Diana in Love (Dirty Diana #2)

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

“So he just left?” L’Wren shouts from the baseline.

I return her hit, hard. Too hard for a leisurely morning game of tennis. “He left. We both decided it was for the best.”

L’Wren watches the ball whiz past, not bothering to run for it. “I’m sorry—but, Oliver, you do not get to just come over and have break-up sex with someone you’ve dressed up as Paw Patrol with for Halloween!”

“I invited him. And we didn’t have sex.”

“Please don’t say ‘just the tip.’?”

“L’Wren! No. Please,” I say, even though that’s exactly what we did.

“Fine. Almost sex, whatever you want to call it.” She pulls a new ball from the hem of her tennis skort and lifts her racket to serve.

“Can we actually stop here?” I call out. “I need time to shower before work.”

“Oh thank god.” She doubles over, dramatically clutching her knees. “I thought you’d make me play another set while we worked out all your Oliver demons. I’m dying over here.”

We’re both drenched in sweat. We tried to play early to beat the heat, but it’s already 91 degrees at seven a.m . “Buy you an iced tea before you go?”

—

“You know what?” L’Wren has been giving me a steady stream of marital advice since we stepped out of the showers. The country club she and Kevin have recently joined is over-the-top, with thick, plush towels and cozy robes. L’Wren showed me the special chute you send your sweaty clothes down to be laundered, then we sampled every complimentary product on the well-lit vanities and used the high-speed hair dryers. At the club’s bar, a silver-haired bartender refills our iced teas. “Let him live in that crappy loft…”

“It’s not actually that bad. You saw it. And Emmy loves the pool—”

“Whatever,” she dismisses. “Let him puff up and get bloaty on those sad, sodium-filled frozen dinners—”

“He looks great, L’Wren. He’s training for a marathon. His whole body is getting…” I punch my fist into my palm like it’s a brick wall.

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “But think of what it feels like to be in a new space with all that quiet…. Dammit. This approach is not working. Now I want Oliver’s life…. Okay, well, screw him for bettering himself after you break up. What a cliché! A total cliché, and it’ll all come crashing down.”

I laugh, poking at the perfectly crushed ice with my glass straw. “I just want…” I search for the right words at the bottom of my tea. “I wish I knew better what I wanted. When Oliver and I were together, I thought of him as so needy all the time. I used to picture him like an octopus with tentacles that were always reaching out for me, and it felt so suffocating. And now that he doesn’t need me like that…Jesus, L’Wren, I’m the cliché.”

“No, no. He’s just not doing the things that turned you off anymore—or you’re just not around to see them, so of course you’re going to find him attractive again. It’s confusing.”

“It’s sad. I know, of course it’s sad, we’re separated. But I guess I wasn’t expecting to be this sad and this lost. It doesn’t feel over. That’s the part I can’t figure out. After we had Emmy, I knew we were done having kids. I knew it in my bones. Our family was complete. But this separation…It feels like purgatory. Like we’re just ghosts haunting each other. Is there something still there? Am I just wearing my rose-tinted glasses?”

When I lift my head, L’Wren takes me firmly by both shoulders. “Follow the white light, Diana. It’s time.”

I smile. “I know. You’re right. We’re light-years away from each other. The other night proved that.”

“Great.” She claps her hands together decisively, but her smile is full of affection. “We’re moving forward and you are not alone. New topic. What else?”

A perfect opening. A chance to tell her all about Dirty Diana and my hope that it will become a real thing. But how do I tell her? And what is it? Me listening to other people’s fantasies in the middle of the night? Trying to make it into a project to stave off loneliness? When the house is too quiet, I put on headphones and try to hear something in these stories about desire, other people’s fantasies for the future, something lifting them up out of clichés about power-swapping and lust and into…? What am I looking for? I feel useless and lost.

L’Wren’s phone vibrates on the bar beside us. When she checks the text, she breaks into a massive grin.

“Who’s that?”

She sets the phone down again, this time screen face down. “Hmm?”

“You have this big smile. What’s so funny?”

