Walk of Shame

by Lauren Layne

  “I always speak with you, Georgiana. Someone has to tell you when you’re being ridiculous.”

  “Which is always?” I guess wryly.

  He finally looks up. Looks me over. “Are you wearing glitter?”

  Maybe.

  He doesn’t even glance my way as he tucks in the flap of the envelope and hands it to Ramon. “Spare key for my apartment. Someone will be coming by later today who will need to get in.”

  “Exterminator?” I say, nudging the donut box toward Ramon. “Going to be a bit hard for them to eliminate the vermin, won’t it? What with the rat himself being in your office all day?”

  Andrew sighs and bends to pick his bags and briefcase off the floor before turning to face me. “Custom closet designer.”

  I nod in understanding as I select a sugared donut from the box. “Makes sense. You’ll want an expert to weigh in on how to best showcase your ruby-red slippers.”

  I glance down, and the donut pauses halfway to my mouth when I realize he’s not wearing the red shoes. “Did Toto piss on your sneakers this morning? You’re not wearing your Oz kicks today.”

  “Wasn’t wearing them yesterday or the day before either,” he says in a clipped tone as he adjusts his bag on his shoulder and picks up his black travel mug.

  My eyes narrow just slightly as I chew my bite of donut and study him, wondering if his comment’s a very subtly disguised inquiry as to where I’ve been the past couple days.

  Not that I’ll tell him, of course. My reasons for skipping our past morning meetings have been twofold. Partially I haven’t been feeling the going-out vibe; partially I may have taken his pretend you don’t exist and raised it a notch to I’m going to avoid you altogether.

  I confess, I’ve put a lot more thought than I should into whether or not he’d even notice my absence, and I can’t hide my smirk now that he’s confirmed that he noticed, if not exactly cared.

  I feel a tiny stab of relief that he’s as aware of me as I am of him, even if neither of us is happy with the situation.

  If I had even a lick of sense, I’d forget him and this weird game we’re playing. Instead I keep coming back for more.

  I’ve been thinking about why, and, well…I’m simply not used to people not liking me. And yes, I know how that sounds. Diva much? But really, usually people at least want to be my friend. He hated me on sight for no reason, and I seem to be having a wee bit of a difficult time letting it go.

  “Miss me?” I ask, licking sugar off my finger, eager as ever to provoke him.

  “Don’t look too pleased with yourself, Georgiana,” he says in a bored voice. “They’ve been the most peaceful mornings I’ve had in months.”

  “You know what I think?”

  “Breathless with wondering.”

  “I think you’ve had too much peaceful in your life. I think peaceful has become synonymous with boring.”

  His face is unreadable. “Are you sure we’re talking about my life, Georgiana?”

  I withhold a flinch. Barely. The man’s barb hits closer to home than I care to let him see. “You’re the one who stole Dorothy’s slippers.”

  “Of the two of us, you’re the one who dresses for attention.” His eyes flick downward just slightly, lingering on the expanse of bare legs, modest by nightclub standards, but admittedly a little short by Grace Kelly’s elegance standards.

  I pop another piece of donut in my mouth and smile. “It’s fine. I won’t tell a soul you checked me out.”

  “I wasn’t—” He clears his throat. “Forget it. You’re ridiculous.”

  I’m grinning outright now, because that’s two you’re ridiculouses this morning, and when he takes to repeating himself, I know I’ve successfully gotten under his skin.

  Georgie, one; Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, zero.

  Ramon’s been more or less ignoring us, due to a sudden influx of phone calls, but there’s finally a gap in the incessant ringing and he leans forward to get our attention, his hand resting on a familiar Bergdorf box. “Mr. Mulroney, Ms. Watkins, before I forget: I’ve been off for the past two days, but I got your package when I got in late last night. I’ll wait until I’m with Marta to open it, but I saw the card and wanted to say thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

  I clap my hands together happily. “Oh, you got it! Lovely!”

  Andrew goes even more rigid than usual beside me, and he doesn’t say a word as he reaches out a hand and flicks open the little card with one long finger, reading my handiwork on the card.

