by Amanda Adair
You are selfish. You want pizza for lunch and everybody else wants burgers? Pizza it is. You decide. You get it your way all the damn time, so you don’t care what other people might want. The world, or at least the town you come from, revolves around you.
I get up and leave the door to your bedroom slightly open, only so much that I can hear you moving or waking up. For a second I’m unsure if I texted Nanny to stay overnight. I go to the living room, get my phone out of my purse to check if she knows where I am. Apparently I texted her when we were in the cab. I drank a lot yesterday, so I go to your bathroom and sit down on the toilet. On my phone I open Instagram to see what you’ve posted last night. In your story there are videos that show our colorful cocktails in the dark and our pretty faces when we danced. I honestly don’t remember dancing. When I put my phone down I see something on the other side of the bathroom. There’s something in your trashcan that for sure shouldn’t be here. I get up, pull up my panty and take a look at the white piece of plastic that you’ve thrown away.
A few days ago, I found a few bank transfers in your account. Joe Jensen. Steve Bricks. Chad Seibert. William van der Bijl. Hosni Abbar. Those are the names that appear most often. In your kitchen I found a bouquet of flowers in an antique vase. I had to look at the small card that was tied to it. I wonder what you tell them. Are they knowingly your sugar daddies or do you tell them you two are in a serious relationship? Are you registered on a website for sugar babies? I couldn’t find one. Do you tell them you have cancer, so they give you money? What are you up to, Piper Flores?
“Thanks for the great night - Chad,” was written on there in an illegible handwriting.
I thought you want to come back together with Joe, but I get the feeling that all you want are gifts, money, attention and simply someone to finance your stupid lifestyle. But most importantly money. The man I assume is William gave you a dress, and Steve is the one giving you dessous, but only slips, no bras. I haven’t figured out yet if you’re dating all of them or if everybody except Joe is your sugar daddy. Besides Joe none of them know you have a child, that’s for sure. Every time you meet one of them you let Nanny watch Dana Isabella. I came to your house to once after Hosni just left. Everything that could reveal your motherhood was hidden, Dana’s toys and clothes, and her room was locked. You really plan on taking men here and then erase Dana out of your apartment. You don’t want those men to know you’re a mother, so I guess you’re also not sharing your Instagram with them. It was like Dana doesn’t exist, like she’s disappeared. You did this tonight. When we got here it looked like the apartment of a young single rich brat. There are designer bags, lots of shoes and pizza cartons in the kitchen, but no hint at a child.
And today I find a used pregnancy test in your bathroom. I turn it around and stare at the tiny window that shows one line. The test is negative, but why would you think you could be pregnant or why want to get pregnant? The only logical answer is that you’re trying to get pregnant by a rich New Yorker. You got pregnant by a small-town guy, then moved to a big city to start your career and fell in love with the lifestyle of those Manhattan wives. You’ve been binge watching all the episodes of The Real Housewives of New York over and over again. You want to be one of them. Or one of those girls on Instagram.
I throw the test back into the trashcan, brush my teeth and walk outside the bathroom. I have a toothbrush at your place. I’m officially more important than the guys you’re trying to fool, and I will make sure that you won’t reproduce yourself another time. The world doesn’t need more of your genes. I walk inside the kitchen and wince. I didn’t hear you walking around.
“I think he stole something,” you say, sit down on one of the chairs and stare at your phone.
“Like what?”
I go to the bedroom, grab my clothes and change while trying to listen to you. You tell me there’s some expensive jewelry missing and money you hid next to it. I put on my sneakers and stop at the doorframe. It’s time to go. I texted Nanny to stay a bit longer and drive the kids to school. She’ll get some extra cash for that.
“I’m not going today,” you say without looking at me. You can’t be serious. “Tell Paola I’m sick.”
You walk around the kitchen in your slip without a bra, open the fridge and grab a juice. No one drinks an orange juice when they’re hungover.
“You can call her and tell her yourself,” I answer, grab my things and leave.
I thought I was alright, on my way to peace. I believed that I had overcome my post-traumatic stress disorder. I didn’t want revenge to take over me, but in the end therapy didn’t matter. As soon as I saw you and your face, heard your voice, saw you walking around town all the rage came back to me. I couldn’t flee or forget. You can’t escape from your past as long as it’s still alive and breathing. I really tried, believe me.
