4. Saar
Chapter 4
Saar
Celeste
I still don’t understand why you wouldn’t stay with us.
Because you lovebirds make me sick.
Celeste
Cynical as ever. Caleb and I would love to host you.
Cora
What’s wrong with my place?
Celeste
That I’m not there.
You’re pregnant and cranky.
Celeste
(Eye-roll emoji) At least I have a reason to be cranky. What’s your excuse?
I lived with my brother for half of my life. Now it’s your turn. Enjoy him. (devil emoji)
Lily
I have a day off, let’s have coffee. All four of us (smiley emoji).
Raincheck
“ A t one point, you’ll have to see them.” Cora looks at me, unimpressed.
While I wasn’t ready to see my friends yet, I also couldn’t stay alone in Cora’s apartment. Alone with my thoughts, and her two adorably mean cats.
Finding a new purpose in life is a tough task. I wasn’t expecting it to be easy. I was prepared for the darker moments and learning by failing.
What I wasn’t ready for was the additional financial uncertainty on top of my existential crisis.
So here I am at my friend’s bistro, sipping on a luxurious latte as if life was normal.
“I know, I know.” My gaze follows the activity on the street, avoiding Cora’s eyes.
“Well, if you need to talk, I’m here to listen,” she says.
I bite my bottom lip and turn my head, smiling at her. “Thank you.”
“In the meantime, let me cut you the biggest slice of apple pie.” She winks.
Her ginger curls bounce as she disappears back to her kitchen.
Cora is almost ten years older than me. She left her corporate job to take care of her father’s bistro.
She started anew. Perhaps she is the best person to talk to about my next steps.
I take a sip of my coffee. I really should stop drinking this shit. I haven’t slept well in I don’t know how long. It feels like ages. Since I was fifteen, probably.
A few patrons are enjoying an early lunch at the table beside mine, chatting happily. A mother is nursing a baby in the corner while taking forkfuls of her pie. A lanky young man reads a book in the corner.
Life seems to stop here, in this bistro, allowing people just to be for a few moments, enjoying themselves. Maybe that’s my problem. I need to learn how to slow down. How to be without doing.
Who knew that relaxing is a skill one has to learn? Of course, I’d have a massage or some downtime in between gigs, but there was always the next job on the books.
I pull out my knitting from my bag and decide that just being is exactly what the doctor ordered.
I inspect the colorful pattern of my work. A blanket, I guess. Or it might end up being a shawl. Knitting became a meaningful way to spend time while waiting during the long days at work.
I learned it from a girl at a photoshoot in the Caribbean many years ago. We arrived at the island, and the weather turned to shit, which delayed the shoot.
She knitted to pass the time. I finished my book, and in the absence of anything else to do, she lent me needles and taught me the craft.
Far from being an expert, I love the mindfulness it brings, along with the relaxing and stress relief. It became essential for me in dealing with my demanding job. Perhaps now I could enjoy it for fun and creativity.
A man in a suit and the most ridiculous silver comb-over walks in, marching to the counter. The mother in the corner is now burping her baby. The group beside me is getting ready to leave.
The stillness has a different energy now, and while I enjoy my needlework, I’m still restless.
Sanjay, Cora’s employee, is talking to the Suit, who seems agitated.
“Get me the manager right now,” the Suit bellows.
“What’s going on?” Cora emerges.
“Are you the manager?” he snaps, and Sanjay dashes away to wipe the empty tables.
“Yes.” Cora wipes her forehead with her forearm to tame her curls.
“Well, you’re not very good at your job.”
What the fuck? She asks him a question, but I don’t hear it. She seems composed, trying to defuse the situation, but she blinks rapidly and takes a small step back.
“I want my order to be ready when I come to pick it up,” the Suit yells.
“Could you please calm down? You ordered five minutes ago, and if you don’t want raw chicken in your salad, you need to wait another five.”
