Chapter 9
Valentine’s Day
I zip up the red dress and turn sideways in front of the mirror in the art room. The stick-on bra I bought is working with the plunging back, but my underwear is giving me a visible line. It’s no use. I’m going to have to go commando this time.
The caterers need supervising, and the band guys want to block my bedroom door. I pick up a pair of Louboutin’s with a red undersole and open the door with care.
“You done in there, ma’am?” asks the guitarist.
“Knock yourselves out,” I tell him with a smile, stepping over a cluster of black cables. I scan the living area. It’s been taking shape over the past couple of days, but now that the finishing touches have been put to the Valentine-themed decorations, it looks spectacular.
Instead of the usual lofty space, an installation of thousands of fine gunmetal chains in undulating lengths, hanging from a grid of wires across the ceiling, has transformed it into a much darker, more intimate room.
I spot-check the hundreds of small, fat hearts hanging from the lowest of the chains — chocolates for the guests to pick off — all with #LoveLuxuryListing on the red foil.
The dining table is covered with lavish food in pink, red and white.
I straighten the plates bearing four whole baked salmons and glance over the ring of huge prawns with a pink dressing, a large chicken-cranberry dish, white bread rolls, tomato and bocconcini salad, the tiered tower of pink and white sushi, and trays of white- or dark-chocolate-dipped strawberries.
Several silver buckets on the sideboard hold pink champagne on ice.
“Everything is wonderful, Erika,” I tell the catering manager. “Thank you.”
Rob emerges in a navy suit with a pale gray shirt and a dark red tie, loosely tied with his top button undone. He lopes down the steps and stops when he sees me. He shakes his head and laughs.
“What?” I say, self-conscious, smoothing down my dress. “I know it’s long, I haven’t put my heels on yet.”
“No, it’s ridiculous how perfect you look,” he says, the easy smile on his face. “That dress is insane. I’m not going to be able to stop staring at you.”
“Oh,” I say, flustered. “I do feel like a million bucks, I’ve got to admit.” I move toward him, shoes in my hand. He seems very tall when I’m in my bare feet. I reach up and adjust his tie. “We coordinate tonight. You look very handsome.”
“Thanks, shortie.” That smile again. He surveys the room, nodding approval. “This is quite something. When does the TV crew arrive?”
“Not for two hours. The guests will be here when they come. I’ve given them a one-hour window as they’ll be in the way. They’ll get some party footage, couple of moments filming some of their agents, and Hans’s big speech at nine. Then I want them gone for the rest of the night, so we can relax.”
Rob smiles at my excitement. “Can I do anything? Put something on ice?”
“No, we’re good. Let me lean against you. I can’t have guests arriving when I haven’t got shoes on.”
An hour later, most people have arrived.
The band is playing in the corner and the guests are laughing, chatting and devouring the buffet.
As well as almost everyone from work and Rob’s office, I’ve invited the choir, most of whom have shown up, keen to see inside Cavendish House.
Peter has sent his regrets, with Michelle still unwell.
Frankly, it’s a relief. He and I have had some extra rehearsals to practice our duet, and it’s been fine, but I could use not having him and Rob in the same room.
Suzie arrives, glamorous in a sky-blue jumpsuit, red lips and sky-high heels. “Wow,” she exclaims, turning me around by the shoulders. “The famous dress. It lives up to the headlines.”
“Thanks. You look fabulous. Come sit with me. I can’t stand all night in these heels and the TV crew will be here soon.”
The Luxury Listing producer — a hot, short-haired Portuguese woman — turns out to be a dream to work with.
Suzie admires her lasciviously, despite her own happy, heterosexual marriage.
There’s a moment of staged rivalry between two TV agents, facing off over the kitchen island.
“Eric, that listing was mine and you know it!” “All’s fair in love and real estate, hotshot.
” Hans intervenes dramatically, but it’s all for show.
After Hans’s grandiose thank-you speech about the penthouse sale and toast to the successful season, the TV crew and rival agents make a dignified exit.
I blow out a breath as Rob comes up to me, a fresh glass of pink champagne in each hand. “Better?” he asks, handing one over.
“I can relax now,” I reply. “Anything bad happens, at least it won’t be broadcast to millions.”
Mike and Hans, both dashing in their different ways, join us. “Some of the guests want to tour the penthouse upstairs,” says Mike, “while it’s still unoccupied. What do you think?”
Rob swallows some champagne. “I guess — a small group. No drinks up there. The buyer is getting all the furniture, so we don’t want any damage. You have the keys.”
As Mike moves off, I tell Rob, “I’d love to go up, I’ve been dying to see it.”
Hans turns to me in surprise. “You’ve never been in the penthouse?”
“Not that I remember,” I say, looking at Rob for an answer. “Not since my accident.”
Rob raises an eyebrow, strangely sheepish. “I’ve shown it to you before. But yeah, not for a while.” He glances down with a wry smile.
“Well, I’d love to see it now,” I reply.
“Those of you who want a penthouse tour, put your glasses down and follow me,” calls Mike from the foyer. He leads well-dressed guests to the elevator, with me and Rob following.
“What was that about?” I ask Rob, as we wait in the corridor. “About being in the penthouse before?”
Very deliberately, Rob lets his eyes wander around my lips and down to my décolletage.
He slips his arm around my waist, puts his hand on my bare back and leans in close.
His beard tickles my cheek. “We’ve been up there many times, often very late, usually with all the lights out.
