The Bride (The Boss) (29 page)

“She’s out with Michael today. Travel agent, honeymoon planning.” I wondered if that was embargoed information. Emma had been growing increasingly frustrated with her mother’s involvement in planning the wedding, and I didn’t want to be the reason Valerie showed up at the travel agency with a beach ball and swim flippers.

“Oh, that’s a shame. I could have given them the number of mine in London. She gets me amazing rates.”

“Right, but I bet she goes, ‘computer says no’ and coughs in your face a lot, right?” I snorted to myself. I’d just finished
Little Britain
in my Netflix binge of sadness
.

“As usual, Sophie, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said with a dismissive sigh. “If you could, tell Emma I called. Oh, and I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, but it is Neil’s fiftieth birthday this month—”

I mentally slapped her. Repeatedly. Instead of saying, “Bitch, I know when my fiancé’s birthday is!” I went with,
“I’m on top of it. The invites just went out yesterday.”

“Then I should find one in my mailbox today, I’d wager.” Like it was just a given that she would be invited.

The thing that I hated was, it
was
a given that she would be invited. She was Neil’s friend, and the mother of his only child. If I didn’t invite her, it would be out of petty jealousy, and it would hurt Neil. It wasn’t Valerie’s fault that she’d met Neil first and became a part of his life; I hadn’t even been born yet.

“Yup, you’re definitely on the list,” I assured her. “But please, don’t mention it to Neil. It’s a surprise party. Emma and I worked on it.”

“I won’t say a word,” she promised. “Must go, tell Emma I called.”

“Wait, Valerie?”
What the hell are you doing?
my brain screamed at me, but it was no use. I was already saying, “There’s this thing, next Thursday night. It’s a launch party for my book. You’re totally invited.”

Why do you do this to yourself?

“Oh, right, the book.” She sounded as taken aback by my invitation as I was. “Well…that’s very kind of you, Sophie. I would love to come.”

“That’s…great. Well, um…”

“See you there?” Valerie finished for me. “Looking forward to it. Email me the details. Must dash, Sophie, goodbye.”

She didn’t wait for my goodbye, so I assumed she was sitting by herself, staring at her phone in horror the same way I was staring at mine.

So, I wasn’t nervous enough, now I’d invited my fiancé’s ex to my first public reading of my debut book. My book about Neil. She was the only human being who knew Neil as well as I did, and that intimidated the hell out of me. I’d wanted her to be there, so Neil and Emma could see me making nice, but now, all I could do was panic that she would use something in the book as ammunition against me. She’d tried to sabotage us once before, after all.

No
, I told myself firmly.
Those days are over. You’re being very kind to her here, and maybe it’s the first step toward a real reconciliation and a chance
a challenge
at a fresh start.

Neil’s healthy eating habits post-cancer made sadness eating really difficult. Not that I hadn’t gone along with it. But I was starting to gently disentangle myself from his lifestyle. He could be vegan if he wanted, but I didn’t have to eat exactly the way he did. We’d been together for long enough, the romance of trying to do everything together was starting to wear off.

That was why I’d stashed about four containers of Ben & Jerry’s in the back of the freezer. I sat on the floor with some “Everything but the…” and considered how stupid it was that I’d invited Valerie of all people to my launch, but not my best friend. Fight or not, I wanted her to know I was thinking of her, and missing her.

Sitting in front of the refrigerator, I made a mental list of all the things I could write to her, all the apologies I could make. I practically wrote an entire thesis before I got up and went to my computer. But when I got there, nothing seemed right. I typed and retyped, then deleted it all and wrote simply:

Hey. I miss you. If you’re still angry with me, I get it. There’s going to be this thing for my book at the 310 Gallery on W Broadway in Soho next Thursday. It’s at eight. I would love to see you.

Hitting send was harder than I’d expected.

Waiting for the reply that never came was harder.

* * * *

Being the guest of honor at any party weirds me out immensely. Being the guest of honor at a party where I was under a ton of pressure to prove my salability to my publisher and my worth to readers was a thousand times more stressful. I would have rather been thrown as a sacrifice into a volcano.

When I expressed this sentiment to Neil, he’d said, “I thought they only sacrificed virgins to volcanoes?”