L’Wren waves a hand to tell me it’s nothing. “Arthur. The vet who’s helping me out with the cat rescue. I told you about him.”

I shake my head.

“No? I haven’t? Oh yeah, he’s helping me with a crazy influx of foster kittens, thank god. He loves cats.”

“I would hope so.” After years of taking in stray cats, L’Wren has started her own rescue.

She lifts her phone and shows me the text. It’s a picture of a cat wearing a lemon wedge on his head like a hat.

“Is this cat humor?”

“So bizarre, right?” She rolls her eyes. “He loves cats.”

“I got that.”

She gives a hollow laugh but doesn’t meet my eyes. “He’s obsessed. Weird, right?” The only weird thing is L’Wren calling another cat person weird.

“He sounds perfect for the job.”

“Did I tell you he works out with them? Look at this!”

She pulls up another photo, this one of a guy’s chest, close up and shirtless, doing bicep curls with two cats.

“Why’s his face cut off?”

She snatches the phone back. “Because it’s about the cats, Diana. I mean, if you’re into that. Look at those tabby girls! Sweet sisters.”

I peek one more time at the arms and chest that take up most of the frame. “This is like a cat lady’s dick pic, L’Wren.”

“Diana! Stop. Arthur is a doctor.”

“And?”

She slips her phone into her purse.

“L’Wren. Do you have a little crush on the vet?”

“No! What? No!” I try to remember the last time I saw L’Wren blush. “We work together. And I’m married. And he’s just fun. Fun to talk to.”

A comforting sensation washes over me. I’m not the only one of us who’s keeping secrets.

—

I left my sunglasses at the club but only realize once I’m nearly at work and it’s too late to turn back. I drive east, squinting into the sun. The rays splinter my vision, reminding me of a glaringly white, blank canvas. I imagine how I’d fill it right now if I could. I’d use oil paints in dark colors and thick strokes to fill the entire space, like a night sky. I am spending far too much time thinking about Oliver. Jasper, I allow myself to think about because he is so far away.

At work, I walk past Oliver’s nearly empty office. There’s still a framed school picture of Emmy with two missing front teeth and his UT diploma collecting dust on the wall.

“It’s weird,” our receptionist, Talia, says as she passes me in the hall, “I keep expecting him to be there too.” I feel my cheeks burn. I smile and grab my mail from her. “Oh, and Diana? Allen wants to see you. ASAP.”

The sentence fills me with dread. My father-in-law runs a wealth management firm, where I’ve worked for the past fifteen years. We help clients with their investments and possessions, making my father-in-law richer in the process. Typically, Allen likes to be involved in each and every piece of advice we give a client—from tax planning to real estate, down to which model car they should buy—but ever since Oliver and I separated, Allen and I have been good at steering clear of each other.

There is no putting it off this morning. I head directly for Allen’s office and knock on his open door. He looks up, his eyes bright and his hair combed perfectly. His office smells like aftershave and leather. When I’m in here, I imagine a cow wearing cologne. “Hi, sweetheart. Come on in.”

“Everything okay?”

“I should be asking you that.”

“I’m good. Fine. We’re all okay.”

“I hate it.” He bangs his fist, lightly but dramatically, against his desk. “This separation. Vivian and I just hate it.” We both know my mother-in-law doesn’t hate it. “It’s hard for everyone, but you’re still my daughter-in-law. The mother of my Number One Grandbaby. I don’t need a piece of paper to tell me that.” He gives me his sympathy smile—I know it well. It’s exactly like Oliver’s, the way their mouths turn up slightly more on the right than the left. Their happy smiles are even and full.

“Thank you.” His hands, too, now folded on the desk in front of him, are so much like Oliver’s.

“So, Casino Royale. See you there?”

“Sorry?”

“That’s Viv’s theme this year. She’s flying in real Vegas dealers or some crap, should be a hell of a good time.” Once a year, my mother-in-law throws a party for the firm’s top executives, switching up the theme every time. Denim and Diamonds. Boots and Bow Ties. Always extravagant and over-the-top. “We invited Oliver but he RSVP’d no. God only knows what that boy’s up to.”

