“As far as I’m concerned, that check says it all. Your job is done.”
Chapter 49
Lance
41 DAYS AFTER LABOR DAY
I knew I was making the biggest mistake of my life before I walked out the door. But I did it anyway.
I left the check on my desk and took off. Away from Vivienne. Away from the Hamptons. I flew back to California and threw myself into work with a fervor I haven’t felt since . . .
Ever.
I’m surviving on a diet of Red Bull, ramen, and regret. I work, I work out, and I sleep only when my body shuts down.
I can’t avoid Tripp, but I hang up on him whenever he brings up Vivienne. Which he does, often. But today, I’m hoping he’ll hold off until I can ask him for a favor.
He and Jolie and the kids are back in Manhattan, but they still go out to the Hamptons most weekends. Personally, I don’t know if I’ll ever set foot in that house again.
“Are you out East today?”
“Yeah, we’re heading back in a couple of hours.”
“Before you do, can you run over to my place?”
There’s an entire industry devoted to closing down and maintaining summer houses during the months they’re not in use. Things like clearing out the pipes before the first freeze. Closing up the pool and storing the exterior furniture. Checking every window for the tiniest crack that might allow in moisture during a storm. Washing away the accumulation of salt that can damage cedar siding.
And I’ve learned my lesson. Asking an opportunist like Seth to “keep an eye on things” is just asking for trouble.
“The people I hired to winterize the place will be there this week and I just remembered that I didn’t wipe out the hard drives in my office.” I handed Vivienne her check and got the fuck back to California.
Everything we do is encrypted, and there are probably only twenty to thirty people in the entire world with the skills to get past the firewalls I have in place. Plus, I installed a home security system capable of defending Fort Knox. But I’m not willing to take any chances.
“Yeah, sure.” I give Tripp the electronic code to the garage door and he says he’ll call if he has any problems.
Ten minutes later, my phone rings. Fuck. “What’s wrong?”
“Your hard drive is clean. But I’m bringing it to my house just to be safe.”
“Good idea. Thanks.”
Tripp sighs. “Look, don’t hang up on me. But there’s a check for fifty grand made out to Vivienne just sitting on your desk.”
That’s impossible. Who forgets to take a check with that many zeroes? It was the only reason she stayed with me. I was nothing but a job to her, and she’d more than earned her money. “Are you sure?”
“I’m looking at it right now.”
I log into my banking portal and look through my transactions. As a kid, if anyone had told me that I wouldn’t notice an extra fifty grand in my account, I would have said they were insane. First of all, I didn’t have a one until I was in college. And second, I never had more than a few bucks in my pocket until I moved into my stepfather’s place in Manhattan.
Sure enough, of the two checks I gave to Vivienne, only one was cashed.
“It’s ripped clean in two. And it’s sitting right next to a donation receipt for,” Tripp pauses for a moment, “eleven dresses, eight skirts, fourteen shirts, seven—”
“I get the idea.”
“Really?” Tripp snorts. “Because I’m not sure you do. Vivienne was the real deal and you’re too wrapped up in your own goddamn bullshit to see it.”
My hand tightens on my phone, but I don’t hang up. “You’re wrong. I saw Vivienne and her shitbag of an ex. They were in the bathroom together on Nash’s yacht the night of the party.”
“Bullshit.”
“I wish it was. And when Vivienne came out, she looked like the cat that ate the canary. The next day, she breezes into my office telling me that she had a great talk with Abbott and she’s really excited about it. What am I supposed to think?”
“You’re supposed to fucking fight for her, asshole! Not roll over and play dead. Not fly off to California and leave her in the hands of, in your words, her shitbag of an ex. Man the fuck up and go after her.”
Chapter 50
Vivienne
62 DAYS AFTER LABOR DAY
I smile brightly at Eva Daniels as she opens the door of her new penthouse. “Congratulations, Eva. This place is absolutely perfect for you.”
It would be perfect for anyone. Spanning the entire forty-third floor of an ultra-luxury apartment building on Central Park South, it’ss four thousand square feet of floor-to-ceiling windows with panoramic views of Central Park and the Manhattan skyline, generously sized rooms, and an Upper-East-Side-meets-Hamptons-cottage aesthetic.
Eva is one of my new design clients, a friend of Jolie’s I met out in the Hamptons. As a single mother of twins, she said she wanted my input during her apartment search. Now that the place is hers, I can get started on the interiors.
It’s unusual to work with a client before they actually purchase their home, but it does happen. Some people want to get a designer’s eye before making their decision. You can change just about everything in a condo, but things like sun exposure, plumbing and heating vents, and weight-bearing walls are difficult or impossible to alter.
“Are you sure that this is the one you would have chosen for yourself?” she asks.
Throughout the process, Eva was particularly interested in my opinion. Which surprised me, because she’s clearly a smart, confident woman. Jolie told me that Eva was absolutely instrumental in the success of her business.
We toured at least a dozen units all over the city and her questions were endless. Which one feels like it could truly be a home? Which view is your favorite? What location do you like the best?
I always answered honestly, but I kept having to explain that it’s not my apartment. She should choose what most suited her, not me. But . . . it was nice to dream.
“Absolutely.” I walk into the empty living room, my head arched back as I take in the high ceilings, thick molding, and double-paned windows.
I’m back in Manhattan again, in a studio apartment not much bigger than the tiny bedroom I initially claimed in Southampton. It’s not luxurious, but it’s clean, affordable (by Manhattan standards), and all mine.
Affordable being the most important.
I never did cash the check Lance gave me the day he told me my services were no longer needed. That I was no longer needed. I didn’t even leave his house until the Tuesday after Labor Day. Because I thought he would come back. I thought he would come to his senses. That he’d realize he was making the biggest mistake of his life. But he didn’t.
I don’t want Lance’s money.
I don’t want his clothes, either. I donated them all to one of my favorite charities, Dress For Success, and left Lance the donation receipt in case he wanted to claim the write-off for his taxes.
I wish I could afford to give Lance back the first fifty thousand, too. But I did the next best thing. I had the lawyer I hired to incorporate my business, Vivienne Radcliffe Interiors, draft a contract making it a loan, payable over five years, with standard interest. The contract is in my purse and I plan to swing by FedEx later today.