6. A Waste of a Perfectly Good Hookup
6
A Waste of a Perfectly Good Hookup
CARLY
I stared at my pale face in the ladies’ room mirror. My eyes were wild, and the neckline of my Dior gown fluttered with the throbbing of my heart. Sweat glistened at my temples. I couldn’t go back out there looking like this. No one wanted to hire a stylist who didn’t have her shit together.
Closing my eyes, I tried to breathe from my belly, but my shapewear constricted my inhale. Was it worth it to fight my way out of the spandex in one of the stalls? What I wouldn’t give for a full breath, a bar of chocolate, and a few minutes to chill out. To-do list be damned.
“Oh, hey!” A chipper voice startled my eyes open.
Shit. It was Brad’s fiancée, looking gorgeous and glowy in this season’s Oscar de la Renta and a giant Asscher cut solitaire ring perched on her finger. Goddamn Brad.
I rubbed a hand over my compacted belly and squared my shoulders. “Hi. You probably remember me from…from that day at the house. I’m Carly.” I stuck my hand out to her.
I’d forgotten her name in the fog of shock that had settled over me the day she’d shown up at my door. I’d been dressed for my hot yoga class, hair piled on the top of my head, no makeup. I was just slipping on my sunglasses when I’d opened the door to find a willowy, young woman standing on my doorstep, finger hovering over the bell.
We stared at each other for an eternity before she blushed and introduced herself. I shook her hand like an idiot. And then she asked if I was going to take the crystal with me in the divorce. When I remained in stunned silence, she asked if she could see it so she could decide if she’d want something similar.
Now she shook my hand again. “Hayley, but I’m sure you remember. Sorry about that. Again. I had no idea… You know how Brad is.”
I chuckled because it seemed she expected it. I hadn’t known Brad as well as I thought I did. I’d believed he still cared about me. Maybe we weren’t in love anymore, and we’d been going through a rough patch—we’d weathered them before—but we’d be fine. I was shocked as hell that not only did he not love me, but he’d proposed to someone else without telling me he wanted a divorce.
“You look absolutely stunning,” she said. “I hope when I’m your age, I’ll look half as good.”
Was that supposed to be a compliment?
“God, sorry, that didn’t come out right. You’re just so…so awe-inspiring, and I feel totally awkward around you. I would love it if we could be friends.”
“Friends?” I blinked. The soon-to-be third Mrs. Brad Winner wanted to be friends with the second one? How would that work?
“We have a lot in common.”
“Brad’s dick, for one thing,” I said.
“Well, yeah, but also, we both love fashion. Your gown is to die for.” She reached out a hand like she’d touch the silk but then snatched it back. “I have to admit, I stalked you on Instagram when I found out you and Brad were still living together. Your look is fire. My friends would love it.”
I’d done my share of internet stalking too. Hayley was a model, not as successful as I’d been at the height of my career, but she’d done a spread in Elle last year.
“Thank you. Your de la Renta is…also fire.” I sounded like Steve Buscemi saying, “How do you do, fellow kids?” in that 30 Rock episode I’d watched back when network TV was still a thing.
“Thanks.” She smoothed the fabric over her belly in a movement that mirrored my own. What did she have to worry about at her age? I could bounce a quarter off her abs.
She glanced away toward the stalls and grimaced. “Sorry, you probably think I’m a creeper for following you into the ladies’ room. I’m usually a little more chill than this. It’s just”—she gestured back toward the door—“it’s a lot, you know? Meeting all of Brad’s smart, important friends. I don’t know how you did it.”
I remembered those early days. First wives like Audrey displayed an effortless elegance that had cowed me. At my first event, I’d thrown up in the restroom from an excess of nerves and champagne. Over the years, I’d learned the amount of hard work and determination required to establish and defend my place in the clique. “You get used to it.”
“Do you?” She scrunched her nose. “I guess that’s why you’re here.”
I chuckled. “Not really. I’m here to network. Not because—” But I couldn’t tell her none of those women had stood by me in the divorce. I wouldn’t be the one to crush her hopes of making friends in Brad’s circle.
“These women aren’t your target market. Your look is classic yet avant-garde. These women wouldn’t know a new trend if it whacked them on the forehead…because of the Botox, you know?” She snickered.
I couldn’t help touching the spot between my eyebrows where I had a line my makeup couldn’t disguise.
“You should style people whose fashion inspiration isn’t Desperate Housewives. My friends would love your style.”
I shook my head. I had nothing in common with people Hayley’s age. They wouldn’t be interested in me or my work.
She smiled, tentative. “Think about it. And I really hope we can be friends. I’ll text you, okay?”
“O-okay.”
She was gone in a whirl of white lace.
I rechecked myself in the mirror. I’d never worn a Juicy Couture tracksuit, but maybe Teri Hatcher had worn something like this Dior back in the day. Hayley was wrong. These women were my only hope for a successful styling business. Only women as run-down and obsolete as I was would hire me. Which meant I needed to make the most of this fifteen-hundred-dollar networking opportunity.
