I got up from the floor and walked into the kitchen. “Like what?”
“A bidding war.” I could tell he was smiling on the other end of the line.
“Really?”
“Remember how I told you that the date-only package starts out at two grand an hour?”
“Yeah. I mean, yes.”
“Do you want to guess the number?”
“No, just tell me.”
“They pushed it to ten thousand an hour. And honestly, I think they could’ve gone higher, but I didn’t want to put too much pressure on you.”
I nearly dropped the phone. “Oh my God.” I felt lightheaded.
“I couldn’t believe it either. You’re the one. How does that feel?”
“A little scary…but sort of fantastic at the same time.”
“You’ll get used to it. So, we’re all set and you’re on from six to ten tonight. And let’s see…that’s forty grand, forty percent of that is sixteen thousand, minus your advance. Six thousand dollars, Kim. It’s all yours. You earned out and get to take home some extra, all in one date. No peach pie involved.”
I leaned up against the kitchen counter because I couldn’t hold myself upright. I shook all over (Pick this one, she vibrates!), except this time it was from pure excitement and relief, rather than fear and anxiety. “For four hours…”
“For four hours. All you have to do is show up, entertain him, look pretty, and you’re golden.”
The only thing I managed to say was, “Wow.”
“You’re meeting him at La Fleur, the French restaurant downtown. Don’t be late. And in fact, get there early. This one has a bit of an ego complex, so he’ll like the fact that you’re waiting on him.”
“Who is it?”
He chuckled. “Normally it’s my policy to tell employees up front who they’ll be working with. It’s good to have that heads-up so they’re not surprised. But…in this case, I don’t want you to be too nervous beforehand. It might be better if you just see him for the first time at the restaurant, you know? That way you can jump right into dinner without having time to give yourself the sweats.”
“Roman, don’t do that to me.”
“It’s better this way, trust me. You’ll do fine, you’ll be fine, you’ll look fine. Think of it this way; it’s a blind date and you have nothing to lose. There’s none of that pressure that comes with legitimate dating. You don’t have to worry about whether or not he’ll like you tomorrow and you don’t have to sit around staring at the phone for three days, waiting on him to call. There’s none of that.”
My mind went immediately to Finn. I didn’t mention the fact that I’d stared at my phone for weeks, practically begging for it to ring. I grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and took long, slow gulps. It didn’t matter how much Roman attempted to comfort me—the nervous thirst was unavoidable. Anticipation shuffled my nerves like a deck of cards.
Roman said, “Are you there?”
I swallowed the last of the water and wiped my mouth. “Yeah. Shit, I mean yes. Sorry, I keep forgetting.”
“You can relax about that. I made that up.”
Playfully, I said, “You’re such an ass.”
“That’s the fun part. Okay, so you’re good for tonight? You can get a babysitter, right?”
“Got her on speed dial.” Which was true, in a sense. A couple of days before, I’d gotten in touch with a sitting service, then found and interviewed a sweet elderly woman, named Gertie, who had no family in the area and could be ready on short notice. I’d promised to pay her an extra twenty-five dollars an hour to stay exclusive to us so there’d be no chance of having to scramble for someone else. She’d agreed without question.
“Good. Got yourself a new wardrobe? Lana did an amazing job, by the way.”
“Amazing? I looked freaking incredible.” There it was. The confidence had returned, somewhat, and it felt good.
“I couldn’t agree more. And if you’re as half as entertaining as you were in my office last week, you’ll do perfectly fine. Come by tomorrow for your check.”
We said our goodbyes and hung up, then I thought about something he’d said.
Entertaining. It was an interesting word choice and made me wonder if he’d been onto my game the whole time. Had he known all along that I was putting up a front? Had he intended to give me more than the usual cut from the very beginning? Had he made me work for it? Had he acted the way he did on purpose, giving me an opportunity to find my inner strength while he pretended that I’d thoroughly destroyed him?