“Allen, this is very kind, but you don’t have to include me—”

“Petra Rowling has just RSVP’d yes. It’s a perfect opportunity to make an introduction.”

“Oh.” Petra is the recent widow of one of Allen’s biggest clients, footballer Mitch Martin, who died tragically in a private plane crash earlier this year. Mitch played for the Cowboys, and he and Petra were married young. When he retired, they filmed their own reality show, which became insanely popular for its unfiltered peek into their marriage. Petra now has a cookbook line. Multiple sponsorships. All of it.

“I’d love it if you could come by and say hello, spend a little time with Petra at the party, make sure she has fun. I want her to feel good about Mitch’s money staying with the firm.”

“Oh.” It clicks into place. Allen needs a woman to talk to Petra, to prove that one actually works at the firm, and I’m his only choice. “Isn’t it her money too?”

“Of course, yes, and this is all in Petra’s best interest. I worry about all the vultures knocking on her door. I thought it would be nice for her to have some of your… energy at the party.”

—

My in-laws’ historic Tudor glows from within. It might be from the thousands of tea lights Vivian’s staff has carefully set up throughout. There must be twenty servers in crisp white shirts and black aprons standing at attention in the foyer like toy soldiers. One of them hands me a glass of champagne and I fight the urge to take two. Vivian rushes to greet me and is oddly warm, which is way more unnerving than her iciness.

“You look beautiful, Diana. Thank you so much for coming. I know it’s not easy to be here.”

“You’ve outdone yourself again,” I say, as she gives me a quick, tight hug.

“It all comes together in the end, doesn’t it?” Vivian smiles, and I smile, too, and I realize we’ve already run out of things to say to each other. I’m relieved when Allen swans in and leads me straight to Petra.

“There she is!” Allen announces, his voice booming through the backyard, where someone has stretched an enormous canvas, painted to look like Monaco’s coastline, lit from below with giant spotlights. It’s gaudy and bright and Petra is smart to have found the darkest corner, at a small table near the bar.

Petra is stunning. Her dark hair is parted down the middle and tucked into a low bun, one wavy strand framing her face. Her dress is emerald-colored silk and floor-length. It’s early in the night, but she’s already barefoot, her red-bottomed stilettos resting on the table in front of her.

“Petra,” Allen booms again. “How are you?”

“It’s a lovely party, Allen.” Petra smiles warmly, then turns to me. “You must be Diana.”

“It’s so nice to meet you.” I’ve never met someone in person whom I’ve seen on TV. I feel awkward and stiff, like I should have more to say. In preparation for tonight, I watched an entire season of Petra’s reality show and I know all kinds of intimate details about her. I know that her mother is Scottish and her father is Nigerian and that she grew up in London and was kicked out of two boarding schools before graduating from a third with honors. She met her husband at a rugby match in Wales where they were both guests of the club’s owner, and it was love at first sight. “You must hear this all the time, but I feel like I know you already.”

“Say that again…”

“Sorry?”

“Say it again.”

“Which part?”

“Any of it.” Petra studies my face. “Your voice sounds so familiar.”

“Does it?” I feel the tips of my ears go pink. There’s no way she’s heard my Dirty Diana interviews, is there? How many people has Alicia sent them to?

“Where do I know it from? This is going to drive me crazy.”

“Diana’s voice?” Allen pipes in. “No, you wouldn’t know it. She hasn’t answered the front desk phone in years. She’s worked her way right up the ladder, as we like to see happen at the firm—and now, invaluable. A great fit.”

It’s really a gift he has—managing to make all three of us feel uncomfortable in so few words. “Well.” He claps his hands together. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. Don’t miss the carving station. Vivian had the prime rib prepared by Chef Dennis.” Allen winks, then disappears.

Petra immediately stage-whispers, “Who the fuck is Chef Dennis and how long before I can make an Irish exit?”

I laugh harder than I should. “I’m asking myself the same question.” Then, because not to feels like too big a betrayal of my in-laws, I offer, “I can make us a plate in the meantime?”

