by Avery Aster
“I’ve spoken to Lex, Auntie Muffie, and now you today. You ladies are my home.” Taddy’s throat grew tight. Family topics made her queasy.
“Gotcha, girlie.” Vive burped. “Screw Christmas. Let’s talk about next week. Debauchery is slated to co-sponsor a New Year’s Eve party on South Beach with Farnworth’s Firewater, but I’m backing out.”
“Why?”
“SoBe parties are aspirational. No real movers and shakers for my magazine’s image.” Vive laughed. “Not enough for me to be seen on Lincoln Road. You get what I’m sayin’?”
“That’s Miami, darling.” She reached over and took a sip from the detox beverage and made a face. It was too damn grainy and bitter. Baden executives, this isn’t going to sell.
“I’m staying in Anguilla with my brother and his dippy wife. If everything turns out okay with Birdie—and it will—do you and Lex wanna jet down?”
“Oh, I’d love to. But I don’t want to get my hopes up.” Hope and Christmas didn’t go together for her. Taddy hoped to have heard from her parents. Fooled again. Taddy hoped she could go a year without Birdie drama. She didn’t come close. Her dream to spend that week in the warm sun, topless and admiring hot male bodies who in return admired her—shit, Taddy didn’t score that either. Canada? I still don’t flippin’ believe this.
“Understandable. My folks have their pilot on standby to fly back to New York if Birdie…you know.”
“I see…” Taddy noticed for the first time that Vive, the fastest mouth in Manhattan, had fallen silent. She did, too. Dumbfounded over their loss for what to say next, she ended their talk with, “Call you tomorrow, honey.”
Taddy hung up then finished the Baden Cosmetics detox beverage. It tasted as close to shit as she ever wanted to come. She showered the mud off her body. Once in bed, she tried to sleep. Nightmares about being abandoned woke her at midnight, again at three and five a.m. Just when she dozed off once more, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Taddy, I’m dying,” Birdie cried.
The doctor was ready to give his diagnosis.
“Eddie, I’m coming. I’ll be dead by year’s end,” Birdie chanted over and over again, as if it were lyrics from one of her songs. She stayed for seven days, being observed, tested, and analyzed. Medical reports concluded the same as what Dr. Fassenbender had speculated: Birdie did not have Stevens-Johnson syndrome, but rather acne rosacea—a mild case, no less. Brought on by an at-home peel application she’d stolen from her local plastic surgeon’s office on East 63rd Street. She’d made it all worse with a Crème de La Switzerland night cream application, which had expired ages before, but she was too cheap to replace.
“When I finish with you, you’ll wish you were dead,” Taddy mumbled to herself in Birdie’s direction. Concord Van General Hospital charged $175,253.84 to her American Express and somehow she managed not to even blink. She questioned herself as to why she even got involved to begin with. Dr. Fassenbender was right. Why didn’t she listen to him? When Taddy looked over at Lex, she remembered it was all for her. Not Birdie. Acne rosacea aside, this stunt didn’t hide the fact that Birdie was still in pain from losing Eddie. This was a cry for help, and an expensive one at that.
Tempted to tell Birdie off, she excused herself and went to the ladies’ room. This one takes the cake of all buttercream-frosted cakes to take. Jesus. I don’t ask for much in life. I don’t get much in life. But you owe me. I’m not keeping a scorecard or anything, but you better write this puppy down. She splashed her face with cold water and then texted Kiki to confirm Birdie’s seat on the plane ride home. Taddy didn’t want to see her, let alone sit by her. Birdie sat in the last row, middle seat, near the lavatory in economy.
Booked in first class, Lex scoured over Harper’s Bazaar and ate sugar candy. Taddy required a good laugh and watched the movie My Man Godfrey. She identified with the character Irene Bullock, an all-over-the-place socialite desperate for love who falls for her butler, a man who cared for her every need. However, did a man similar to William Powell’s character really exist? Taddy felt clueless as to how such devotion felt, but the desire for a man similar to Mr. Godfrey Park was starting to increase.
December 30th
JFK Airport, Queens New York
An Air Canada flight attendant came over the aircraft intercom when they landed back home and announced, “Good morning, and welcome to JFK International Airport. The local time is 8:10 a.m. The temperature in New York City is minus fifteen degrees. From your entire flight crew, have a happy holiday wherever your final destination may take you.”
