Vanity Fare Read online

  He kept talking. “And, this might sound weird, and all, but I really need a date for Friday night.”

  “I don’t think I know anyone, John.”

  He did one of those eye rolls I’d seen far too much of from Aidan. “Not a friend, Molly, you. I want to take you. I know you can’t tell me now, until you’ve got babysitting lined up, but there’s this cocktail party for Yale business school alums, and I really need someone to go with me.”

  My face must have registered my confusion. He exhaled in an exasperated sigh. “It’s not a date, Molly. We’re going as friends, okay? I just would really like to have someone there I’m comfortable with.”

  I released a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. That would have really been inappropriate, and not in a good way. Being friends with the opposite sex did have its potential pitfalls. “Okay, I’ll give you a call later today. Sound good?”

  “Great,” he replied, sliding the papers into my hand. “Thanks for doing this. It pays the usual rate. And if you could turn it around by Monday morning, that’d be even greater.”

  I could see why he wasn’t doing the copywriting. Great and greater.

  “You’re going out . . . with John?” Lissa’s tone was, if possible, even more disbelieving than Keisha’s had been. She stared at me over Aidan’s head as he wrapped his arms around her waist. Man, he had fallen hard.

  “Um, yeah.” I was modeling my outfit for her, a sleek black cocktail dress that miraculously looked like it was still in fashion. “It’s not a real date,” I said, parroting his earlier words. “He said he wanted someone there he felt okay with. It’s kinda sweet, actually.”

  “Yale business school? That sounds fancy.”

  I shrugged, poking one of my dress-up earrings through the hole in my ear. “I’m guessing it’ll be people my age sitting around drinking white wine spritzers and talking about their 401(k)s.” I looked up and grinned at Lissa. “I should fit right in.”

  “You will.” Her tone was reassuring. “Just walk in wearing that dress and open your mouth to drop one of those fancy words you use. Maybe mention an obscure eighteenth-century novel or something. Just don’t talk about romance novels, Pokémon, or how”—her voice dropped into a whisper—“husbands suck.”

  Aidan raised his head at the mention of Pokémon. She smiled and tapped him on the nose.

  “Got it. By the way, are you liking Ethan Frome?”

  “I’m loving it,” she exclaimed, sounding surprised. “It’s such a great story, and I almost missed my stop the other day ’cause I was just where it seemed like he might say something . . . but he didn’t.” Her face fell.

  “Get used to that feeling. Literary fiction has a lot of those near-miss moments.”

  “What time will you be back?” she asked, helping me to adjust my coat just so.

  “Not too late. Bye, honey.” I waved at Aidan, who immediately went and latched onto Lissa’s leg.

  “Lissa, what are Captain America’s superpowers?” I heard him ask as I locked the front door.

  It was already crowded by the time we got there. A sea of blond hair bobbed and floated through the genteel cacophony. Most of the other women had opted for wearing black also, although I spied a few brave floral souls brightening the crowd.

  The room was decorated in a pre–Valentine’s Day theme, red velvet hearts hanging from the ceiling, darker red velvet curtains swagged back from the windows. There was a three-piece orchestra playing in the far corner of the room, their music a delicately rich undertone to the general hubbub of conversation. The decoration underscored what the perfectly coiffed blondes and well-tailored suits were already making crystal clear: This place was meant for people who had money, who were comfortable with money, and who planned to make a lot more of it in the future.

  In other words, not meant for the likes of me. I envied them as much as I had ever envied anyone, even Mary Cobb in the fifth grade, who got breasts a lot earlier than the rest of us girls.

  John placed his hand at the small of my back and began to steer me through the crowd toward the bar. I was glad he was there to help me navigate the Room of Intimidation.

  As we reached the bar, John removed his hand and came to stand beside me. “A Manhattan, please, and the lady would like . . . ?”

  “A white wine spritzer.”

  “Hey, buddy!” A masculine voice boomed over the crowd. John whipped his head around so fast I had to swivel my neck so he didn’t hit me.

