She takes my arm and the pair of us sweep through the lobby to a bank of elevators at the back, gold-colored art deco doors that open slowly with a ding. She pushes the button for the twenty-fifth floor, the rooftop.
A strange feeling flutters inside my stomach. I’m still leery of this woman but can’t help feeling intrigued about where we’re heading. When someone like Collette Bird says we’re going somewhere special, what exactly does that mean?
We emerge on the top floor to a high-ceilinged lounge burnished with gold mirrors and a marble bar along the back wall that has high-backed stools and clusters of seating on either side, lounge chairs covered in blue velvet, and vignettes of tubular brass. A gorgeous parquet floor is at our feet. Wrought-iron light fixtures hang above our heads.
Bartenders look to us from their stations, their vests a deep red color with white collared shirts rolled at the sleeves. A woman glides out to us from behind the hostess stand wearing long, flowing pants and a striped blouse, chandelier earrings dangling from her ears. She motions to the roof terrace and we follow, finding the balcony, where a long stretch of tables and bench seats are decorated with yellow pillows and small votive candles ready to be lit as soon as the sun goes down.
Collette has brought me to some swanky bar.
The hostess hands us a pair of menus and tells us to enjoy our visit.
Nearby, small plates of food are scattered across tables as guests sample appetizers, and bask in the sunshine, most of them wearing oversize sunglasses similar to Collette’s, and drape their arms lazily over the backs of their friends’ chairs, wrists weighted down with Rolex and Cartier timepieces.
“What is this place?” I ask, squinting into the sun.
“Greta’s on the Roof,” she answers, looking around. “Isn’t it fabulous?”
I stare at the crowd, seemingly cut straight from a Vogue spread, the gorgeous people holding aloft martini glasses and highball whiskeys. “They’re all fake, every single one of them,” Collette says.
I give her a funny look. “How do you know?”
“Oh, I know.”
“Then why are we here?”
“It’s fun. I thought you’d like it, you being young and hip and all.” She winks at me before staring across the balcony. “My God, it’s been ages since I got out, it feels so good,” she says. And she stretches her arms above her head as if relishing her newfound freedom. “Alex is always telling me to stay home and rest, but how much rest does a girl need?” She pouts. “I get so bored, and today, I needed a day out.” She smiles conspiratorially. “If it weren’t for you and your little fib about being sick, I wouldn’t have left. It feels great to take a day trip.”
Even though it’s a jab at me, I still can’t believe it. This woman, with all her money and perfectionist makeup and hair and elaborate wardrobe, has nowhere to go. Her own family keeps her in a gilded cage.
When was the last time she did go out? I wonder.
Collette says, “This is only my second time to Greta’s. The first was their VIP opening reception, and I’ve meant to come back ever since.” Her eyes flit away. “Oh…but that was so long ago…” She pauses, her voice drifting, but then her eyes wander to the arched doorway at the bar, her excitement bubbling. “I love the story behind this place: former penthouse in the twenties that once belonged to a woman named Greta Van Berg. She was widely known as a socialite and loved to throw parties.” A faraway glint floats across her face. “Can you imagine what it must have been like? Living up here, far above the city. The drama and magic of this place, looking out twenty-five floors above everyone else. I bet they thought they could conquer the world back then. New York City coming into its own.” She laughs. “What I wouldn’t give to have been a fly on the wall.”
I look around and for the briefest of moments, let my imagination run wild with what she’s described, envisioning glorious parties with women in opulent gowns and men in dapper suits smoking from long cigarette holders. A far cry from what I’ve ever known, but a time, I believe, where Collette would have fit in perfectly.
Collette scans the menu. She never did have her caprese salad at Hearth and I’m wondering if she’s hungry. I slide the drinks menu away from her carefully.
A waitress appears. Her green designer wrap dress flows to her ankles with strappy gold heels on her feet and bangles sliding up one arm—nothing like my Hearth uniform.
“Today, we’re offering a special on magnums of champagne,” the waitress suggests. “May I bring one to you?”
“Sounds lovely,” Collette says. “And something to nibble on too. Whatever you think is best. A sampling of treats.”
When the waitress disappears, I shoot Collette a look. “Are you sure we should be drinking?” I ask pointedly.
But she ignores me. Instead, she tilts her face to the sunshine and presses together her lips.
Moments later, the waitress returns carrying an ice bucket and a bottle. She pops the cork with a flourish and pours the pale, sparkling liquid into our glasses. Collette pushes both glasses toward me. “It’s all yours.”
An entire magnum to myself? At least that means Collette won’t be drinking.
Several more minutes go by, the silence sitting awkwardly between us. I take a sip, and then another, my nerves calming as a buzz slowly warms my body.
“I want to show you something. Something special,” Collette says and pulls an item from her handbag. She clutches it in her hand. “I hold this very dear.”
I lean forward but can’t tell what it is, she’s got it covered with her palm. Ever so slowly, she releases her fingers one by one.
Blond hair.
A pink ribbon tied at the end.
“I carry it with me everywhere I go.”
I take a closer look—a lock of hair.