“Why is New Year’s Eve always the coldest week of the year in this city?” She grabbed her Louis Vuitton roller bag off the carousel and noticed an advertisement above the signage. The slogan read, “Leave Your Socks at Home. Dance Barefoot in the Caribbean This Season.” It spoke to Taddy as if she’d penned the damn jingle herself. “Lex,” she whispered over to her friend who drooled at the poster. “Are you thinking what I am?”
“Give me ten minutes.” Lex picked up Birdie’s luggage, then grabbed her mother’s arm.
“Alexandra!” Birdie shouted as Lex tugged at her old mink coat, one Eddie had bought for her when he’d won his first Grammy.
“Let’s go outside, Mother.” Lex marched Birdie to the taxi stand.
Taddy watched from the windows. Lex put Birdie in a yellow cab and shouted to the driver, “Manhattan.” Slamming her fist down on the car’s hood, Lex gave a tight smile. “Happy New Year, Mother!” A quick turn and she was headed back inside Terminal Seven, determined to go someplace warm.
“This is why we remain friends.” Taddy hugged her.
Away from Birdie, Lex broke down once they reached the check-in area. “I’m sorry my mom ruined our Christmas.” She pulled Taddy into a nearby bathroom.
“It’s not the first holiday she’s messed up.” Disgusted at their getup, Taddy frowned at the bathroom mirror. “We look like shit.” They’d flown for over seven hours. She reached for some facial tissues.
“Remember my dad on Thanksgiving?” Lex chuckled. She had a way of seeing humor even through the bad times. “My mom didn’t always ruin our special times. Dad ruled as king of wreck-the-holidays long before her.”
“How could I forget? We must’ve been ten or eleven. Eddie, may he rest in peace, with his own rock-n-roll float in the Macy’s parade.” She held onto the sink to brace herself while she fixed the sock riding up in her snow boot.
“NBC producers didn’t expect to secure such an erotic pan shot. My dad being ridden by his backup singer as fifty million viewers tuned in at home.” Lex laughed.
“It’s nice to see you smile again.” As they crept closer to thirty, it became easier to poke fun at their childhood.
“I promise I’ll pay you back, Taddy, for my mom’s hospital visit…I will. Easton Essentials is taking off. The money will flow in soon.”
“Darling, if Birdie had kicked it six feet under, I’d say not to worry about reimbursement.” She pulled her close, fixing her hair and whispered, “With Birdie living on to wreak havoc, you’ll return every dollar plus ten-percent interest.”
Lex pulled back. “You understand why Mom is this way, don’t you?” Tears streamed down her porcelain face.
“Eddie.” Taddy wiped her friend’s cheeks. Their parents’ bad choices sewed a common thread between them. Birdie had become Eddie’s fashion doll and life sacrifice. Her mother, Countess Irma, had lost herself and Taddy as her daughter a long time before. Taddy couldn’t discern which felt worse: Birdie being a nut job, but still keeping one foot in the game, or her mother sitting penthouse classy, going along with whatever her husband demanded but abandoning her kid. Either way, both women had left scars.
Lex shook her head and tried to answer her own question. “Yes…promise me something, Taddy.” Her best friend gazed at her with an expectation.
“Sure. Anything.”
“It’s obvious men screwed up our mother’s
lives.”
“True.”
“Let’s do what Manhattanites do best. Focus on our careers, not let a man ruin our opportunities for happiness.”
“Umm, duh.” To such an uncomplicated bestie request, she reassured, “No problem. We’ll swear off men together for future dating and relationships. But I’m still using ‘em for sex.” Taddy pushed her friend’s honey-colored bangs back one last time and positioned her to face the mirror. “Let’s try to have some fun.” She handed Lex a Baden Cosmetics lip gloss tube in the shade Double Penetration.
“Taddy, have you ever noticed as we get older we look more alike?” Jaw up, Lex leaned in and tilted her head to the side.
“We’ve always had similar bone structure, but different hair color. It’s the New York water.” Taddy smiled. “Let’s go.”
The departing monitors flashed two flights to tropical destinations.
“We have Palm Beach, Florida, or St. Barth’s, French West Indies. What’ll it be?” Taddy’s dream destination was made up, but she’d let Lex pick. She always did.