  “Mikey!” John shouted, lifting his glass in a mock toast. The man barreled through the crowd to reach us, a huge grin on his already wide face. He was tall, too, taller than almost every blond head in there. And, of course, he was blond. I noticed he was wearing a double-breasted David Letterman suit with an exceedingly ugly tie. He looked loaded with largesse, both physical and financial.

  John gestured to me. “Molly, I’d like you to meet Michael, my partner-in-crime for most of business school.”

  The man stuck out his large hand and enfolded mine within. “Nice to meet you, Molly. John, haven’t seen you since Vegas.” He winked broadly.

  John turned a little pink. “Yeah, Vegas.”

  The man gave a knowing grin. “C’mon, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I’m sure your friend here”—he emphasized the word friend with a knowing leer—“knows what you’re capable of.”

  There was an awkward silence as I pondered what John might have been up to in Vegas, and Michael kept watching my expression. What, did he think I was going to demand John tell me right there? No wonder John wanted a friend if this was the type of conversation he could expect to have.

  Michael seemed to figure out he wasn’t going to get a rise out of me, so he took another attack, planting his elbow on the bar next to me. “So how’s business, John?” There was an under-current of aggression in Michael’s tone. Ah, the ego of the MBA.

  “Fine. Great, actually. We just signed a deal with a Fortune 500 company to do all their marketing and promotion.”

  “Very impressive.”

  “And you? Still working for your father?”

  The man squirmed a little bit. He pushed his arms forward and twitched his shirtsleeves back a little so his watch was showing. It practically reeked of a five-figure price tag.

  “Yes, well, the old man’s not doing as well as he had been—”

  “Sorry to hear that.” John took a long pull on his drink.

  “And I’ve been taking on some of his responsibilities—”

  “Good for you, helping your father out like that.” I noticed every time John said “your father” he imbued it with a sharp edge. His face bore a somewhat aloof expression, also, which made me wonder, since it was so unlike John’s normal openness. Plus I’d never even heard of this Michael guy before.

  “Yes, well, the company’s doing about thirty million annual sales,” Michael finished, gulping the dark brown liquid in his glass as if it were water.

  John did the same, upending the glass until it was empty. “Pretty good.”

  God, I felt as if I were in some financial western: “Draw your accounts receivable, pardner.” Or maybe a Dirty Harry movie: “So, do you feel wealthy, punk? Huh, do you?”

  “Another drink, Molly?” Michael asked, taking my empty glass from me and setting it on the bar.

  “Uh, no thanks. Maybe in a little bit.” I spied a waiter with a tray of hors d’oeuvres and tried to make some “I’m peckish” eye contact with him. He made a beeline for me, probably because my dark brown hair made a good target in the sea of blond.

  “What are these?” I asked, pointing at a little dumpling thing.

  “Portobello mushroom, crab, and brie pot stickers.” He held the tray aloft just under my nose, which caught and savored the aroma of rich, aged cheese.

  “Yes, thank you,” I said, grabbing one and popping it in my mouth. It was almost too big to fit, and I felt my cheeks bulge out.

  And then I saw him. And her.

 
Which meant, basically, them.

  Just as my mouth was stuffed with snooty mushrooms and runny cheese.

  This was not how I had pictured our first meeting.

  “Molly?” Hugh walked toward me, a surprised expression on his face. She, because it had to be her, walked slightly behind him. I held his eyes for just a beat longer than I really wanted to, mostly because I didn’t want to have to look at her.

  And then I saw her, really saw her. Blond, leggy, thin, fashionably dressed in a Schiaparelli pink cocktail dress that looked as if it cost more than my entire wardrobe. She smiled, flashing flawlessly white teeth. Worser and worser.

  She looked like Lissa, only more polished, more confident, and definitely more well read. I bet she even considered The Ambassadors fluffy reading.

  And John thought she couldn’t hold a candle to me? His candle standards must be pretty high.

  “Hi, Hugh,” I replied, finally forcing the last lump of dumpling down my throat.

