13. Emzee
EMZEECHAPTER 13
C ocktail parties were probably my least favorite way to spend an evening.
I’d have to get my hair done, my nails done, take at least an hour to do my makeup and decide what to wear, and then spend the entire night in what was usually a too-tight dress and too-high heels trying to make small talk with people I didn’t know.
Not the most comfortable environment for me.
Honestly, I’d much rather stay at home in my coziest pajamas, watching a movie on the couch with Munchkin and a full glass of wine.
But tonight’s shindig was a work event for Ford.
It was one of those “schmooze a bunch of high-dollar investors” types of parties.
The kind of thing he loved.
And since he’d stepped in where he wasn’t comfortable—teaching that real estate class for See Yourself, helping mentor my girls—I owed it to him to be the consummate plus one.
His help had meant a lot to me, and I was happy to return the favor.
And maybe receive an equal reward for myself afterward…
Besides all that, I was his wife.
Fake or not, it was my job to be at his side for stuff like this.
So I did what I had to do.
Went to the salon to get a fuss-free updo, consisting of a blow-out followed by a sleek ponytail, got my nails done in a nice, respectable neutral beige.
I did my makeup, nothing too fancy, and even traded my go-to black liquid liner for a subtler dark brown.
Then I picked a dress: a black Kate Spade sheath with an open triangle in the back.
It wasn’t too showy, but it was definitely sexy, with cap sleeves and a hemline that hit just above the knee.
After some deliberation, I paired it with my Jimmy Choo stilettos that made my short legs look a mile long.
Grabbing my trusty Prada clutch, I checked myself out in the mirror.
Hot.
Ford would appreciate the outfit, especially my exposed back.
But when it was time to leave for the party, he barely paid attention to me.
He didn’t comment once on how I looked, or the effort I’d put into my appearance.
And when we arrived at the ritzy art gallery where the event was being held, he beelined over to some short guy in a suit and seemed to forget I was even there.
I mean, I understood.
To an extent.
It was a work event.
He had to put his best professional foot forward, not spend the evening flirting with his wife.
Yet as I stood in a corner, trying to look like I was happy to be there, I couldn’t help wondering why I’d been invited in the first place.
Ford certainly didn’t need any help working the room, judging by the looks of it.
Wasn’t he aware how difficult it was for me to feel alone and abandoned in a crowd—especially one consisting of loud, wealthy investor types?
Ford, of all people, should know precisely how anxious social events made me.
Seeing as how he was the one who swooped in to rescue me when I was living the life of a permanent, solo wallflower in high school.
Fifteen minutes in, I’d had enough.
Pity party over.
If Ford wanted me to stand around by myself for a few hours, I would handle it.
I’d been forced to endure worse.
Time for a drink.
I went to the bar to get a glass of red wine, which I brought back to my corner and nursed slowly, trying to keep a pleasant, neutral expression on my face.
At least I was by the door where the waiters came out with their trays of crab cakes, so I was always right there to get a fresh one.
I’d probably eaten half a dozen and was just about to reach the bottom of my wineglass when I was joined by a tall, sandy-haired man with a friendly smile.
He looked around my age, and he was handsome.
Not knee-weakeningly so, like Ford—more of a bland, All-American kind of handsome, in the way of rich young men who wore Ralph Lauren and owned boats or horses.
“Hi,” he said, holding out a hand.
“Hello,” I said politely, quickly wiping my crab-cakey fingers on a napkin before I accepted his handshake.
“I’m Andrew.”
“Emzee,” I said.
“I couldn’t help noticing you all alone over here,” he said with that nice smile of his.
I flushed, embarrassed that a perfect stranger had noticed that I was basically hiding in a corner during a party.
“I’m just taking a breather from the crowd,” I said.
Which wasn’t a complete lie.
I was taking a break…
from the pressure to perform in a situation where I felt out of place and uncomfortable.
“Understandable,” he said.
“It can get a little overwhelming.” He glanced over my shoulder.
“And you definitely found the best place to hide. First dibs on the crab cakes.”
“They are pretty fantastic,” I admitted, feeling caught out.
Andrew gave me a wink.