“I will get a ticket in the meantime. I’m double-parked.”
Cora wipes her hands on her apron and blinks some more. Fuck it. What a bully. I make my way to the counter.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I point my knitting needles at him.
He frowns at me, his face red like he’s on the brink of a heart attack. “Mind your own business.”
“Why don’t you go mind your business back in your car, so you don’t get a ticket.”
“Who the fuck are you?” He turns to Cora. “And you, stop gaping; go finish my stupid salad.”
Cora’s eyes widen, before she looks at the reading guy and the mother, heat rising to her cheeks.
“How dare you speak to her like that?” This time I poke him with the needle. “Get the fuck out of here.”
Now, his eyes widen. “Are you going to let her speak to me like that?” He looks at Cora. “What kind of establishment is this?”
What an asshole. How dare he speak to my friend like this, embarrassing her in front of other customers with his unreasonable demands?
I poke him with the knitting needle, the ball of yarn dropping to the floor. “Go get your salad somewhere else, and while you’re at it, try to look for your manners.”
He throws his arms in the air. “I’m going to give you zero stars.” He marches out, spitting profanities.
I sigh. “Are you okay?”
Cora nods, and then chuckles nervously. “What a prick. He was so ridiculous, I didn’t know what to say. How to respond to such absurd behavior. Shit. Thank you.”
I lean down to pick up my yarn. “Can I have his salad now?” I smirk.
“Sure, babe. I didn’t know you knit.”
“I’m full of surprises.” I snicker.
And of secrets, as of late.
“Saar, Saar, open your eyes.”
Cora’s voice penetrates my foggy mind. Fuck. It’s not just her voice; my body is shaking. I pry my eyes open. She is shaking my body.
“What are you doing? I was sleeping.” I roll onto my back and cover my face with my forearm, darkness pulling me back.
“I saw that, and I also saw this. What the fuck?” She is louder than usual. Or it might just be my haziness.
I peek from under my arm. Beside my friend’s feet in white sneakers, small white pills are strewn on her dark, hardwood floor.
I groan. “It’s not what it looks like.”
I sit up on the sofa that has been my home for the past week.
Cora lives in a small apartment in Brooklyn. To be honest, her entire place is smaller than some of the hotel rooms I’ve stayed in.
But it doesn’t bother me. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that. It’s not like I had many other options. And I enjoy staying with Cora. She doesn’t pry. She is almost never here.
The only downside is the sofa itself. That fucker is uncomfortable. It’s like trying to rest on cactus needles. And I needed to sleep finally. So I took a sleeping pill, because I need my brain back.
Not that my latest situation suggests I ever had a brain to begin with.
“Saar, I tried to give you space. You’re obviously going through something, and you’re avoiding Celeste. I think it’s time we talk.” Cora sits in an armchair across from me.
A thick, black headband keeps her ginger curls from her makeup-less face, a frown splitting her forehead. She purses her lips into a straight line, and observes me with her hazel eyes like she truly cares.
I fidget and look away, because… Well, because I’m ashamed. Because I’m drowning in self-loathing.
I drop to my knees and sweep up the pills with my hand as if they represent all my problems. Only now they remain in my palm, their shiny coating melting into my sweaty skin. And I don’t quite know what to do with them.
Just like I don’t know what to do with my financial conundrum. Or with my life in general. Sighing, I sag onto my behind, leaning against the sofa.
“I haven’t slept well for almost two weeks, so I took two of these. I probably didn’t close the lid properly, and they tumbled to the floor.”
This explains what plausibly happened. It doesn’t explain why I’m avoiding Celeste, or why I’m crashing at my friend’s.
There is a part of me that wants to tell her, but an equally eager part of me hopes she won’t ask anything else.
“I hope my cats didn’t eat any of them.”
My eyes widen first, and then I drop my gaze to the mess in my hand. “I’m sorry, Cora. I’ll move out—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Pitt and Clooney are okay.” As if the two calicos waited to hear their name, they jump into Cora’s lap and settle.
