13. A Hint and A Headline
13
A HINT AND A HEADLINE
Layla
My mom doesn’t spend much time on the Upper East Side if she can avoid it.
But sometimes she has to visit our former neighborhood for meetings, or, like today, for a quick lunch appointment with moi before she sees her stylist on Madison.
I brace myself for a new set-up. Surely, she’s had enough time now to flick through her Rolodex of families she trusts—Lennoxes, Christies, or Bettencourts.
But I’m not agreeing to a date when I’m seeing Nick tomorrow night, so I’ll tell her I’m too busy with work.
With that bulwark in mind, I head into Patricia’s Hole in the Wall. The lowbrow name is ironic. The place is owned by one of Mom’s sorority sisters, and with oak walls and deep green booths with backgammon boards, it’s as old money as you can get.
At the hostess stand, a perky brunette smiles, showing off straight white teeth. She’s new here. “How can I help you?”
“I’m meeting Anna Mayweather. Party of two.”
“Mayweather,” she says, repeating the name. A second later, recognition dawns in her eyes. Then, shock. “Oh. Mayweather . You’re Layla Mayweather.”
She’s not recognized me as the heiress to a lipstick line. In this kind of bar, money is presumed, it doesn’t surprise. This is something else.
Six years after my father’s murder, you’d think I’d be used to the stares. I mostly am, but I still don’t like it. Her thoughts might as well be plastered on her face.
You were the one who walked in on your father’s murder. You saw his business partner holding the weapon.
Then the question everyone wants to ask but no one ever dares— what was that like ?
Knowing what hell is like can’t prepare you for the flames.
I paste on a Mona Lisa smile, revealing nothing. “Yes, I’m Layla. Is Anna here?”
“Not yet, but I’d be so happy to show you to her table,” the brunette says. There’s an apology in her tone and then on her tongue. “I didn’t mean to make you…” she fumbles. “I just meant…”
But she can’t even say uncomfortable as she escorts me to a table. She just exudes her own discomfort.
“No worries,” I say brightly. It’s easier than holding a grudge.
I take a minute to reset, trying to put the encounter behind me and focus on happy things—like my sexy date tomorrow night. It’ll be sex, and fun, and fantastic company, and that’s all.
A few minutes later, Mom arrives, click-clacking toward me on Louboutins. “Darling. So lovely to see you,” she says, then hugs me when I rise to greet her.
Once we’re seated again, she touches my arm, her expression hopeful. “I desperately need your help. I have to give a speech before the whole company next week. I want to look accessible to the young people we’ve hired recently. I brought some pics of potential outfits to show you. Do you mind?”
“I don’t mind at all,” I say, then I look at photos on her phone throughout most of the meal.
It’s a welcome change from dating machination.
When lunch ends, she heads to see her stylist, then sends me a shot of a pink pantsuit. I picked this one!
It’s not at all what I suggested for her. She’ll never wear it again, either, and in a month, it’ll be in a thrift shop.
Looks great, I say, since it’s easier than asking why she didn’t pick the one I recommended.
But the outfit’s inevitable future also gives me an idea.
As I walk to my next appointment, skull rings on, poised if I need to use them, I text Harlow and Jules and ask them to meet me tonight at my favorite thrift shop.
That evening, T-minus twenty-four hours until date time, I’m checking out the new arrivals at Champagne Taste in the Village, hunting for something to wear tomorrow night when I see Nick.
Harlow flicks through satiny tops while Jules fastidiously dismisses sundress after sundress. I scour the blouses, stopping at a pale pink short-sleeved one with tiny black polka dots.
“Oh, that’s perfect for your pinup style,” Harlow says approvingly.
Jules seconds the assessment with a firm yes , then studies the garment with quizzical eyes. “And you know that has never been worn.”
Harlow chimes in with, “And it’s hardly going to be worn on Layla at all.”
“I hate you,” Jules mutters.
I laugh as I head for the dressing room like I’m floating on a cloud of pre-date fun. But I haven’t seen Nick in three months. What if things are different with him here in Manhattan? What if we don’t vibe like we did in Miami? That was a bubble of heat and sex and flirt. This is my life. I was born in Manhattan. Wherever I go, I run into people I know.
And people who know me.
I plan to tell Nick my real name tomorrow night, in any case. Let him know I’m that Layla Mayweather, the daughter of makeup empress Anna Mayweather, founder, creator, and CEO of the makeup giant Beautique.
But if I’m lucky, Nick won’t have heard what happened to John Mayweather. My father was a defense attorney, not a celebrity, so his shocking murder is more of a salacious New York society thing. An if you know, you know tale.
