by Amanda Adair
“Daughter. She’s four years old, almost five.”
Tammy knows very well that it’s a daughter and not a son. She says that on purpose, to make you angry, because you didn’t take her with you. Because you didn’t choose her but Penelope. And now you’re choosing me.
“Wow, so old,” Tammy says. “I think I saw a picture on your Instagram.”
Piper’s Instagram is public, which means Tamara either just types the link with her username into the browser or she does have a profile. One that doesn’t show her identity. Is she trying to hide her boring life from everybody who’s fled her town? Is that the reason I couldn’t find her profile? She deleted her TikTok (her videos were just embarrassing), Facebook, Pinterest and many more. Why though?
“You should visit us in New York sometime,” you say.
It’s just a phrase, isn’t it? You don’t really want her to visit you. You’re a fancy New Yorker now, you made it, you left town and you don’t want to be involved in their drama and problems anymore, don’t you?
“I’d love to,” Tammy answers. Of course she’d love to, that way she can forget her miserable life for a second.
I’m glad when Tammy says goodbye, and we continue our photoshoot for Instagram. Taking photos of you, and sometimes me, is the only thing we do that afternoon and evening. We also go to a restaurant, but there we take more photos of ourselves, the food and the food with your phone, lipstick, freshly manicured hand and the table decoration next to it there. You would like to be instafamous. It takes no profiler to understand that. We have some burgers and fries, cheesecake for the dessert, and you order some beer. Even when we drive back to the airport you insist in taking a photo in front of the departure board. As soon as we start our five-hour flight you fall asleep.
Thank god. I need a few minutes of silence to plan my next steps.
7
Back in New York City
This job is the most boring irrelevant shit I’ve ever done. And I’ve done lots of irrelevant shit in school already. I do the bare minimum and I try not to get into trouble. I try to be polite and remain one of the popular ones at the company, but Amber, my team member and your so to say roommate at the office, is getting obsessed with me. That’s the downside of being the pretty one, the popular one, the one who glowed up – there’s people who are way too interested in you. I don’t mind her buying the exact same blazer that I wore a few weeks ago. How do I know it’s the exact same blazer? It costs five hundred Dollars and it’s green. Grass-green. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a black blazer. No one sells those grass-green blazers with a golden brooch except one particular online store based in Japan. I don’t know how she figured out where I got it from. Probably she sneaked into my office while I was at Benissimo getting two paninis to go. I left my blazer at the office. It’s summer, it’s hot and humid, and only freaks go out in the sun with a blazer that could reveal sweat patches. Back to the actual topic. I don’t mind Amber buying this blazer, I don’t mind her trying to copy me, but I do mind her trying to find out more details about me and my life. She googled me. Well, she googled Blair Morgan. Luckily, Blair Morgan isn’t a unique name. When you google it, there’s some motocross stuff popping up. Blair Morgan is not on Social Media. There’s no Instagram, no Twitter, no Pinterest with my name. And I do my best to keep it that way. Get over it, Amber. There’s absolutely no hint at who I really am. She won’t find out anything. But I don’t like her to try. I don’t like her to test me.
It’s been a tough week at work. I almost died out of boredom plenty of times, so I’m glad about some entertainment and drama at Bruna’s birthday party. Another thing I’m glad for is the food. There’s Food in all shapes, tastes and colors, finger food or gourmet food. Blair doesn’t have her party on a Friday or Saturday, no, on a Thursday. Why, you ask? Because she doesn’t have a proper job. That’s why. She doesn’t know what it’s like to go work every day, eight hours a day, forty hours a week. Or in our case, Piper, about four hours a day. We have kids, we can’t go to work all day. And I don’t know for sure what’s worse, work or a kid.
Of course, you chose the red dress. The one I told you looks more like your style. You listen to me. Love it.
“By the way, you look stunning,” I say to you while we simultaneously grab a few cheese sticks and dip them into the spicy red sauce. “The red one’s the right choice.”
“Where’s Bruna?,” you ask.