I chose to believe it wasn’t true. I chose to believe that I was as good as I thought I was.
And that made all the difference in everything that would come later.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Gertie arrived at five-thirty, and Joey lit up when he saw her at the front door. It was a relief because I’d worried that getting away for the evening would be a problem. Not so. He didn’t even act that way around Dreama, which gave me a nice dose of petty solace.
Ha…ha. Take that, Dreama.
I knew it was an infantile reaction. I didn’t care.
I wore the gorgeous red gown that the snooty clerk had assured me I couldn’t afford and a pair of red, open-toe pumps that matched perfectly. I had my hair up to show off the small diamond earrings I’d splurged on—at a heavy discount sale—and a pretty necklace. Lana had insisted that my neck was fabulous and an updo would be the best way to show it off.
Listen to the experts. They got that way for a reason.
Gertie looked me up and down, whistled, and said, “My, my. Would you just look at that? You better be glad I don’t have your curves, little lady. Otherwise that dress would be coming home with me.”
“It looks great, doesn’t it?”
“Honey, ‘great’ ain’t the word for it. You just be sure that whoever he is, you help him pick his tongue up off the floor when he sees you.”
“Oh, I don’t have a date. I’m going to work.”
“In that?”
“It’s part of the job.”
“You have to wear something like that to work? What are you, a model?”
“No, I’m a profess—” I caught myself mid-word, realizing that I’d forgotten such a minor detail. My job—the fake one—hadn’t come up during the interview with Gertie because we’d been so focused on her qualifications and Joey’s needs. “I’m a professional hostess at La Fleur. They want us to look our best for the customers.”
“That fancy restaurant downtown? Well, I can believe it. I’d never have the money to eat there.”
“Oh, gosh. I wouldn’t either,” I said, which was a total lie, or would be after tomorrow. “I just show the rich people where to sit.”
With an impish grin, Gertie said, “I’d like to tell ‘em where they could sit, too,” and I’m sure she didn’t mean at a table. Somewhere hotter, and eternal, probably.
“I should be back by ten-thirty at the latest. And thanks, Gertie. I really appreciate you being available on such short notice.”
The first inkling of guilt didn’t show up until I closed the front door behind me. I was leaving my son, with a stranger, to go sell myself for a night. What kind of mother was I? Did it matter that I was doing what was necessary? And it was only a date, for God’s sake. I couldn’t imagine the level of regret I’d have if I agreed to something more for a client.
Necessity builds the structure, but reality shakes the ground beneath it.
***
With ten minutes to spare, I walked through the front doors of La Fleur and stood among the throng of people waiting to be seated. I’d never been, obviously, but I’d heard stories of how insane the demand was for a table there.
Contrary to popular custom, they didn’t take reservations, so it was almost a badge of honor if you showed up one evening and managed to get seats without waiting for hours.
A while back, months ago, when I was daydreaming about the possibilities with Finn, I’d read
an article about the place in a local magazine called Flavor. In the interview, the owner talked about how the elite, rich members of the community had created a game between themselves, assigning points based on how often they were able to get a seat in under an hour. The less they had to bribe the host or hostess for a table, the more points they earned. As of a few months ago, when the article ran, they were still trying to declare a winner.
While I waited—and considering the fact that I had no idea whom I was waiting for—I looked around the restaurant, hoping to get a feel for the atmosphere and to gauge how all the diners were behaving. Were they quiet? Did they have perfect posture? Did they hold their wine glasses a certain way? Was I dressed the same or better? Were the women eating salads while the men ate whatever they wanted?
From what I saw, the answer was yes to all. I could tell that I was dressed more elegantly than most, and there were some wandering eyes on me because of it. The only noticeable gap between my falsified stature and their real one was the fact that my diamonds were quite a few carats smaller. Many, many carats less. My earrings could be used to punctuate the end of a sentence, while most of theirs could be used as priceless golf balls.
