Pretty Revenge (ARC) Read online

  “That’s what I tell myself.” Amanda rolled her eyes and lowered her voice. “As a woman, I have to work twice as hard as the men around here. And I make half of what my male cohosts do. You know what I mean?”

  “I hear you,” I replied in an attempt to convey solidarity. And also because she’s right.

  “I love meeting strong chicks like you, who are kicking ass and taking names. Keep doing what you’re doing. You’re obviously very good at it. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

  “I won’t.”

  “Great.” She waved at me before leaving.

  I waved back as I thought about what Amanda said. I am kicking ass and taking names. And I do have an innate knack for my line of work. I suppose because I’m not preoccupied by the romance of it. I see my clients for who they really are and I know how to get them to trust me. They admire my refined taste. And my ability to turn glitter into gold. They think I’m one of them.

  Still, my job is the one thing I have that allows me to maintain my sense of self. It’s a hiding place. Right out in the open. Where everyone can see the me I want them to see. My personal safety net, in more ways than one. For now.

  Because every girl needs an escape plan.

  Trust me, I know.

  3JORDANA

  When I arrived at my showroom—despite the cold weather—Tatiana Doonan and her mother, Ethel, were already idling outside in front of the Doonan family Range Rover, with its tinted windows and aftermarket Hella lights.

  “Jordana,” Ethel reprimanded, stroking the fur on her mink coat. She pronounces my name JorDONNA, I assume because it sounds less pedestrian. “You’re late.” She tapped a polished red talon on the face of her diamond bezel watch. It was thirty seconds past our scheduled appointment. I probably should have taken a cab, but sometimes I prefer the rebellion of riding the subway. My husband, John, has warned me against it at least a dozen times. To him, the subway system is the large intestine of New York City, where feces are stored before defecation. If only he knew there was a bum living at the Eighty-Sixth Street station who freely excretes right there on the platform. Good for him.

  “My sincerest apologies, Ethel. I know how important your time is.” Interactions with people like Ethel used to provoke me, until I realized that I could treat this sort of toxic relation as a game. So now I say and do what I know clients like her want to hear. I sniff their asses. I wipe them clean. And then I sew a square of the toilet paper into the bride’s gown and charge them for it.

  Fine, not really, but it is tempting. There are so many inventive ways to convey a big fat fuck you without actually articulating it. Every now and then I feel a responsibility to put these ridiculous people in their place. But I have to be very careful how I choose to do it.

  “Would you like a glass of champagne?” I offered before she had to ask. Rich people don’t like to appear greedy. Neither do alcoholics.

  “That would be lovely.” They followed me inside. “For my trouble.” Ethel’s mouth curled at the corners, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. It never does.

  “Of course. My apologies again.” I filled two glasses, though I knew Tatiana wouldn’t partake. She’s the kind of drunk who only indulges after five o’clock, because that’s when she deems it acceptable. In other words, she’s still young. I give it three years until she’s wolfing Ativan and Zoloft at ten in the morning, chasing them with Tito’s, and pondering why her husband and their Austrian au pair share the same sexually transmitted disease. I’m not making this shit up. It happens.

  “Here you go.” I handed a flute to each of them.

  “Thank you.” Tatiana accepted it and then, as expected, placed it on the side table, while Ethel glugged hers down.

  Arthur Doonan, Ethel’s husband and the patriarch of their elite cult—two brothers and a homely sister—founded one of the most lucrative global investment firms in Manhattan. He sits on the boards of the Museum of Modern Art, the American Museum of Natural History, Lincoln Center, the Robin Hood Foundation, and Mount Sinai Medical Center. He doesn’t appreciate art or music or give a crap about sick people, but they massage his résumé nicely. And Ethel wouldn’t have it any other way. Because then she’d have no reason to host ladies’ luncheons at the Four Seasons, procure racks of spangled dresses from Bergdorf Goodman, and start guzzling chardonnay at noon, which would be a real buzzkill for a socialite such as herself.

  People like Arthur and Ethel are among the breed of men and women who plug their faces with poison and glide into the skin of slain animals when the weather dips below fifty degrees. They rub elbows with the mommies who pretend to be loyal servants to their children, while snorting coke in the bathroom stall at their preschool. They clink glasses with the men who collect exotic sports cars and heavy platinum watches to compensate for their snack-size penises and ebbing hairlines. Not to mention the fathers who steal home late at night because they’re working so hard. So hard, that just an hour earlier, their dicks were being suctioned in the supply closet by a nineteen-year-old intern. And finally, let’s not forget the nannies who discharge their blood, sweat, and tears for these families, yet somehow end up drowning the kids in the bathtub while mom’s coming and going and dad’s just cumming. Hypocrisy is a cunning thief.

  Regardless, Tatiana is one very important bitch. I mean bride. She’s the ripe red apple who’s still white knuckling her parents’ branches for fear of deteriorating into the arms of her fiancé, who owns only two homes—Hamptons and Manhattan—to their seven. The horror. I haven’t met the elusive William yet, but as you can imagine, I’m waiting with bated breath to air-kiss the man who’s freely marrying into this cult.

