Lady Bettencourt

by Sandra Cunha

  Maybe I was wrong about what I saw in the underground path. I could be making assumptions.

  And if he does have a girlfriend or wife or whatever, does that mean he and I can’t be friends? Times have changed. Men and women can have platonic relationships. Although I’m not starting on the platonic side, but I bet with a little effort, I could get there.

  Ever since I ran into Stuart again, my thoughts have been redirected to my subway crush. I’m still making dresses, but mostly on autopilot. I’ve even stopped thinking about Vanessa. Well, nearly stopped.

  I sent Gloria home early to give myself a few hours to prepare for tonight.

  My preparations included taking a long, hot bubble bath (with a thorough shave job); blow-drying, then straightening my hair; full, but natural-looking makeup application; and finally, wardrobe and shoe selection.

  I was going to wear The Gabby and some fun heels, but then, I remembered this is after-work drinks, not Saturday-night drinks, so I’m wearing one of The Betty dresses. I am coming from work, even though I could do my job in my pajamas if I wanted to.

  And I’ve borrowed a blazer from Betty’s closet. I’ve had to roll up the sleeves because they’re about an inch too short. I wish I could borrow a pair of Betty’s pumps, but her feet are smaller than mine.

  At the last minute, I change my mind about my hair. I pull it back into a chignon, instead. It goes better with the outfit. But it’s a little too perfect-looking, so I mess it up a bit, like I’ve had a hard day at the office.

  And then, I’m ready.

  Almost.

  I give myself a head-to-toe examination in my full-length mirror. Making sure there’s nothing in my nose or teeth, no stray hairs from tweezing my eyebrows, no funny lumps under my dress from my padded bra, no deodorant stains—

  Deodorant! How could I have forgotten to put on deodorant!

  I rush back into the bathroom, which causes me to start sweating. I apply it carefully so as not to get any of those stains. I hope I haven’t forgotten anything else. What a disaster that could’ve been.

  My re-examination completed, I give myself a nod of approval, then grab my purse and head out to meet Stuart.

  I can’t believe this is actually happening.

  I get to the Shangri-La right on time. For what, I don’t know. But this feels significant somehow. Like a dream come true.

  Taking a deep breath, I walk towards the hotel’s bar while glancing sideways in case Stuart is arriving now, too.

  Once inside, I hide for a moment in a dark corner. I need to calm myself down. I’m about to step into the light when I see Stuart is already at the bar, waiting.

  Waiting for me.

  I catch a glimpse of his profile, and it’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. He’s wearing one of his tailored suits in navy. I picked out a navy dress because I had a feeling he’d be wearing that colour from our days on the subway.

  He’s talking to a girl at the bar, but he keeps glancing at the door—the opposite door. I must have come in a different entrance.

  There’s something about the way he’s standing next to her, just a little too close. I can’t see his face anymore, but I can see hers. She’s completely smitten by him.

  And that’s when I’m reminded of something. Something from a long time ago.

  When I was caring for my mom in her final weeks, I came across a big box in her closet. I opened it to find a bunch of old journals. And even though I knew these were likely her diaries, I couldn’t resist taking a peek inside.

  I only had the chance to read a couple of lines before my mom came into the room and told me to stop. I went searching for that box after my mom died, but I never found it. She wanted her secrets kept secret.

  But I’ll never forget what I read: “He didn’t come home tonight. He must be seeing her again.”

  While seeing Stuart the other day with who must be his pregnant girlfriend-wife-whatever should’ve been enough to make me cancel tonight, I wasn’t ready to let go of that dream. But remembering those lines in my mother’s diary is. Because I don’t want to be another woman’s her. And I don’t want to be tempted to become another woman’s her, either.

  So I text Stuart that things got crazy, and I can’t get away. I put my phone to the light to make sure I tapped it in correctly and hit send.

  I see him reach into the inside pocket of his suit and pull out his phone. He excuses himself from the girl and turns in my direction.

  If he looks up, he’ll see me.

  I try to go farther into the darkness as I watch him read the message. I see him frown at it, which gives me a pang of regret at sending it.

  Stuart taps in a message, and then goes back to the girl at the bar, moving in even closer this time. He slowly places his hand on the small of her back.

  She nods blissfully at something he says.

  And then, I don’t regret sending my text anymore.

  I turn and leave.

  When I get outside, I read his text: “Some other time.”

  No, some other girl.

  I delete the message and his phone number. I can’t trust myself to hold onto it.

  Two years ago, I felt I’d lost him. And now I’ve lost him for good.

  But I remind myself that I never had him; never even knew him. Only my illusion of him has been lost.

  Maybe it’s better to keep that illusion of someone than to find out the truth. But I needed to learn the truth so I could finally let go of this fantasy I’ve built up over the years.

  Stuart Ellis turned out to be a jerk.

  But Suit Guy will always have a small piece of my heart.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Days to wedding / fashion show: 9

  I’M NOT READY to go home, to have this night officially end.

  It’s still light out and quite warm for a fall evening. I want to enjoy this weather before it’s gone.

  And I’m starving. I barely ate anything during the day because I was so nervous about tonight. But now my hunger hits me, and I’m ravenous.