As I stepped out of the restroom, Lucie grabbed my elbow. “There you are. You look like you could use a drink.”
I relaxed my shoulders. I could spend a few minutes with my friend before I had to sell myself. Call it a warm-up. “Sounds great. How’s the research going?”
“Total dud. No one wants to talk to a journalist. Or be seen talking to one. I’ve given out a few business cards, and I’ll follow up on Monday.”
“What are you asking them about?”
“My editor wants a piece on charitable contributions among the tech elite. With the way tonight’s going, he won’t cover the fee for a fancy-dress party again. So we need to take advantage of the open bar.” She towed me toward the nearest bar but then changed course toward one with a shorter line.
“So…what were you doing hiding out in the bathroom with your ex’s fiancée?”
“How did you know who she was?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m a journalist. Research is my specialty. Hint: reverse image search is the best invention ever. Her Insta is incredible. Did you know she’s friends with Helen Choi?”
“The actress? Wasn’t she in that Netflix rom-com everyone was talking about last summer?”
“That’s her. Anyway, why were you in the restroom when you could’ve been dancing with Andrew?”
“Shh!” I’d become friends with Lucie, Tessa, and Savannah the same night Andrew and I hooked up. They’d watched us flirt and nudged me—more like shoved me—to meet him in his room. The next day, our brand-new group chat had ignited with their questions, and I’d shared all the sordid details from our night of passion to my stealthy escape the next morning.
“What?” Lucie lowered her voice only slightly. “You can’t throw a rock in this ballroom without hitting an Andrew or two. It’s a stuffy name for a stuffy crowd.”
“Please,” I begged, glancing around. The shorter man in line behind us leered. I turned back around in time to step up to the bar and order a vodka tonic.
While the bartender poured our drinks, I muttered in Lucie’s ear, “I’ll tell you all about it privately.”
“Fine.”
After we took our drinks to a table on the fringes of the party, Lucie said, “So what happened with Loverboy? Are you two back together?”
“We were never together except in the euphemistic sense. And only one time.”
“One time? That’s not what you said before.”
“One night,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Total waste. We’re living vicariously through you. Once you hit forty, it’s game over. Or so I hear.” She smirked. Lucie was the youngest of the four of us at thirty-nine. “I need details. You danced with him.”
“I was afraid he was going to do something rash. He wanted to know why I left without talking to him.”
“Don’t we all,” she muttered. “Are you meeting up with him later?”
“No.” I thunked my drink on the table. “Why would I do that?”
She tapped a black-painted nail against her lips in a fake thinking gesture. “For the hot sex, obviously.”
Heat erupted across my chest and raced up to my face. I almost wished I hadn’t told her about it. But you couldn’t keep that kind of stuff from your friends.
“We are not getting together.”
Lucie shook her head. “Such a waste of a perfectly good hookup.”
“You understand he could destroy me, right? One word from his mother, and no one— no one —will hire me. If I go without work much longer, I’ll have to apply at Bloomingdale’s.”
“Working retail is the worst, especially at the holiday season. But how do you know? Have you talked to her? Has he?”
“We can’t talk to her. Then she’ll know. Cue the disaster scenario and spritzing perfume on strangers.”
“Brad certainly doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks. An age gap doesn’t seem to bother him.” She tipped her chin toward Brad slow dancing with Hayley in the center of the dance floor.
I remembered that move, dancing to a different beat from everyone else. It had made me feel like I was the sexy center of his universe.
It was a lie.
“Women in my line of work don’t have that luxury. We always have to care what everyone else thinks. Because other people can destroy us.”
Lucie put her hand over mine. “Are you sure? It seems to me you’ve always played it safe. Brad was a safe choice. Your life as arm candy was safe. Now, if you’d risk it, you could find genuine happiness with Loverboy. The expression on his face while you were dancing was—” She shivered. “If you go for that sort of thing.”
“That’s exactly what I don’t need. Twenty years ago, I fell for Brad’s promise of love and security. I fooled myself into thinking Brad’s success was mine too. Now, I’m focusing on my business and success on my own terms. It’s my second chance.”
She twisted her lips. “I was talking about being happy.”
“When I have a schedule full of clients to style, when my phone doesn’t stop ringing, I can call myself a success. Then I’ll be happy.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Will you? Will you really?”
I snorted. “Of course.”
When I could stand in an event like tonight with my shoulders thrown back in real confidence, no more fake-it-till-you-make-it bullshit, then I’d be happy. Definitely.
But later that night, as I lay awake in bed, alone in my apartment, not even the familiar visualization of a phone that constantly rang with calls from clients could lull me to sleep. I tried to picture myself stepping into that gala tonight with the confidence of a full contact list. Everyone’s heads would turn as they whispered about me, not whispers about my divorce, but whispers of admiration.
Did you hear she styled Helen Choi?
Did you see when that actress thanked her on the red carpet?
How can I get her to style me?
I stared up at the ceiling. It was a good vision. One that would make me happy. But like sleep, it was out of my reach.