by Sandra Cunha
I instinctively glance down to see if he’s wearing his monogrammed cufflinks. He is. I can make out an “S,” but what’s the other letter? Is it a “B”? Or an “E”?
“Right, again,” I say, hesitating before asking, “And your name is?”
This is it.
I’m finally going to know his name. I’m finally going to know his name!
He opens his mouth to reveal all that has been hidden from me for years, but what I hear, instead, is a loud, emanating noise coming from my purse.
Stupid, stupid phone!
I quickly reach into my purse to silence it.
“I’d better let you get that,” he says. “I’m late as it is. My sincerest apologies.” He begins to leave.
NO! Please don’t go!
He turns back.
(Did I say that out loud?)
He reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Here’s my card. The least I can do is buy you a drink sometime.” He flashes me a grin of his perfect, white teeth.
I definitely can’t speak now, so I take the card while smiling and nodding at him, like a love-crazed fool. Then, I watch him walk away. Once he’s out of view, I glance down at the card he gave me.
Stuart Ellis, Vice-President of Mergers and Acquisitions.
Stuart. Stu-art.
Ever since our encounter a few days ago, that name has been on autoplay in my mind . . . and on my tongue. I’ll find myself doing something when a random “Stuart” escapes my mouth.
I’ve never actually liked that name, but the more I say it and picture the face that goes with it, the more it’s starting to sound sort of sexy. I just hope he doesn’t go by “Stu.” (That could never work on anyone.)
And tonight . . . I’m calling him.
No, really.
Right now, in fact.
As it’s Sunday evening, I’m leaving a message at his work number. I’m not ready yet to have a full-on phone conversation with him.
I’ve written out a script. It’s necessary, given my lack of skill at leaving unrehearsed messages. The script is covered with hand-drawn hearts. In the hearts are variations of “E + S,” “Stuart + Erin,” and “Mrs. Erin Ellis.” (I’ve regressed to high school status.)
After rehearsing the script at least ten times using different inflections on certain words and testing out different pitches, I’ve settled on a lower, huskier version of my normal voice.
I dial his number.
I hang up before it rings.
I dial his number again and take a deep breath.
Four rings, and then it goes to voicemail.
God, I love his voice.
I can’t think of anything I don’t like about him. Although, come to think of it, I don’t actually know that much about him at all.
Beep.
“Hey, Stuart! It’s Erin. You, um, ran into me in the underground path. I was the one with the packages . . . from Breakfast Television. Well, I wanted to take you up on your generous drinks offer. I mean, drink, singular, not drinks, plural. One is more than enough . . .”
Oh, no! I’ve deviated from the script.
Wrap it up, Erin! Wrap it up!
“So, anyway, give me a call. My number is . . . um . . .”
Dammit! I never wrote my phone number on the script because I assumed I knew it. I assumed wrong. And I have no idea how to check on this ancient phone without ending the call.
“Um, someone’s at my door. I’ll call you right back with my number!”
Idiot! I, of all people, should never assume I know anything.
Quickly finding my phone number—and writing it down this time—I leave Stuart a second message. Embarrassing. But, at least, I did it.
There’s nothing I can do now, except wait for him to call me back.
He doesn’t call me back.
He sends me a text, instead, a couple of minutes later. I didn’t think I’d hear back from him so soon.
His message reads: “Thursday, Shangri-la bar, 6?”
Wow, he wants to take me to the Shangri-La Hotel! I’ve been wanting to go there ever since it opened, but I didn’t want to go on my own.
I force myself to wait a gruelling half-hour before responding. I don’t want to seem too eager. Finally, I text him back: “Sounds good.”
My draft texts were much longer, but as his was short, I kept mine short, too. I also checked the message three times to make sure it wasn’t all jumbled up. My phone can’t be trusted.
Imagine: this time, this Thursday, I’ll be on a date with Suit Guy.
I mean, Stuart.
How am I suppose to focus on anything else until then?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Days to wedding / fashion show: 12
THERE’S A KNOCK at the door.
Gloria looks up at me from her sewing. “Are you planning on someone?”
“No.”
That’s strange. Normally, the condo’s concierge calls to announce visitors.
I get up from the dining room table. I always get a little spooked when there’s an unannounced knock at the door. It’s silly, I know, but I can’t help it.
Through the peephole, I see a mass of red hair.
Phew, it’s only Vanessa.
I open the door for her.
She walks in, bringing a chill from outside with her, along with a big paper bag.
“I hope you haven’t eaten because I’ve brought you—” She stops when she sees Gloria. “Sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”
Gloria is standing a few feet away from us with a pair of scissors in her hand. Apparently, she gets spooked by unannounced visitors, too.
“No, this is good,” I say. “It’s about time you two meet. Vanessa this is Gloria; Gloria, Vanessa.”
“Nice to meet you,” Gloria says, but something in her tone suggests the opposite. I wonder if she’s been talking to Betty.
“And you,” Vanessa says, flashing her mesmerizing smile.