Lex made a slight sigh. “I don’t care. Anywhere warm and away from my mother. We can buy a few new outfits when we arrive.”
“I adore DILF porn, but not enough to go to Palm Beach. You?” Being mistaken as two young prostitutes strutting Worth Avenue wasn’t stacked in her good-time cards this holiday.
“What the heck is DILF porn?” Lex was so innocent, thanks to Birdie’s gilded cage.
“Dads I like to fuck. You never watch it?”
“Certainly not. What does your acronym have to do with Palm Beach?” Lex asked, looking to her for an answer.
“The men in PB are gonna be older than my great-granddaddy. I don’t wanna spend the night with them in their adult diapers.” She broke into a fit of laughter, which relieved much of the stress that had piled high over the past week.
Her friend rolled her eyes. “You’re twisted, and you get that, right?”
“Not like I meant MILF.” She raised her eyebrows, egging her on.
“Stop! Ignorance of adult movies is my bliss.” Lex shook her head.
“St. Barth’s it is.” Together, they pulled their roller bags toward the French West Indies Airlines ticket counter. “We have to tell Vive we’re coming her way.”
“Totally. She’ll kill us if we don’t.” Lex always tried to include everyone.
“Anguilla isn’t far. Maybe she can take a boat over.”
“I haven’t seen that Farnworth Firewater boat in years.” Lex laughed. “Is it still yellow?”
“Beats me.” Taddy was happy how this had turned out. She’d finally get some alone time with her friends. “Something tells me this is going to be a blast.”
She’d texted Kiki who cyber-chatted with DJ Dejon, who’d spun for a casino owner with several properties in the Leeward Caribbean Islands. The nightclub proprietor knew one hotel in St. Barth’s where three socialites could go to relax and be left alone, but they didn’t allow any celebrities or paparazzi. Kiki booked Taddy, Lex, and Vive under the code name Mademoiselle Red in a three-bedroom villa separated by a living quarters at Secrète de St. Barth, a Warner Truman five-star resort.
Taddy knew the hotel chain well. Brill, Inc. faced his midtown masterpiece, Truman Times Square. A large corporation, Truman Enterprises was synonymous with hotel excellence and first-class spa royalty.
Pussy Glamour
December 30th
St. Barth’s French West Indies
“Rielle, you are violating the restraining order. You can’t call here.” Warner had been pretty sure he’d hear from his ex-fiancée that week. The flowers gave warning. Christmas and New Year’s always brought out remorse.
“Being a dick is no way to start the New Year. I hoped…” She panted into the phone, sounding like a thirsty horse desperate for water. Her Texan twang grated on his nerves.
“I don’t care what you wished. We ended ‘us’ a while ago. Move on.” He unfastened his top button and rubbed his neck. Get lost, woman.
“Please, Warner. Give me another chance. We’ll be fine a second time around, as smooth as cream gravy.” Her voice grew louder. “I promise I have changed, honey pie.”
“Changed?” Warner laughed. “You’re a chameleon. One woman one minute, and another woman the next. I don’t trust you.” He looked at the ceiling fan and hit the remote to make the blade spin faster. Air, he needed air.
“I’m still the same sweet girl you fell in love with.” The bar noise behind her boomed, confirming she’d never change.
“The Rielle I cared for and loved spoke honest words—or so I thought.” He thought back to her championing his causes. She exuded poise and selflessness at the time. All fake.
“I’m still all those things and more…sugar.” She muffled the phone, perhaps to mute the racket.
He’d met Rielle when she volunteered for the Jacqueline Truman Foundation, a non-profit Warner had established in his late wife’s honor. Its purpose was to provide financial relief and treatment to those diagnosed with bone cancer, primarily for patients without health insurance. Warner appreciated Rielle’s unassuming ways. However, she’d identified him ages prior.
After they’d broken up, her friends admitted she’d stalked him for months in hopes of an accidental introduction. When that didn’t happen, she applied to the foundation for a coordinator position. Warner was taken aback by her good looks and desire to commit to the cause. Rielle’s story about how she’d lost her mother, Connie Bruni, to bone cancer created a bond between them.