She cups their heads with one hand each and soothes them, moving each of her thumbs between their eyes from their little noses up to the crown of their heads. They close their eyes in bliss and start purring.
In the van den Linden household, pets were never allowed. Later, my jet-setting lifestyle didn’t allow for one. I can see how these two are therapeutic.
“You don’t have to move out until you sort out whatever is going on, but finding you spread on my sofa every night like you’re waiting for something… I’m not sure I can help you, but I can sure as hell listen. Whatever it is, Saar, I won’t judge.”
She continues the thumb-petting motion, and somehow, it soothes me as well. One of the cats—I still can’t tell them apart—stretches his leg languidly. Fuck, I want to be a cat in my next life.
“My accountant embezzled money from me. I found out too late, and I’m pretty much broke. And probably owing taxes in two countries.”
I speak so fast, I almost trip over my own words. Like I need to spit it all out before I chicken out and keep the reality hidden deep down where it’s been eating me up.
Cora puffs out breath from her cheeks. “Fuck, Saar, I’m so sorry.”
I play with the melting pills in my hand. “Don’t be. I let other people deal with my finances, so I shouldn’t be surprised. I deserved it probably.”
“Stop it!” One cat jumps from her lap, probably disturbed by our conversation. You and me, buddy, you and me.
“Look, I don’t even know how bad it is yet. My manager is investigating. He’s coming to New York tomorrow, and I’ll know more. In the meantime, I really appreciate you letting me stay here.”
“Of course. I wish I had a guest room—”
“Now, you stop it! Don’t you dare apologize for giving me a roof over my head.” I smile. “I really appreciate it.”
“You should probably get rid of those before they melt into your skin and you overdose.” She gestures toward my palm.
“I’d love to sleep for a week, though.” I push to stand and shuffle to the bathroom. After flushing the pills, I wash my hands.
“You don’t want your brother to know.” Cora leans against the door frame, her assumption about my reasons for avoiding Celeste right on the money.
I nod. “Celeste wouldn’t be able to keep it from him. And I don’t want her to be in that position. And I certainly don’t want him to come to the rescue. I need to fix it myself.”
“Why?”
Her question throws me off. Why?
I dry my hands, avoiding her gaze. Why?
Because I don’t want Cal to judge me. I don’t want to hear him sigh and go into rescue mode.
Because all my life, people have been taking care of my affairs. First, because I didn’t have a choice—my parents, my brothers. Later, because it was just easier.
It’s time I take care of myself. If only the task didn’t feel so daunting.
“He would throw his money at the problem. I don’t want that.”
Cora huffs. “Can he throw his money at all my problems?”
She’s been struggling to keep her father’s bistro afloat. She’s the most hardworking person I know, and yet she can’t get ahead.
“Would you really accept that?”
She frowns.
“I’m serious, Cora; let’s say it’s not my brother, but someone else who would have the means and the will to help you out. Would you just accept their financial help?”
She stares at me, her jaw tense, and then she sighs.
“I thought so.”
It might be pride, but accepting money doesn’t come easy to a woman. Even if that woman is in a desperate situation. Fuck, most of us have a block to ask for any help, let alone financial.
I walk out of the bathroom. In the kitchen, I fill a glass with tap water and gulp it down. The two pills I took are still trying to claim my brain, the fog not yet lifted.
Putting the glass down, I turn and lean against the counter. Cora sits on one of the two chairs at her small dining table by the window.
She says nothing. It’s like she knows I need to let it all out, but prompting me won’t help.
“Perhaps my pride is misplaced in this case, but I can’t help it. It’s there. Besides, I quit my job, and I’m physically sick at the idea of returning to it. So everything in my life is in flux.”
“You quit?” She stands and pulls two wineglasses from her cupboard. Retrieving a bottle of white wine from her fridge, she fills them to the brim. “We need this. What are you going to do?”
