Chapter 2
“You lucky bitch.” Poppy sits in the driver’s seat of my brand-new car, shaking her head as she grips the steering wheel.
“I know, right?”
When I pulled up behind our brick storefront in Camden Town and parked, Poppy was making her way to the entrance with her Chihuahua, Gus, in tow, then stopped dead in her tracks when she saw me. Her jaw plummeted to the ground, as did the unlit cigarette from her crimson lips. She’s a former pack-a-day smoker who’s finally kicked the habit but says she misses the feel and taste of cigarettes, so she’ll sometimes stick unlit ones in her mouth to satisfy the urge.
She sputtered “bloody fucking hell” before jogging over, flinging open the driver’s-side door, and shooing me over to the passenger side so she could sit behind the wheel.
She scans the leather interior, tiny Gus sleeping in her purse, while I describe how Tristan surprised me this morning.
“Do you know what Desmond got me for our first wedding anniversary? An origami kit.”
I try and fail to stifle a laugh. “Well, I mean, paper is the traditional first-year anniversary gift, right? So I guess that was kind of thoughtful of him.”
Her raspy cackle ricochets in the car. “That’s the year I started sending him my online shopping wish lists. Now I get exactly what I want for every birthday, Christmas, and anniversary. I no longer have to feign enthusiasm when he gifts me a brass bookend set or a dehumidifier or a crystal beer stein. Christ on a stick, I don’t even drink beer.”
I laugh. “Does this mean you’ll be adding a car to your birthday wish list this year?”
She cackles. “Ha. You know, I jokingly told Desmond the other week that I wanted to upgrade our car, and he looked like he was going to pass out. And then he said we could maybe make it work if I’d be willing to sell our current car and take the tube and bus and walk instead of driving to save up the rest of the money.” She makes a disgusted noise. “I told him no way in fucking hell would I ever do that, especially with the entire north section of the Northern line here in Camden Town being down until next year for repairs. Can you imagine me taking a fucking double-decker bus twice a day, crammed with all those tourists? Kill me.”
I laugh even harder.
“So. Did Tristan like his watch?” she asks as we climb out of the car and open up Luscious, the lingerie and makeup store we co-own.
“He did, even though I felt like a bit of a wanker once I saw the car.”
Poppy’s ski-slope nose wrinkles as she flips on the lights, illuminating the small yet open space in the late-morning sun. “Never say ‘wanker’ again, Ri. You’re far too American to pull it off.”
I laugh while I walk to the checkout counter near the back of the store and set things up at the register. When Poppy walks over to replenish a stack of tissue paper and paper bags, she knocks me gently with her hip before setting Gus down on the floor.
“Hey. I’m just taking the piss. I know he loved it.”
“He said he can’t wait to show it off tonight at the anniversary party.”
“Good man.” Poppy winks at me. “By the way, love the outfit, you polished princess.”
“Will you ever let that nickname die?” I ask.
“Only when you stop looking so put together all the time,” she teases. “If Desmond had sprung a brand-new Audi on me, I’d be so shocked I’d have shown up to work naked. But here you are looking like you just strutted the runway. Quit making the rest of us look like slobs, will you?”
I roll my eyes and chuckle. “Poppy, there’s no way you could ever be a slob. You look like a chic badass. Always.”
She blows a kiss at me. “Seriously, though, when you die, you’d better leave that trench coat you’re wearing to me. Stunning.”
Through a laugh I tell her sure thing. I take off the Burberry trench I was gifted after a photo shoot years ago and hang it over the chair by the register.
“What’s the dress code for the anniversary party this evening? Black tie optional? Or is it ‘insufferable rich twat chic’?”
I force a smile at Poppy’s joke even though I’m certain my best friend can spot my unease like a road flare. I lean down and give Gus a pat on his tiny head.
“You’re wife of the year for agreeing to spend your first wedding anniversary—your Valentine’s Day anniversary—with your in-laws,” she says before walking over to the nearby rack of lace nighties and straightening out the hangers. “If Desmond tried that, I’d have his balls.”
“It’s one anniversary. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not that big of a deal.”
Poppy straightens up to her full five-foot-ten height. Her ice-blue eyes meet my gaze. “They’re not here, Ri. You don’t have to put it on and spout that bullshit.”
I chuckle softly and scoop up Gus. I set him in his designated spot: on the counter next to the register on top of the plush pillow that serves as his bed whenever Poppy brings him in to work with her.
The bell above the glass-door entrance chimes and in walks Desmond, hair as rumpled as the plaid button-down and sable overcoat he wears. Poppy starts to ask what he’s doing here, but she goes quiet when she sees the brown paper bag in his hand.