“You’re sweet. I’m a vegetarian. Should I admit that in this crowd?” She narrows her eyes and scans the room.

“Are you also sober and an atheist?” I slip into the seat across from her. “Because my mother-in-law will have you escorted out.”

“Ohhh,” she breathes, a twinkle in her eye. “Allen is your boss and your father-in-law.”

“Yes. Sort of.”

I can see from the way her brow crinkles that she caught the “sort of,” but she doesn’t push. Just over Petra’s shoulder, I notice Vivian’s oldest friend, Joy, breaking away from her group of melting socialites and heading directly for us. Before I can find a corner to cower in, she’s at my side, dressed in head-to-toe Carolina Herrera.

“Diana. Honey. Vivian told me about you and Oliver. I’m in shock. Absolute shock. You two were so darling together.”

“Thank you.” I see her hands clutch her heart and want to roll my eyes. “Joy, this is my friend Petra.”

Joy smiles tightly at Petra and returns her focus to me. “I remember your wedding day like it was yesterday. Well, you proved everyone wrong for a while there, didn’t you? You lasted a good long while.”

“We did. Yes.”

“Vivian is just shattered, as you know. We can’t handle this kind of stress at our age. Stress is the silent killer, and I don’t need any more than I already have. I cried all day. The entire day. I couldn’t get out of the bed when Vivian told me. And poor sweet Emmy. I cry for her as well. I really do.”

“Diana!” Petra scolds, leaning across the table, reaching for my elbow. “Did you have any idea your divorce was causing Joy so much distress?”

I press my lips together and try not to smile. “I did not.” I crane my neck to look up at Joy. “I’m terribly sorry.”

“I’ll save you the gory details of the end of my marriage, Joy,” Petra interjects. “He died. Suddenly. Private plane. Very stressful.”

“Oh dear.” Joy’s face contorts in horror.

“In fact, Diana, I don’t think it’s fair for us to be at this party with our depressing backstories. We don’t want to cause the guests any undue trouble. You know what, darling? I think this might be our cue.”

To Joy’s total confusion, Petra grabs my hand and her shoes and we slip through the party and out the front door. It feels like committing a delicious, giddy crime. Petra runs toward her driver, who holds open the door of a ridiculously large black car, the size of a small home. It has deep, plush seats and a privacy partition separating the back from the front.

As we climb in, Petra asks, “Do I smell like death?”

For a moment I freeze—I think of her husband and whether there’s something appropriate I’m supposed to say.

“From all those fucking meat stations.” She wrinkles her nose.

“Oh.” I laugh. “No. Maybe. A little?”

“Smell my dress.” She leans into me, the nape of her neck brushing against my cheek.

“No, you smell like…tea rose?”

“Mitch’s favorite,” she says matter-of-factly, settling into the bench seat next to me and stretching out her legs. She looks tiny in this big car.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say.

She turns to me and grins. “Is it stressing you out? Have you been in bed all day?”

I take her cue. “It’s a lot for me, yes.”

“Of course. Totally understandable. I’ll send both you and Joy a fruit basket.”

I laugh, and when the car falls quiet, I say, “I really am sorry. It’s very unfair.”

“Thank you.” She squeezes my knee, as if to tell me she’s okay. “He was one of the good ones. And he liked Allen very much. But I’m afraid if you’ve been sent to convince me to keep our money at the firm, I have to tell you don’t bother. I haven’t decided what to do yet, and I won’t be convinced just because someone nice with a vagina works at the firm. No offense. Honestly, I find you better than nice already.”

She doesn’t wait for a response but opens the car’s fridge compartment and takes out a clear glass bottle with some sort of fizzy amber liquid inside. She pours it into a glass for me, then dips back into the fridge for another bottle, this time the liquid a cloudy purple, and pours herself a glass.

“Allen can be…” I start. “He means well.”

Petra drops ice into each of our glasses. “Mitch always liked being told what to do by rich old dudes. It was his one flaw. And he had a soft spot for Allen. I never totally got it.”

“Allen is trustworthy.”