I made a mental note to revisit the jewelry store once I’d been on a few more “dates.” If it meant projecting the proper image, it had to be done. Maybe I could write it off as a business expense. (I knew better, but I debated looking it up.)
The restaurant itself smelled delicious—its air so heavy and thick with the scent of food that it was almost tangible enough to bite and chew. My tummy grumbled and I prayed no one had heard it. Unlikely, due to the incessant chatter going on around me.
I listened to mumbled complaints about how long they’d been waiting, whether it was worth it, and also to a man who had been steadily increasing the amount of his bribe to the hostess. If I overheard correctly, he made it to just below three hundred dollars before she picked up two menus and said, “Right this way, please,” which was followed by a chorus of whispered boos and a sea of shaking heads.
I watched them stroll into the dining room, where the music was low enough to provide atmosphere. It had paintings of the French countryside and rows of grapes on the dark red walls. They weaved through the tables with white tablecloths, past couples eating steaks and salads, nibbling at their desserts, and clinking their wine glasses together. Probably toasting how much money they had.
I was excited to be there—to be a part of it—yet disgusted by the opulence at the same time. It was magnificent, glorious, and…such a waste. Blame it on the fact that I had been rigorously watching my expenses for so long, but I could think of a thousand different, and better, things that I could’ve spent their money on. Perhaps if, and when, I had some of it myself, I’d look at it differently. Does money change people or their perception of the world? Or is it the same thing?
As I said, the waiting area was packed nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, but I felt a presence beside me, as if someone had sidled up closer to me than all the rest. Next came a voice in my ear, low but mixed with a hint of condescension. It said, “These rich bastards really put on a show for one another, don’t they?”
I turned to my right, intending to politely smile and nod, but then almost gasped when I saw who it was.
Eric Landers, the owner and CEO of a company called PayGrowth, who’d developed a software suite designed to be hip and cool, created specifically for twenty-somethings to help them manage their money. It was also tied to their social networks, which somehow encouraged social accountability. Within the software, there was a lot of language like, “Dude,” “Bro,” and “Awesomeness.” Two years ago, he had a staff of twenty and was in danger of shutting down until he caught the eye of some big time Wall Street gurus. A month ago, he sold PayGrowth for three and a half billion dollars.
I knew all of this because his was one of the startups recruiting me, before Marcus, before Joey. Eric Landers had been the only person that hadn’t cared that I’d gotten pregnant—but he couldn’t get my potential hiring past his board of directors. He’d been so nice to me at the time that I paid attention whenever his name popped up in the news.
“Hi, Kim,” he said.
“Eric, so nice to see you.” And it was, really. He was cute in that rich nerd sort of way. Somewhere in his early thirties and totally not dressed like anyone else there. He wore jeans, sneakers, and a collared shirt that wasn’t tucked. His tie was loose at the knot. His dark blue blazer looked like he’d stolen it off a sleeping hobo.
Very casual, his dress, but I suppose with almost four billion dollars in the bank, you can afford to not give a shit about what people think.
He must have noticed me examining his attire, because he said, “I hate ties, but there’s a dress code. When in Rome, right?”
“I know. I feel so out of place here.”
“You certainly don’t look it, that’s for sure. Are you meeting someone?”
“Yes.” I gave myself a small, mental pat on the back for remembering to say “yes” instead of “yeah,” even though now I knew I didn’t need to. I quickly tried to come up with a lie about who my date was, but figured the less I said, the less I’d have to remember. That’s how liars get caught. They try to fill in too much detail and then have trouble remembering the grandiose complexities of their stories. “First date jitters. I’m shaking like a leaf.”
“Been there before.” He smiled and pushed his glasses up higher on his nose. Small wire frames with thin lenses that were likely more for show than correction. I remembered that two years ago he was prematurely losing his hair, and now he’d shaved his head razor-bald. It was a good look. Under different circumstances, extremely different circumstances, I could see myself going out with him.