  “Your first dress will be ready next Wednesday,” I announced, bracing myself for Ethel’s incredulity.

  “Are you kidding me?” Her eyes bulged like a Kewpie doll’s, as I pierced my tongue with my teeth. I find that the sting of self-inflicted discomfort can go a long way toward achieving an objective. The flavor of blood is strangely empowering.

  “Mom, take a fucking chill pill.” Tatiana quieted Ethel’s indignation with a flip of her wrist, which was stacked to her elbow with at least ten thousand dollars in Hermès bangles.

  Tatiana is anything but traditionally beautiful. But she is Manhattan-girl attractive. This means that her wiry brown hair has been yanked into obedience and streaked with golden highlights. Her eyebrows have been waxed into the elegant arch of a gymnast’s back. Her lips have been surgically engorged. Her skin has been lasered à la a third-degree-burn victim’s before the molting process begins. And her body has been sculpted by none other than Tracy Anderson herself. Tatiana’s physical maintenance is a full-time job. If she carries her own children, I’ll be astounded.

  “Language,” Ethel admonished. The elder Doonan does not condone swearing. At least not in public. Such a pity, really. I hope she and Arthur are heavy into sadomasochism behind closed doors. Now that would endear her to me.

  “What’s the story?” Tatiana asked, politely enough, as she heroically diverted her attention from scrolling through Instagram to herself for a hot minute. She’s not nearly as malevolent as Ethel is.

  “There’s nothing to worry about. The dress will be here ahead of schedule,” I reassured. “Our original timetable had it arriving next Friday. But it will be here Wednesday. I promise you. Why don’t we talk about the flowers?”

  “Great.”

  “Fine,” Ethel relented, folding her arms across her chest to demonstrate her displeasure. I’m excruciatingly familiar with her type. She needs to feel one step ahead of everyone and everything, while remaining wholly immobile.

  “Excellent, let’s sit down and I can show you some photographs.”

  “Actually, I tore some ideas out of bridal magazines.” Tatiana began to riffle through her Louis Vuitton purse, which was just large enough to hold three tiny teacup dogs.

  “
No need,” Ethel cut in before Tatiana could locate the loose pages. “It’ll be red roses.”

  “Mom,” Tatiana protested. “I thought we talked—”

  “Red roses it is.” She held up her hand like a school crossing guard. “Thousands of them.”

  “Red roses,” I repeated, well aware that in Ethel’s mind, this was her wedding not Tatiana’s. I come across that a lot. “Now let’s talk about the music.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, once Ethel had made the rest of Tatiana’s decisions for her, and I’d sent them each off with a bottle of Dom Pérignon, I began to chip away at the swelling volume of work confronting me.

  As a wedding concierge, it’s my responsibility to plait every detail of my brides’ and grooms’ big days into a tight braid. Please don’t mistake me for one of those robotic event planners. I don’t bustle dresses. I don’t powder noses. And I don’t dab tears.

  But I do handle everything else—the gowns for the bride and her minions, the tuxedos for the groom and his fellow date rapists, the centerpieces, the bouquets, the rings, the music, the food, and so much more. I’m the eyes and ears of the entire operation. Not to mention the final decision maker. Most of the couples I work with don’t have time to sniff flowers or sample cake. Either that or they just don’t want to. And, the good news is, they don’t have to. That’s where I come in. I think for them and like them. That second part is key.

  In other words, even if their taste is tacky, I make it happen anyway. And I keep my mouth shut. Hell, I once hired Charo to perform at an after-party in Atlantic City. Quintessential proof that money doesn’t always connote class. Regardless, outlandish requests are my forte. I’ve procured invitations that were plated in solid gold and edged with pavé diamonds. Not cubic zirconia. Real fucking diamonds. I’ve acquired white truffles from France that cost thousands of dollars a pound. And I’ve had royal Bengal tigers flown in from India on a private jet and chauffeured in an armored Hummer to my studio.

  The bottom line is that I choreograph dream weddings for Manhattan’s most spoiled of spoiled brats.

  And I need help, because ever since it was made public that I’d be handling the Doonan-Blum wedding, I’ve been contacted by a surge of new brides and grooms in desperate need of the grandest, splashiest, over-the-top extravaganza that they can conceive of. Or that I can conceive of for them.

  The problem is, I don’t always play well with others. So while I know I can’t do everything myself, I’m equally reluctant to rely on anyone else. Still, I’m forcing myself to hoe through applicants for the assistant job.

  In hindsight, announcing it on television may not have been the wisest strategy. There are already sixty-six emails in my inbox from twentysomething ladder climbers. Clearly, it’s not hard to come across a gofer in this city. But to find someone with a functioning brain and a realistic comprehension of what the word discipline actually means . . .that’s another story.

  As I scrolled through the cover letters, I realized quickly that the pool was perilously shallow. Thirteen of them has used an emoji in their cover letter. Loathsome. Delete.

  And nearly all the others had described ad nauseam their ideal wedding dress, bouquet, and color scheme. As if it mattered.