“You forgot your lunch,” he says through an adorably crooked smile.
She walks up to him, and instead of taking the bag from him, she slinks her arms around his neck and kisses him. I turn away, smiling to myself as I give them a moment of privacy.
Behind me I hear Desmond utter a muffled protest, to which Poppy growls. A low, satisfied sigh is his response.
Poppy and her husband of four years, Desmond, are the dictionary definition of “opposites attract.” She looks like Kate Moss raided a punk rocker’s closet; Desmond looks every bit the computer programmer that he is: thick-rimmed glasses, disheveled chestnut hair, a consistent wardrobe of fraying button-ups and chinos. Her ideal night out is a bar crawl through Shoreditch and karaoke, while Desmond would rather binge his favorite sci-fi series with a glass of Scotch at home. Poppy can chat up anyone—drunk strangers, moody transit employees, celebrities. I’ve seen Desmond go beet red trying to get a bartender’s attention in a crowded pub.
Despite these glaring differences, they work. He’s the cuddly counter to her razor sharpness. Whenever she’s stressed or upset, all it takes is one hug from him and she’s calm. I’ve seen it more times than I can count, and it never ceases to blow me away. He happily does all the cooking and cleaning, things she hates, while she is more than willing to do all the things he loathes, like call up utility companies to argue about bills and verbally spar with car mechanics and salespeople. He’s the calm to her storm, the nerdy sweetie pie to her badassery.
“Wrap it up, you two,” I say while I organize the display of mini perfume bottles by the register. “You’re in public.”
Behind me I hear the sound of fabric rustling and shoes squeaking along the tile floor. I count to three after it ends and turn around to see Desmond wearing the most flustered smile along with a hefty smudge of his wife’s lipstick.
He runs a hand through his mussed hair and looks over at me for exactly two seconds before his eyes dart to the floor. Poppy wipes her thumbs along his bottom lip, a devilish smirk tugging at her mouth.
“Well, um ... I’d better get going.” He clears his throat. “Nice to see you, Riley.”
“You too, Desmond.”
He heads for the door, and Poppy gives his backside a pat, causing him to yelp. I cover my mouth to stifle a laugh.
“See you at home, lover,” she coos. He frowns, nods, and scurries off.
“That was both adorable and gross.”
“You should greet Tristan that way tonight,” Poppy says with a wag of her perfectly arched eyebrow.
“Maybe when we get home. Wouldn’t want to give his mom or grandparents a heart attack with that level of PDA. I’ve never seen his parents or grandparents so much as hold hands. The make-out session you just had with Desmond would make their heads explode, I’m sure of it.”
Two middle-aged ladies walk into the store, and Poppy asks if they need help before leaving them to browse.
“Sometimes I forget just how soul-sucking Tristan’s family are, his mum especially,” Poppy says when she sidles up next to me at the register. “You’re an angel for tolerating her for as long as you have.”
My chest warms at Poppy’s fierce defense of me. She’s met Tristan’s family a dozen times and disliked them from the get-go.
“You’d think they were descendants of the royal family given how far up their own arses they are,” she mutters.
“They’re a rich, established, and proper family who hoped their precious baby boy would marry a rich, established, and proper English girl. And given that I’m pretty much the polar opposite of that, it’s no surprise they’re not fans of me.”
Poppy tugs my hand, her nonverbal way of demanding I look at her. Even though we’re the same height, I have to look up at her because she’s wearing leather boots with three-inch heels that put her just past six feet.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she chides. “Be proud that you’re not like those insufferable twats. You worked for every single thing you had, Ri. You had no support and moved across the ocean and established a life for yourself.”
“As a lingerie model,” I say. “I may as well have ‘whore’ tattooed on my forehead. It’s essentially the same thing to them.”
Poppy rolls her eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with being a lingerie model. That’s how you nabbed the attention of their precious Tristan. Have they forgotten that?”
I think back to the day we met three years ago, when I was working as a live model during the grand opening of a La Perla store in Soho right before Christmas. I was posing in the shop window, decked out in a black lace bra, matching panties, hold-ups, and heels when Tristan walked by, cell phone clutched to his ear.
When our eyes locked, he stopped speaking and halted in front of the window. Even though I couldn’t hear him, I could read his lips as he said, “I’ll call you back,” before slipping his phone in his coat pocket, never breaking eye contact with me. And then he smiled and walked off.
“Does that come in my size?” a low voice asked behind me a minute later.
I bit back a laugh before twisting around to look at the handsome man from the window, standing several feet behind me. “I don’t think it does. Sorry.”
“Your accent is lovely.”
I chuckled out loud that time. “My accent is Californian. It’s very boring.”
“There is nothing boring about you, Miss America.”
