Chapter Three Olivia
As she made her way to the bar, Olivia smoothed her sleek bob, more out of habit than necessity.
She’d convinced Philippe to open the salon early so she could squeeze in an appointment before her flight, and his handiwork could withstand even the most egregious summer humidity.
That’s why she shelled out over two hundred dollars per blowout, more than she could really afford even on a corporate lawyer’s salary.
In order to justify triweekly visits, she’d have to switch from soul-crushing work to something that required the absence of a soul, like defending billionaire drug lords or members of the royal family accused of sex trafficking.
But at the moment, she didn’t feel an ounce of guilt; it was essential that she look her very best tonight.
Yes, her prettier, younger sister was getting married before her, but no one would dare look at Olivia with pity tonight.
Not in this dress. Not with this hair. Not with her name in bold on New York magazine’s list of the most powerful lawyers under thirty-five.
Yet that wasn’t the real reason Olivia had invested nearly five thousand dollars in outfits for this weekend.
That reason was standing by the bar in an impeccably tailored navy suit, accepting a glass of scotch from the bartender.
Olivia had harbored a secret crush on Andrew, Bill’s younger colleague and protégé, for years but had never made a move.
She wasn’t afraid of going after what she wanted, or being seen as too aggressive, but Andrew was a handsome Harvard MBA who dated people like that Swedish princess who produced Oscar-winning documentaries.
Olivia was no slouch, but Andrew was out of her league.
At least, that’s what she’d thought until the Met Apollo Circle gala two weeks earlier.
Andrew had been there solo—the first time she’d seen him at an event without a date—and he’d ignored the bevy of beautiful socialites circling him like fruit flies and spent all night talking to Olivia.
At first, she’d assumed he was just being nice to his boss’s stepdaughter, but after three drinks and a conspicuous amount of knee touching, she’d stopped tamping down the excitement fizzing up from her stomach.
He’d even walked her home and lingered by the door.
The tension had been both agonizing and delicious, and just when Olivia felt positive that Andrew was going to kiss her, his phone had buzzed.
“Sorry,” he’d said with a sigh. “I have to take this. But maybe we can pick up where we left off in Maine?”
Olivia had nodded. Or maybe she’d said sure.
All she could really remember was the electric feel of his fingers as he’d touched her arm in farewell.
She’d spent the next few days in a daze, succumbing to the kind of daydreams she hadn’t indulged in since she’d been a teenager.
Slow dancing with Andrew at the wedding.
Watching him smile with pride during her witty, heartfelt toast. Seeing the look on her mother’s face when Lulu realized that this wasn’t just a weekend fling—that something real was brewing, and that she just might get to see Olivia happy and settled after all.
And now the moment was finally upon her.
She’d even spent an hour in Central Park last week practicing walking on grass in her new heels to ensure that she didn’t stumble when she made her approach.
The cottage had never looked more beautiful.
Strings of fairy lights hung from the trees, twinkling like fireflies, while hurricane candles glowed on the dozens of tables that’d been set up on the lawn for the dinner.
A jazz trio played off to the side, filling the night air with music that seemed to keep time with the sound of the waves lapping against the rocks.
She was going to remember this evening for the rest of her life.
Andrew turned and caught her eye at just the right moment, when she was close enough to greet with a knowing, secret smile, but still too far away to say anything.
He handed her a glass of champagne that he’d seemingly conjured out of thin air, then stepped back to survey her.
“Wow,” he said, breaking into a grin. “You look amazing.”
“You don’t look too shabby either.” She tugged on the sleeve of his suit. “How’d you resist the siren call of baby-blue seersucker?”
“There’s so much about me that’s insufferable already. I can’t add seersucker to the mix.”
“That’s true. You already tell people you went to school ‘outside of Boston.’ ”
“That’s slander! I’d never say that.”
“I’ve heard you!”
“You must’ve imagined it.”
“At Bill’s birthday this spring. We were talking to Jimmy’s wife and you said that you had a ‘fondness’ for the Red Sox because you went to school outside of Boston.”