“It’s a good thing they don’t have shrimp cocktail tonight. Those are my weakness. I can put away ten, maybe twelve of them at a party like this. It’s pretty horrifying—for me and anyone else that’s watching.”
I laughed.
It was hard not to like the guy.
He was nice and funny, and he was putting me at ease.
After he fetched us a fresh round of drinks, I thought to myself that maybe the evening wouldn’t be so bad after all.
“This is a really nice venue,” he observed, looking around the gallery.
“It is,” I agreed.
That was the one good thing about this event.
Malone Real Estate Holdings had booked out a very well-known, highly respected art gallery.
I’d heard good things about their latest exhibit, so I’d been looking forward to the location, if not the actual event.
But once Ford and I had arrived, it became obvious that no one was really interested in what was hanging on the walls.
And the room was a bit too crowded to get any good views of the photos on display.
But what I’d seen, I’d liked.
“I really like the curation,” he said.
“Not that I can see much of the art in this crowd.”
It was as if he’d read my mind.
I looked at him, startled.
“What?” he asked, mistaking my expression for something else.
“Oh God, please don’t tell me you’re the photographer and this is exactly the kind of event where you feel your work is best displayed.”
I laughed again.
“No, no, no,” I reassured him.
“I’m not the photographer. I like the work as well. I was actually just thinking the same thing.”
“Ah. So which one is your favorite?” he asked.
“Of what you can see.”
I glanced around, trying to reacquaint myself with the work I’d attempted to check out when I first arrived.
I didn’t know the photographer, but I was impressed with what I saw.
Lots of beautiful architecture, mostly in and around Chicago it seemed, but shot from unique angles and perspectives that made it look more like abstract art than photographs.
“I think I like that one the best,” I said, pointing to one across the room.
It was the skyline of our city, familiar and iconic, but captured from above in a grid pattern of shadows and shapes.
I found it evocative and interesting.
“The artist has a gift for playing with light and dark to emphasize form,” I said.
“And I can’t help noticing the care they seem to take with the negative spaces.”
Now it was Andrew who was giving me a surprised look.
“What?” I asked, feeling self-conscious.
“Nothing,” he said, smiling broadly.
“I just don’t meet many people at these events who care much about art, let alone the specifics of form and negative space. I’m impressed.”
“Well, I do have a background in the arts.”
His eyebrows went up and I could sense his interest shifting completely over to me.
I wasn’t used to getting this kind of attention at parties.
I knew he was flirting a little, which would probably bother Ford, but it seemed harmless.
It wasn’t like I was flirting back.
I was simply bored, and Andrew was nice, and he was interested in art and photography like me.
So far, he was the only person at this event who had made me feel like I belonged.
“So you are a photographer,” he said.
“My assumption was half correct, then.”
Nodding, I admitted, “I mostly do commercial work for my family’s company, Danica Rose Management.”
His interest became even more obvious.
“The modeling agency?”
“That’s right.” I hoped he didn’t know too much about the reputation we’d had before we switched our name and our brand.
We were all still working hard to overcome the ugly notoriety our father had brought down on the Zoric name.
“You all put up some great billboards downtown recently,” he said.
“I don’t suppose you had a hand in that campaign?”
“Actually, yeah. I shot all of those images,” I said.
“I was promoted to a broader creative role a few months ago, so I basically ran point on the whole campaign.”
It had been intended as a relaunch of sorts—moving away from my father’s branding of the agency as a literal collection of the most beautiful women in the world, and toward an image that was edgy, artistic, and inclusive.
My brothers had been happy to put me in charge.
Andrew let out a low whistle.
“They’re lucky to have you.”
“It’s my job. Not that I don’t love the work I do for DRM. It’s just…I don’t know.”
“Just what?” he prompted with a playful look.
“Tell me.”
“Sometimes I wish I could get away,” I confessed.
“Step back from the family business and take a little time to do some projects of my own. I’ve had gallery shows, shot for National Geographic , but it’s been a while. Commercial photography can be a little mercenary.”
Andrew nodded.
“So you’re smart and ambitious. I like that.”
I’d never been called ambitious before.