Gloria isn’t taken in.
Vanessa is the first to look away. She turns towards me. “I was hoping we could talk business. I’ve got some news. But if you’re busy, we can have coffee tomorr—”
“I have to go,” Gloria interrupts.
“You do? I thought you were staying all afternoon.”
“Sorry, querida. I forgetting I have to go to appointment.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, confused.
“Perfect!” Vanessa says.
Gloria glares at her a moment, then puts down the scissors and grabs her coat and purse. She touches my arm on her way out and gives me a warning look. (She’s definitely been talking to Betty.)
It’s probably good that Gloria is leaving. If she’d stayed, I may have let something slip about the fashion show. Or Vanessa may have.
After Gloria has left, I ask Vanessa how she got in.
“I just followed somebody up. I would’ve called, but I wanted to surprise you with the news in person.”
I take the bag of food from her, placing it on the kitchen counter.
“What news? Is this about the factory?” I ask, grabbing us some plates.
Vanessa takes a seat at one of the bar stools at the counter.
“No, it’s something different. I’m not sure how you’re going to react to this,” she says, positively glowing, “but someone wants to buy Lady Bettencourt!”
I drop the plate I’m holding. It breaks on contact with the floor.
“That’s one way,” she says, coming around to pick up the broken pieces.
I’m too stunned to move.
“Say something,” she says.
“I need to sit down.”
We move to the living room couch.
“I don’t understand. Why would someone want to buy Lady Bettencourt?” I ask.
“There’s a small but growing fashion house that’s looking to add-on a socially-conscious division. Lady Bettencourt fits exactly what they’re looking for.”
“But-but why did they come to you?”
“You what?”
“Erin, I’ve been researching all possible avenues to make Lady Bettencourt a success. This is one of those avenues.”
“Vanessa, stop. I would never, ever sell Lady Bettencourt.”
“But you haven’t even heard—”
“Please, please just stop. Don’t mention this to me again. It’s never going to happen.” I get up from the couch. “Thanks for bringing lunch, but I’m not feeling well. I think you should go.”
I don’t want to hear anything else she has to say. I don’t want her tempting me with whatever the fashion house is planning to offer. And I especially don’t want to know which fashion house it is.
Vanessa stares at me for a moment, and then stands up. “All right, fine. I thought by bringing this to you, I was doing the best thing for Lady Bettencourt, and for you, but I see now I was mistaken. I won’t mention it again.”
Once Vanessa is gone, I go into the kitchen and put all the food she brought with her into the garbage. As though it were tainted.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Days to wedding / fashion show: 11
IT’S ALMOST LIKE I’m still an errand girl with all these package drop-offs I have to do. I’ve just completed another round at the post office when I decide to grab a latte before heading back to the condo.
Now that I don’t work at an office job, I enjoy strolling the underground paths and watching people scurrying, like the old me used to. Sometimes I have to move out of the way quickly when a large herd of them comes through, or I’ll risk getting trampled.
I’m trying to relax and not think about Vanessa because I’ve been spending too much time thinking about her and our latest encounter. I can’t believe she actually thought I’d consider selling Lady Bettencourt.
Once our three-month contract is up, I may not renew it. She’s really helped me, but she’s also come up with some pretty crazy ideas. I’m not sure I can trust her anymore.
After taking a sip of my latte, I glance up and choke on it.
Standing several feet ahead of me is Stuart.
I’m not sure what to do.
A normal person would probably go and say, “Hi.” But our date is only two nights away. What if I say something stupid, and he cancels?
No, better not risk it.
Decision made, I’m about to turn around and go in the opposite direction of him when I notice he isn’t alone. He’s with a tall, blonde goddess. The same tall, blonde goddess from that day on the subway, all those years ago.
I thought they broke up!
Maybe they stayed friends.
I find a pillar to hide behind so I can spy on them properly.
They talk for a while, and then I see her lean in for a kiss.
Stop her, Stuart! Stop her!
He doesn’t. And it’s not a just-friends kiss, either.
Are they still dating? Married?
He wasn’t wearing a ring when I ran into him. (I checked.) And he’s not wearing one now, according to his left-hand placed on her stomach, her very big stomach. Wow, she’s put on some weight—
Oh, my God. She’s pregnant!
Wait a minute.
Is that his baby? It has to be, hasn’t it? Especially, if they’re making out in public like that. I’m so confused.
Why would he ask me out for a drink if he has a pregnant girlfriend, possibly, wife?
Unless . . . it isn’t a date.
Maybe he really just wanted to buy me a drink to apologize for knocking me over. Or maybe he wants to know more about Lady Bettencourt. He seemed interested in that. Sort of. It may not be a date at all, but a business meeting over drinks.
Although, I wish I could’ve gone on our date—meeting—without having seen that. Whatever that is.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and jump. But I manage to turn around carefully so that I’m still concealed by the pillar in case Stuart walks by.
“Erin, right?”
I don’t think this is another one of my fake celebrity sightings because the woman who tapped me on the shoulder looks familiar.