  “This is Molly?” the vixen said in a low, husky voice. Even her vocal cords were sexier than me. She held out her hand, slender, slightly tanned, and waited for me to reach up to clasp it. “I should have known, Aidan looks just like you,” she continued in a pleasant tone. I had to give her points for trying.

  “Yes. You must be Sylvia,” I said in as noncommittal a tone as I could muster.

  Hugh gave a little nervous yelp and looked anxiously back to Sylvia, as if he were concerned I would leap over him to throttle her. As if I blamed her.

  No, I blamed him. It wasn’t her fault he was a faithless bastard.

  “Hi, Hugh, Sylvia.” John moved closer to me. “I didn’t realize you guys would be here, I thought Mike had you out of town.”

  John knew her schedule? I hoped to God my mouth wasn’t literally hanging open because there were probably weird sticky bits of Brie dangling from the roof of it. Why did he know her schedule?

  Mike clapped a bearlike paw around Sylvia’s waist. “This one wrapped up a big project even earlier than we expected, so she was able to make it tonight. I felt bad making her miss the opportunity to show off her new boyfriend.”

  Hugh smiled weakly.

  As he did most things. Meow!

  Sylvia turned to me. Was it my imagination, or was her look just a little bit condescending? “I’m sure neither Molly nor John needs to hear about all that, Mike,” she said in a honeyed tone. Not my imagination, then. “John, how’s your little company doing? I heard Natalie has joined you?” Her eyebrows arched in surprise.

  I could have sworn I heard John’s jaw snap. “My company is doing well, thank you, Sylvia,” he said through gritted teeth. “We got the Simon Baxter account. Natalie was working on it, but she and Simon didn’t quite get along.” He made it sound as if she couldn’t take the pressure or something. Funny how a savvy businessman could spin anything he wanted.

  Sylvia’s smile grew more brilliant. White teeth flashed in a face filled with antipathy. “Simon is usually an excellent judge of character. A shame about Natalie. She and Simon, well, they . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Hugh turned to Sylvia, muttering something into her ear. Her eyes flashed blue fire, then she turned back toward us. “Hugh and I are going to get something to drink. Excuse us,” she said, grabbing Hugh by the wrist and practically dragging him to the other side of the room.

  “Sylvia’s a ball breaker, that’s for sure,” Mike said proudly. John shot me a quick glance, then cleared his throat.

  “Molly, would you like to go watch the orchestra play for a while?”

  Will it drown out the voices in my head?

  “Sure. Sounds great. Nice to meet you,” I said to Michael, watching him down another glass of straight liquor.

  “See you in a bit, Molly,” he replied, looking me up and down like he was inspecting me for defects.

  We walked toward the corner of the room where the band was playing. As soon as we were out of earshot I spun around and stared at John. “You never said you knew her. You said you had met her, but not that you knew her. I mean, there is a difference. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t know they’d be here, Molly, honestly I didn’t,” John said, holding his hands out in an apologetic gesture.

  “That’s not what I asked, John.” Damn it, he was supposed to be my friend. I was tired of being so darn nice all the time. “I asked why you didn’t tell me that you knew her. Have known her, I’m guessing, since graduate school.”

  He bit his lip. Funny, I thought only romance heroines did that. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to be upset. I’m Hugh’s friend, too, Molly.”

  “Are you how they met?” I demanded.

  He drew himself up to his full height and locked eyes with me. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I’m the one who introduced Hugh and Sylvia.” I think my mouth must’ve dropped open again, because he was looking at me in concern. “Are you okay?” He shook his head and stared at the floor. “Look,” he mumbled, “I had no idea she was—that they were—that.” He looked back at me. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” I smiled the widest, fakest smile I could. I knew he’d know it was pretend, but I was betting he would want to drop the subject. Like every man I’d ever known.

  He gave me a relieved look. “Good, because I‘ve been feeling so guilty, and that I should have told you about everything—that I’m the reason they met.”

  My mind went there, right away. “Did you know they were seeing each other? I mean, before he left?”