As a man who was used to being the immediate center of attention in every room he walked into, he didn’t understand my plight. I’d only recently been thrust into any sort of public consciousness.

I agonized over what I should wear for hours, finally settling on a deep blue DKNY dress with a plunging v-neckline, knee length skirt, and elbow length sleeves. Bands of fabric crossed over the waist, accentuating my cleavage just a little bit. Looking hot was like a suit of armor for me. I spent a long time getting my hair just right in loose, flowing curls, and I carefully contoured my cheekbones and dusted bronzer over my collar bones. I managed such a sharp cat’s eye that I hoped no one cut themselves on it. And I slicked on some YSL lipstick in “Rose Boheme” and a touch of clear gloss.

I wore my engagement ring and the platinum and pink sapphire earrings Neil had given me before our weird break up spell. They weren’t the best accent for the dress, but they were simple, understated, and reminded me of how far we’d come. After all, the book was about our journey together.

“Darling, you’re going to be late to your own appearance,” Neil called from the bedroom door. I stood in front of the trifold mirror in the dressing room and took in my outfit, from the gray t-strap pumps to the figure skimming dress and my flawless hair. If I just held on to the self-confidence I had at that moment, I would be invincible.

When I stepped into the foyer, Neil already held my coat and purse. A slow, reluctant smile broke through his annoyance at my tardiness. “Worth the wait.”

“Thank you.” I smirked a little as I slipped my arms into my coat. I turned and raised my cheek for him to kiss. “But I didn’t do it for you.”

By the time we reached the gallery, my heart was thumping and my guts were clenching in a very threatening way.

“Remember my story of how I shit myself at cross country practice?” I asked as Tony rounded the car to open my door for me.

Neil squeezed my hand. “You’ll be wonderful, and they’ll all love you.”

“You’re lying,” I said, squeezing back. “But thank you for lying.”

We entered the gallery through a back door, where India met us and ushered me inside. “Mr. Elwood, you can either go round front or slip in discreetly ahead of us,” she told him sternly. “But this is about Sophie.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Neil was too polite to make any outward sign of annoyance at India’s presumption that he would steal the spotlight from me. He kissed my cheek. “I’ll see you after.”

Alone with India, I tried to swallow my fear. “Okay, what happens now?”

“What happens now is you’ll go out, and Andrea Vessichio, a publicist from M and R, will introduce you. You’ll thank her, thank everyone for coming, you’ll read the excerpt you practiced, then it’s time to sign books and mingle. Easy as pie, and we’ll be out of here by ten.” She pressed a copy of my book, with the appropriate page marked, into my hands.

God bless India, for making the most nerve-wracking moment of my career sound easy-peasy. The book helped; it was still surreal to see my name on the cover. The art department had come up with the perfect cover image for the book jacket, nothing too flashy, nothing that screamed “my boyfriend is a billionaire.” The title,
I’m Just The Girlfriend
, in butter yellow on a tangerine background, with a stylized bag of bright green IV fluid in the space between the title and my name. Sophie Scaife. Right there, on the slipcover. I still couldn’t believe this was real, though I had a box of copies at home.

We walked down a short hallway, passing a few uniformed waiters bustling between the gallery and the catering truck in the alley. Then we emerged into the bright, white-walled, brick-accented main room of the currently disused gallery.

I had to admit, it was a perfect venue for an event like this. When I was Gabriella’s assistant, I would have killed to get a space like this for a reception or fashion week party. When I entered, every eye in the place was fortunately trained on Neil. He moved through the decent-sized crowd—no doubt there were some low level M and R employees forced to be here on their personal time—and drew every eye, from open stares to sidelong glances meant to be inconspicuous.

We made brief eye contact across the room, and his half-smile and subtle wink was a challenge. It was all I needed to regain my confidence. I could have all the doubt in the world, but a tiny bit of competition was enough to get me back in the game. And even though I knew that he was doing it on purpose, I thought,
Step up your game, Elwood. You are about to be massively upstaged by your super hot fiancée.