We’re at her thirteen-thousand-Dollars apartment on the Upper East Side. Her apartment, her whole life and her friends have that Gossip Girl vibe. That’s your thing, isn’t it? You love the glamour, the drama and the luxury. This is the lifestyle you think you deserve, the kind of friends you want and the type of parties you’d like to be invited to.
After we grabbed some more mozzarella sticks we sit on a sofa next to some of Bruna’s friends.
“Blair,” Connor says. He’s the Nate Archibald kind of guy, one of Bruna’s friends who’s had ups and downs. “You look great today.”
This short ocean blue dress is my favorite for parties. Guys love it and girls always ask me where I got it from. The answer’s mostly: Online. Going shopping, actually walking into stores with their employees who creepily smile at you and follow you, makes me nervous. I don’t like being followed or stared at or advised. I know what I want. I don’t need some customer service representative bitch named Sherry to tell me what to wear or buy, what fits me and what doesn’t. I hate it when they tell ten times a minute that their name’s Sherry and you need to remember to say Sherry’s advised you at checkout, so they get commission.
“Is he hitting on you?,” you whisper into my ear.
“He always does that,” I whisper back.
“You too,” I say to Connor, who sits on the opposite side of the sofa on another sofa that looks exactly the same. Grey and modern. “The suit’s new, isn’t it?”
He nods. “The store you sent me is amazing.”
I wink at him. Tall, brunette and rich Connor is one of those guys who desperately want to be with you even though you have a kid. Not many guys can cope with single moms. They want to be the first ones you marry, the first ones you produce a human being with, and then they dump you anyway because you gained a few pounds during pregnancy. It’s obvious that a child makes me less attractive for others on the dating market. I just never thought about it when I was younger. I had no idea a child would probably shy away many hot guys when I’m in my mid-twenties. Whatever, I’m not looking for a guy. Also, it’s much more complicated to be one of the popular ones with a child but no hot husband around. I told Kye and I tell everyone who asks me that Kye’s dad is a Norwegian-British guy, currently living in Melbourne who’s a business owner of an investment company that operates online. It isn’t true – it’s actually quite far from the truth – but it sounds nice. Blair Morgan’s story doesn’t need to be true, it just needs to be interesting and believable. Of course, Kye doesn’t understand what an investment company is and has no understanding of how far away Melbourne actually is. I can’t tell him the truth. The truth makes me sick. Luckily I have a vast imagination and I’m good at remembering the lies I’m telling.
“You work at this blog together?,” Connor asks us.
“Lalamilan,” you say proudly.
Why are you so proud to work at this place? You want to apply elsewhere.
“What’s that again?,” the girl next to Connor asks. “I’ve never heard of that.”
Ouch, I’m glad Paola doesn’t hear this. The young socialites, the elite of Manhattan, the Upper East Side brats (no, not brats, I honestly like those guys), they don’t know lalamilan. Too bad for Paola. I get it. I didn’t know the blog existed until you started working there, Piper. I thought you’d find something else, something… well, not better, but less lousy. I checked your emails back then. You really applied for literally everything but only a few invited you for an interview. In the end lalamilan was the only company willing to hire you. Paola
saved you from unemployment. Not that she knew, but you know, and I know. And now, out of nowhere, you feel like you deserve more. Where does all your enthusiasm, your confidence, come from? Nobody wanted to hire you a year ago, why would they now? What do you bring to the table?
“I love that song,” you suddenly say as soon as we all listen to Camila Cabello’s voice coming from those four speakers in each corner of the spacious living room.
You start singing along, get up, smile at me and grab my hand. We start dancing, and after Shawn’s voice joins Camila you hop onto the coffee table and drag me with you. Why not, I think, the table is of high quality and should tolerate our skinny bodies on top of it. We’re moving around, fooling around, until the song’s over.
“NOOO,” you say. “Not yet.”
I wonder how many drinks you’ve had this time. I always keep an eye on you, but you just can’t be that drunk from two sparkling wines.
