Chapter 26
The countdown is over. My future starts today.
The listing appears at exactly nine o’clock. I’ve been at my desk in front of the floor-to-ceiling window for the last half hour, refreshing and refreshing Redfin, and now here it is:
When I see the lead photo, a current of adrenaline crackles through me.
It’s the day of the dinner-party disaster, preserved in time—the house in its most flawless state, ready for its closeup.
The crisp white paint. The glossy black shutters and front door.
The window boxes, lush and overflowing. The shockingly green grass.
A perfect, sunny scene that feels like it happened in another life.
I click through the rest of the slideshow, forty-eight shots in all.
There are several of the kitchen, its creamy marble countertops seeming to stretch on forever thanks to the camera’s wide-angle lens.
The fireplace glows in the living room, lit just for the photos.
Penny’s room—staged with a few highly curated toys, and the tulle-skirted dress she wore at dinner hanging on the closet door—looks like a coral jewel box.
They’ve captured every part of the magical owner’s suite: The huge, sun-filled bedroom.
The double bathroom vanities. The soaking tub.
The obscenely beautiful closet. They’ve saved the backyard for last. The camera was focused on the flagstone patio, the flawless lawn just beyond it.
But my eye still travels to the tire swing, barely visible in the upper righthand corner of the shot.
Flipping through these, I can practically hear the frantic phone calls going out to agents all over town, and the slamming of front doors as couples just like me and Ian drop whatever they’re doing to make a mad run for Grovemont.
It’ll take an hour tops for the place to be absolutely mobbed.
But all of those people will be wasting their time.
Because only the best offer wins—and finally, that offer will be mine.
I email the listing to Derrick, then follow up with a text: The house is online. Just sent it to you. Ian and I are standing by to sign the offer. As discussed, $1.3 million. No contingencies. We can close on the sellers’ timeline.
He writes back: Super. Paperwork coming your way now.
“Ian!” I yell over my shoulder. “The listing’s live. Derrick’s sending the contract.”
“Cool,” he calls from the bedroom. “I’ll hang out here till it shows up.”
As if he has a choice. Ian’s been dancing around like a toothless circus bear the last couple days—waking up early to brew the French press, taking the Prius to the car wash, doing our grocery shopping for the first time probably in over a year, bringing home flowers and cupcakes.
My phone vibrates on the desk. It’s Derrick.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Margo, just a small hiccup.” He’s trying to hide that he’s nervous.
“I called their agent to let her know we’re planning to submit.
But she says they’re not taking offers until Monday at the earliest. The sellers want to wait till after the weekend, so they can review all the contracts that come in at the same time. ”
“Did you tell her who your clients are?” I ask, voice low so Ian doesn’t overhear.
“No, I just said you love the house and you’re planning to come in at your best and final number.”
I glance over my shoulder again to make sure Ian is still in the bedroom. “This after-the-weekend business doesn’t apply to us. Like I told you, we know the sellers, and I’ve worked out an arrangement with them.”
“Yeah, I know you said that. But she seemed pretty adamant.”
Annoyance shoots through me. “I don’t care how she seemed, Derrick. We’re making an offer today.”
“All right,” he says. “You’re the boss. Back to you soon.”
The paperwork hits my inbox seconds later. Ian and I pass my laptop back and forth on the couch, taking turns digitally initialing and signing it in all the required places, like we’ve done eleven times before. By now, the act of promising to fork over our life savings feels almost mundane.
Once we finish, Ian turns to me. “We did it!” he says, in the affected everything-is-fine voice he’s been using. “Fingers crossed, right?” Then he leans in for a kiss.
I recoil. “Maybe when they accept.”
He blinks a couple times, then awkwardly stands. “Okay, well, I have to get going.”
“Yep,” I say, “me, too.”
I’m leaning against one of the massive columns in The Bexley’s cavernous lobby. The most important moment of my life is unfolding and here I am, acting like it’s just another workday, just another meeting with clients.
Hotel guests rush around me, roller bags rumbling behind them across the black marble floors. I refresh my email and text messages for the millionth time while I wait for Jordana and Taylor—they’re Ubering together from the office, I came straight from the apartment. Still no updates from Derrick.
The magnitude of the morning didn’t fully hit until I locked the apartment door behind me.
Holy shit, I thought, the next time I walk through here, this will all be over.
My whole body felt instantly lighter. Even now, I feel like I could float all the way up to the giant chandelier suspended from the vaulted ceiling.
It may have taken almost nineteen months.
My marriage may have barely survived. But my escape is officially under way.
I am about to start my dream life at last.
Just before eleven, Jordana and Taylor breeze through the doors, sunlight streaming in behind them. I check my messages one more time—still nothing, but it always takes a while to hear back about these things—then hurry over to meet them.
We find our clients at a round, pink-marble-topped table in the Rivière dining room.
It’s too early for the lunch rush, so we mostly have the place to ourselves.
Oliver, CEO of Mythos Group, is still in town from Amsterdam, his chin-length, white-blond hair slicked behind his ears.
He’s flanked by Charles, The Bexley’s graying general manager, and Chef Xander, who somehow, despite his Michelin star, is one of the thinnest people I’ve ever seen.
Serina is here, too. She gives me a wave.
Once Jordana, Taylor, and I take our seats, a server appears with champagne. Oliver thanks her—the deepness of his voice always startles me.
“We’ve had a brilliant launch, thanks to the Bexley team and our friends here from Buzz,” he says to the group.
“So, cheers to all of you.” He lifts his flute; the rest of us follow his lead.
“But there’s always excitement around an opening, right?
That’s the easy part. The real work is in keeping the momentum going. ”
My phone vibrates in my front pocket. I specifically chose these wide-leg trousers so I could keep it there, in case Derrick texted. I wriggle my fingers in to retrieve it.