  He stares at it just a beat too long before raising his gaze to Ramon’s. “Congratulations. My best to both of you.”

  “We already said that,” I say, pointing to the card. “See? Right here.”

  He looks down at me, and with him being six foot two to my five foot five, it’s definitely a downward glare, even with my high heels.

  For one delightful moment I think it’s finally going to happen. He’s finally going to lose his cool and show some sort of emotion.

  Instead he inhales long and slow through his nose, as though trying to rein in his temper.

  Unfortunately for me, he succeeds, and with a curt “Mr. Ramirez, Georgiana,” he turns and walks toward the front door.

  Ramon’s phone rings, and he picks it up even as he points to the box and mouths another “Thank you.”

  I give him a little wave, then help myself to another donut. I’ve earned it, after all.

  This morning might be as close as I’ve come to making progress on cracking Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.

  Georgie

  SUNDAY MORNING, BRUNCH

  My mom doesn’t glance up from her work as I enter my parents’ dining room, but lifts a hand to wave me over. “Georgie, honey, hi. Grab a drink, then come look at this palette for the spring line. Do you think it whispers sweet pastels or does it simply scream tacky Easter egg hunt?”

  I shrug out of my Burberry trench and drape it on the back of the chair before going and kissing the top of my dad’s salt-and-pepper head. He reaches up, patting my cheek fondly, as I go to the sideboard and pour myself a mimosa from the crystal carafe of orange juice and champagne nestled into the ice bucket alongside a gorgeous bouquet of lilies. I stroke a finger over a petal before taking my champagne flute over to where my mom sits bent over her work at the dining room table.

  I sip and look over her shoulder as she holds up the swatches for my inspection. “Colors are good,” I say, “but there’s too much sparkle. Looks too much like what you did last year with the whole ‘modern fairy’ theme.”

  As I say it, Andrew Mulroney’s derisive dismissal of my glitter makeup flits through my mind. It wasn’t worth the energy to tell him the difference between shimmer and sparkle, but damn, what I wouldn’t give to reverse his opinion of me, just a little bit.

  “The fairy theme was two years ago,” Mom says distractedly. “But you’re right. You’re right. The colors want to say classy brunch, but the glitter’s saying bachelorette party.”

  She scribbles something in her notebook and picks up her phone to shoot off an email. Dismissed, I take another sip of mimosa and glance across the table. Dad catches my eye over the top of the newspaper and winks before turning his attention back to the WSJ.

  Welcome to Sunday brunch with my parents. It’s been a Watkins family institution for as long as I can remember. Fond memories, mostly, although if I’m going to be really honest, it got even more fun after I turned twenty-one and was allowed access to the champagne instead of being limited to the orange juice.

  “How’s my darling daughter?” my dad asks, turning the page of his paper.

  “I’ve been great,” I chirp, plopping down into my usual chair and giving Linda, my parents’ part-time housekeeper, a little wave as she sets a quiche and fruit salad on the table. My parents actually have a personal chef (I know), but Gavin only works on weekdays, so Sunday brunch is always catered. Sometimes it’s a quiche, sometimes a lox platter, sometimes eggs Benedict. One thing it’
s not ever is homemade. New Yorkers aren’t known for their kitchen prowess.

  “How are you? How’s work?” I ask.

  My dad glances quickly at my mom before turning his attention to me. I know it’s silly, but it bothers me the way he seems to be seeking permission from my mom to talk about his work, when she hasn’t once looked up from hers.

  Once upon a time, my family dynamics had worked like this:

  Dad was the CEO of the real estate empire he inherited from my grandfather. My mom was the hottest thing in Hollywood after starring as a Bond-girl-style character in a blockbuster hit. They got married, had me, and my mom’s acting career fizzled before it ever really took off.

  She didn’t seem to mind—she threw herself into the role of a Park Avenue housewife like nobody’s business.

