Chapter 5 - Chelsea
I shut the door and lock up. Turn my notifications back on. Sam has texted me a bunch of times.
How was it?
Where are you?
Why aren’t you back yet?
Did you sleep with him?
Goodnight, I love you.
The last one is from my mom. She sent it at 9:15. I think about texting her back but she’ll probably tell me to go to bed. I love her but…
I call Sam instead.
“Talk,” she says.
“It was nice.”
“Nice, fuck nice.”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“I’ll wait.”
I set the phone down on my bed. I can start unpacking while we talk. I’m way too excited to sleep anyway. Well, half excited, half confused. Maybe a little more than half confused.
Myles has storage bins stacked in the corner of the bathroom. I noticed them when I got here. He left a note on it explaining it was his extra clothes. He wanted to empty the closet for me. He’s always been super organized. Me, not so much.
I go back to the bedroom and put Sam on speaker.
“I’m back,” I say.
“What happened?”
I shush her.
“He’s right upstairs. He’s my landlord, I mean, Myles’s landlord. He owns the building.”
“Interesting, but I’m looking for details of a more…carnal nature.”
“He’s nice.”
“Boring.”
“It wasn’t a date,” I say.
I pick up my suitcase, put it on the bed, and unzip it. I open up the top drawer of the dresser and decide to put my bras in there.
“What was it then?” Sam asks.
“Just a little…welcome to the neighborhood tour,” I guess. “I don’t think I made a great impression.”
Now I think the reason he was so distant after dinner was because he was hatching his crazy plan in his head.
“Sometimes a slow boil is more fun,” Sam says.
“Nothing’s boiling, except…”
“What?”
“He kind of offered me a job.”
I wasn’t going to tell her, but now I have to.
“Doing what?” she says. “What does he do now anyway?”
“He owns a construction company,” I say. “He buys properties and fixes them up.”
“A flipper?”
“I guess so.”
I pick out a pair of socks that lodged itself in the cup of one of my bras. Bras, underwear, socks, I think and chuck the socks in drawer number three.
“Wait, he offered you a design job?”
“Yes, sort of.”
“I thought he offered you something…less legal.”
“Gross. And thanks,” I say, grabbing two handfuls of socks and dumping them in the drawer.
One specific item of clothing per drawer is good enough. I don’t need to line all this shit up or anything.
“You sounded weird when you said it,” Sam says. “Like it was sleezy or something. He kind of offered me a job,” she says, parroting my tone.
“I’m just tired,” I lie.
“So that’s fantastic!”
I don’t say anything. I’m too busy sorting panties from bras. Not really, but I can’t tell her about his crazy idea.
“I mean, you go to New York to go to school for interior design and you get offered a design job before you’re there twenty-four hours,” Sam says.
She’s obviously very excited for me. Which is nice. I get a sinking feeling that telling her was a mistake. It’s not going to happen and how will I explain that? I really shouldn’t have said anything.
“Hello? What’s wrong with you? That would be like me showing up in New York and them offering me an associate position at the airport.”
“That wouldn’t happen,” I say. “You haven’t taken the bar yet.”
Sam’s a paralegal. She’s been dreaming of law school as long as I’ve been dreaming of having my own interior design show.
“Don’t remind me,” she says. “You cannot pass this up. Period.”
“You’re right,” I say. “I was just overwhelmed. I can do it for the summer. Sure, why not?”
“Good, we’re in agreement.”
She spends another ten minutes peppering me with questions about the apartment, the neighborhood and Scott. She says she’s going to keep an eye on flights so she can come check all of it out in person real soon. Then we say good night and hang up.
I finish unpacking and slide the suitcases under my bed. I take a long, hot shower, no need to save hot water for anyone else. I wrap myself in one of Myles’s towels and go back to the bedroom to grab some pajamas.
I don’t need pajamas,I realize. I’m all alone in my own apartment. I could walk around naked. Well I could, but I won’t. I stay in the towel and go to my living room. I pick up the TV remote and tune in to HGTV.
It’s one of my favorite shows.
“Huh,” I say and push the guide button.
I page through the next few days of shows. They are mostly couples. I close the guide. The designer is explaining the plans to the client.
That could be me,I think.
On screen they are talking about backsplashes and flooring. I close my eyes, trying to remember the plans Scott had.
He definitely screwed up the kitchen,I think. The island should be oriented perpendicular to how he had it. The master suite looked amazing. He made it the whole top floor. I could do so much with that.
New York has a lot to offer an interior designer. If the building is like a blank canvas a brownstone is like a...Rembrandt waiting to happen. The high ceilings. Big rooms that were designed two hundred years ago. Making the awkward dimensions work for today’s lifestyle is the challenge.
I look back at the TV. They are ready to do the big reveal. That’s my favorite part. They lead the client in and there is a chorus of “Oh my gawds” and “Unbelievable” and now the lady is crying.
The designer is beaming and her contractor husband looks pretty happy too. That’s what it’s all about. That’s why you put in all the work, the late hours, the scrambling to fix the minor—and not so minor—problems that pop up. Because at the end you have that amazing result and you did it.
Why am I not jumping at this opportunity?I think. Oh, right. We have to pretend to be engaged.
I stare at the ceiling. Scott is right above me. I could do a lot worse for a fake fiancée.
“No!” I say and turn the TV off.
What would I tell my family? I should have told Sam the whole truth about his offer, but now it’s too late to call her. But would she have said anything different?
I go into my bedroom. I pull down the comforter and realize there are no sheets on the bed. I find them in the dryer and start making the bed.
Maybe it’s good that I didn’t tell Sam. That could be simpler. When the show airs I can just tell everyone Scott and I staged the engagement. Once it’s over my parents wouldn’t care too much. I’m sure my mom would just be thrilled to see me on TV.
Maybe I could get my own show after that. Scott doesn’t want to do this forever, he wants to act again. That couple that split up—what’s her face—has her own show now, and her husband does too. This isn’t just a simple opportunity, this could make my whole career.
I climb into bed, visions of merchandise dancing in my head. Maybe my own store on Fifth Avenue.
I grab my phone and put it on do not disturb. Then I bring up Scott’s contact. If we are going to do this, we need to talk. A lot. We need to understand what is expected. Also I need full design control. I can’t put my name on something that looks less than perfect.
I open up a text to him but then close it right back down. This is a big decision. I really should sleep on it. As I snuggle into the bed—my bed—I know the decision is made. I’ll call him in the morning, the better not to chicken out, like I might with a text. I can’t believe it, I’m going for it.