“I know Margo already has a media dinner in the works for Rivière. But the next play, I think, is to start cycling in some influencers for overnight stays,” Oliver continues.
“I want them in the nicest suites, with the most outrageous views, eating Xander’s whole menu, posting that shit to their stories all day long. ”
We all nod.
“Absolutely,” Jordana says. “My team has already started drafting a list of our first-choice picks. We can go over it here, if you want, and start the outreach as soon as we have your sign-off.”
I peek at my phone, now resting by my thigh on the orange velvet of the dining chair. The text isn’t from Derrick. It’s from a number I don’t recognize.
“Yes, brilliant,” says Oliver. “Charles, you’ll need to coordinate with Jordana to carve out the right blocks of time, in the right rooms, for these people.
” Charles nods. “And we won’t want them here until after La Vue opens, of course.
That’s the other critical agenda item for today—we need to finalize the details for the event next month. ”
La Vue is going to be the hotel’s rooftop bar. It has a 1970s Parisian vibe, so we’re planning a Studio 54 night for its grand opening.
“We just confirmed the same DJ who did the hotel opening,” Taylor chimes in. “She’s very excited about the theme. And I wanted to talk to you about possibly bringing in some performers as well—I found these professional disco dancers. Let me pull up a video, they’re just awesome…”
While everyone focuses on Taylor, I tap in my passcode, moving the phone from the seat to my lap, so I can read the message more easily.
It nearly stops my heart.
It’s Curt. Got your number from Jack’s phone. I can’t tell him without proof. Send a photo or there’s no deal.
He means a photo of the plagiarized paper, but he’s not dumb enough to put that in writing. Cold sweat rises on my skin. I’m a fucking moron for leaving West Virginia without it. Why didn’t I press Dottie harder?
I cannot afford to melt down here, but the room is spinning. The ringing in my head is back, and growing louder. I drink in a long inhale, then silently count down the exhale—four, three, two, one—willing my breathing to slow, willing the room to still.
“Margo?”
I lift my gaze from the phone screen. Six pairs of eyes stare back at me.
“Margo?” Jordana says again, her face contorted into some combination of exasperation and concern. “Did you hear what Serina just asked?”
I clear my throat, fighting through the pain in my skull.
“I didn’t, I’m sorry.” I force an embarrassed smile. “I seem to be a bit light-headed.”
“Are you okay?” Serina asks, sounding truly worried. “You do look pale.”
I catch Taylor rolling her eyes.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, waving Serina off. “Probably just the champagne on an empty stomach. Please go ahead—I’m so sorry—what was your question?” I notice Xander signal one of the servers.
“Oh, it’s just a silly idea I had. I wondered if you thought we should do more of those private cocktail tastings, with whichever reporters you think might appreciate it, leading up to the La Vue opening. I thought maybe it could help build some anticipation.”
It’s a great idea. The kind of idea I should’ve offered, not the client.
“That’s terrific, Serina, I would love to work with you on that,” I say.
She smiles. The server drops off a croissant in front of me. I pick off an end, shooting a grateful look at Xander. But I have no appetite. I’m nauseated with anxiety.
Jordana pulls out her laptop so we can review her spreadsheet of influencers.
While it starts up, I excuse myself to the ladies’ room.
It’s a relief to be alone. I brace myself against the marble vanity—the same black stone as the lobby floors—and shut my eyes.
What am I supposed to write back to Curt?
When I open them again, my complexion looks even pastier. The greenish cast coming off the emerald tile walls doesn’t help.
I reread his text: Send a photo or there’s no deal.
All I can do is bluff.
I tap out: Go ahead and test me. See what happens.
I survive the rest of the meeting in a kind of numb fog, doing my best to surface with a word of polite agreement or a thoughtful “hmm” at the right moments, Jordana periodically tossing nervous glances my way.
Curt never writes back.
“You guys want the good news first, or the bad news?”
Ian and I are both back at the apartment—the jail cell that simply refuses to loosen its fucking grasp—hovering over my phone resting on the kitchen counter.
Derrick is on speaker. It’s nearly six o’clock, and he’s only just gotten a response from Jack and Curt’s agent.
The house has been on the market for nine hours now, which means dozens of people have trooped through it, measuring for their awful furniture, imagining themselves sleeping in my bedroom, cooking on my Thermador range, watching their awful children play on my tire swing.
It’s more upsetting than thinking about that clipboard cunt fucking my husband.
“Bad news, I think,” says Ian, looking to me for confirmation. I shrug. What difference does it make?
“Okay, well, the sellers aren’t taking your offer today,” says Derrick. “Their agent says there’s just way too much interest. At least six other buyers have already said they’re planning to bid, and there’s still an open house to get through on Saturday.”
Ian squeezes my hand. “Got it,” he says. “And how is there possibly any good news?”
“Well, they’re not rejecting your offer either,” says Derrick. “They’ve agreed to keep it in the mix to see how it stacks up after the weekend. Sounds like they’re making Monday at five o’clock the offer deadline.”
I feel the rage start to churn. This is my fucking fault. We’re about to lose this house, and I will never forgive myself.
I sink to the kitchen floor, my face in my hands.
Ian crouches next to me, rubbing my back.
I will probably never know how Curt convinced Jack to let our offer even get this far.
But I do know the only reason they’re still stringing us along—Curt is doing exactly what I dared him to in my text.
He’s testing me. If I really had the paper, of course I would send him a photo of it now and put us both out of our misery.
All Curt’s doing is confirming that I don’t have the evidence to back up my threat.
“Be honest, what are our chances?” Ian asks Derrick.
A long sigh curls out of the phone.
“Miracles sometimes happen,” he says, “but given the intense interest, I don’t think one point three million is going to get the job done.”