Page 64 of The Secret

“Because she a crazy bitch! Everyone knows it.”

I shook my head, not really understanding what she meant or why she was so casual about everything. “What?”

“You know who that was, right?”

Did I? I didn’t think I did. “Should I?”

I’d dismissed my earlier notion that she’d been familiar, writing her off as an identikit Eastern European, but Payton was about to correct me.

“That was Dasha Novikoff. She used to model quite a lot, one of those girls you always see in pointless articles about how they decorate, shit like that. She always dates dodgy Russian gazillionaires, and she hasn’t appeared in much recently, except articles by her old assistants saying she used to throw shoes and stuff at them. I think maybe one was an iPad. Anyway, she’s nothing but a Malevolent knock off, and she’s full of shit.”

“How do you know this?”

“People and Us Weekly,” she replied, like it was obvious.

I rolled my eyes at my stupid question, because of course she did. Payton read People and Us Weekly like Murray read the financial pages.

“Hey, I need to break up the monotony of children’s books with something more entertaining.” She pulled me into a hug. “Kit, she’s not his girlfriend. I’d bet my entire shoe collection on it. Also, look at how Barclay reacted. If that had been me, I’d have been running for my life.”

She did have a point there, I’d never seen him like that, and he was still sitting by my feet just in case I still needed protection from the Wicked Witch of the West Village. But it didn’t make me feel any better about what had unfolded in the last five minutes.

“You know what. Even if she isn’t, she’s clearly the type of woman he goes for. And I’m not.”

Payton looped her arm through mine and guided me into the kitchen, sitting me on a stool like I was a toddler. “What are you talking about? You’re amazing! She’s nothing except someone with hard edges and pointy elbows and a clear attitude problem. Oh, and the obvious need for a decent meal. Maybe if she ate she’d be more pleasant, though I doubt it.”

When we’d lived together through college and beyond, anything shitty that happened was always made better with milk and cookies, because that was what both our moms had done for us. I watched her make her way around the kitchen as she put it together again, pouring out two glasses of milk and fetching the rest of the tub of cookies I’d made, although she hadn’t noticed the irritation currently forcing my brow to furrow.

“That’s not what I meant, but thanks for the veiled insult. I meant aesthetically we’re totally different. Based on the three minutes I experienced of her stellar personality, I’d say were alsototallydifferent. Even if she’s not his girlfriend, she was confident enough to proclaim that she was which means they’ve obviously slept together.” My lips curled in revulsion at the image of her touching his perfect body, but also at how visually perfect they’d look together, like they’d fallen straight out of a Calvin Klein campaign.

“And that’s not whatImeant. Even if they have had sex, it means nothing. She just lied about being his girlfriend, so that should tell you how desperate she is. Murray is into you, I can tell. Look at what happened the other night, and then dinner.”

I didn’t want to think about the other night, about the almost kiss, or the dinner, or the flirting or this morning. I was already feeling foolish, and thinking about it all would only make it worse, because even if there had been a connection, even if I hadn’t imagined it, I’d clearly built it into more than I thought it was.

So no, I wasn’t going to think about it.

“It’s not a good idea. This is a sign, a sign that I’m playing with fire and I shouldn’t be contemplating an affair with my boss; a fantasy which has been living only in my head. What we are going to do is go out and we’re going to have fun, and I’m not going home until I have several numbers to call.”

“I’m not arguing with that, you deserve it. We had one night out between you finishing your exams and this place.”

“Good. This dress you bought me better look slutty.”

She scoffed. “Would I have bought you anything else? You want to see it?”

“Damn right I do.” I caught the time on the kitchen clock. “Quickly though, Bell will wake up soon.”

She ran to the front door and came back with a Bergdorf’s bag and I was almost thankful I’d been called away to a sick baby because a trip to Bergdorf’s with Payton was akin to Hell on Earth. I’d learned a long time ago that it was much easier for her to shop for me than for me to go with her. My favorite thing was when she sent me the links to things she’d think I’d like, so I could shop from the comfort of my couch. Or the coffee shop. Or the back row of a lecture on eighteenth century poets.

She pulled it out of the bag and I waited for her to pull out the rest, only there wasn’t any rest.

“Jesus. I said slutty, but I don’t think I’d get this over my head.” I reached for it, holding it out in front of me by the sheerest of spaghetti straps. The dress was the darkest green silk, reminding me of the color Murray’s eyes flared when he looked at me. It was so delicate I could very easily rip it with a deep breath, and calling it a dress was perhaps a generous description. A scrap of material was more accurate.

“It will. I tried it on and it was a bit too small for me so it’ll fit you perfectly.”

I didn’t hold the same level of confidence she did, and I doubted it would even cover my ass. But fuck it. I’d simply require a lot of alcohol.

A shrill cry let out from my phone, turning into a loud and steady grumbling. “Shit, Bell is awake. I need to go and feed her.”

Payton jumped off her stool. “Okay. I have to head off anyway, but I’ll come by about five.”

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