  His look said it all. He opened his mouth to speak, but I stopped him by putting my hand up. “Look,” I said, “let’s just not talk about it anymore. Still a bit painful.”

  “Of course.” He sounded relieved. Perhaps because I wasn’t going to unleash the Horrific Hagan Hissy Fit. Hey, I was learning! “Mmm,” I murmured.

  “Anyway,” he continued, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his slacks, “thanks for coming tonight. You’re a good friend.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say something that would sound suspiciously like an accusation that he was anything but a good friend if he was withholding all this info from me. But I wasn’t that mean. Definitely not that inappropriate. Was I?

  I couldn’t do that, though. He was a good friend, even if he made some poor choices. He had given me work and he was on my side, sort of, in the Hugh versus Molly showdown. So what if he wasn’t perfect? I sure as hell wasn’t. And besides, friends—the kind of people like Lissa or Keisha—were precious enough. Were rare enough.

  So I held my tongue on that, at least. I rested my head against his shoulder. “Would you mind if we left soon? I’m really tired.”

  Tired of feeling inadequate. Tired of Hugh, and the specter of our relationship. Tired of worrying about the future and how Aidan would eat and if I’d ever be with anyone again.

  “Sure, I totally understand,” John replied.

  We did our best to dodge Hugh and the Perfect Woman as we exited and then headed out to a diner, since that one pot sticker hadn’t really helped with my “haven’t had dinner since I had to fit into that dress” problem.

  It was kinda cool, actually; now that I’d seen more of John’s own insecurities, his clear feelings of inadequacy around his buddy Mike, and gotten more of a glimpse into his past, I felt less awful about my own self.

  Perspective did that for a person. And good friends.

  Tart of Darkness

  Obscure, faintly dangerous ingredients—Belgian chocolate, white rum, African groundnuts—combine in a swirl of flavor, topped off with a heady adventure of whipped cream. Delicious, delectable, and almost completely inscrutable, this tart reveals your most secret desires. And if Kurtz had been able to savor this, who knows how the story would have ended?

  9

  “HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY, MOMMY,” AIDAN SAID, BEAMING. He held out a piece of paper with hearts scrawled all over it. It was barely 8:00 A.M., and I was a
lready crying. But good tears. Definitely an improvement.

  I’d spent the weekend on John’s last-minute emergency project, and it had taken both days, which meant Aidan got to watch a lot of TV. No wonder he thought I was great. It had been hard work, but it was satisfyingly hard—plus that money would really come in handy.

  “Thank you, sweetie,” I replied, putting my coffee cup down on the dining room table and taking it from him. I reached for him, and gathered him up in a big hug. I was glad he was still young enough not to mind when I hugged him.

  We were in the living room getting ready for school—he watching TV while I tried to cajole him to eat and put clothes on all at the same time. It was a continual miracle he wasn’t starving and naked.

  “So will you be my valentine?” I asked him, peering into his little face as I held him.

  He made a face. “No, you’re my mom, not my valentine.” I unwrapped my arms from him and glared back at him with an exaggerated expression.

  “No? Well, if I’m not your valentine, who is?” I demanded in mock outrage.

  “Lissa.” He smiled up at me, and it wrenched my heart. He was still my baby, but he wouldn’t be forever. And he was already falling in love with a blonde. Taking after his dad.

  “She’s coming over tomorrow night, do you want to make something special for her?”

  His face brightened even more. “Yeah! I’ll make her a picture with all her favorite Pokémon.” He scampered to his little desk and sat down, his face already screwed up in concentration.

  “You can start on that now, but we’ll have to stop in about fifteen minutes to go to school,” I warned. No reply. “Did you hear me?”

  He looked up, clearly annoyed. “Yes. Fifteen minutes. I’ll finish it up after school.”

  I nodded at him, then ran down the hall to do a last check of my outfit.

  Today was Tuesday. And Tuesday was Meet with Mr. Harsh day.

  I had chosen my clothing with an eye toward projecting an air of sleek professionalism: black pants, black suit jacket, black camisole underneath. Either I was a New York urbanite or a really enthusiastic undertaker.