4. Abigail
ABIGAIL
Islipped out of work early today to prepare for my speech, though there isn’t much left to do at this point.
After a shower, I’m now standing in front of the bathroom mirror in my robe, rehearsing the words again and again until they’ve started to lose all meaning.
I’m beginning to question whether “integrity” is even a real word or just something I made up.
A break is probably overdue. Judy should be here any minute to help me pick an outfit. But I already know what I’m wearing. My white dress has been my lucky charm for every big moment. There’s something about the way it fits that makes me stand a little taller.
For now, I head to the kitchen, open my laptop, and skim through my inbox. I pause on the name Jane Reed.
Darling,
I’m sorry it’s taken me ages to write. Things have been an absolute whirlwind.
You wouldn’t believe the chaos here! Between fittings, castings, and all the last-minute travel, the days just blur together.
But I couldn’t wait another moment to share the news: Celia starred in the Lacent campaign, and it just won Campaign of the Year!
The gala was a spectacle (if only you’d been there).
The designers won’t stop raving about her, and honestly, keeping up with it all has left me utterly drained.
I do hope you’re doing well. We must catch up soon.
All my love,
Mom x
I stare at the photo Mom attached: her and my sister Celia, wrapped in sequins and silk, arms slung around each other, mid-laugh. They look radiant.
Mom used to have the same dark hair as me, before she started bleaching it. Celia was always golden. She has Dad’s coloring, through and through. But now, between Mom’s salon highlights and that sun-kissed glow she carefully maintains, any trace of resemblance between us has long since faded.
Celia was scouted at fifteen—I was twelve—and from then on, their lives became nomadic. Paris in spring, Tokyo in autumn. Now they’re living in Australia. It’s wild how fast everything changed. One day we were a normal family. The next, we were split in half.
Mom poured herself into managing Celia’s career. Securing gigs, booking flights, glowing with every new milestone. I stayed here with Dad, who disappeared into work. So I did the same: textbooks, perfect grades, working weekends at Pierre’s Mini Golf.
Months would go by without seeing them, and when they did visit, they’d be gone again before the jet lag wore off.
Then, when I was almost fifteen, Dad’s heart gave out.
I thought they might come home. Or maybe I’d go with them and start living out of suitcases too.
But Mom told me to stay and finish school, and I understood.
So I stayed. I learned how to fix leaky faucets, manage bills, and take care of myself. And I never left.
I’m still living here. It’s the only home I’ve ever known.
I hit reply.
Hi Mom,
I hope this finds you well. I imagine you’re still riding high from Celia’s incredible achievement. Campaign of the Year! She must be over the moon (and I’m sure you are too).
I actually have a bit of news myself. Tonight, I’ll be giving the keynote speech at the Bar Association’s quarterly meeting. It’s a big career milestone, and while I’m trying to play it cool, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous.
Work has been going really well. But enough about me. Where do you two land next? I’d love to hear all about the Lacent campaign on our next call.
Sending love,
Abigail x
Just minutes after I send the email, there’s a knock at the door. I open it to find Judy nearly swallowed by a wall of garment bags, her arms barely visible beneath them.
“What’s all this?” I ask, stepping back to let her in.
“Since we’re announcing the foundation tonight,” she says, passing me with a determined smile, “I thought it might be nice if you wore something that really shows what we’re about.”
Judy heads straight for the living room. I don’t get many visitors. My house is deep in the suburbs, far enough out that most would rather deal with downtown traffic. Plus, the place is homely. Most of my childhood furniture still fills the rooms. I’ve never had the heart to replace it.
Judy sets the garment bags on the couch. She’s dressed in a houndstooth suit with flared legs, a bold red blouse, and matching heels. She looks great, but it makes me nervous about what’s in those bags.
“Let’s see then,” I say, doing my best to match her energy.
She unzips the first bag. Inside hangs a lime-green pantsuit paired with a fire-engine-red blouse.