And just as I realize who it must belong to, she confirms my fears, “It’s Patty’s.” And the champagne rises from my stomach.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Collette strokes the hair. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? So silky. She has the most shining head of blond hair you’ve ever seen on a child. So exquisite.” She’s trancelike again. “I love my Patty so much, I keep this with me always. I never want her far.”
I try looking away but can’t. She continues petting the hair as if it were a live creature, as if she is stroking the head of her own child in her lap.
“Whenever I’m away from Patty, this brings me comfort,” Collette says. “Thank goodness Pauline was happy to stay home with her today; she’s still feeling so poorly, the sweet girl. So if I get a chance to leave the house, go for a drive—find you”—she shoots me a look—“I always have a piece of Patty with me.” She cocks her head as if willing me to understand. “And if I’m feeling the slightest bit nervous or unsure about what I’m doing, holding this in my hand calms me. A lock of hair can do wonders, did you know that? I feel her with me. She is,” she repeats, “my absolute most favorite, most important person in the whole wide world. She’ll be turning four this July.”
A chill in the air hits me suddenly. I can no longer feel the sun shining on this rooftop. She’s repeating herself, totally unaware that she’s uttering the same sentiments she shared during my interview. And I now understand—this is what Collette does. Her life is lived in a loop, her minutes and days resetting until the next morning, when she can repeat it all over again.
Something occurs to me—the object I’d seen Collette holding during my interview. She’d been clutching it in her lap and keeping it close.
That same lock of hair. Her talisman.
“Would you like to hold it?” She grabs my hand and forces it to my fingertips.
I recoil, but Collette doesn’t seem the least bit bothered. “It’s okay,” she says. “Take it. It’s so soft, you’ll see.” She presses the lock, her most sacred item, farther into my hands.
Part of me wants to scream.
Has she been carrying this thing around for twenty years?
Horror grips my body, my hands trembling at the touch, and I want to drop it like a hot potato. I can’t give it back to her fast enough; I shove the lock across the table and push it into her hand.
The waitress appears, her green dress fluttering, and my eyes leap at her presence. She’s setting down a tray of small plates: avocado toast with smoked salmon, poke-style tuna lettuce wraps, and flatbread with melon and prosciutto sprinkled with mint leaves.
Collette claps her hands. “Perfect.” The waitress pours me another glass of champagne.
“Please,” Collette says, motioning to the food. “Help yourself.”
My stomach rolls in defeat. My appetite is shot—I feel sick, and honestly don’t know if I can bring myself to touch the food.
But Collette insists. “Don’t let it go to waste.”
Gingerly, I sample the avocado toast, then the lettuce wrap, the concoction nearly falling apart in my hands. Collette looks relieved to see I’m eating, and she smiles, reaching for one of the flatbreads and taking the tiniest bite of crust. “Good?” she asks.
I nod, swallowing. I take another sip of champagne, then a bigger gulp, enjoying the bubbly sensation against my tongue as it starts to numb the thoughts racing through my head.
“I like spending time with you,” Collette tells me.
I set aside my plate. She does the same, although she’s hardly touched a thing. I take another sip. She takes a sip of her water—to my relief, so far, no champagne. But we’re mirroring each other and it’s so weird, I stop moving just so she will stop copying me too.
“It feels natural with you.” Collette grins. “Like we’re friends.”
I swallow anxiously.
“With the other nannies, it was always forced. Or they would quit, like the last one.”
“How many nannies have you had?” I ask.
“Three.” Her answer surprises me. I thought they would have had a string of them by now. “We had one when Patty was born, and she was fantastic. The best. And then another, Therese. She stayed with us for a while but…” She winces, unable to finish her sentence. “And we had the young lady last year. We already told you about her. And now you.
“I want this to work,” Collette says, getting down to business. “I’ll do what it takes and pay you more than what Stephen offered you. Eighteen hundred a week.” I almost choke on my champagne. “A real salary, so you don’t need a second job. And even though he told you to come at nine a.m., let’s change it to ten. No need for you to rush. Ten a.m. until four, that’s all I ask, Mondays through Fridays, including paid holidays and sick leave, days I have to cancel or am not feeling well, or don’t need you to show up. Sometimes, I just like spending the day home alone with Patty. We’ll sit together in the playroom.”
I shift uneasily in my chair and think of Collette alone in that playroom…
She prattles on. “But no matter what, you’ll be paid, even if you don’t have to come.” She removes her sunglasses and raises an eyebrow as she looks at me. “I’m sure that’s more than any restaurant can offer and much more than what you’re receiving now. You’ll never get another job like this and you know it.” She smiles. “You’d be a fool not to stick with me.”
I don’t know what to say, and in that moment, her eyes meet mine and her smile wavers, her emotions quickly swinging around as if battered by a storm. “Don’t you want to be with me, Sarah?” she asks. “You and me and Patty?” A sadness fills her face. “Say you’ll stay. Say you’ll stick with me. Okay, Sarah? Please?”
My mind struggles to keep up with her ever-changing moods. Although Collette has been abstaining from champagne, I’ve continued to drink, and now I feel tipsy. Over the last twenty minutes, the champagne has gone straight to my head, my once steadfast, defensive boundaries softening and turning fuzzy.
