by Claire McNab
I tried again. "Ariana, we're business partners. I don't want to put that relationship at risk." I looked to Julia Roberts for help. "Professional relationship would read better, do you think?"
I altered it. Tried it out on Julia Roberts again. She was tough to please. Back to the drawing board.
In the morning I practiced in my bathroom, watching my facial expressions carefully. The Complete Handbook did say that practiced liars could fool almost anybody, and I was nothing if not practiced at this point.
Ariana came in early. I waited until she had her coffee and had disappeared into her office. I put my head around the door and said, "Could I have a word with you?"
"Of course. Come in."
She was wearing the outfit I liked best on her—tailored black top, black pants, and high-heeled boots.
I shut the door behind me, sat down opposite her and said, before I could chicken out, "Ariana, we're business partners. I want you to know there's no way I'd put that professional relationship at risk."
So far, so good. At this point in my mental rehearsals of our conversation, she was supposed to respond with some remark, but Ariana remained silent, looking at me with what seemed sadness in her eyes.
She was sorry for me. I hated that. OK, I'd get out of this with as much dignity as I could.
I had my next line ready. This would reassure her. I saw the words as if printed in the air: Ariana, as far as I'm concerned, the other night never happened.
She was waiting for me to speak. I heard myself say, "Ariana, I adore you."
"I know," she said.
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