I know it all.
And all at once, memories flash brutally in front of me.
That night.
My home.
The ride in the ambulance.
I shudder as the images slam into my mind like a tsunami wave, crashing brutally, battering me.
I gulp in air, hardly hearing the gentle knock on the dressing room door.
Then it comes again, more insistent.
It breaks my anti-daydream.
I don’t remember unlatching the door, but Harlow’s inside the cramped cubicle, setting a hand on my arm. “You okay?”
My throat squeezes. Too tight. A noose.
Breathe, Layla. Just breathe.
And I do. I breathe, and I breathe, and I breathe like Carla taught me in the countless therapy sessions I attended in high school, then in college too. Soon, the images recede.
“It’s been a while,” I whisper.
“I know,” Harlow says gently. “Do you need anything? Water? Want to sit down? Listen to music?”
I tip my forehead to the door. “Does Jules think I’m a freak?”
Harlow shakes her head. “No. I told her I was going to check on the shirt, and she said she had to answer an email anyway.”
Jules’s professional voice floats from somewhere outside the door. “Thank you so much for the information on the foreign rights. Full stop. We’ll review this shortly. Full stop.”
I smile at the normalcy, the sheer Jules normalcy. “She’s dictating emails.”
“She never stops working,” Harlow says.
I take another breath then turn to my friend, worry digging into my bones once more. “What if it comes up tomorrow night? The hostess at Patricia’s Hole in the Wall gave me the OMG it’s you face today.”
Harlow rubs my shoulder sympathetically. “You’ll deal with it with grace or humor or pain. Whatever feeling you feel.” A squeeze of my arm now. “And remember, you don’t have to tell him. You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to talk about.”
One more big inhale.
Jules’s voice carries once again, the cool, modulated response to another note calming me. As she dictates, I’m struck by a realization. My new friend has never poked for details or prodded for insight. She hasn’t asked about my dad, or my mom.
That’s been one of the best parts of this blooming friendship. Maybe it can be that easy with Nick, too. He’s in London. Surely, he doesn’t know.
I take Harlow’s hand and exit the dressing room, leaving the persistent worries behind.
It’s time to get ready for my date.
I pose in front of my friends. “Yes or no?” I do a spin, awaiting a verdict, letting myself enjoy this pre-date ritual. Dating is like Christmas. You don’t just put up your tree the night before Santa comes down the chimney. You do it earlier, so you can enjoy the twinkling lights with anticipation.
Jules fixes me with a serious stare, studying the blouse like it’s a script she’s evaluating for Bridger’s production company, maybe something that needs an edit or a revision. “What if you did this?” She undoes the top black button, then the next one. “What if you wear a black corset? Do you have one?”
I shake my head. I haven’t ventured beyond pretty bra and panty sets.
Jules smiles authoritatively. “Go to You Look Pretty Today. You’ll want the Valentina corset. I’ll call the owner and tell her to put one aside in your size.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
Jules brooks no argument. “Then pair it with a skirt, jeans, whatever you want. But a corset is a statement if you wear it under the pink and black polka dots. It’s a hint and a headline at the same time. And you need a statement top when a hot older man who flies first class, dines at Hugo’s, orders town cars, and eats you out like you’re his main course comes to town.”
Harlow’s mouth parts in an O of disbelief that Jules said that. I kind of can’t believe it, either, and I laugh in surprise.
“Jules,” Harlow asks curiously, “where was this Jules when we worked together once upon a time?”
The stylish brunette just tosses a sly smile Harlow’s way, then she fingers the pearl button on her own white sweater. “She is right there underneath the twin set.”
But before I seduce Nick, I’ll at least tell him my real name. I’ll tell him where I come from. The kind of home I was raised in. That’s all I can plan for now, but it feels right to share that much.
He’s earned it.
I buy the shirt, then toss the bag over my shoulder when we head out. Jules waggles her phone. “I called the You Look Pretty Today owner while you were buying the top. The Valentina corset is waiting for you. A gift from Harlow and me,” she says.
I throw my arms around each of them, then I wave goodbye and head to the subway, shedding my fears about tomorrow, deciding I can handle any conversation or question that comes my way.
With the hint and the headline tucked into my bag, I make my way to Neon Diner.
Maybe the corset is already giving me superpowers, because I fire off a text to Nick as I walk up Madison.
Lola: I shopped for tomorrow.
Nick: I can’t wait to see what’s under your clothes.
Lola: Did I say I was shopping for underthings?
Nick: You didn’t have to.
Lola: Maybe I shopped for overthings.
Nick: You didn’t.
With a buzz under my skin, I pull open the door to Neon Diner. A voice behind me says, “Let me guess—you went shopping.”