“I have a question,” Amber interrupts my inner monologue as a arrive at the office.
I had to take an Uber to get to work. I’m grumpy and I don’t feel like answering dumb questions.
Without waiting for my reaction Amber continues. “For the event in Dublin Paola wants pillows with herself on them. And balloons, in pink and silver.”
Did I say you are selfish? Paola just took being selfish to another level. She wants her face printed on some pillows. I’m impressed.
“What’s the problem with that?,” I ask and try to be as polite as possible. “Is there some store that can print them and ship them to Europe? I’m sure balloons can be ordered at some party store in Ireland. Does she want numbers or her name?”
“I’m not sure,” she says. “I’ll ask her.”
The event in Dublin is the only relevant project that I manage. Other than that, it’s just calls with brands, budget planning and some coordinating. I’m not exactly sure why I have a team of two project assistants. It’s really not much, so the two are only buys when I’m sick or on vacation. Speaking of sick, are you really not coming to work today because you spent the night with a guy?
14
This week my stupid job almost stresses me out, not because anything we do is truly challenging, but because my dear coworkers get hyped up. They pretend like our upcoming deadlines and projects are as exhausting and relevant as finding a cure for cancer. The world doesn’t revolve around lalamilan. They exaggerate like they always do. I should stop thinking those thoughts. I don’t want to sound arrogant. My parents wouldn’t be proud, neither would the real me. This is not what they taught me. Luckily they didn’t raise this fictional bitch Blair. I’ve spent too much time with you, Piper. It’s your influence. You never made it on social media, but you’re my influencer. Your thoughts slowly become my thoughts.
On Friday night I ask you to have a spa day with you, relax and just chill. Even you are annoyed by all the hype at work.
“We should treat ourselves,” you said. “Paola’s been a total bitch this week.”
I should get Nanny a gift. Since I became your friend she works more hours, has to watch two kids instead of one and even stays overnight sometimes. She’s a keeper. She’s the nanny I was looking for. Caring and sweet, honest and assertive.
You suggest going to a hotel spa. An expensive one, of course. Lately I’ve often been paying for our lunch, our drinks, our vacation and our (she’s basically working for both of us now) Nanny. And guess what, you often don’t pay me back. You still owe me money for our trip to the Hamptons. You don’t care at all. There is no balance in our friendship. You take, but you rarely give. Well, you give me compliments. You tell me I’m your pretty friend. When it comes to debts you are forgetful. I’m not someone to run after somebody else for money. And you’re not someone to repay your debts. That’s what I’m here for.
“This is exactly what I needed,” you say as Vito kneads your back.
We’re in a treatment room together, lying on our stomach on some massage bench. You insisted in getting the male masseur, so skinny blonde Alena currently massages my thighs.
I’ve never felt my legs so intensely, not even after running two marathons in a row. That was last year. I ran the New York Marathon, then Bruna and I drove to Boston for a night run hosted by a charity organization that collected donations for children in Cambodia.
Alena has oily hands that wander up and down my skin. Besides your voice I hear relaxing sounds coming from the speakers in each corner of the nicely decorated room. Piano sounds alternate with nature sounds like water splashing and birds twittering.
“This is heaven,” I say. “Any news on Joe?”
I might be able to see you, but I can imagine the surprised look on your face.
“He takes Dana Isabella to his parents next weekend,” you say.
Clearly your answer matches my question in some way, but you know very well what I mean.
“Do you have his number?,” I ask.
Great things happen when you get closer to someone. I don’t have to say who I’m talking about, or that I’m not talking about Joe anymore, you simply understand me. Sometimes I want to say something, my mouth is already open, and then you say exactly what I was on my mind. It’s a miracle. I don’t even like you, I hate you, but we match. No, it’s not me, it’s Blair. I have to remind myself that this is not real. I don’t want to become Blair, not forever, just for the moment. I am Blair as long as I need to be, then I want to ditch her.
“You don’t remember his name, huh?,” you tease me and giggle.
“I totally do, it’s just that it was such a universal name,” I say.
“His name’s Jackson I think, with an x,” you say. “And I remember I’ve written my number on his thigh with my lipstick.”
