Love, Chloe

by Alessandra Torre

  But this was Chanel’s birthday party, and I had confidence on my side. So surely it would be fabulous. It had to be. All the best bitches would be there. No, literally. The Best Bitches. We’re talking top-notch AKC pedigree.

  I fell down the rabbit hole, into the world of canine couture and pup-arazzi and tenderloin-topped cakes. I spent two hours on the phone with a bitchy assistant, trying to get Triumph the Insult Comic Dog (he’s a PUPPET in case you weren’t aware) to give me a firm RSVP. I sweated over an Anthony Rubio original for Chanel that arrived two sizes too big and two days late. And Nicole wasn’t helping.

  “You know this is her big day,” Nicole said to me impatiently, as if I wasn’t putting Chanel’s interests first. “Did the Shankmans confirm? They have a Labradoodle that Chanel really got along well with. She’ll be crushed if he doesn’t attend.”

  I looked up from my laptop and over at Chanel, who was licking her crotch with some serious focus, and tried to find a response that didn’t involve me tossing my laptop aside and screaming at the top of my lungs.

  Now, with the party over, I’d come to grips with reality. I was not going to be the poster mother that I always planned on being. You know the type, moms who carried everything anyone needed, all fitting neatly in a designer purse. The ones who hosted sleepover parties with fifteen kids and whipped up a beautiful meal for unexpected guests without missing a beat. No, my future seemed more along the lines of throwing a TV dinner in the general direction of my kids before sulking off to my bedroom with a remote and Nutella for some “quiet time.”

  The first party disaster came with our celebrity guest: Mavero. Mavero, the Australian terrier who appeared in all of the Dog Whisperer movies. Mavero, who performed in Kanye’s latest music video. Mavero, who Nicole saw on a morning show and decided must attend. Mavero, who charged eight thousand dollars for a public appearance. I mean, WTF? Eight thousand dollars for a dog’s two-hour appearance? His ridiculous fee aside, I also had to fax over proof of liability coverage. FAX. It took me fifteen minutes to figure out how to use the fax machine.

  Mavero, it turned out, was an asshole.

  First, he peed on Chanel’s custom doghouse. Lifted his leg up right during Nicole’s lengthy introduction of him and pissed all over the brownstone, designed to be a mini-replica of the Brantleys’. Nicole’s face went ashen; I went for Mavero’s contract. Turned out he was allowed to piss on anything he pleased.

  Then, he bit the photographer. That got him put in his cage where he barked at the top of his doggie lungs until Nicole finally broke down and had his handler take him away. Nicole was still dismayed that Mavero didn’t get to stay and watch Chanel open her presents.

  At the end of the party, Nicole stomped into my office and read me a long list of complaints. The fact that I didn’t roll my eyes once during her rant was a testament to my self-control.

  She finally stopped, leaving in a blur of shimmer and highlights, my eyes glancing at the clock. Eleven PM. Just enough time to get to SoHo before it got too late. Benta’s company was having a party of their own, one that wouldn’t involve slobber and leg humping. At least, not from any dogs, though I couldn’t promise anything from the men who would be there. The matchmaking industry was a frisky one.

  I grabbed my purse and keys, kissed an exhausted Chanel, and turned out the lights, slowly trudging down the stairs, my desire to escape not enough to counteract weak calves and blistered heels. If I ever won the lottery, my mansion would be one story or have one hell of an elevator system. Nicole had turned off their elevator for reasons of pure insanity, something about claustrophobia and maintenance costs. The woman dropped a small mortgage on her bottled water delivery but choked on things like valet fees.

  I rounded the second floor landing and saw the front door open, Nicole standing in the doorway, her back to me, her voice quiet as she spoke to whomever stood before her. Something made me pause, one foot a step higher than the other, and I leaned on the bannister and tried to see more.

  It was Paulo, his stance hard and unmoving, Nicole’s soft murmurs of the soothing variety. I watched as she reached out and stroked his face. This was bad; he shouldn’t be here, not when Clarke was home. Nicole was getting reckless. Though, from the glimpse I got of Paulo’s face, maybe he was the one getting reckless.

  I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me, but I knew that smell, a mix of leather and spice, when it floated by me. He paused next to me on the step, a worried look on his face when he spoke my name.