“That doesn’t count at all. It’s only douchey when someone asks, ‘So, where’d you go to school?’ And instead of just saying Harvard, you go, ‘Outside of Boston.’ This was a completely different context.”
“I’m not sure your reasoning would hold up in court,” Olivia teased.
“Hold on. Let me consult with my counsel.” Andrew reached over to tap the tanned, slender arm of the women standing to his right. She turned and flashed a blindingly white smile. A smile Olivia knew from somewhere…
“Emerson, this is Olivia. Olivia, Emerson.”
Emerson. Emerson Wyle. The supermodel-turned–#MeToo activist who’d abandoned fashion for law school and was now a prominent human rights lawyer.
Her recent speech at the UN women’s conference had gone viral.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Olivia said, using every ounce of self-control to keep her voice from shaking. To keep her whole body from shaking.
“I know it’s bad guest etiquette, but Marigold said it was fine to add a plus-one at the last minute,” Andrew explained. “Emerson wasn’t sure she’d be back from Indonesia in time, but here she is!”
“Here you are,” Olivia echoed weakly. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
“Thanks!” Emerson said with a warm smile. “It’s really great to meet you. Andrew said that you and Marigold have felt like sisters to him ever since he started working with Bill.”
“For Bill,” Olivia corrected before she could stop herself. “Will you excuse me? I need to look over my notes for my toast. Have fun tonight!”
She hurried off, praying that she’d slipped out of sight before either Andrew or Emerson noticed her burning cheeks.
He’d brought a date? What the hell had happened to picking things up where we’d left off in Maine?
! That’d been two weeks ago! Had Andrew had a girlfriend the whole time?
Then why on earth had he been flirting with Olivia?
It’s not complicated, a weary voice sighed inside her head.
It’s because he was bored and you were there.
You only convinced yourself it was more than that because you wanted it so badly.
But that wasn’t true, was it? That’s not who Olivia was.
That wasn’t how she operated. She didn’t let her imagination run away with her.
Andrew had been about to kiss her when he got that call.
She just needed a moment to collect herself, to straighten the knot of thoughts sparking like tangled wires in her head.
Oliva drifted toward an empty table on the edge of the lawn. She knew she was expected to sit with her family, but right now, she needed to mope. And drink.
She slumped into a chair and sipped the champagne Andrew had handed her, trying to pace herself so she wouldn’t be too hungover to run in the morning. She was already itching to sprint down her favorite trail, letting the fire in her lungs incinerate all memory of tonight.
A server appeared at her shoulder and began to refill her glass. “Actually, I’m fine, thanks.” Olivia said, pulling her glass away so quickly, champagne spilled onto the table.
“You just spilled a hundred bucks on that tablecloth.” She looked up to see someone walking by, his plate piled comically high with seafood.
It was Jonathan’s insufferable best man, Zack.
Olivia ignored him, just like she always did whenever Zack chimed in with his shallow critiques of the 1 percent.
When he’d first moved to New York after college, Zack had started an anonymous blog about class politics in the city.
Despite its hyperbole and reductive, familiar arguments, it had developed something of a cult following to the point that Gawker had launched an “investigation” to discover the author.
He now taught at CUNY despite offers from Columbia and NYU, a decision that made him some kind of saint in Jonathan’s and Marigold’s eyes, and a fool in Olivia’s.
The irony was that Zack had never experienced anything close to poverty, not like Olivia had.
And of course, Marigold wouldn’t have told him what their life had been like before Lulu married Bill.
Marigold had only been five—three years younger than Olivia.
A lifetime at that age. She knew that Lulu had struggled as a single mom to two young girls, but only because she’d been told about it.
Marigold didn’t remember moving every six months to stay ahead of the eviction notices.
She had no memory of birthdays without presents, of weeks spent eating instant ramen in poorly heated apartments.
But Olivia did. She knew what life was like without money, and she sure as hell wasn’t going back.