I reach for water instead, needing to clear my head and focus.
I know this is crazy. She’s crazy.
They’re all crazy.
And yet…there’s something about Collette. Something that draws me to her. I can’t explain it. Underneath the manipulation and erratic moods, this is a deeply lonely woman. A woman in pain.
Even though my heart aches for her, I can’t help imagining the agonizing moments I’d be spending with her in the apartment if I stay. The hours spent reading out loud to a girl who isn’t there. Bathtubs with bubbles filled to the brim but no child inside. Afternoon snacks where the plates will go untouched. Crafts tables and art projects where I’ll be the only one swirling the paintbrush. The beautifully delusional Collette watching over me in a daze.
The champagne buzz still swirls in my head, my resistance diminished, along with the afternoon warmth. I watch the sun finish its slow descent below the skyline, a few rays peeking from either side of the glass buildings and shining onto the street.
And that’s when I realize—she may have done this on purpose: gotten me drunk to whittle me down and encourage me to say yes.
For the second time, I realize no one in the Bird household may be giving her enough credit.
Collette is studying my expression, her face angled to one side in wonder, long, mascaraed eyelashes blinking. A smile is forming again, a bright lipstick grin, no teeth showing.
She’s hopeful. She’d give anything to know what I’m thinking.
Then she asks, “You want to go somewhere else?”
And to my surprise, I don’t say no. I’m curious to see what else Collette has up her sleeve.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The driver takes us to Fifth Avenue, to the luxury department store Bergdorf Goodman. And I’m bursting with giddiness—half champagne buzz, half genuine excitement—at being dropped off by a chauffeur at the front door of this iconic store.
Dazzling bright lights beckon to us from inside, shelves and racks filled with gorgeous fabrics, divine to the touch. Gucci. Dolce & Gabbana. Tom Ford. New arrivals placed center stage and showcasing Saint Sarah and Givenchy. Valentino Garavani shoes and Balenciaga handbags.
A woman in a Prada coat walks nearby, allowing a saleswoman to spritz her with perfume. My head is dizzy with fascination as I marvel at the hundreds of thousands of dollars in price tags around me, fashions that have been highlighted on the runway.
This is a dream—somewhere I’ve never imagined setting foot inside, let alone shopping. Fashions that I’ve clipped out from magazines are hanging right there on that rack. I’ve seen those designs on clothing blogs too. On impulse, my hands reach out to touch. On another rack, the very Givenchy silk scarf blouse that inspired several of my sketches is displayed in all its grandeur. I pause at the table, letting my hands run across the silk bow at the neck.
But Collette is cruising ahead, zigzagging through the crowd and maneuvering around display counters like she knows exactly where she’s going, knows exactly what she’s looking for, and I race to keep up. But then she stops. She’s confused. Lost. Her last visit to this store may have been months or years ago, and the counters and displays are turned around.
She looks up before taking off again, and I follow her to the elevators. At the fourth floor, a sign reads Couture Evening Collections. A sea of glittering gowns lies ahead and my head swivels, taking it all in, my feet stepping double-time to keep up with Collette. We pass blank-faced mannequins in Marchesa Notte dresses, sequin threads in bright red, and a new designer’s wares from a successful run at Fashion Week on center display. I just saw this dress online.
I want to start at one end of the store and touch every item, feeling the satin and beaded material between my fingers. I want to try something on. I want so much to have my sketchbook. Maybe I can return here—maybe with Collette—
A dress stops me in my tracks. An Oscar de la Renta gown.
A gorgeous black and white V-neck number, tea length with a tulle A-line skirt and mesh bodice and unlike anything I’ve ever seen: ballerina-inspired with the most intricate threadwork—and did I mention it’s an Oscar de la Renta? Not a print ad I’ve torn from a magazine or an Instagram post, but the real thing. The actual gown.
My hand reaches out to the dress, the black tulle swishing against my arms as I trace my fingers along the seamed waist. The price tag: $5,990.
“You can have it,” Collette says.
An electric jolt strikes through my chest.
She touches the gown. “It’s yours.”
I step away. “No, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” And she eyes me up and down. “What size are you? A six or eight?” Collette waves at a salesgirl, who rushes over. “A six, please,” she decides for me. When the salesgirl reemerges, the dress she carries is even more divine. She holds it against me.
“Stunning,” Collette says, the look on her face approving. “You have great taste.”
My heart skips a beat.
Collette’s eyes are sparkling, and there’s a sudden flush to her cheeks that resembles something akin to pride. She looks, all at once, more vibrant and alive than I’ve ever seen her. A woman who enjoys lavishing gifts on people. A woman who wants to buy a girl a dress.
And I get it now. She’s still trying to win me over.
But I’m also touched. She remembers what we talked about in my interview, my love for fashion. How I studied design in school.
I shouldn’t take it, it’s a bribe. But it’s working.
“Do you want it?” Collette asks. I still haven’t taken hold of the dress, too afraid to touch it as the salesgirl holds it aloft. “Shall we find a dressing room for you?”
Once I put this on, I’m a goner. No way will I want to put the dress back. One look in the mirror and I’ll want to keep it forever. You can’t decline something like this.
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