For a moment, I worried that whomever my “date” for the evening was would walk through the door and get offended that I was talking to another man, so I glanced past Eric’s shoulder to make sure I wasn’t getting any jealous glares from a lone male.
Satisfied I was in the clear, I turned back to Eric. “Congratulations on your sale. I always knew PayGrowth had potential,” I said, politely making small talk while I waited.
“Thanks. Yeah, it almost didn’t happen, but some guys came through at the zero hour and I walked away with an all-cash deal. And, the best part was, I managed to save everyone’s job in the takeover. It couldn’t have gone better.”
“Are you staying on to help run things? It has to be hard letting someone else take control of your baby.” My words hit me hard in the stomach when I thought about Joey at home with Gertie—who, as wonderful as she could be, was a complete stranger.
“Staying on? Pffft. No way. I’m done with it.”
“Really? Why? I thought you’d always stay down in the trenches. You were so passionate a couple of years ago.”
“Hah, well, that passion gave me two heart attacks before I was thirty-three.”
“Oh my God, seriously? Are you doing okay now?”
“Couldn’t be better. I took the money and walked—figured I had to before I croaked, you know? The way we structured the deal, I get a smaller payout each year to reduce the tax burden. It’s basically like winning the lottery and then taking the twenty-year payout instead of the lump sum.”
“Smart,” I said. I hadn’t discussed business since I walked across the stage at graduation. The familiarity of it was a welcome distraction, considering my date was now fifteen minutes late. But, Roman had said that the guy enjoyed it when people waited on him, so I didn’t mind hanging out with Eric until he showed up.
It never occurred to me that I was already talking to the man I was supposed to meet. Not until Eric said, “Hey, look, I don’t want to bore you with this stuff,” and then sidestepped over to the hostess. “Ariana, can you show us to our table, please?”
She grabbed two menus, smiled a big, bubbly smile and said, “Right this way, Mr. Landers.”
My toes went numb. The sound around me dulled to a quie
t hum. I could barely breathe.
Oh no. No, no, no. Eric Landers? God, I should’ve known this would happen.
I felt a mixture of shame, revulsion, and that unwelcoming sense of being caught doing something you shouldn’t be. I was angry, too, with Roman for putting me in this position. But was it misguided? Maybe he hadn’t known about my history with Eric. Maybe it was all coincidence.
Or maybe it wasn’t. Was that why he didn’t tell me who my first client would be?
Eric had to have seen my photos, recognized the bright girl from Stanford, and then informed Roman that he knew me and wanted the opportunity to meet. And considering my boss’s penchant for the almighty dollar, he’d most likely instigated the bidding war in an attempt to squeeze a few thousand more from Eric.
The bastard had used me.
I hated feeling used. I hated feeling like a tool in Roman’s arsenal, a bargaining chip to fill his coffers. Yes, I realized that I’d signed up for it—because really, that’s what employees are, right? Tools to get the job done for a profit. However, deliberately manipulating someone so they could have me for a few hours, for a higher price, was not okay. Not by any means.
It was business—that was all—but shady business nonetheless. Should I have expected anything different from Roman?
I almost stormed out of La Fleur. Almost.
I didn’t, because that would’ve been a breach of contract, and I didn’t have the money to pay Roman back for the advance. Surely he would drop me on the spot if I walked out on my very first client, pissed off and throwing a tantrum.
And besides, Eric was nice enough, it was only a date, and he’d paid for an evening with me.
Confronting Roman could wait.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Once Ariana had seated us at our table, I tried to play it cool, like we weren’t there together because he’d paid forty thousand dollars for the night. And if I tried hard enough, I was sure I could bury my shame. If this was another one of Roman’s tests, then I had to pass it with aplomb. When I was little, I’d wanted to be an actress, and that night was a perfect opportunity to revisit those old, forgotten dreams.
Her Last Chance Page 8