  It wasn’t until the sixty-third email that things got interesting. It read:

  Mrs. Pierson,

  My name is Olivia Lewis. I just relocated to New York City and I’m in search of an assistant job. I have five years’ experience with administrative tasks and general office management. I’m smart, organized, and willing to do whatever it takes to help you continue to grow your company. Please find attached a recent project I worked on for my former employer. I’m free to come in and interview this week. Should you feel I’m the right person for the job, I can start immediately. I look forward to hearing from you.

  Sincerely,

  Olivia Lewis

  Willing to do whatever. Oh, Olivia. You have no idea. And not one mention of lilies or lace. I consulted my calendar and wrote back instantly.

  Olivia,

  Congratulations on moving to the greatest city in the world. I’m sure it will fulfill all your expectations. I’d love for you to come in Friday morning. Does eleven o’clock work? I look forward to your confirmation and to meeting you in person.

  Sincerely,

  Jordana

  I pressed send without a second thought. She’s the one. I’m certain of it. At least by comparison to her vacuous competition. Either way, my instincts have always served me better than my intellect.

  Olivia Lewis will work for me. She just doesn’t know it yet.

  4KERRIE

  I gaped at my reflection. Who would have imagined I could be this attractive? Certainly not me. And certainly not anyone from my old life in Connecticut. Thankfully, Blake, my new hairstylist, knew better. He works at Equinox, a fancy-schmancy gym with a full-service spa inside, which I found by doing a quick search online. There are something like thirty clubs all over the city, so I figured, how bad could it be? None of the gyms I’ve belonged to had a spa. I was lucky if they had toilet paper in the bathroom.

  “Wow!” I exclaimed, rotating my head from side to side in an attempt to capture every angle.

  “You like?” Blake beamed at himself in the mirror and then yawned. “Sorry. I barely got a wink of sleep.” He’d already shared with me that he’d had a horrific fight with his twenty-two-year-old-boyfriend Marco—who was infuriatingly immature—the previous night, and that he wasn’t sure he could stay with Marco for much longer. What with being twenty-five and so wise.

  “It looks amazing, thank you.”

  “Sit tight. We’re not done yet.” He stilled me with his hands and then flipped his swooping bangs off his face. “So much work to be done.”

  I glanced around the salon with its whitewashed walls, light wood floors, framed black mirrors, and budding orchids on every console. I watched and listened to the women around me. I couldn’t help but notice the way they smiled without expression. The way they touched without feeling. And the way they spoke without meaning. It’s almost impossible to believe that the Jordan I knew is one of these people now.

  When I’d first met Blake, amid the cucumber water, fresh fruit, and heated hand towels (love those!), I’d been skeptical when he declared himself a creative genius. As he peered over my shoulder at my frowsy reflection, bearing the pout of someone who’d just sucked on a lemon, I was incredulous.

  “Maybe some auburn highlights,” I offered, per my research in Us Weekly.

  “No way.” He shook his head defiantly and then dismissed me with a flick of his wrist. “Blonde. Golden blonde. Like the sun kissed your head,” he countered.

  “I never thought I could pull off being a blonde. Just call me Marilyn Monroe!” I tried to lighten the mood. It didn’t work. Marco, who was texting him every thirty seconds, had already done him in. “Whatever you think, though. I’m sure you know best.” I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t care as long as he was capable of transforming me from Kerrie into Olivia.

  “You need a body bronzer treatment,” he informed me, before flagging down his colleague Danika—another twentysomething with sharp features and a churlish posture.

  Still, I let Blake work his magic. After coloring my hair, he sheared it into long layers and smoothed it with a flat iron. Then he sent me to the aesthetician for a wax and a HydraFacial. Next, to a stout Russian broad named Katya for a stone therapy massage. Because all that pampering can really take a toll. And finally, Blake gave me the name of a makeup artist—a friend of his—who worked at Scott J. Aveda Salon (right around the corner!), who would widen my eyes and flush my cheeks within an hour.

  I nearly hyperventilated when they handed me the bill for eight-hundred-plus dollars, but once I stepped outside onto the heaving streets of Manhattan, I forgot all about it. Because I blended in. For t
he first time, like Jordana, I was one of them. Or at least that’s how I felt, which, as I understand it, is half the battle. My nana used to say, “The most beautiful thing you can wear is confidence,” which translated into a load of nonsense when I was growing up. Although now I think she may have been on to something.

  After my makeup application with Lily—who had three nose rings and a barbell-like device impaling her tongue—I headed straight for a small boutique around the corner from my apartment for my Pretty Woman moment. I know. So trite. But at least I was footing my own bill. I’d admired the mannequins in the window, adorned in clothes I’d only seen in my reality TV binges. I figured I’d just point to each one and buy a few complete ensembles, which is exactly what I did. To my delight, I was rewarded by one of the salesgirls with a glass of champagne and a chocolate truffle. It’s remarkable how generous people are when there’s enough money being spent. Free food. Free liquor. Being Olivia isn’t so bad.

  Only, when I got home that afternoon, my sole companion was Kerrie, who is not used to being pampered or fussed over. I’m not going to lie, it’s going to be a challenge to evolve through this transformation. But there’s no way I could show up at Jordana’s office looking like my former self and say, “Hi, I’m Kerrie O’Malley. Remember me?” That would just be stupid.