman who will never like me. Which reminds me.
“Steffi, I have nothing to wear,” I tell my sister, walking into the kitchen and placing Ollie’s gift on the shelf next to my other cookbooks. “Ethan will be here in half an hour.”
Steffi claps her hands. “Challenge accepted.”
If there was a game show where contestants needed to pull together an outfit for cash and prizes, my sister would be the reigning champ. She’s like the MacGyver of fashion.
I listen to her mutter as she flips through the hangers in my closet. “No. No. Maybe. Urgh. Yes. Over my dead body. How is this girl related to me? No. Maybe.” After a few minutes, a complete outfit is laid out on my bed. I don’t even recognize some of the things she wants me to wear.
“I own this?” I ask, holding up a sparkly black tank top.
“Yes, you do. I bought it for you. You told me you loved it,” Steffi says, pouting.
“I do. I swear.” I look over at the rest of the ensemble. “I bet it’ll look great with those jeans and that jacket.”
“You’re going to look hot.” Steffi smiles at me but her face suddenly grows dark. “Not like me. I look like a whale. A pregnant whale. A stupid pregnant whale.”
“Don’t say that, Steff. Come here.” I sit down on the bed and pat the space next to me. I put my arm around her shoulders and pull her close. “You’re not stupid. And I’ve never seen you look more beautiful than right now. You’re glowing.”
“Really?” She looks at me with her big doe eyes. “I know Izzie thinks I’m stupid.”
It takes all the willpower I have to bite my tongue about Izzie and her devious ways. It won’t do any good to worry Steffi.
“Izzie will come around,” I say. What I really mean is: Izzie will come around and stab you in the back.
After cheering Steffi up by promising to make her a sandwich and giving her some money to order pizza, I strip off my clothes and run into the shower. My eyes are burning from the shampoo when I hear the buzzer.
“It’s Ethan, let him in!” I yell to Steffi.
I don’t like the idea of Ethan and Steffi in a room alone together. He’s only met her once, last Christmas, and since Ethan doesn’t know anything about fashion and celebrities and Steffi couldn’t care less about the economy and current events, their conversation was tense and awkward. Just like I’m guessing it is right now.
I stumble around in my tiny bathroom trying to blow dry my hair and put on makeup at the same time. But the room is so steamy that my mascara runs before it even has a chance to dry. I put on my bathrobe and walk into the living room. Ethan is sitting at the kitchen table typing into his BlackBerry and Steffi is lying on the couch completely engrossed in a home makeover show.
“Have you been reading your book?” I ask Steffi. Mom bought her a copy of ‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting’ and it’s been sitting on the coffee table ever since.
Steffi looks up at me and frowns. “I already know what to expect.” She tries to sit up straight but gives up and plops back down. “I took a Lamaze class in San Francisco, I watch tons of TLC and Mom showed me a video that has probably scarred me for life. I think I’m good.” She turns her attention back to the TV.
I sigh. “Mom made me promise I’d look after you. Read a few chapters so I don’t have to lie again, okay?” Suddenly I feel like I’m the one with the baby.
“Fine.” She reaches out, grabs the book and starts skimming the pages but I know she’s still watching the TV from the corner of her eye.
“Darling, why aren’t you ready yet? We’re already late.” Ethan’s voice is soft as he walks up behind me and gives me a hug and kiss on the cheek.
Steffi stops pretending to read the book. “I can help you with your hair and makeup. You’ll be out of here in a few minutes.”
“Fine,” I say as she springs off the couch, the baby book landing on the floor with a loud thud. At least I won’t be lying to Mom. She did have the book in her hands for about a minute. I’m sure a few sentences were able to seep into her brain. Osmosis or something.
I sit in a kitchen chair and let Steffi take charge of my hair and makeup. She scurries around me taking out brushes and combs and bottles of foundation.
Ethan says something, but I can’t hear him over the noise as Steffi tries to dry and untangle my knotty hair. I wince in pain.
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“What?” I yell.
He’s holding up Ollie’s postcard. “What’s this?”
“It’s this cheese display from the Borough Market in London...” I say, but I know I’ve lost him. His eyes have glazed over and he puts the postcard down and returns to his BlackBerry. I don’t bother telling him I really want to go there someday. I know that my enthusiasm for cheese isn’t reciprocated by my lactose-intolerant fiancé.