Jaxon with an x. Now that you mention his name I have to admit he really does look like a Jaxon. He looks like a bad boy from a rural area who accidentally ended up in Manhattan.
“You did not.”
“I probably gave him a completely wrong number,” you say, still giggling. “Of an old lady who lives in Wisconsin. I don’t know why I did this. Why didn’t you stop me, Blair?”
Making jokes is definitely none of your talents.
“I don’t even remember seeing you smear lipstick on his leg,” I say.
“We should go to Sephora afterwards,” you say. “I need new lipstick.”
“I don’t think they’re open.”
“Right,” you say. “Let’s go there tomorrow. I want Dana Isabella to get ear piercings.”
Yeah, let’s pierce a five-year-old. “She’s five.”
“I was four when I got them,” you say. “I saw earrings that match her favorite sneakers.” Spoil that brat, just like your parents spoiled you. “Yesterday at work Edith told me she thinks her husband’s cheating on her.”
The way you say that is carefree and amused. “How does she know?”
Normally, instead of asking for more details I’d tell you to stop gossiping about other people’s problems. I bet she told you to keep it to yourself. But keeping it to yourself means you don’t have anything interesting to tell.
“She found underwear that isn’t hers,” you say. “And she once looked at his phone and saw a message from a woman named Lena. It was a naughty text with heart emojis.”
“Poor Edith,” I say. “Sounds awful.”
“Come on,” you say.
“What?”
“Sooner or later men with this kind of woman cheat and look for something else,” you say.
“What kind of woman?”
“With a fat stomach, hanging tits and acne,” you say. “She deserves it. She stopped taking care of her body obviously. Maybe she was pretty when they married, I don’t know, maybe not. I managed to stay skinny after my pregnancy. People don’t just cheat for no reason.”
It must be exhausting to constantly think of yourself as so much better than everybody around you. You make Joe cheat, so you have to defend Edith’ husband. I don’t know what to say. “You don’t know what he looks like. Maybe he should be happy with someone like Edith, but he is too stupid to realize.”
“True,” you say. “I don’t know if he’s a fat ass, too. She asked me for advice. I was like,
you should dump him. But seriously, she wouldn’t find someone else, at least not someone better. Even for me it’s hard to find the perfect match. Oh, and Amber is totally obsessed with you.”
I want to nod but I remember you can’t see me, and my face is upside down, squeezed into a hole in the massage bench. I wonder what Vito and Alena think of our conversation. “I know she likes me. She keeps buying the blazers I wear, my dresses and shirts, even my shoes.”
“Do you think she’s a stalker?,” you ask in a serious tone.
I almost burst out laughing. Amber Cassidy is an annoying copycat but she’s far from being a weirdo stalker. “She’s just looking for a role model.”
Silence. I know what you’re thinking. Why does she want to be like me and not like you, the wonderful and exceptional Piper Flores, princess of fashion and queen of the extravagant Manhattan lifestyle? Amber is like those insecure fourteen-year-old girls on TikTok and Instagram who follow twenty-year-old fashion students who travel to fifteen countries each year and drive a Porsche. They want to be like them, get to know them, absorb them, become them. Amber is just a little old for that behavior.
“Every time she asks us what we’re doing for lunch I wanna punch her,” you suddenly say.
That is literally brutally honest. Every time you speak I want to throw up. I may find Amber amusing and strange, but I don’t mind her wanting to spend lunch break with us. She’s our colleague, she’s in our team, she should be allowed to sit with us.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Who else should she sit with? Edith?”
You start laughing. “Gosh, no. Amber wants me to share my diet and training routine with her. I mean, come one, I’m not her mommy or. Jillian Michaels. She steals your style and my favorite food. She eats the same panini as I do, the same salad and she buys the same water brand. Water is water. It doesn’t matter if she drinks the water I drink or just any bottled water.”
You drink Evian, because someone once told you it’s expensive and that means it is basically luxury. You carry around those bottles because it makes you look like you have money. That is why you go to Starbucks and get extra-large drinks, that is why you shop at Neiman Marcus and carry around a Louis Vuitton bag, that is why you don’t want to be seen in any low-priced stores, and that is why you don’t wear t-shirts, sweatshirts or sports outfits without brand logos. You let the brands you wear, that you can afford, define what type of person you are. It’s a cliché but it’s true. You are a mean girl cliché.