  But here’s the part that bugs me: back when my dad was the sole breadwinner, my mom was adamant that there be no work talk at the dinner table. It sounds like a decent enough plan, I guess, but my dad loves his work. Yeah, sure, he inherited a billion-dollar company, but he’s turned it into a multibillion-dollar company through ambition, smarts, and passion.

  The older I got, the more it killed me to see him come home lit up with all this happy energy, only to have to tuck it away to ask my mom about her book club while he was forbidden to talk about the highlight of his day.

  And now you’re thinking, But Georgie, your mom had good intentions.

  Hmm, did she? Probably.

  But get this: when Mom started her business, guess what? Her work talk was allowed at the dinner table. One might even say that Elite Cosmetics dominated the dinner table.

  Take a look at the tableau in front of me—Sunday mornings are the one time each week my family gets together, and my mom’s end of the table is covered in folders and swatches, her gold MacBook, an iPad Pro, a phone….

  I’ll just say this: the hypocrisy bothers me. I love my mom. I love both my parents, fiercely. But I confess that sometimes I wish they just seemed…happier.

  I’ll clarify. I wish they seemed happier together. I wish my dad didn’t look at my mom like a whipped dog, and I wish that my mom looked at my dad more.

  Still, generally speaking, I know I’ve got it pretty good, so I try not to dwell.

  I refocus my attention on my dad, who’s talking about some new deal he just signed for a multiuse high-rise on the West Side.

  “That’s awesome,” I say, meaning it.

  I didn’t get the real estate bug, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t see how hard he works. I appreciate that the empire he sits on—yes, the very empire that made it possible for me to afford my apartment, courtesy of the inheritance my grandmother left me—came from sweat and tears and long hours.

  “What have you been up to, Georgie, sweetie?” Mom asks, practically the second my dad stops talking to take a sip of coffee.

  “Oh, same old,” I say.

  She glances up and gives me a sly smile. “I don’t suppose you’re going to bring a guy around one of these days? You haven’t dated anyone seriously since Marco.”

  “Eh.” I lift my shoulders and spin my champagne flute on the table. “Nobody interesting enough to hold my attention.”

  “Nobody?” my dad asks, giving me a curious glance.

  I exhale through my nose, wondering how to explain that Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, doesn’t count.

  He’s interesting, but not for me.

  “There’s just this guy in my building. Getting under my skin a little,” I admit.

  Both parents fix their attention on me at the same time. A rarity, trust me. They both love me, but usually they seem to take turns looking my way, perhaps to avoid eye contact with each other.

  “Need me to beat him up?” my dad says.

  My mom wrinkles her nose. “Jack, please.”

  I tense at her snotty dismissal of him, but he gives me a wink. “Okay, fine. I know a guy. Better?”

  I smile back. “Nah, he’s not worth the effort.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Andrew Mulroney, Esquire,” I say in a hoity-toity accent, miming the motion of drinking tea with my pinky finger in the air.

  “Ah, a lawyer,” Dad says dismissively. “I know the type.”

  “Wait, I know that name,” Mom says, tapping her black-manicured nails on her notebook. “Why do I know that name?”

  I wave her comment away with the stem of my champagne flute. “He’s some celebrity divorce lawyer. Makes obscene amounts of money from busting up marriages.”

  “Yes!” my mom says in recognition, pointing her pen at me and waving. “I know him. He handled Gwen Vanderman’s divorce last year. She ended up getting everything.”

  “Everything but Bob, and he was the most decent thing about her,” my dad mutters.

  “Gwen called him a boy genius. Made partner at an exceptionally young age,” my mom says, shifting attention back to her iPad. “He’s a good connection for you to have.”

  “For what?” I ask incredulously. “I don’t even have a boyfriend, and you’re already planning my divorce?”

  “This city’s all about networking,” Mom says distractedly. “Never hurts to align yourself with powerful people.”

  “Oh, Andrew and I are aligned, all right,” I say, standing to refill my mimosa. “Him at one end of the battlefield, me at the other.”

  “My money’s on you, sweetie,” my dad says loyally.

  I turn back around, intending to ask if they want to go see the new exhibit at the Guggenheim.