“Will you be ready soon?” Ethan asks, even though I’m still wearing my bathrobe. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair and sets his BlackBerry aside. I know there’s trouble when even his phone can’t hold his interest.
“Won’t be long.” I race into the bedroom and put my clothes on as fast as possible.
When Steffi applies one last coat of lip gloss and finally declares me ready, Ethan looks at his watch, sighs and gets up.
“Goodbye, Stefanie. All the best.” He extends his hand towards Steffi and she shakes it, clearly amused at Ethan’s formal tone.
“Have a nice evening, guys,” she says, closing the door behind us. I hate to admit it, but I’d give anything to switch places with my sister right about now. Well, apart from the whole baby thing.
Every time we visit Ethan’s parents, I wonder if he was either switched at birth or bought on the black market. Apart from the dimple in his chin, he is nothing like his mother. From the luxury penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park to her crisp linen Chanel suit, Ethan’s mom puts it all out on display. This woman throws on diamonds and designer clothes like some people put on sneakers and a T-shirt.
When I look at Ethan’s parents and hear stories about his childhood—which was so different from mine—I have no idea why he is so good with money. He should be the kind of rich son who jets off to Europe on a whim or who goes around telling people he summers in the Hamptons. I don’t think there will ever be a time in my life where I’ll feel the need to use the word summer as a verb.
We couldn’t be more different. Ethan was born in raised in Manhattan, went to all the best private schools and had a driver until he was old enough to be given a Mercedes, which he immediately sold to invest in the stock market. I was born and raised in New Jersey, went to public school and my first job was selling ice cream in Cedar Park, which barely gave me enough money to buy movie tickets. Like I said, Ethan and I come from different worlds. And while he thrives in mine, I’m a bit scared of his.
I grip Ethan’s hand as we walk up to his mother’s building. Oscar the doorman smiles when he sees us. He’s been a doorman for this building ever since Ethan was a baby.
“Ethan. Roxy. So nice to see you.” He shakes Ethan’s hand and slaps him on the back. Oscar brings my hand to his lips. “Miss Roxy Rule. Still as lovely as ever.”
“How are you, Oscar?” I ask, moving aside as he lets an elderly couple into the building.
“Oh, you know. Same old and all that. Arthritis is acting up again. The Missus keeps telling me I should retire but I don’t know what I’d do with myself. And I wouldn’t get to see Roxy when she visits.”
I smile, shaking my head, and pull out a package from my bag. “I made you some chocolate chip cookies.”
“You see right there? That’s the reason I can’t retire,” he tells Ethan, who laughs and nods.
I give Oscar a quick hug as he leads us into the building. My favorite part of any visit to Ethan’s parent’s house is now officially over.
“My dear,” Prudence Covington says, opening the apartment door with one giant swoop. She throws her arms around her son and nestles her face against his shoulder. After a few seconds, she opens her eyes and her piercing blue stare makes me stop examining my horribly bitten fingernails. “Roxy, so nice to see you.” She kisses the air on both sides of my face. “I’ve been meaning to give you the name of my manicurist. Come on in and I’ll find it for you.”
I give Ethan a look and follow him inside. It’s always hard for me to believe that a child grew up in this apartment when I see all of the glass cabinets, glossy hardwood floors and leather couches. But then again, the interior design must have been changed at least ten times since Ethan was a kid.
I never stood a chance with Ethan’s mother. Even if I cured cancer tomorrow morning, she’d still disapprove of me. Ethan says I’m crazy but I see it in the way she looks at me, her eyes hovering over my shoes or my hair or how she stares at me when I put an elbow on the table or if I reach for the wrong fork at dinner. The woman doesn’t think I’m worthy of her son and she can barely hide it. Even now, as she’s rummaging through papers to find the number of the manicurist I probably can’t afford, I can feel her judging me.
“Where’s Dad?” Ethan asks, looking around the room.
“In Switzerland, dear. Some sort of crisis,” she says, giving up her search. She swipes her finger on the edge of a table and examines the dust on her fingertip with disgust. “Helga!” she howls, storming out.