“It just means she likes us,” I say to calm you down. You really talk yourself into a rage.
After our one-hour massage we thank Vito and Alena, I give them some tip, and we continue our spa day with going to the sauna.
“This is an infusion sauna,” you read the sign on the door. “The next one starts in ten minutes.”
“What kind of infusion?,” I ask and look around.
We stand in a large hall with a pool, lots of benches and showers.
“Honey and fennel,” you answer, then turn around. “Did you know that in some countries you have to be naked to enter a sauna?”
In some countries other girls stare at your bra when in the locker room together. It’s funny what happens when a bunch of people meet to change, sweat or shower.
“Really?,” I say. “That’s the perfect sauna for me and Bruna.”
You squint. “You two are hilarious.”
“I wouldn’t want to see those old men naked,” you say and look at two pensioners that sit on a bench. A towel covers the lower part of their bodies. “No.” You shake your head in disgust. “Definitely not, eww.”
“I feel you.”
As soon as we enter the sauna some other women follow us. Inside it is all dark and hot. We sit quite close to the ceiling where it is even hotter. It feels like being on fire. As soon as t
he hotel employee pours something onto the stove the room is slowly filled with steam. I can barely see my own hands now. The temperature rises and my body begins sweating like a waterfall. A sauna is supposed to detoxify your body, but the only toxic thing here is you.
15
You didn’t tell me, but according to your messages from both Joe and Steve you are about to have two dates. You meet one of them today, the other tomorrow. Why didn’t you tell me, Piper? I feel left out, I mean we are best friends. Your date with Joe starts in exactly two hours. He’ll come to your apartment to order pizza and watch a movie. You told me that was your typical date during the first year of your relationship. I’m not surprised. You really are the Netflix-and-chill kind of girl. I’ll take Dana Isabella with me, so you and Joe can spend the night together. That is the plan for today. Tomorrow he is going to take Dana with him to his parents. So far so good.
Right now, we sit on your sofa and talk about our favorite online shops, all the stupid trends this summer and our travel plans for next year. I made us some vanilla latte. Normally you drink caramel latte or Jamaica coffee, which is coffee with rum and cream. But I wanted vanilla, and I felt like we should sometimes do the things that I want, especially when I’m the one who pays. You take a sip, put it back on the coffee table, then take another sip.
“It’s quite sweet,” you say. “But I love sugar. Sugar is my drug.”
Actually, hatred is your drug. Ignorance is your drug. Stupidity is your drug. Insults are your drug. Everything evil is your drug. I am your drug.
The girl at Starbucks down the road looked at me like I’m crazy when I told her I need two double espressos and two empty cups that fit a venti latte. I paid her a generous tip because at first she was like, she can’t give me that since it’s not on the menu. When I studied at NYU I once had a summer job at a café. I know that a latte and a cappuccino look and taste exactly the same in a non-transparent cup. Just that lattes are always more expensive. When I tell you there is vanilla latte in your cup you believe me. I prepared the latte with vanilla flavored soy milk. You are allergic to soy. Soy milk has a very different taste than cow milk. I added some extra sugar, so you won’t detect the secret ingredient. I hid the soy milk in my purse and mixed it with the double espresso. In about two hours you’ll open the door for Joe. Shortly afterwards you’ll get a skin rash. Your skin will turn red, burn and itch. Joe will know that you need your skin cream that is probably somewhere in your bathroom. He’ll then find some used condoms in your trashcan (yes, I did some digging to find them, and added some more) and the pregnancy test. Next to the trashcan on the tiles he’ll find the note from Chad. Chad Seibert, who thanked you for the night. I don’t know why you kept it but you’re keeping lots of things from your lovers. They’re all stored in a light blue box under your bed. There is even a love letter from a boy named Laurence, which you got when you were twelve years old. On your laptop there is a folder named Piper. I expected it to be a collection of. documents like a scan of your passport or your school reports, but there you collect all digital declarations of love. I thought I am the weirdo who keeps all your photos, videos and documents on my laptop, but you are worse. You screenshotted every conversation you have with your lovers like Steve or Chad, Tinder matches, their addresses, which you then marked as wealthy or ghetto, their emails and all chat records. You even recorded phone calls and saved them as mp3. I guess that is so you can filter the men and sort them according to their net worth.