Another chuckle, followed by another charming line from Tristan. Five minutes of flirting later, he had my number, and I had a promise from him that he’d call me that night. He did. We went out for drinks the following day. We’ve been together since.
Poppy lets out a disgusted noise, pulling me back to the present. “You built a business with your friend from the ground up when you were twenty-seven, Ri. In one of the most expensive cities in the world. No help from anyone.”
“I sell slutty underwear and makeup to tarts, according to Tristan’s family.”
Poppy’s thick blonde eyebrows crash together. “Don’t. You know that’s not true.”
“Of course I know that. But that’s what they think. And no matter what I do, no matter what I say, that will always mark me as ‘not good enough’ to them.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket with a text from my mom.
Anak! Happy anniversary to you and Tristan! Love you both!
A sad smile pulls at my mouth when I think about the difference between our families. My mom has been welcoming to Tristan since the day she met him, always greeting him with hugs and warm smiles, always genuinely happy to see him whenever he’s visited her.
She sends another text.
Jordan sends his love too!
A sinking feeling in my stomach hits. Such a lie.
My little brother loathes Tristan, ever since the day he met him. I know for a fact that Jordan didn’t tell our mom to wish me a happy anniversary and that she just sent that text to be nice. Never in a million years would Jordan think to wish Tristan a happy anything.
I push aside the unpleasant fact that my husband and brother don’t get along and try to refocus on the moment with Poppy.
She shakes her head, her choppy, wheat-blonde bob swaying with the movement. “In addition to being a brilliant, self-made businesswoman, you’re also the kindest and funniest person I know. If Tristan’s family refuses to see that, then they can get in the bin. I’d be happy to toss them in there myself if you’d like.”
I wrap my arms around Poppy and hug her tight. “You’re an angel.”
She squeezes me back. “Ha. Not even close. Even the devil won’t have me.”
The two customers bring a haul of makeup to the counter. After we check them out and they leave, she turns to me. “You sure you don’t want me to come with you tonight? I’d be a buffer between you and Cruella.”
I cackle at Poppy’s nickname for my mother-in-law. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be fine. Besides, you gotta go home and finish what you started with Desmond. You can’t blow him off for Portia Chase of all people—you’ll break his heart. And give him the worst case of blue balls.”
Poppy chuckles before her expression turns pinched. “Fucking hell. Portia. With a name like that, I thought she’d be cool. Like Portia from The Merchant of Venice . Fuck, was I wrong,” she mutters. “I will forever maintain that Cruella is an infinitely better moniker for her. It actually suits her. I mean, she hates dogs. How fitting.”
The very first time Tristan introduced us, I wasn’t prepared for the low-key hostility his mother threw like invisible daggers. Petite Portia Chase wore a pleasant expression when she first met me and even hugged me. But then we started talking.
“I’m afraid I’ve only ever met little boys with the name Riley, not lovely young ladies like yourself,” she said to me while we shared tea at one of Tristan’s restaurants.
I still remember the fake-as-hell smile she flashed, her thin lips shellacked in Charlotte Tilbury Pillow Talk. And the comments she made throughout that hour-long introduction, all delivered in a polite tone, with a racist undercurrent.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen that shade of brown before in anyone’s hair. It’s quite ... dark, isn’t it?
Why, my dear, I think you’re the tannest person in this room. A perk of your uniquely mixed heritage, I’d say. Must be nice not to have to encase yourself in sunblock all the time like us fair-skinned folks.
Ricci ... that’s quite an ethnic-sounding surname.
You’re quite tall for a Filipino, aren’t you?
Tristan prepped me beforehand, saying that his mother was an odd duck who never warmed up to most people.
“She barely tolerates me, love,” he said after we left. Then he kissed my shoulder, whispering his apology against my skin. “I’m sorry. She’s insufferable. Thank you for being so wonderful.”
His empathetic words softened the scorch of her low-key insults. I can withstand her passive-aggressive comments the few times I see her every year for holidays and family gatherings, because I have Tristan. He’s worth it.
“I know I’m not a psychologist, but I’m pretty sure she’s a psychopath,” Poppy says. She makes a kissing face at Gus as he peeks up from his dog bed. “I mean, she said to my face with Gus in my arms that she hates dogs. Who does that?”
“A psychopath.”
She high-fives me before fishing a treat from her bag and feeding it to Gus.
“Maybe you’ll get lucky tonight and the restaurant will flood or there’ll be a blackout or some other disaster, and the anniversary party will be called off. Then you and Tristan can run home and spend your anniversary night fucking like rabbits as god intended.”
I let out a laugh so loud poor Gus jolts in his plush pillow bed. “Here’s hoping.”