  “Chloe? Chloe, are you okay?”

  I tried to move, tried to think, tried to do something, but I could only watch as Clarke’s gaze moved past me and down to the front door.

  “Nicole?” he called, his steps easy and fluid as he jogged closer to his wife.

  I watched Nicole’s hand push at Paulo’s chest, but it was too late.

  43. Loving Him With Lies

  I stood in place on the stairs and watched Clarke step toward Nicole and Paulo. Nicole swallowed, and I saw the moment when she decided to lie. I’d said it before and I’d say it again: Nicole could act. And she was about to pull off an Oscar-worthy performance.

  “Clarke, thank God. A voice of reason.” I watched her claws reach out, wrapping around Clarke’s arm and pulling him closer, as if she wanted him there. “Paulo wants to pay for Chanel’s doghouse. Since he hooked us up with Mavero.”

  “It’s late.” There was a layer of suspicion in Clarke’s voice, and I mentally cheered him on from my frozen spot on the stairs. Surely he wouldn’t buy that crap. Surely he would see what was really going on.

  “Oh God, don’t be such a New Yorker.” She slapped a casual hand on his chest. “It’s, like, seven on the West Coast.”

  “This isn’t the West Coast.” I’d never heard that tone in Clarke’s voice before. It was still and dark, with a sharp edge. I silently moved down a few steps, closer to the train wreck that was finally unfolding, my heart beating faster. This was finally it.

  “Clarke,” Nicole said dismissively, the words shut up clearly in the name.

  “You should leave.” Clarke gripped the door’s edge and, from my perch, I saw the white clench of his knuckles as he spoke to Paulo.

  “It’s so kind of you to offer to pay for the doghouse,” Nicole blabbed on, her voice bright.

  Clarke said nothing.

  Paulo said nothing.

  I stared at the action and wished I had popcorn.

  “Chloe.” Nicole’s voice pierced through the room and I blinked, suddenly aware that I just stood there, like a creepy ogler on the subway.

  “Yes?”

  “Go home.”

  I nodded quickly, galloping down the remaining steps, my eyes down, my squeeze through the front door done without anyone shifting to give me room.

  Someone shut the door behind me, the heavy wood slamming into place and snuffing out any sound, my eavesdrop dying a quick death in the cool night air.

  It took a moment for me to move, stepping down the sidewalk to the next cross street, my arm raising out of habit and flagging a cab. I needed, wanted, to go home. Forget the party Benta was throwing that night. I wanted my bed.

  An affair was a dirty virus, taking in innocents as it spread and grew. I could feel it diving under my skin, my corruptibility growing simply out of proxy. Maybe this was the end. Maybe, come tomorrow, I would walk into a different household.

  44. Does Sex Solve Everything?

  The next day, I carefully opened the door, pausing for a moment and listening for sounds of carnage, looked for splatters of blood, crime scene tape, or dead bodies. I saw nothing and eased inside. Whispered my hellos to the Brantley staff and trotted upstairs to my office as quietly as I could in my super-cute new sandals. I shut the door and didn’t hear a peep from anyone until Chanel scratched on the door around nine.

  Any concerns I had over Nicole and Clarke’s marital woes were addressed an hour later, when—from the ceiling of
my office—a loud thumping started. I stopped typing the letter to Mavero’s management, demanding a full refund of his performance fee, and listened. Chanel let out a low growl and I picked her up, moving to the door and sticking my head out, on high alert.

  Then, Nicole shrieked. Loud and long enough for me to instantly understand what was causing the thumping. Her hyena call was followed by a scream of Clarke’s name, and I closed my eyes in thanks. If I had to listen to my boss have sex, at least it was with her husband, one indignity I could handle. I ducked back into my office, pulling the door shut and put on Spotify, blaring Gwen Stefani loud enough to drown out any more sounds of sex. My door swung open forty-five minutes later, a perfectly put together Nicole glaring at me from the doorway. I paused the music. ”Good morning,” I said.

  “I’m shooting in Brooklyn today.”

  “Yes.” I lifted her set bag that, sometime around her fourth orgasm, I packed with her snacks, clothes and makeup. “Dante is out front.”

  “Make sure everything I’ll need for today is in there; I don’t need you to hang around with me today.” She pointed at the bag with one long finger, as if I might get confused.