  I’m also in pain. The bobby pins from my chignon are hurting my head, so I remove them, one by one, shaking out my hair.

  Back to being me.

  As I’m walking, trying to find somewhere to grab a quick bite, I notice a penny on the ground. Normally, I don’t bother picking up anything less than a quarter, but I could use all the luck I can get, so I pick it up and turn it over. It was made in my birth year.

  The penny has been taken out of circulation; they aren’t making any new ones. Soon they’ll become extinct.

  What mark will I leave on the world before I’m extinct? I thought I’d figured that out, but, lately, I’m not so sure.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” a man with a deep voice says.

  Oh, great. Now I have to deal with some weirdo.

  I look up and am relieved to find it’s one of my weirdos: Mr. Trader, no, Aaron. (I’ll never get used to calling him that.)

  Smiling coyly, I say, “But I’m the one with the penny.”

  He returns my smile. “Okay, then I was thinking we should grab something to eat.”

  I contemplate this for a moment. I was about to get something. I might as well get something with someone else. And that someone else might as well be him. But I still have one major concern . . .

  “You mean, at like a vegan place?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.

  He laughs at my expression. “At an everybody place.”

  “Sure. Why not?” I say and give him the penny.

  We take a short cab ride to a restaurant called Fresh. I’ve never been to it before. It has a funky vibe. The hostess who takes us to our table has dreadlocks, a nose ring, and a tattooed sleeve.

  I immediately take off the blazer I’m wearing.

  Once seated, the hostess places a jug of water and a couple of glasses on our table before walking away.

  I look around the restaurant, taking in the clientele. There’s not a stitch of leather to be seen anywhe
re, and a high percentage of feet are sporting Toms. I’ve been tricked.

  “This is a vegan place.”

  He laughs. “More like vegetarian, but, yeah.”

  I give him a scornful look. I used to have another nickname for him—Mr. Traitor.

  “Would you have come here if I’d said it was?” he asks.

  “Maybe. But you could’ve been honest and let me decide,” I, the poster girl of honesty, say.

  He raises his right-hand and says, “Okay, from now on, I promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me, God. Better?”

  “Better,” I say, hoping he doesn’t ask me to take the same oath.

  I open the menu and scan the items. Maybe I was wrong. This is normal food, just without the meat. Sure, there are a few items I’ve never heard of, but most I’ve tried. (I won’t let Aaron in on my newfound knowledge.)

  “Any recommendations?” I ask him.

  “Any of the Buddha bowls are great.” (Of course.)

  A server with blue hair comes to our table to take our order.

  “Oh, and we should get some smoothies,” Aaron says excitedly.

  I let him choose mine.

  There’s a moment of silence between us after the server leaves, and I fear this may be an awkward meal. But then, Aaron breaks the silence by asking me what I’ve been up to. I tell him to go first. Too much has happened since I delivered his lunches. I need some time to gather my thoughts.

  “Well, I’m not an equity trader anymore,” he says.

  “Really? Why?”

  For some reason, this is kind of shocking to me. He seemed to fit the role perfectly. Except for the whole vegan thing; that had always thrown me off as it didn’t work with my perception of him.

  “I grew up loving every-fucking-thing about the stock market. I’d seen every movie, read every book, with even the slightest mention of trading,” he says, his brown eyes shining with the recollection. “But one day, I just stopped believing in it. It didn’t feel real to me anymore. I felt like a fucking phony every time I called up a client with the latest and greatest stock-pick. So I had to get out.”

  I nod in agreement. Okay, so I don’t know much about the stock market, that’s Betty’s domain, but I understand what it’s like to feel like a phony.

  “Sorry,” he says, “I’m still working on the swearing thing. Old habits are hard to break.”

  “That’s okay. We all have our vices. So what are you doing now?”

  “Well, I took my savings and a small inheritance I received and became a micro venture capitalist,” he says. He sees my confused expression and continues, “I invest in small startups that need funding to get off the ground. My latest project is a vegan food truck. Instead of picking stocks, I pick businesses I want to see in the world and that also happen to meet my needs. I help them become successful.”

  “Wow, that’s amazing. You’ve really changed. It’s like you’re a different person.”

  He does seem different. Gentler somehow, not so brash as I remember. Maybe that was just a side effect of his unhappiness at work.

  “I’m still me,” he says. “But I’m trying to be a better version of me.”

  That’s what I said to Vanessa the other day at lunch. Or what I was trying to say.

  Our smoothies arrive, and we toast to new beginnings.

  I take a sip of my smoothie, and it’s delicious. He offers me a sip of his, and it’s even more delicious. He insists we trade. I want to refuse, but his smoothie is just too yummy not to accept the offer.

  “Enough about me,” he says. “How about you? How does Erin Girl spend her days?”

  Where should I begin? I think I’ll give him the Cliffs Notes version.

  “I’ve changed my line of business, as well. I now own an online shop where I sell dresses I make from secondhand materials.” I emphasize that last part to show I’m also trying to do good in the world.