We’ve . . .” he hesitates, leaning in even closer so his voice resonates deep inside me, “fucked in every room, on every surface, in every imaginable position, on every stick of that staging furniture.” He lets his hand trail down and runs his thumb across my butt, making sure I know that he knows I’m wearing no panties.
It’s possibly the single hottest moment of my life.
The elevator dings and we squeeze in, Rob’s arm still around me. On the 20th floor, he strides ahead and takes charge.
I’m so blown away by what Rob said, and did, that I can barely take in the penthouse’s 360-degree Manhattan views and lavish finishings.
I want to sit, but I’m worried about what kind of moisture mark sitting would make on the back of my dress.
I look around, and instead of marble and Italian tile, all I see are surfaces on which we’ve apparently had lots of hot sex.
Hans catches up with me and takes my arm. “Someone’s getting lucky tonight,” he says with a wink. “I feel like I witnessed something I shouldn’t have.”
“You saw that?” I blurt, embarrassed. “That should’ve been private. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I love a nice big thumb on the ass. Or, better yet . . .” He giggles.
I punch him on the arm. “Hans!”
“Sorry not sorry. He’s so damn hot, your husband. Please tell me you’ve resumed marital relations. Because if you don’t, I’ll bone that hunk of man meat myself. Mike will totally understand.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Oh my god. First, hands off. And, second, no we haven’t. I haven’t been ready. I feel like I’ve only met him recently. I’ve got to get it right.”
“Sure, girl, but remember that amnesia movie, The Vow? We’re all screaming, Rachel McAdams, if you wake up and Channing Tatum is your husband, you do not argue.”
“Okay! I hear you.”
I make my way back down to the party, seeking another drink. Josh comes over to chat with me as the guests start to thin out. As the band moves into their final number, a ballad, I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“You’ve been hostess all evening, and we haven’t even danced,” says Rob as I turn around. Josh takes my glass and nudges me toward him. “Off you go,” he says with a meaningful nod.
Rob leads me into the center of the room, where a few die-hard couples are dancing, Mike and Hans among them.
Suzie is on the couch, deep in slightly drunken conversation with Lisa.
Rob slips an arm around my waist and pulls me into him, his left hand holding mine to his chest. I give myself over to the moment, resting my head on his shoulder, listening to his breath and the singer’s voice. “Lover man, oh where can you be?”
I’ll find you, Rob. If I do have to leave you, if I am ever able to get back to my world and to David, I will come and find you.
I jerk my head up. Of course. Why didn’t I realize before?
If Other Me is in my old life, she’ll have gone to find Rob, immediately. Maybe they’re together there. Maybe she’s happy. Maybe she doesn’t want to come back to this life.
“What?” asks Rob quietly, lifting my chin with his finger.
“Nothing,” I tell him. “I’m fine.” I lean my head back against his shoulder and pull him a little closer. He responds by leaning his cheek on the top of my head and twisting a piece of my hair around his finger.
The song ends and the moment is gone as the guests applaud, and the singer acknowledges the band.
“Thanks, Josie, Rob, it’s been wonderful,” slurs Suzie. “You guys are great. So grrreat together. Gotta scoot, my car is here. Thanks for an amaaazing party.”
“Thanks, honey. Safe journey.”
After the place has emptied out, I’m still energized. I grab my coat and step onto the cold terrace for some air. The space is lit with hundreds of string lights, more chocolate hearts hanging from them.
I’m gazing out across the city when the terrace door opens behind me. “We have a leftover candy problem,” Rob says.
I turn and smile. “We’ll have to take them into work. If we get through all those, we’ll be too fat to ever leave this apartment.”
“Doesn’t sound terrible,” he says, joining me at the barrier. “We could live off takeout and watch movies, like we did in Snowmaggedon.” He’s referring to the huge snowstorm at the end of January that had us holed up for several days.
“That was fun,” I admit, smiling at the recollection. “Successful party, don’t you think?”
“A triumph. You were a goddess. What’s the time?”
“After midnight,” I reply.
“What a wonderful Valentine’s Day,” he says, turning to face me. “You made the most perfect Valentine tonight.”
He reaches out and strokes the side of my face with the back of his fingers. Slowly, deliberately, he moves his hand round the back of my head, entwining his fingers in my hair. I tilt my head as shivers run over my body. “Thank you,” I whisper.
This time, when Rob touches his lips to mine, my lips search for his mouth, my tongue for his tongue, as his hand holds my hair and I cling to him.
He pushes me against the pillar, kissing me searchingly, desperately, lovingly, moving to kiss my eyes, leaning to kiss my hairline, my neck. There’s nothing to do but give in.
But then the image is back, refusing to set me free. Her. Other Me, imagining me, with him, on Valentine’s Day. Hating me for being with her husband, where she should be. Or perhaps tearfully giving me her blessing, because I am her. Or both. Or neither. Who the hell knows?
“Baby, why are you crying?” Rob says, pulling away. I hadn’t realized I was, and shake my head, unable to speak. He wipes tears from my face with his thumbs. “Oh, Josie. I get that you’re still confused, but you can’t be confused about us, can you? Doesn’t it feel so right? Why won’t you let go?”
He searches my face for answers. But I can’t look at him.
If I look at him, I’ll kiss him again. And if I kiss him again, I’ll go to bed with him.
And if I go to bed with him, I’ll be his wife, completely.
And I’ll give up everything for him. My old life, my brother — and, most of all, my own sense of self.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, and pull myself free. I let myself into my bedroom at the end of the terrace, lock the door and close the blinds.
But there is no escape from this world and its impossible decisions.