  I open my mouth, then shut it again when I see that my mom’s on the phone and my dad’s face is buried once more in his newspaper.

  I head with my mimosa toward the kitchen to chat with Linda.

  I’m not sure either parent notices when I leave.

  Andrew

  MONDAY, 4:45 A.M.

  Andrew Mulroney pushed through the revolving doors of his apartment building and out into the dark Monday morning drizzle.

  It was one of the few times in his adult life that he was off schedule, fifteen minutes earlier than usual, but if he had to be out of his routine, better to be ahead of schedule than behind.

  One of his clients was in Bali on her “divorce-moon,” whatever the hell that was, and the time difference necessitated him getting into the office earlier than usual if he hoped to catch her on the phone before her cocktail hour.

  He didn’t mind. Fifteen minutes were nothing in the grand scheme of things.

  Although…

  These days, fifteen minutes in the early morning hours meant the difference between seeing Georgiana Watkins and not seeing her. His earlier-than-usual morning meant that he’d miss her today, and thank God for that.

  The socialite was everything that he abhorred. Self-indulged, flighty, useless…ridiculous.

  And yet…Andrew took a sip of his chocolate protein shake, pausing to dig his umbrella out of his bag, trying to ignore his inconvenient thoughts.

  Thoughts that told him his feelings about missing Georgiana this morning had a lot more to do with disappointment than with relief.

  It wasn’t like he wanted to see her, and yet there was just something about the woman that got to him. He had no use for pampered princesses who shopped during the days and partied their nights away. And yet there was an irritating kindness to her—a warmth that she bestowed upon everyone who crossed her path.

  Except for him.

  He popped open his umbrella, annoyed with himself.

  Andrew had just started in the direction of his gym when a flash of yellow caught his eye. He glanced up, watching as the taxi door opened and one high-heeled sandal emerged, followed by a shapely female calf.

  The woman stepped onto the sidewalk, wobbling just the slightest bit on the skyscraper heels as she slammed the taxi door shut.

  Andrew dragged his gaze up the slim legs and mostly bare thighs, all the way up to the light brown waves.

  His throat went a bit dry. Apparently he wasn’t going t
o miss Ms. Watkins this morning after all.

  Georgiana was waving goodbye at the departing taxi. No doubt she’d become best friends with the driver. She was also holding her usual pink box filled with donuts, or cupcakes, or whatever junk food nightmare she insisted on stuffing the front-desk guys with.

  Andrew watched her for a moment and contemplated crossing the street to spare them both. Yes. He’d do that.

  Just as he was about to turn away before she could spot him, she took a step forward, not quite stumbling, but not exactly steady either.

  His eyes narrowed. Just unsteady on the high heels, or…?

  Georgiana hiccupped, the sound echoing in the quiet morning.

  Jesus.

  The ridiculous girl was intoxicated. He waited for the annoyance, but felt only…protectiveness.

  Still, he glanced around for the doorman, who was paid handsomely to deal with such situations. But there was nobody on the sidewalk but Georgiana and himself.

  She took another step, another wobble. Not quite stumbling, just a little unsteady, like a foal taking its first steps. Andrew figured the chances of her making it across the slick pavement and the slick marble of their building’s foyer without tumbling were about fifty-fifty. Her gait was pathetically slow, and the rain was coming harder, plastering the short, bright blue dress to slim curves.

  He moved toward her before he could rethink it. She glanced up as he approached, wide brown eyes blinking up at him through wet, spiky lashes.

  He expected some sort of slurred put-down, but instead she gave a dismayed sigh. “I’m late. I thought I was early, but I’m late.”

  “What?” Andrew asked irritably as he held the umbrella over her. He started to walk toward the building, but she’d skidded to a halt, apparently trying to dig something out of her purse. “Where’s my phone? I need to see what time it is.”

  He rolled his eyes and glanced at his watch. “It’s four forty-seven.”

  Her nose scrunched. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” he said, carefully hiding a smile.

  “How?”

  “Because I know how to tell time, and because I’m now late.”