  “Okay.” I nodded and noticed the humongous diamond still on her ring finger. Between the orgasms and her ring, it appeared to be business as normal for the Brantley marriage. Maybe she was done with Paulo. Or maybe she lied it all away and Clarke bought it. Or maybe I needed to stop speculating and get my butt moving. I stood. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  Ten minutes later, I slid into the backseat and pulled out my phone, checking my texts as Dante headed to Brooklyn. One from Joey, two from the sound production girl, one from wardrobe. Nothing from Carter. Almost a week since our quasi-double-date with Joey. The double date where he’d left me panting for more with barely a goodnight kiss.

  My fingers itched to text him. But weren’t men supposed to pursue? Vic certainly never needed chasing. And I was the one who invited Carter out. I was the one who knocked on his door in the middle of the night when I got locked out. I was the one who’d done ALL of the pursuing. If the damn man was interested, he needed to make a freakin’ effort. Was it possible … *cue Justin Long* that he was just not that into me? I sat on my hands to keep them from misbehaving and looked out the window, Dante slowing as we approached the temporary set.

  When he pulled over, I hopped out, grabbing the set bag and running around to help Nicole. I rounded the back end of the car and saw the couple, running across the road in between moving traffic, their hands linked. My feet froze in place, Nicole huffing out an irritated sigh as she snatched the bag away. I stuttered out an apology, pulling my gaze away from the couple and busied myself getting Nicole on her way inside.

  When I looked back, my hand on the car handle, they were gone.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Carter had a girlfriend?” I flung open the door to Joey’s trailer and glared, my hands braced on the open doorframe. Next time I rushed across town to confront someone; I was going to pack flats. I pushed that thought aside and was stuck with the mental image that had been playing on repeat: Carter and a brunette, running hand in hand across the street like they were on a freakin’ Hallmark card.

  Joey glanced up from the sofa, a half-eaten donut in hand, mouth full. Setting it on a napkin, he reclined against the leather and wiped at his mouth. “Hi, Chloe. It’s great to see you too.”

  “Uh … do you guys need privacy?” Hannah piped from the recliner, her feet tucked under her butt, a clipboard on her lap.

  “I hope so.” Joey smirked.

  “No,” I barked, pulling the door shut and stepping closer, my hands settling on my hips, my feet burning. “Well?”

  Joey finished off the donut, taking his time, my fingers itching to yank open his mouth and pull out a response. “Carter doesn’t have a girlfriend,” he finally said, sucking the end of a powder-coated finger.

  “I’m gonna head out,” Hannah interjected with a loud whisper, her exit barely noticed in my irritation.

  “Stop covering for him. I saw them. The brunette with the long legs? Giant boobs?”

  “Oh,” he grinned. “You mean Brit.” He laughed. “God, Chloe, you should see your face right now.”

  I wondered, in that moment, if I could kill the movie’s lead and not get kicked off set. If Hannah would help me hide his beautiful body or if she’d turn me in. I wasn’t paranoid. In their cross of that street, I’d had seen the grin on her face, the way their fingers were linked, the affectionate pull of her hand. Not that I had a claim on Carter but WTF. “Who’s Brit?” I gritted out the name.

  “Brit. She’s … ah…” He grinned at me in the naughty way that made moviegoers everywhere swoon. “She’s a fuckbuddy.”

  “A fuckbuddy.” I repeated the crass term, not sure how I felt about it. Should I be happy that it wasn’t a real relationship? Then again … I frowned. Was I just two or three nights away from being a fuckbuddy myself?

  “You look stressed,” Joey remarked, reaching forward and grabbing another donut from the bag. “I can see your wrinkles from here.”

  “Bite me.” I stumbled right and collapsed into the recliner that Hannah had so conveniently vacated.

  “You like him, huh?” He passed me the bag of donuts, and I took one, careful not to get powdered sugar all over myself.

  “I don’t know,” I grumbled, picking one. “Where’d you get these?”

  “Hannah.”

  “I need a Hannah.” I sighed, sinking deeper into the chair, and he laughed.

  There was a long pause while we chewed, and I took a sip of coffee from his offered cup. “Don’t worry about Brit,” Joey said, glancing over at me. “They’re just friends.”