  “That’s awesome, Erin,” he says sincerely. “I need to start thinking about where my clothes come from. But I guess you can’t change everything about yourself at once. One step at a time.” He pauses, then adds, “You don’t happen to have a men’s line?”

  “No, just women’s. And it’s only dresses, right now. I’m still sort of starting out.”

  “I’m tapped out for the year, but I know of another investor who would be all over what you’re doing. I could give you her name. That is, if you’re looking to grow.”

  “I’m actually already working with someone. She’s helping me with my brand, getting my name out there. That sort of thing.”

  “That’s great. It’s hard to find someone to work with who you can trust. There are a lot of shady people out there.”

  I’m thinking of how to respond to that when our food arrives. Again, he offers me a taste of his food, but he prefaces it this time by saying he’s not trading if I like his better.

  “Mmm, what is that?” I ask, after taking a bite of something I’ve never tried before from his Buddha bowl.

  “Tempeh,” he says.

  “What’s temp-eh?”

  “Fermented soybeans.”

  I gag a little, and then quickly swallow. I reach for my glass of water and gulp some down.

  “C’mon, Erin! You liked it before you knew what it was. What’s so bad about fermented soybeans?”

  “The word fermented. It sounds gross.”

  “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to judge a book by its cover?”

  His words sting. I know they shouldn’t. It’s not his fault; he doesn’t know about my mom.

  “Speaking of words,” I say, “if you eat meat at Thanksgiving and Christmas, can you really call yourself a vegan?”

  I don’t know why I asked him that. Maybe because of his comment. I want to take it back as soon as I’ve said it.

  He doesn’t seem offended. In fact, he lets out a laugh. “You remembered I said that. Normally, I don’t let that slip, or I get that question. It’s just easier to give myself a label, like vegan, instead of having to explain that I eat a primarily plant-based diet with the exception of two days of the year. Once you tell people there’s an exception, they want you to make one every time.”

  “I guess you must really love animals. I’m not that into them myself, so I’m okay with eating them.”

  “You’re funny, Erin. I do love animals, but that’s not the only reason, or else I’d be a strict vegan. It’s just something that’s in my control, that I can do for my health and the planet.”

  “Oh, so you’re a hippie!”

  “Not even close.”

  “A hipster?”

  He throws a crumbled, biodegradable napkin at me. “You make dresses from secondhand clothes. That’s some serious hipster behaviour right there.”

  We both start laughing.

  “Maybe we are hipsters,” he says when we stop laughing. “But, seriously, I think it’s awesome what you’re doing. You’ve changed, too. The world needs more people like you, doing what you’re doing.”

  There’s something so genuine about the way he says that, that I feel ashamed.

  He’s the one the world needs more of, not me. I haven’t really changed that much at all. I’m still lying to get what I want and keeping secrets from the ones I love.

  I’m still pretending.

  And so I tell him the truth.

  The whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  I don’t leave anything out.

  I tell him how I’m holding a fashion show on the same day as my sister’s wedding, and she doesn’t know. How I lost her wedding dress materials, so I made her a fake dress, and I still don’t know what I’m going to do for the ceremony. And how I’m actually considering having a sweatshop produce my dresses from non-secondhand materials.

  Going further back in time, I tell him that Erin Girl was started while I was working a cubicle job, and that I got fired for using company resources for my own business.

  I
thought it would make me feel better, getting it all out in the open, but I feel worse. Listing my faults makes me realize I might be a horrible person.

  He sits there and listens to everything I say, probably wondering what the fuck he got himself into. I turned a fun dinner into a therapy session. I wrecked it. I wreck everything.

  After I finish my confessional, he clears his throat, then looks down at his half-eaten meal.

  I guess I was hoping to receive some sort of penance, to be absolved of my sins, or, at least, for him to confirm that I am a terrible human being. Anything will do.

  So when he doesn’t react fast enough, I say, “Right,” and get up to go.

  He gets up, too. “Erin—”

  But I’ve already started for the door, squeezing my way past a group of people waiting to be seated.

  When I finally make it outside, I start running.

  I run for a long time, only stopping when I reach home.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Days to wedding / fashion show: 8

  I WAKE UP feeling hungover, even though I only had a green smoothie to drink last night. Maybe it was the spirulina. Or maybe I’m hungover from excessive thinking.

  The closer the fashion show gets, the more I’m questioning why I ever agreed to have it the same day as Betty’s wedding. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t see a way out without looking like a complete flake for cancelling the show. I worry that it’d be the end of Lady Bettencourt.

  Earlier in the week, I told Betty I’d changed my hair appointment for her wedding day. We were supposed to get our hair done together, but I told her I wanted to go to my regular stylist, and he had an opening.

  She said she’d go to him, too, but I said he was booked solid, and I barely got in myself. She looked disappointed, but said as long as I was back by eleven for photos, it was okay.

  So that’s how I’m getting away to do the fashion show. And that’s also how I’m the biggest jerk on the planet.

  What makes me an even bigger jerk than the biggest jerk on the planet (if that’s possible), is that I haven’t found Betty’s wedding dress. I’m giving myself a few more days to find it, and if I don’t, I’ll have to buy similar materials and hope she doesn’t notice the difference.