On the contrary, Rielle’s intentions weren’t to help those in need, only herself. And Connie was alive and well, living in The Great Ranch Trailer Park in Fort Worth, Texas. Connie was cancer-free because she had never been diagnosed with the disease in the first place, all part of Rielle’s scam. “You based our entire courtship on some book you’d read.”
“Landing a Billionaire was a bestseller for a reason.”
“You tricked me.”
“It worked, didn’t it?” Rielle released a nervous giggle. She spoke shyly until he heard her snigger twist an inhale into an annoying snort. In an attempt to cover her piggy tone, she ticked off, “You’ve attended the rodeo before, Warner, haven’t you?”
“Sure have. Then your thoroughbred persona revealed its donkey likeness and our love affair was over.” Warner snarled, “Let’s recap.”
“No—”
“You tried to screw my brother.”
“Well.”
“Withdrew funds from my bank account.”
“I hoped to pay you back.”
“You’ve got two hundred thousand dollars you can give me?” He didn’t think so.
“I could.”
“Let’s not forget the biggest shitter of them all.”
“Stop.”
“Faking a pregnancy to secure our engagement.” His hands gripped the phone tight. He didn’t realize he’d get so worked up again over her, but he did.
Rielle released a puff of air over the line. “Why, I never…” She cleared her throat, ramping up for a second attempt. “Plenty of time has gone by for you…to cool down. You should be as calm as a June bug, sugar.” Rielle pressed on. “I’m fixin’ to swing by your St. Barth’s home tomorrow. We can talk about us in person.”
“Stay in Dallas. There is no us.”
“I’m not in Texas, baby. I’m at the Delano in Miami.” Amused with herself, she snorted, twice.
“You are not welcome here.” Warner leaned close to the desk’s edge. “We have nothing further to discuss. Please do not contact me again.” He smiled in hopes she’d hear the sincerity and conviction in his voice then offered, “Have a wonderful New Year’s, Rielle, and a great life. I’m hanging up now.”
“Sugar pie.”
“Good-bye.”
“Warner, I’m coming to St.—”
He returned the phone’s receiver to its cradle and rested his head on the desk.
Warner hadn�
��t visited Secrète de St. Barth’s in months. Not since he’d called off his nuptials to Rielle. He hadn’t done much lately, spent time with his family in Newport, Rhode Island, toured his hotel properties in Middle and Far East Asia, and spent the fall season in his favorite city in the world—Manhattan.
A knock sounded on the office door. “Come in.” It was Kip Von Scott, his general manager.
“My apologies for Rielle’s call,” Kip took ownership of the situation. “Our operator didn’t have your accepted phone number list when she patched her through.”
“It’s okay, Kip. The holidays make people nutty. Rielle would’ve flown down here if I didn’t talk to her.” Warner sat back in the chair as his heartbeat returned to normal. If his ex-fiancée was in Miami and flew to St. Barth’s, she’d arrive in three hours, assuming she’d probably connect in St. Maarten. He prayed that was just another Rielle threat. He didn’t want to see her face.
“Yes, sir.” Kip stepped farther into his own office, which Warner used during his visit.
“It’s nice to be back. Your team has kept the property in great shape.” Like most Manhattanites in his circle, he hated the snow and enjoyed St. Barth’s winters.
“We’re happy to have you with us this week.” Kip glimpsed around, his face showing he was missing his office.
“Thank you for offering your desk.” He smirked. “Who do we have staying with us this New Year’s?”
“The usual. Mr. and Mrs. Hayashi from Tokyo, the Yesikovs from St. Petersburg, and Chile’s prime minister is here, too. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
It didn’t take Warner’s MBA from Harvard University to ascertain when a property manager answered with a, “Nothing out of the ordinary,” to conclude something quite extraordinary had or would be taking place.
“Why did I see paparazzi when I came into the lobby a few hours ago?”
“Right…” Kip looked at the floorboards.
“Secrète de St. Barth’s retains a strict ‘no celeb’ policy.” Warner didn’t want that location to get lost to the Hollywood drama. He owned a mansion nearby. The island was as much his holiday getaway as his guests’ who came to relax. Each resort in the Truman Enterprise’s profile possessed different traits and characteristics. For example, Cannes, France exuded glamour. Bangkok, Thailand gave outstanding service, and this Caribbean castle ranked high in privacy and seclusion.