“I have no fucking idea.” I accept the glass, and we both sit at her table.
The kitchen reminds me of the one I shared with other girls during my first year modeling in Milan. There were six of us sharing three bedrooms.
The kitchen only had a counter, with a fridge and a stove on one side of the narrow space and a table with two chairs on the other side. I used to sit on the counter when I ate from a takeout container.
After having lived in the van den Linden mansion, it was a shock to my system. I loved it.
“The timing sucks. Why would you quit if you’re broke?” she asks with a genuine interest, and while I’m looking for signs of condemnation or judgment, there are none. And frankly, it’s a valid question.
“I told my manager I’m quitting, and he told me he’d just found out. I know that the rational person would push through and work while the situation clears out. But I really can’t, Cora. I can’t explain it, but it really makes me physically sick.”
“I get it. My corporate job used to suck the soul out of me. That’s why I didn’t hesitate to leave. And things have been hard and really tight, but I wouldn’t be able to go back there.” She takes a sip. “You really have no plans?”
I play with the stem of my glass and sigh. “I thought I’d take some time off and figure out what I want to do. But now, I might not have the luxury to take time off.”
“I thought you had a trust fund.”
“I do, but my grandfather didn’t step into the twenty-first century, and the terms are as archaic as they come.”
I don’t tell her how I feel about using van den Linden’s money.
Having spent a week here, I realized how privileged I am regardless of my current plight. I would normally meet Cora at her bistro, or we would go out somewhere. Confronted with her living conditions, I now realize how out of touch I’ve been, living in my own bubble.
“Archaic?” She picks up one of her cats.
“I have to be married to access that money.” I roll my eyes.
She snorts. “That is as archaic as it gets. A convenient marriage seems to have worked for Celeste.”
I persuaded my brother to marry Celeste when she was going to lose her visa. Now they are so in love, I hardly recognize my brother.
I look at her deadpan. “Will you marry me?”
She puts her hands on her heart in a dramatic gesture. “Why, I thought you’d never ask.”
“It would show my grandfather.”
“That is so fucked up.”
I chuckle, but there is no humor in it. “You know what is the biggest irony? Those archaic clauses were put there because men used to believe women couldn’t take care of their own money. Like we needed our fathers to hand the control to our husbands. That provision might be beneficial in my case.”
“Saar.” Cora sighs. “Don’t blame yourself. You trusted someone who betrayed you, but that doesn’t make you unable to control your own destiny, or your money for that matter.”
But isn’t that the story of my life?
“As soon as I left my childhood home, I handed the control to Vito, my manager. Not that any of this is his fault—”
“You see, if you don’t find him responsible for what happened while he was in charge, why don’t you extend the same grace to yourself? Saar, shit happens. Blame yourself; don’t blame yourself. But you need to look forward and act. Fix what can be fixed. Take control. Move on.”
It sounds so easy when she lays it out like that. “I don’t have any experience other than smiling and being pretty. Do you know someone who is hiring for that?”
“You’ll figure it out. You’re a survivor.”
“You think?” I hate the need in my voice.
As much as I hate the idea of modeling again, I can’t deny I have been missing the spotlight. That sense of being seen, being accepted, being validated.
As false as those circumstances were, they supplied me with confidence I might not possess when away from it all.
It’s like I’d become invisible. Again.
“Everyone who grows up with a pair of evil parents like yours is a survivor.” She raises her glass.
And I chuckle, toasting to that. The wine spreads to my legs, making me feel heavy and weightless at the same time. Shit, I probably shouldn’t have drunk on those pills.
But the feeling is peaceful at the same time. The knot in my stomach has loosened a bit. My lungs stretch better on each inhalation, my mind floats on the cocktail of possibilities. Or more probably on the mix of sleeping pills with alcohol.