“Maybe. And Mitch liked to win. Allen always looks like he’s winning. He looks like generations of winning. Cheers.”

We clink glasses and I take a sip. “Mmm.” I’m surprised by how something on ice can taste so warm. And also musty. Like an old wool scarf stored over a long, hot summer. “It’s different. Frothy.”

“Homemade kombucha. Do you like it?”

“No.” I shake my head and we both laugh. “It’s terrible.”

“But so amazing for the gut. Here. Try mine.” She hands me her glass. “Maybe it’s the passion fruit in yours that you don’t like.”

It feels intimate, drinking from her glass. I take a sip. “Mmm.” I cough.

“It’s not that bad!”

“Mmm,” I repeat and we both laugh.

“You’re funny.” It’s what someone says when they’re surprised you have a personality. I should be insulted but I’m thrilled. I’m consumed by the feeling of wanting Petra to like me.

“So…” She sits back in her seat. “You and your husband are separated?” Petra takes in every part of my face—my eyes, my nose, my lips. “But you still work at the firm? For Allen?”

“For now. Not forever. I don’t think. Oliver, my—ex?—he’s still between jobs. So it’s good for one of us to be working.”

Petra opens her car door, then grabs my glass, abruptly emptying it onto Vivian and Allen’s driveway. She opens the car’s fridge again, this time mixing me a gin and tonic, then pours a generous amount of gin into her own glass.

“You know,” she tells me, “Mitch didn’t create our brand. I did. If he hadn’t met me, he would have played a few more years of pro football and gone back to Odessa and bought all his friends McMansions and Lambos. He’d have run out of money in less than two years.

“I introduced him to couture and, when the time was right, bought him his first set of veneers and prepped him before every interview. My husband was lovely, but he was never all that ambitious. I was. The show, the brand partnerships, even the Nike commercial, were all my concepts. We turned ‘honesty’ into our brand…” Her voice trails off, as if she’s suddenly grown tired of reading her own press release.

“I’m sure you miss him very much.”

“And as for the money…” She picks up a thread neither of us had started, then stops. Her fingers tap against her glass, then hover gently against her lips, then return to her glass. After a long pause she begins again, somewhere else. “Some days I wake up and I know exactly where I’m going. And others, I can’t let my feet touch the floor. I open my eyes and feel so lost that I’m afraid if I sit up in bed the whole room will spin or fade away. So I stay really still. Like maybe if I don’t move, I won’t feel so lost. As if it’s me who’s been mislaid.”

From outside, I hear the faraway noises of party laughter and Vivian’s hired band. Inside the car, it’s only the sound of Petra and me breathing and, faintly, through the driver’s partition, the muffled echoes of a baseball game on the radio: the crack of the bat and an announcer’s excited call. I know I should eventually bring up Allen again and all the reasons the firm is actually the perfect fit, but it feels so tedious.

A swath of light from Vivian’s casino lights washes across Petra’s bare shoulder, the hand holding her glass, her profile. When she turns to look at me, her entire face moves into shadow. “I get why you still work there.”

“Yeah?” Maybe she could help me understand.

“It’s safe and contained. I could use more of that. I’m a little jealous.”

“I have other interests, apart from the firm.” Without hesitation, I tell her all about Dirty Diana. I don’t know why I start talking, but Petra seems so open, so honest and real and not at all judgy, and once I begin, it all spills out. She doesn’t take her eyes off me, and holding her attention is intoxicating. I tell her about how I haven’t been sleeping since Oliver moved out, about how restless I’ve been and how when I lie awake recently, I think about getting on a plane and going anywhere. I don’t mention Jasper, but I do say maybe Europe? London, or maybe Paris, to be inspired. The more I talk, the easier it is to tell her things. Things I’ve been burning to tell L’Wren but haven’t. When I come up for air, I feel like I’m floating.

Petra holds out her palm. “Let me see your phone.” I unlock it and hand it over so she can add her details. “I leave for Europe in a week. Mitch and I always spent our summers there. I’ll be in Paris all of June, part of July. Then maybe Greece? Switzerland maybe? Don’t know. Call me when you get there.”