“I never would’ve thought those colors would go together,” I say gently.
“I know, right?” she beams.
The next is a bright red pantsuit with a white blouse.
A step in a safer direction, but then come the riskier choices.
Mustard yellow. A half-white, half-green suit.
I’m quiet as I take them in, trying to swallow the rising uncertainty in my throat.
I want to be honest, but I also don’t want to dampen her excitement.
“I saved the best for last,” she says.
She unzips the final bag with a slow, dramatic flourish, like a magician unveiling her grand trick. And there it is: a baby-pink skirt suit with a white silk blouse. At the collar, an enormous bow blooms like a flower in full display.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, my fingers hovering just above the soft fabric.
“I know, right? It’s to die for.” Judy’s grin stretches wide.
“I’m not sure I have shoes—”
“Already handled.” She’s out the door before I can finish and she returns with an armful of heels. White, beige, and, of course, pink.
“Definitely the pink,” she says, placing the garment bag in my hands.
“I’ll try it on,” I say. She’ll see it doesn’t suit me, and then I’ll change into my white dress.
But here’s the problem: I put it on and it doesn’t look awful. Ridiculous, yes, but not awful.
In the bedroom mirror, Lawyer Barbie stares back at me. It’s technically the best option, which isn’t saying much. The oversized bow at my neck feels more like a noose. Judy’s whole eccentric but powerful fashion philosophy makes perfect sense, until you’re the one wearing it.
When I step into the living room, Judy erupts into applause before I can get a word out.
“Perfect,” she says. Her face is lit up with hope, and I open my mouth to protest and then pause.
“Yeah.” I adjust the bow at my collar.
I guess this is what I’m wearing.
“Russ has invited a friend tonight. An accountant,” Judy says as she swoops in to fuss with the bow, tilting her head like she’s adjusting a mannequin in a department store window.
Russ is her 73-year-old...something. They’re seeing each other, but he’s been very clear in that he doesn’t want anything serious. It’s been a few months now. Dinners. Gallery openings. One chaotic weekend away. And through it all, Russ has stuck to his mantra of “keeping it light.”
Yes. He’s not looking for anything serious. At seventy-three.
Judy’s a year younger than me. She could be dating anyone. But hey, whatever makes her happy.
“He still has all his hair,” Judy adds. “And he drives a Lexus.”
Oh. The friend is for me. I try not to sigh.
Judy’s played matchmaker before, but I didn’t think follicle retention would become a major selling point this soon. Then again, I’m thirty-five. Hardly a spring chicken.
I’ve told her more than once to stop trying to set me up. I’m done with men. They lie, they cheat, and they always let you down. It’s not like I had sky-high standards to begin with.
Take my last boyfriend, George. I really thought he was the one.
I believed every word he said, like a fool.
For three whole years, I thought he was a pediatrician.
Turns out, he was a nurse. And to be clear, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with being a nurse.
That’s not the issue. The problem was the deception.
He spun stories about his patients as if he were their doctor, and I swallowed it whole. And that was just one of many lies.
I try to forgive myself. I really do. Back then, I was drowning in work, constantly exhausted, just trying to stay afloat. And honestly, who fabricates an entire identity just to impress someone?
It’s been years, but I still can’t shake it. Because it wasn’t just that I believed him. I trusted him. I let my guard down. I felt safe. That’s what hurts the most. It made me realize how easily I can be made a fool of.
Sure, statistically, there are good men out there. I’m not denying that. But I don’t have the time, energy, or emotional bandwidth to sift through the liars, love-bombers, or charming underachievers posing as something they’re not. I’ve done my time in that minefield.
Unfortunately, I’m still attracted to men. So I do occasionally see someone just to scratch an itch, though I can’t even remember the last time that happened. I’m not interested in a relationship, but maybe this guy can break my dry spell. Who knows?
Anyway, I’ve got more important things to focus on, like the speech I’m giving in two hours.