I scrunch my face up. “I’m worried I’ll end up scavenging for discounts to have my lips enhanced or my forehead lifted, and I’ll look like a wax figurine with a mouth like a duck.” My tongue doesn’t work properly.
Cora almost spits her wine, laughing. “Shit, Saar, I forgot you took those pills. Let’s get you to bed.”
She stands up, snakes her arm around me, and pulls me up.
“I don’t even have a bed.”
“You do tonight. We’re sharing mine, you silly cow.”
We stumble around the mirror, and I pout. “You see. Look at me. I can’t get discounted beauty procedures. I’d end up ugly.”
“Okay, your future ugly lips are the least of your problems, but let’s sleep on it.” She drags me to her bedroom.
“I can’t accept your bed,” I protest as I fall into her sheets.
“Good night, Saar.”
My body jerks as she pulls the duvet from under me, and I smile as the warmth and comfort envelope me.
Maybe I am a survivor.
“Jesus, Vito, when you said you had a solution, I didn’t think you’d found me a husband.” I shake my head, but the reality remains unchanged.
I’m still sitting across from my manager in an upscale restaurant on Madison Avenue. I’m still happy and relieved to see him after two weeks. I’m still avoiding the fact that I’m currently unable to pay the bill here.
I’m also shocked at his proposal to marry someone to access my trust fund.
“Principessa, I have four jobs lined up for you.” He shrugs.
“I told you, I don’t want to work. I can’t, Vito,” I say through my teeth. I’m fucking tired of repeating that to him.
He winces.
“I’m sorry.” I sigh. “Four jobs wouldn’t help me out of my debt, anyway.”
My day started wonderfully. I woke up in Cora’s bed rested. Like really, truly refreshed. Funny how sleep can shift one’s mood. I decided to attack the day with renewed determination.
I called Cal and asked him to get me a contact for a good international lawyer. I might have suggested that it’s for a friend of mine in Italy, but I really need to do this by myself, so it’s a white lie only. How I’d pay the legal fees is a story for later.
I scheduled a meeting with Nora Flemming, a former model who is involved in charity now. Networking with someone who transitioned from the runway to a meaningful purpose and livelihood in her life might be a good first step.
After I took a short—mindful of Cora’s utility bill—but invigorating shower, I pulled out my favorite dress. It’s a simple, black, linen dress that is straight and roomy, covering my skinny torso but revealing my long legs.
It’s like a formal version of a beach dress, and I felt better immediately after I put it on.
I breezed into this restaurant with a smile, and was so grateful to see Vito’s kind face.
Before we even ordered, he explained what the auditor found out. And that’s where the morning bliss came to a halt.
For parts of his speech, my mind went blank, but I got the gist. Vito is trying to sell my Milan and London apartments, but the market is down, so it might take some time. But the lovely Maria cleaned me out.
Vito is heartbroken, and he offered to pay for my expenses for the next few months. He filed the charges before he left Europe, but the case of a cheated foreigner would hardly be a priority.
It might take a very long time before I get my money back. If I get it back, because God knows where Maria hid it.
“But they would cover your day-to-day while you’re trying to figure out what’s next for you. I have some interest from brands looking for a spokesperson as well.”
I perk up. “That might be more meaningful, and less draining. What brands?”
“A new line of tobacco vapes in Europe, and an energy drink here in the States.” He looks at me from above the rim of his glasses.
My brief enthusiasm deflates. “I’ll pass on both. If I’m to become an ambassador, I want a brand that is ethical, sustainable, or at least improves people’s lives. One that has a positive story behind it.”
He nods. “I’ll keep looking. I’m sure something will come up over time.”
“But I don’t really have time,” I mumble. “Who is the eager bachelor?”
“He’s a businessman who needs to clean up his image. Remember how you helped that Norwegian prince a few years back?”
“Ansfrid? Of course I remember.” I frown, not understanding how that is relevant.