“Does anybody know where Bruna is?,” I ask those around us.
“Upstairs,” Georgina says who sits next to Connor.
“Thanks,” I say and smile back.
We walk upstairs, hug Blair and give her the huge bouquet we bought at a cute flower shop in Brooklyn and an envelope with money. It’s the flower shop where Joe once bought roses for you on Valentine’s Day. That was the only occasion, the only time ever, that he bought you flowers. If I ever start a relationship I want to be showered with roses. I want loads of roses for breakfast. As I watch you and Bruna talk I realize I haven’t figured out what to do with you, Sure, I have a rough idea. I now a few ways to get even with you. Well, not even. Nothing can balance out what you’ve done to me. I don’t want to be full of rage anymore. I want to let go. And I can as soon as I know what to do with.
“Blair,” Bruna says, and I wake up. You two look at me, full of expectation. “I told Piper I want a pool party.”
She doesn’t have a pool, but I know what she means. We’ve done it many times.
“Let’s go,” I say and start undressing myself.
We make our way through the crowd of people that stand on the stairs and in the corridor that leads to her bedroom. A guy and a girl make out on her huge four-poster bed that looks like one from a princess movie. You follow us, but your facial expression tells me you’re still wondering where the pool is hidden. When we reach the spacious balcony outside of Bruna’s bedroom our skin is only covered with a bra and a thong. Bruna loves red underwear, I like delicate and light colors like white, blue and pink. What do you think of my bralette now, Piper, huh?
“Oh,” you make as you watch us relax in the whirlpool.
You’re fun on the outside, prudish on the inside. Why are you just standing there? Get rid of your dress and heels and join us. Are you shy?
“Piper, come on,” Bruna invites you.
The water’s hot and it massages my skin, my back, my butt. It’s Bruna’s tradition to spend some time in the whirlpool whenever she throws a party at her apartment. I assume she does that every day. We have a beautiful view over Manhattan, Central Park and the skyline above.
“I love this view, Bruna,” I say and look at the deep blue sky and the numerous stars that look like freckles. I look forward to not having to cover up my freckles anymore.
“Me too.”
In the corner of my eye I see that you start undressing. You’ve hesitated a few minutes. I knew your easy-going attitude is just a façade. You’re wearing a black hipster and a black and pink push-up bra even though you already have C cups. You had those when we first met. You sit down next to me. Once again, our thighs touch. Bruna sits on the other side of the whirlpool. She closed her eyes. Her back faces the skyline. I guess she doesn’t need to look at it since she can just come out here every damn day. Or maybe she wants me to take a picture of her. I don’t have my phone with me.
“I didn’t expect this,” you say. “This is so great.” You turn around to some guy that appeared at the door. He stares at us and lights a cigarette. “Hey, you, can you bring us some drinks?“ It’s a mystery how you can be all shocked first and then suck it up and be all bitchy again.
“Why don’t you get them yourself?,” the guy who leans at the window facade says.
“Because I’m half naked in a whirlpool,” you counter.
He’s one of the bad guys. He’s wearing all black, his hair is medium length and combed back and he has a beard. I think he’s the brother of some girl who’s friends with Bruna.
“That’s your fault,” he’s teasing you. “I didn’t ask you to remove your clothes.”
“But now you benefit from it,” you argue. “You’ve been staring at us.”
“I’ve been admiring you,” he says and looks at each of us.
“Don’t make me blush,” Bruna says. Her eyes are still closed.
“You can join us,” you say. It’s not a suggestion, it’s a plea. You want him to join you. Is that how you choose the guys you consume? You just pick one while you’re basically naked?
The guy grinds out his cigarette, which lands on the ground and will be picked up by Bruna’s cleaning lady the next day. He removes his shirt and his black trousers, his boots and socks, then jumps into the whirlpool.
“I’m Piper,” you say. Please don’t say your last name, I beg. Just leave it.
“Cool,” he says. He closes his eyes and leans back.
