Finally, I grab my purse and head out the door. Isabella’s working tonight, so I don’t have anyone to complain to. My mother can’t know that Blake and I are dating, much less that he hasn’t called in a couple of days. She’d find a way to get his number and she’d call him and demand to know why he hadn’t called me. Jemma would threaten to shatter his kneecaps, Clarita would tell her nephews and they’d form a posse to take him down, and Edna would bombard me endlessly with dairy-related commentary.
So as I lounge around that evening, I pour out my unhappiness to Xena. She thumps her tail sympathetically. Men, amirite? That seems to be the message she’s telegraphing from her big brown eyes.
“He’ll call me.”
She makes what could be interpreted as a skeptical snorting sound.
“He will. You shut up.” I scowl at her. “You’re just being bitchy because I have to rehome you yet again. I hate it. I’m sorry, it totally bites. Don’t worry, though, you won’t be out on the street. Not on my watch. I’ll find you someplace awesome.”
My work phone rings, and I scrabble to grab it. Finally!
But it’s just Ariel. “Do you have any idea why Thérèse is quitting?”
She what now? “I didn’t even know she was,” I say in dismay. “I was in my own little bubble today, but I’m surprised the gossip didn’t travel upstairs. Maybe she’s retiring?”
“She actually tried to keep it quiet. Word’s just starting to get out. She gave Blake her notice on Sunday.”
Sunday? Why the heck didn’t he call me and tell me? That’s big news.
“She’s only sixty, and this job is her whole life. She’s never talked about retiring. She was talking about expanding our department after the popup event, actually. And now she’s leaving. I’m probably going to quit too, to be honest. She was the main reason I’ve stayed all this time. She was like a real mother figure to me. Kind of hurts my feelings that she didn’t tell me about her resignation herself.”
“You’re leaving?” I’m stricken. “Where will you go?”
“I’ve saved up some money, and I’d really like to get into teaching.” Her voice goes woebegone. “I guess the Kitchen Krew won’t be friends with me anymore.”
“Ariel!” I say sharply. “Stop doing the passive woe-is-me thing. Why wouldn’t we be friends anymore? I haven’t even been down in the personal shoppers’ department in weeks, and we’re still friends, right?”
“Oh, yeah!” She perks up. “That’s true. I’m sorry, I just have such terrible self-esteem.”
“Also you don’t need to apologize.”
“Right, right. Sorry about that, I apologize too much.”
I sigh. Baby steps. “I’m really bummed to hear that about Thérèse. I was so looking forward to learning from her.”
“Also, not to be nosy, is it true that Blake sent a rack of clothing to your apartment? I didn’t tell anyone else, by the way.”
“Thank you. I figure you didn’t, or I’d have been hearing about it all day. In the interest of discretion, I probably shouldn’t talk about Blake, though.”
I’m dying to ask her if she’s seen him, spoken to him…but putting my worry into words would make it all too real.
So I chit-chat with Ariel about her latest clients, and spend the rest of the evening second-guessing myself and watching forensic TV shows. And maybe mentally taking notes on where the murderers went wrong when they killed their lying, cheating exes. Like, what kind of clues they accidentally dropped, and how they could have avoided detection. Just as an intellectual exercise, of course.
In the morning, I go through the rack of clothes that Blake gave me and pick out a black chiffon polka dot dress with a black silk sash. I pair it with a linen wraparound blazer and kitten-heeled black pumps. I take the subway to work and show up ten minutes late, just so that I’ll be greeted by a blast of snark from Blake. Or concern. I’d settle for anything.
Being more than five minutes late is a violation of my contract, but I’m pretty confident he wouldn’t try to enforce that clause. Or…am I?
As I’m walking in through the front door, I get a message to report to the personal shoppers’ department and speak to Thérèse when I get there.
I don’t know what this means, but it can’t be good. I grab my purse and head downstairs, with a painfully fake smile pasted on my face.
Thérèse, standing in her doorway, waves at me to come into her office. “Good morning, Winona.” She seems diminished, somehow, faded and sad.
“Are you all right? Did something happen?”
“I am very well, thank you.”
No, she isn’t.
“Are you really leaving?” I blurt out.
Her lips press together into a thin line. “I have agreed to stay until after the Popup Palooza,” she says. “In the meantime, you can start training with me.”
An icy hand slides through my ribs and squeezes my heart so hard I can’t breathe for a moment. “Blake…doesn’t want me to be his assistant anymore?”
She frowns slightly. “Maybe he wanted to give you something to do, since he won’t be back until at least Thursday.”
“Back?” I echo dumbly.
“From Paris.”
“Of course.” I nod, trying to sound as if I knew all along.
She looks at my face, cocks her head sympathetically, and pats me on the arm. “Our first client will be here in fifteen minutes. We’re meeting her in evening wear, and I’ll brief you about her on the way up. We’ve kept your desk open for you.”
I’m numb as I fall into step behind her.
And now I know what that rack of clothing was. A kiss-off. A very expensive kiss-off.
Fury prickles under my skin. “I want you in my life. I’ll make room for you”…that lying son of a bitch.
I cannot believe how badly I misjudged him. The son of a bitch didn’t even have the decency to tell me to my face. Sending me away so I’m no longer working on his floor and then going to Paris without telling me? He should have planted his foot in my rear and shoved me out the door, that would have delivered the message just as well.
Thérèse and I head up to evening wear, and my head bobbles automatically as she speaks, but I’m barely retaining a word.
When we reach the evening wear department, I sense prickly hostility in the air before I even see anything. Then Sloane strides out from behind a rack of sparkly gowns.
Sloane. Because of course she’s here. This day just gets better and better.
“There you are!” she calls out to Thérèse, and slithers over to block our path. Her eyes glitter with malice. “Blake wants you to pick out a new cocktail dress for my friend’s gallery opening next week,” she says to me. “He claims to trust your taste– ” patronizing eye roll “–so I guess we’ll just have to go with that. I’ll probably have to have it taken in at the waist. I always do.” She simpers, patting her flat stomach. “He wants it to be ready for me by the time he gets back from Paris.”