Tucking my phone away, I let go of the door and turn around in time to swat David’s shoulder with my bag from Champagne Taste. “You say that like I’m a clothes horse.”
“Well, you don’t exactly wear garbage bags in your videos,” David says, then holds open the door, like a gentleman.
Like someone else I’ll be seeing soon.
I chide myself. Focus on your friend right now. Tomorrow night is all about Nick. Tonight is David time.
We breeze inside and tell the woman at the hostess stand that we’re looking for a booth. She points us toward a spot in the back.
“Sidebar,” I say as we head to the booth, “My friend Raven once made a super-hot dress from a garbage bag. She’s a fashion designer. We went to business school together, and she’s all about low-impact creation. You’d like her.” Then an idea springs, fully-formed, into my mind. “I could ask her to make some threads for the auction. Like to donate to a winner.”
He whistles in appreciation then bows dramatically. “I’m not worthy of you,” he says. His hair doesn’t flop over this time. He cut it a few weeks ago. Trimmed the beard too. He’s rocking the banker style.
“That is true. So I’ll let you pay tonight,” I say.
“Happily, because I have an expense account now.” He shifts gears once we slide into the booth and points toward the bag by my side. “I see a black satiny thing peeking out of there. Does that mean you’ve got a hot date this weekend?”
Not that I’m trying to hide the corset, but I didn’t mean to advertise my lingerie. I tuck it back into the canvas bag. But the date itself isn’t a secret. That’s one of the nice things about truly being friends with your ex. We don’t need to hide what we’re up to romantically. “Maybe I do.”
“So, ’fess up. Who are you cheating on me with?”
The man in my texts. Is he even in town yet? I’ve no idea when he’s due to arrive, and I like the mystery. “Just this sexy, powerful man I met a few months ago at a conference.”
That felt good to say. Freeing even. I’m not seeing Bryce Fancypants the Third, or Carson Winters of the East Hamptons Winters. I’m seeing a man my mother would lose her mind over. “He’s coming to town for work,” I add. “He wanted to see me while he was here.”
The twinkle in David’s eye says he knows what I’ll be up to in twenty-four hours. He gestures to my clothing bag, but then the waitress swings by with water. Once she takes our orders, David lifts his glass. “I’ll drink to your lingerie being ripped off tomorrow night.”
That seems likely, so I clink back. Then we get to work reviewing the auction plans. “I’ve got tennis lessons on the auction list now. Mama Rose corralled someone at the club to auction those off,” he says.
“And Harlow used her pull at the gallery to convince her favorite artist to donate a sketch drawing. Zara Clementine is a huge animal lover, so it’s great.”
“And I asked my dad if he could help out. He’s well-connected so he might be able to scrounge up some good donations.”
“Ooh, Daddy Bancroft. Work it,” I say, using the nickname David gave his father back in college.
David’s phone buzzes, and he shifts his focus to his text app. “You should meet him. Daddy Bancroft,” he says, but he sounds distracted as he reads his messages.
I don’t know much about his father. I only know a bit about his mom because she’s friends with mine. David’s dad lived in California, last I heard, but we didn’t talk about our parents that much during college, and, frankly, we don’t now.
His phone buzzes again. After a quick glance, he waggles it at me. “It’s Cynthia. She just got off work. Her boss is being a dick. Do you mind if I give her a quick call?”
“Go, go,” I say, shooing him away.
He scurries out of the diner and onto the street. While he’s gone, I open the thread with Nick, then tap out a reply to his cocky you didn’t note.
Lola: I guess you’ll find out tomorrow night.
I hit send, and a few seconds later, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. The skin on my arms tingles. I catch the scent of falling snow and freshly cut wood and the sound of wingtips on the linoleum floor of the diner coming closer.
Maybe my sense memory is conjuring up Nick because I’m texting him. Maybe I’m so caught up in waiting for tomorrow night that I’m imagining the way he smells, sounds, walks.
But when I look up, my breath catches, right along with my curiosity.
He’s here.
And he’s walking toward me with wild curiosity in his eyes, like he can’t believe his luck either. He’s wearing black slacks and a sky-blue shirt that hugs his pecs and his arms. His purple tie is loosened. His beard is just a touch thicker than it was when we first met. My mouth waters as I remember how that scruff feels against my thighs. Then, our gazes lock, and his hazel eyes are full of delicious thoughts.
I can’t hide my flirty smile.
Nick Adams looks even better than he did three months ago, especially when his lips curve into the most knowing grin I’ve ever seen. “Hey, beautiful.”
I nearly melt. Christmas has come early.