A woman in a red, knitted caplet over a brown sheath dress greeted India, then me. She reached for my hand, effusing, “Sophie Scaife? I’m Andrea Vessichio, head of publicity for M and R, nonfiction. It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Thanks, it’s nice to meet you, too,” I said, because I didn’t know what else I was supposed to say. “This looks really great.”

“We were so lucky to get the space,” she said conspiratorially. “My brother-in-law owns the gallery. There’s going to be a blown glass sculpture exhibit coming in on the weekend.”

“Wow, that sounds…like it would be a nightmare in a room full of people like this,” I said with a shrug.

Andrea laughed too much at that. “Well, you know, any crowd is a good crowd.”

Until she’d said that, I didn’t know there was anything wrong with the crowd. So, great, now I had that to worry about.

Andrea led me to the single microphone and high black stool positioned in the front of the room. Beside it, a table laden with copies of my books waited for signing. She stood next to me and said, in a strong, commanding voice that barely needed the microphone for amplification, “Thank you, everyone, for coming tonight. I’m Andrea Vessichio of M and R, and we are thrilled to bring you our debut author, and this fantastic memoir. It is so unique, and such an intimate and utterly addictive read. So please welcome our guest of honor—or,
author
of honor—Ms. Sophie Scaife.”

The applause stunned me. Whether it was given out of genuine enthusiasm or just politeness, I had no idea, but it was a huge surprise. I stepped up to the mic. From where I stood, I saw Neil, and though I knew Emma and Michael were there, I didn’t see them.
 

This was just like peeking through the curtain before the church nativity pageant. Back then, I’d been looking for one face in the audience, one that had never been there, that I only knew from a single photograph. Tonight, I wanted to see a face that was as familiar to me as my own…but she was a no-show.

“Thank you,” I said, and I could feel the heat radiating off my forehead. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

There was a ripple of subdued laughter. Laughing. That was a good sign.

But then, what if my excerpt was too much of a downer?

I raised my eyes and saw Valerie standing in the crowd, and she was smiling with actual encouragement. Somehow, it was Valerie, and no one else, who boosted my confidence. Probably because, like her daughter, she wouldn’t lie about her feelings to make me happy. She genuinely wanted to see me do well.

I opened the book before I remembered what India had told me. “Thank you all for being here. And thank you to Andrea and M and R, for putting this evening together.” I took a slow, deep breath while pretending to consider what was on the page. I knew instantly that I would never like this book, even though I had written it, even though it was my debut. It was too painful. The only way I could read it to a room full of people was by pretending it was fiction.

The selection was from the beginning of chapter two. The only bright spot I could find when I’d chosen what I would be reading. I looked up, put on my best cancer-doesn’t-hurt-us-anymore” smile, the one Neil and I both used to lie to our loved ones, and began: “The biggest challenge for an American in London is not learning to drive on the wrong side of the road, or making sense of what a quid is. It is, instead, the indecipherable mystery of the electric tea kettle…”

* * * *

Once I got into the rhythm, the reading went surprisingly well. It helped that I pretended I was reading something someone else wrote, instead of my own book. By the time I finished, to more polite applause, I dared to feel confident about the evening.

Well, as confident as I could feel.
 

“Darling, you were wonderful,” Neil gushed, one arm around my shoulders. “Brilliant.”

“Wasn’t she just, though?” Valerie agreed smoothly, sipping her champagne.

Had Valerie praised me? I couldn’t believe it.
 

“Sophie!” Emma dragged Michael through the crowd of guests keeping a polite distance from the signing table. “We got here late, we could barely get in! Are all these people here for you?”

“All these people are here because they want to see your dad’s trophy girlfriend and gossip about her,” I corrected. “But hopefully they end up liking the book, too.”

“I don’t see how they wouldn’t,” Emma enthused. “I mean, I’ll heed your warning and not read it, but if it’s all like what you read tonight—”
 

“I will read it, Sophie,” Michael interrupted with a laugh.

Valerie raised her glass to him. “You have a stronger stomach than I.”

Well, that was nice while it lasted.

India thankfully pulled me away just as Neil tried to make a response to smooth over the remark. I don’t know whether it was her relief at how well the evening was going, or the wine in her hand, that made India seem so unusually relaxed. Her lack of tension was actually kind of unnerving. “Sophie, come along. You need to sign these.”