Ansfrid is gay, and he needed his inheritance, but wouldn’t get it on the grounds of his sexuality, so I posed as his girlfriend.
“It would be similar this time, only you’d benefit as well.”
I cock my head, studying Vito. He’s serious about this. And the idea isn’t completely outlandish.
I would access my trust fund and get an annulment. Or a divorce, but at least I would be able to breathe.
“If I access my trust fund, wouldn’t the authorities confiscate my money because of the owed taxes?”
Vito jerks his head, assessing me with unfiltered surprise. Yeah, I’m not just a pretty face. Another thing I did this morning was to read up on all the possible outcomes of Maria’s actions.
“So you’re considering it?”
That’s what surprised him? Jesus, I need to stop assuming everyone thinks I’m incompetent and dumb. Vito has only ever supported me.
“Don’t get excited yet. Regardless of what the police find out or not, I owe taxes, don’t I?”
He soothes his dark green pocket square. “Yes, you do. But I’m sure your trust fund would cover that, and you still would have enough left. Besides, your future husband is rich.” He hikes his shoulder casually.
I groan. “Is he old?” I guess I am considering this.
“Eighty. You might even inherit soon.”
My eyes widen, and then I see his grin. “You asshole.”
“Cazzo, wouldn’t that be an excellent solution?” He chuckles, and I’m so grateful for his levity. I need every ounce of it.
“Okay, let’s explore the option.”
“Good, because his handler is here.” Vito waves, and my gaze finds a woman in her fifties who smiles and saunters toward us.
Dressed in a navy pant suit, she walks with confidence, like she owns this place. My father walks like that. Like everyone can fuck themselves because he’s above them all.
Finn and Cal walk like that, but without the attitude. They just naturally own the room the minute they step into it. I wish I was like that.
“Vito!” The woman air-kisses my manager while I glare at him for blindsiding me like this.
“I’m Betsy Ham. My jam is crisis and reputation management.” She extends her hand, and I swallow a chuckle.
Her name doesn’t match her aura. I mean, I don’t know the woman, but I wouldn’t expect a Betsy Ham to ooze so much testosterone.
“Saar van den Linden.” I don’t follow with a nice-to-meet-you because I don’t want to lie.
She takes a seat.
“So where is the groom?” I ask, willing my lips to quirk up. Fuck, this is surreal.
Betsy snaps her fingers—she fucking snaps her fingers—at the waiter. “Can I have a glass of iced tea?”
My gaze turns to Vito, fully expecting him to be shocked, appalled, or just plain scandalized, but I find him staring at Betsy’s cleavage. Gaping, in fact. Fucking men.
“Where were we?” Betsy brings her attention back to us after grilling the poor waiter, demanding flavors of iced tea that probably don’t exist before she huffed and ordered a peach one.
“The groom?” I cock my head, not sure if I should laugh or run while I can.
“Oh yes. Sorry, he is late… Ah, here he is.” She beams, raising her hand.
I lean sideways to get a better view of the entrance, but the man turns before I can catch his face.
Holding his hand on his hip, he seems to bark something into his phone, and then he listens, staring at the wallpapered wall in front of him.
Okay, he’s tall and well-dressed. Like even from here, I can see his suit is tailored. I’ve been around fashion and clothes all my life, so I know how to spot quality.
His Ferragamo shoes are polished to the nines. When Vito said my potential husband was rich, he wasn’t kidding.
But it’s the way his jacket hugs his broad shoulders that steals my attention. It’s like someone dressed a Greek god in expensive clothes.
And his ass. Well, from behind, it looks like it won’t be such a hardship to spend my time by his side.
Turning, he puts his phone into his jacket, and I’m mesmerized by his fluid movement while adjusting his sleeves and cuffs. Such a simple, automatic motion, but he executes it with such grace.
Despite wanting to play aloof, the corners of my lips quirk up. And then my gaze lands on his face, and I freeze.
Over. My. Dead. Body.