  Friends … who have sex. The words hung in my mind even if they didn’t leave his lips. Men didn’t understand. They thought there could be sex without emotion but that didn’t work. You couldn’t get along, enjoy each other’s company, and have smoking hot sex without someone’s feelings getting involved. At least I couldn’t.

  “Besides,” he drawled, leaning forward and patting my leg. “She’s got nothing on you.”

  Oh yeah. What man liked giant breasts and a supermodel smile? I was dusting powdered sugar off my shirt, a smartass response on the tip of my tongue, when the trailer door opened, and the last person I expected to see stepped in.

  And I’d thought my day was bad before.

  46. The Worst Time to See Your Ex

  There were times when you wanted to see an ex. When you were looking fabulous and hanging on the arm of a billionaire. When you were out with your girls and having the time of your single life.

  You didn’t want to see him in Joey Plazen’s trailer with powdered sugar smeared on your skirt, your ego recently trampled by a maintenance guy. I jerked to my feet, a chunk of donut dropping to Joey’s floor. “Vic?”

  He stood in the doorway of the trailer, the sun streaming in behind him in a halo effect. The man always did know how to make an entrance. He stepped inside and closed the door, Joey moving forward, his hand outstretched. “Mr. Worth. I wasn’t expecting you until this afternoon.”

  Mr. Worth? I grimaced and crossed my arms.

  “Plans changed,” Vic said smoothly, shaking Joey’s hand, his Rolex glinting from under the sleeve of his suit. I gave him that watch, back when I spent weekends with Daddy’s AmEx in my wallet and eight inches of Vic in my hand. He’d never wore the watch much then; go figure he’d wear it now. “They’re giving me a tour in twenty minutes, then we’re going over the budgets. I wasn’t sure if I’d have another chance to come by. Sorry if I interrupted anything.” He turned to me and smiled. “Hey beautiful.” He stepped forward, his hands outstretched as if he was going to hug me, and I stopped that shit right there—moving away, my hand held up.

  “What are you doing here?” I sounded accusatory and bitchy, and Joey stiffened, but I didn’t care how it came out because this was my world and Mr. Worth
didn’t have a place in it. He didn’t belong here, in Joey’s trailer, his arms reaching for me.

  “Mr. Worth is our newest investor,” Joey supplied, stepping forward with a smile, his glare sending a dozen messages, the main ones: be nice and this guy is important.

  “The newest investor?” I repeated slowly. “On Boston Love Letters?”

  “Joey, could we have a minute?” Vic asked smoothly, moving aside to clear the exit.

  “Absolutely, Mr. Worth,” Joey said, and I swore on my life, if he kept calling Vic that, I’d chop off his balls myself. The trailer door opened, then shut, the trailer infinitely smaller even though there was one less person.

  “Chloe,” Vic said softly, and I knew, right then, in that one word, I was in trouble.

  That’d always been the problem with us. I just couldn’t resist the man.

  47. The Hardest Kind of Drug

  I was not a strong woman. I was weak, and still, over a year after our parting, deeply in love with this man. This man who was not good for me. This man who had a hundred faithful and dedicated bones in his body, but four or five wildly promiscuous ones, bones that jumped out of order occasionally and had their fun. Bones that shattered promises, ruined happily-ever-afters, and broke apart soulmates.

  The sound of my name on his lips … it was a drug. A narcotic high heightened by Joey Plazen shutting the trailer door and leaving the two of us alone in this small, dim space. Vic stepped closer, and a light hint of his cologne flooded me with a hundred memories. For a thousand mornings, noons, and nights, this man was my future. I had picked out apartments, made post-graduation plans and browsed engagement rings, all with his hand in mine. And despite his lies and my broken heart, hearing him whisper my name was all it took. I crumbled.

  “Don’t, Vic.” The words were a plea, my feet stepping back and hitting the wall, his eyes darkening as he stepped forward, his hand reaching out, brushing up my bare arm before his palm settled on the wall by my head. A breath eased out of me as I closed my eyes and pressed against the wall, feeling the familiar warmth of him, the press of his body as his legs brushed across mine. I waited for the touch of his lips even as I stiffened, searching for a word, a protest, something to keep from falling. And through it all, my skin yearned, inches of exposure pulled between desire and distrust, the rough slide of his sigh letting me know exactly how close his mouth was to mine.