She also looks out of place.
Whereas everyone around here is wearing dark tailored suits or boring business casual, she’s very bohemian.
She’s wearing a long, flowing skirt, a belted cardigan that’s almost as long as the skirt, and a wool, cowboy-style hat to top off her tall, model-like frame. She’s pretty, in an awkward sort of way. But mostly, she looks cool.
And she somehow knows who I am.
“Um, that’s me,” I say. “You look familiar, but I can’t remember your name.”
“I don’t think you ever got it. I’m Mila,” she says, extending her multi-ringed hand.
I extend my own unadorned hand to shake hers. “Sorry, but how do we know each other?”
She comes in closer and says in a low voice, “We’ve got a mutual acquaintance . . . Frankie.”
My body freezes in fear; yet, my instincts tell me to run. But I think she could easily outrun me with her long legs.
Frankie was another one of my former Erin Girl clients. I never met him, but I delivered a mysterious package for him. In return, I got paid a thousand dollars. Mila was the one who gave me the package to deliver.
“So what have you been up to?” she asks casually.
“Oh, you know, this and that,” I say, trying to match her tone, but I don’t want to give her too much information, either.
“You still running that errand business?”
“Nope. I got out of that racket, I mean, business.”
She gives me a funny look. I think she knows I’m hiding something.
Maybe Frankie has been following me for the last two years, keeping an eye on me, making sure I don’t spill the beans on his operation. And I wouldn’t even know because I’ve never seen him. He could be anyone.
I glance around the underground path we’re in, trying to find someone who looks like they could be mafia. There are a few contenders.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Me? I’m cool. Totally cool.”
“Cool,” she says. “Hey, you ever wonder what was inside that box?”
Oh, my God. She brought up that box! Is this a trick question?
“What box?” I ask, remembering their number one rule: be discreet.
She raises her eyebrows. “You know, that box?”
“Oh, I completely forgot about that. So, no, not really.”
“Really?”
“Okay, maybe I have thought about it every now and again. But only ever to myself, and never with anyone else,” I say to make it clear. (Although, I did tell Betty about that box. But I won’t reveal her name, no matter what kind of torture they put me through.)
“That’s good,” she says. “But I can’t tell you what was inside that box, or I’d have to kill you.”
My heart stops beating.
She punches me in the arm. “Kidding.”
My heart starts beating again. I give her a nervous laugh.
“Relax, Erin,” she says. “It wasn’t exactly legal, but you did a good thing. You gave someone back his life.”
Honestly, I have wondered what was inside that box, and this new information makes me feel a little better about it, although the “wasn’t exactly legal” part is worrisome. But there’s something else I’ve spent more time wondering about.
“Why did Frankie pick me? How did he know I could be trusted?”
Mila glances around the crowded path and pulls me over to a corner. I look back, but Stuart and the goddess are gone.
“Frankie checked you out before he called you,” she says in a low voice. “He found something on you that he could use if he thought you were going to blow his cover.”
“Found something on me? What?” I ask. Surely, running an errand business from my cubicle, while not exactly ethical, wouldn’t be enough.
She raises her eyebrows and says, “What happens
in Europe, doesn’t always stay in Europe.”
Fuck! How could they have found that out?
I’ve never talked about it, or even thought about it, since it happened. I don’t want to think about it now, either. I have too much on my mind as it is.
“Oh, right, that,” I say, laughing it off like it was no big deal.
“It was nice running into you,” she says, reaching into her leather-fringed bag. “Here, take my card. Call me if you ever need anything.”
I look down at her card, which I’m planning on getting rid of at the first opportunity.
C&C Dog Walking.
“You’re a dog walker?” I ask, surprised. The C&C part must stand for Cupcake and Cake Pops, her very big, very angry dogs. (Maybe just the very big part.)
“I am—on the side. I also do a bit of modelling.” (I knew it!) “Well, I gotta go. See ya,” she says, walking away.
I stay in my spot. I want to give her some distance before I choose which direction to go in.
But she turns around when she’s a few feet away from me and says, “Hey, Erin?”
“Yeah?”
Now what?
“Congrats on Lady Bettencourt. I’m on your waiting list for The Lizzie. Your dresses are amazing.” She winks and walks away for good this time. Hopefully.
She knew. That entire time, she knew about Lady Bettencourt.
Which means, Frankie knows, too.
I hope they’re harmless. They haven’t done anything to me in the two years since the incident. It was probably just a gentle reminder for me to keep things on the down low now that I’m in the spotlight. No tell-alls. That sort of thing.
But I’m still freaked out by it. I’ll be watching my back; maybe even start carrying that pepper spray I bought after our last encounter.
All I wanted was a little break from making dresses, but, instead, I got two unpleasant run-ins.
Am I destined to be haunted by the ghosts of my past forever?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Days to wedding / fashion show: 9
I’M GOING FOR drinks with Stuart.
He sent me a text message earlier to confirm if we were still on. It was my chance to back out. But I didn’t.