“I need to get something in the library,” Ethan mumbles. He leaves the room so quickly that I can’t stop him. I know Ethan was looking forward to seeing his father tonight and discussing some banker-related stuff I can’t even pretend to be interested in. Mr. Covington is the ‘right’ kind of banker (as per Ethan’s mother) and he gets to jet off to exciting places because of his wealthy clients. He’s not a lowly financial advisor who gets stuck doing credit counseling for poor losers in debt like me. I’m like the fuel to their bonfire of disappointment.
I walk around the huge living room and examine the framed pictures I’ve seen a million times before. There’s a chubby two-year old Ethan playing in the sand at the beach, a black and white portrait of his great-grandparents on their wedding day but my eye, as always, is drawn to an elaborate silver frame standing in the middle of the mantle. Beautiful crystal vases filled with flowers sit on each side of it. Ethan is a few years younger, the fine lines around his eyes are less apparent, and he’s smiling. His arm is draped over the shoulders of a beautiful brunette with blue eyes and a warm smile. I can’t see them in the picture but she probably has flawless nails too. Her name is Victoria Wallace, of the Famous-For-Some-Reason Wallaces of Massachusetts. I first heard her name about a month after Ethan and I started dating, when we spent hours lying in bed talking about our past relationships. I didn’t have much to talk about apart from my three years with Handy Randy. But Ethan told me the story of his failed marriage and how Victoria, a pediatrician, left him after five years for a pediatric oncologist she worked with. Now it’s hard to believe someone is evil when their job is healing sick children and they fall in love with someone who saves sick children with cancer. But I call her Evil Vic because even though she’s back in Boston with her new husband, she still lingers around here like a ghost. She was the perfect daughter-in-law, sweet and stylish and a doctor, and she makes me look like scrapings from the bottom of some barrel.
Victoria Wallace lied and cheated and left Ethan heartbroken, yet she still gets top billing on the living room mantle while the picture of Ethan and I at our engagement party sits in the middle of an end table, next to a picture of Todd, the cousin nobody likes. Like I said, I never stood a chance.
I don’t hear Ethan coming up behind me so I’m startled when I feel his hand on my shoulder. “Mother has a surprise for us in the other room.”
A surprise? I don’t have time to ask any questions before he grabs my hand and leads me to the library where his mother is standing next to a desk, a beige envelope in her hand.
“Sit down, sit down,” she tells me. I’ve never seen her so animated. Ethan sits across from me and I’m all alone in the middle of an enormous black leather couch. I shift around and it makes a very unattractive noise. Mrs. Covington doesn’t seem to notice. She hands me the envelope and I flip it over. It looks strangely like... a wedding invitation. “Open it,” she says, smiling.
I rip the beautiful embossed envelope and find an even more elaborate cream-colored paper. I unfold it and scan the words on the page a
nd my jaw drops. I can’t believe what I’m reading. It’s an invitation... to my own wedding.
* * *
Mr. and Mrs. Leon Kingsley Covington request the honor of your presence at the wedding of their beloved son
Ethan Kingsley Covington to
Miss Roxanne Isadora Rule, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. James Walford Rule.
* * *
“It’s still a work in progress,” Mrs. Covington says, seeing my expression. “But as soon as Ethan gives me all the details, I’ll rush everything to the printer and they’ll be ready to go.” She beams up at Ethan.
He must have known to sit far away from me so his beloved Mother would not witness her beloved son getting punched. How can we think about invitations when we haven’t even agreed on a time and a place? I’d bet anything that he hasn’t even told his mother he wants to get married on the beach. If Mrs. Covington has anything to do with it, we’ll have the ceremony in the same stuffy country club where Ethan and Evil Vic had their wedding. She probably already has the place booked at a discounted rate for Ethan’s third trip down the aisle once he comes to his senses and divorces me.
But bigger issues need to be addressed first.
“Roxanne Isadora?” I say through clenched teeth. I’m trying to keep calm here for Ethan’s sake. He turns his head towards me and then back to his mother. Then back to me. He’s like a frightened deer caught in the middle of a tennis match. “Mrs. Covington, that’s not my name.”
“You know I’ve always been quite fond of your sister’s name, dear. And since you claim not to have a middle name, I can’t see what the harm is in adding one in. It makes it sound a bit more formal, don’t you think?”