My family appreciated the work I did, and I knew that Ford was supportive as well, but I sometimes got the sense that everyone thought of my photography as more of a hobby than a long-term career.
Maybe that was why I’d been able to confess my feelings to Andrew, basically a complete stranger, before anyone in my family.
The thing was, I couldn’t just abandon ship to go off on some self-indulgent, soul-searching art sabbatical.
As much as I yearned to photograph the wider world—I loved visiting ancient ruins and crumbling cemeteries in particular—I had a responsibility to make sure the agency and all the people it employed stayed afloat.
Still, it was nice to talk about my dreams with someone.
“I’d love to see more of your work sometime,” he said.
“Outside of the agency stuff.”
“Okay?” I said, a little surprised by his interest.
“Sure. I mean, I’m flattered.”
He took his wallet out, extracted a business card, and handed it over.
“I have to confess, I’m not just a casual observer. I’m in the business myself, so to speak.”
Andrew Apellido, Editor-in-Chief, lookingglass .
“We’re an up-and-coming online publication,” he said.
“I’ve seen your work, and I have to say, you’ve got just the eye. I think you’re perfect for what we’re looking for. Plus, if you don’t mind me saying so, the Zoric name would be a good prestige boost for the magazine.”
I didn’t mind, especially since a lot of people still saw my family as pariahs.
It was nice to know others out there still thought the Zoric name carried some weight.
In a good way.
Then I turned over the card and noticed the address.
“Oh.”
“What?” Andrew asked.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” I said.
“It’s just that you’re based in New York. I mean, I know the internet is a thing, but?—”
“Ah. Yes,” he said.
“I’d want you there in person. Ideally, we’d send you out on freelance assignments, eventually giving you more creative control—maybe even a permanent position if it works out. I’d love to discuss it more in detail. We could fly you out, of course.”
I found myself tempted.
What would it be like to go to New York to work?
To move there?
I’d miss my family, for sure, but maybe I deserved a fresh start.
If it weren’t for Ford, I’d probably say yes.
But my chest hurt when I remembered that he wouldn’t be in my way forever.
That our marriage was temporary.
Clearing the tightness from my throat, I said, “Circle back to me in a year. I’ve got a contract I can’t get out of, but I’m interested. For sure.”
He looked pleased.
“Why don’t I give you my personal number. That way you can call me directly once your contract is up.”
We exchanged our contact info, and just as Andrew was finishing up entering his number into my phone, Ford appeared out of the crowd.
The expression on his face was one I’d never seen before.
He looked like a caveman, stalking aggressively toward us, his eyes shifting between me and Andrew.
When he reached me, he put his arm around my waist, pulling me close.
Definitely caveman behavior.
“Ford,” I said, trying to smooth things over.
“This is Andrew Apellido. He’s the editor-in-chief of a magazine in New York.”
“Oh?” Ford gave Andrew a glare, lifting his hand to stroke my shoulder possessively.
“We were talking about work opportunities,” I said pointedly.
“Is that so,” Ford said, sounding skeptical.
I didn’t like my husband’s tone.
I didn’t like his meatheaded show of ownership over me.
And I really didn’t like how rude he was being to Andrew.
“This is my husband, Ford Malone,” I said to Andrew, hoping he would understand.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Andrew said coolly, giving Ford a terse nod.
He responded with, “I appreciate you keeping my wife company while I was busy. I can take it from here.” So dismissive.
Like he was just shooing Andrew away.
Seriously?
I’d been standing around by myself all night, but of course, this is what finally got Ford’s attention.
Another man chatting me up.
I shot Andrew a look that I hoped expressed my apology for my husband’s behavior.
“Emzee,” Andrew said with a gentle smile.
“It was lovely meeting you and having a chance to talk about art. I hope we’ll connect again soon. Ford?—”
“Goodbye,” Ford said pointedly, with a condescending smile on his face.
Andrew raised a brow, and I felt Ford go tense next to me.
Thankfully, Andrew excused himself before my husband could make a scene.
Still, the damage had been done.
I was beyond humiliated at my husband’s behavior.
As soon as Andrew was out of sight, I shrugged off Ford’s arm and walked away.