What a great conversation. But you don’t care, Piper, that he doesn’t really show interest in you. I know what you think. You expect him to be one of those rich guys downstairs with their boat shows, Ralph Lauren shirts and law degrees. You think he’s rich and that’s why you look at him. You didn’t like being with Joe because he’s an average guy with an average job, averagely handsome looks and a below average income. Your thigh swims away from mine, closer to his. Congrats, you found yourself one of the guys at this party who are broke. I won’t tell you. I’m not here to protect you, remember.
I can see his hands on your thighs even though the water is bubbling. Bruna’s opened her eyes and stares at your legs as well. I try to make eye contact with her. As our eyes meet we understand each other immediately. We move towards each other and in the middle of the whirlpool we kiss. Bruna presses her smooth lips against mine. A few moments later we get up and leave you and Mr. I’m-broke-but-sexy alone.
About half an hour later you and Malcolm walk downstairs. Bruna told me that guy is Malcolm Johnson, drug addict and dealer, brother of Lola, son of Alaric Johnson. Both Malcolm and Alaric are broke, not currently but permanently. Just Lola managed to build up her own business and now lives in Argentina. You should rather try to make a move on her. We all know you just slept with Malcolm in a whirlpool, maybe even in Bruna’s bed or shower, who knows. Just please don’t try to get pregnant before checking the guy’s bank account.
“Hey,” you say and sit down on my lap while Malcolm walks outside of the room.
That’s the kind of thing you did with Penelope. Trying to tease guys by flirting with your female friends.
“Hi,” I say. “Happy?”
“Completely,” you say and look around, but your lover has just left this party, without you and probably without saying goodbye.
“Do you have his number?” I could tell you he’s a dead loss and not the jackpot but nah.
You nod and show me your right wrist. There it is, his phone number, written in a horrible handwriting.
8
“I’m so sorry.” I’m so not sorry.
“I saw some of the other applicants in the lobby, they were shit compared to me,” you say and put your hair into a ponytail. You always keep an elastic on your wrist. “Maybe one of the others is related to someone.” You look down and squint. “That’s it.”
Maybe that’s where I have my bad language from. You. You are truly my source of inspiration when it comes to all evil. You sit on the other side of the kitchen table in your apartment, with a cup of hot chocolate and lots of marshmallows on top in your hands. Kye a
nd Dana Isabella play in the living room. They’re so excited. It’s Dana Isabella’s birthday next week and she’s going to invite some kids from school. The school Kye’s going to attend soon. I can’t wait to get to know the other moms. They’re probably a lot older than us and not fond of single moms.
“Maybe it’s because of your experience,” I say. “You’ve only worked at lalamilan for a year. That’s not much.”
You didn’t get the job. Am I surprised? No. Maybe you weren’t even shortlisted. I just wanted to be sure. Four out of five employers do one thing before they consider hiring you or even before they invite you for an interview: They google your name. In between all those search results about NYU graduate Piper Lucrezia Flores, twenty-five years old, according to her Instagram a huge fan of Rita Ora and Gossip Girl I slid in some scandalous photos of you in a bikini, sticking out your tongue. I didn’t have to photoshop anything, you have plenty of offensive half-naked photos of yourself on your phone and computer and iPad and in the cloud. I uploaded some of the most hilarious photos on a dating website, a cheap one to be precise. Also, you rarely use Twitter these days, so I changed your Twitter bio from “Piper Flores, journalism graduate and project manager at lalamilan” to “Piper Flores, journalism graduate, who wants to f*ck needs to be friendly”. Not even someone as stupid as lifestyle blogger and so-called CEO Paola Bianchi would hire you with such a stupid phrase in one of your profiles online. A few days later I made those search results and their originals disappear. You didn’t google your own name during those days. I kept you busy.
“But the job was explicitly for graduates,” you argue.
You look so puzzled. You really don’t understand how anyone would not want to hire you.
“Hey,” I say. “Let’s just prepare Dana Isabella’s birthday party and not think about the job. Alright?”
You nod. “Yeah, anyway there are so much better jobs out there.”