Page 27 of Single-Minded
“College?” I ask. “Are you kidding? I’m too old to date a college guy.”
“You’re too old to get serious with a college guy. You are not too old to go on a date with one, provided he’s of drinking age. Besides, there are a lot more available college quarterbacks around than pros. And they’re easier to acquire. Michael has unprecedented access to every QB in the country. And, he owes you.”
“Can’t I just skip that one?” I say. “I’ll go out with the other eight, I promise.”
“No skipping allowed. You want to meet Mr. Right, get married, and have babies, you’ve got to get all your rides on your ticket punched.”
19
Monday morning I wake up in the throes of a Voldemort sex dream. No, seriously.
I’m clutching the covers around my neck, my heart is beating wildly, and I have the oddest, still-hazy recollection of Voldemort serenading me with Michael Bublésongs and showing me his wicked side on top of the conference table of the very first firm where I interned in college.
This can only mean one of two things. Either I’ve completely lost it, or else I really need to have sex. With a non-imaginary non-villain.
I’m divorced. It’s early, and I’m alone in my all-mine house, in my all-mine bed, with my 50 percent–mine cat Morley sleeping on the pillow next to me, where Michael used to sleep. I wonder if Morley misses Michael like I do, or if he’s just taking advantage of available real estate. I reach over to pet him and try to bring him in for a snuggle, but he hisses at me, extends a claw, and then stretches back out on the pillow. Morley is not exactly cuddly. He’s a shelter cat, obviously abused before we adopted him, and found on the side of the road with his brothers and sisters, all far too young to have been weaned from their mother. Karmically speaking, I always felt that if I loved and took care of Morley, despite all of his social issues, that the Universe would reward Michael and me with great children. Like Morley is a test of my patience and kindness, and if I pass the test we’ll end up with a terrific family. Now my husband is gay, the clock is running out on my ovaries, and I’m stuck with a cat that crawls up on my lap like he wants some affection, but claws me like a ninja if I try to move or stroke his fur.
I snooze a little longer, not wanting to leave the quiet or comfort of my bed, but knowing I need to get moving because I’m meeting two clients today—a socialite named Olivia Vanderbilt Kensington who wants me to design the environment for a massive wildlife fund-raiser, and the other a new client, a well-funded, semifamous chef named Daniel Boudreaux opening his first solo restaurant.
Work will save me.
I hit the snooze button one last time and then drag myself into the shower, a cloud of agony hanging over my head. I have to get myself together. Michael is gay. I’m divorced. Nothing is ever going to be the way it was and I need to accept that. I spent all last night trying to figure out a new plan, what I can do to get happy, and the one bright spot in my life is my work. I love my job, I love that moving furniture, playing certain music, infusing scents, hanging particular artwork, or setting things just so can cause complete strangers to feel a connection to a space, a cause, or even behave in different ways—from alerting them to danger to putting their minds at ease. Stay a little longer in your shop, don’t fall into the piranha exhibit, head to the line on the left instead of the right, peruse the pricier merchandise before heading to the cheap stuff in the back. I love my career. I love the challenge of how to affect human behavior. I love the flexibility and the power of owning my own business. Even if the rest of my life goes to shit, I feel almost certain that focusing on work will make me feel happy again. And if it doesn’t, at least I’ll have the ability to pay for the best therapist money can buy. Onward.
I put on my favorite yellow suit because I need an energy boost and yellow is the color that triggers optimism and confidence. Pulling my dark hair into a loose bun, I wonder if I should try some highlights at my next hair appointment. Or bangs. Just to mix things up a little. Digging through the jewelry drawer, I select a dramatic necklace with multicolor beads that looks both elegant and whimsical at the same time. My ring finger still looks bare without my wedding rings, exacerbated by the line of pale skin and slight indentation where my rings used to be. I know I’ll eventually get used to it, but I still find myself surprised when I glance at my hand and my rings aren’t there anymore. Is that weird for everyone? I hate that it’s so obvious that I’m newly divorced.
I find myself avoiding Michael’s closet. It’s empty now, but I don’t want to be reminded of that. With the whole big house to myself, I don’t really need more storage, but it feels like it would hurt too much to just leave it empty. Oh well, a problem for another day. I pull out three pairs of shoes, my favorite splurge, and stand in front of the mirror trying to decide whether I should go with the Vince Camuto strappy pewter heels, the violet Manolos, or the funky cheetah-print heels. The cheetahs are tempting, because they’re an unexpected choice and they look far better than I’d imagined they would; but given that my biggest client today is an old-school socialite, it’s probably best to go with the always chic, even in purple, Manolos.
Grabbing my iPad and keyboard, I slip them into my giant aqua leather tote, along with the notebook I use to jot down notes and ideas when I’m with clients. It would be easier, of course, to just type ideas into my iPad, but clients feel you’re really listening to them when you’re taking notes on paper, versus feeling like you’re not paying attention when you’re plugging away at a laptop or tablet. And I am all about creating the best environment for success. It’s the smallest details that matter.
I give Morley a gentle pat and a catnip parakeet on my way out the door, and he flattens his ears and howls at me in return. My Mini Cooper seems tiny all by itself in the garage, especially with Michael’s car and all his sports stuff gone. Everywhere I look are reminders he isn’t here anymore. I wonder if it was a stupid idea to keep our house. Or if trying to keep it on just what I earn will end up completely bankrupting me. I love the house. I’ll get over it.
It’s a perfect Florida day, and even though it’s February, it’s sunny and gorgeous. I put down the top on my Mini and pull one of several scarves from the glove box, tying it over my hair. I pop on my giant sunglasses, pull out of the driveway, and head down the street, feeling every inch like I’m channeling Grace Kelly.
My first meeting is at ten, with the socialite client I’ve spoken to numerous times on the phone but never met before. I’m really excited about this opportunity because I don’t usually do fund-raisers, especially not at this level, and if I do well on this project it will open up a whole new line and bring me a ton of potential new clients. And since I’ve decided that building my business will be my salvation, new clients are exactly what I need.
I’m right on time, but later than I’d like because of traffic. I valet my car at the Ritz-Carlton, and hurry inside to meet Olivia Vanderbilt Kensington in the tearoom. Usually I meet clients at their place of business, but Olivia’s event will be held in one of the ballrooms of the Ritz, so we’re meeting here. The space is basically a blank canvas, but we’ll have to marry Olivia’s designs for the party with my work to create a space that will garner the highest possible donations.
The host informs me that my client has not yet arrived, and escorts me to a table near the front at my request. Since we do not know each other, I want to lower any anxiety she might feel if she had to search the entire restaurant for me—that way our meeting will get off to a smooth start.
A half hour later my client has still not arrived. And while I’ve been watching the door and smiling at everyone who might potentially be Olivia, I order a sparkling water with lime and pull out my iPad to make a few notes for my meeting that afternoon with the restaurateur. I check my phone periodically to make certain I haven’t missed a call from Olivia, and double-check the date of the meeting on my calendar, just in case I’ve screwed something up. No, today is the day.
Finally after forty-five minutes, Olivia Vanderbilt Kensington strolls into the room. She’s painfully thin, wearing a pale pink suit and what seems to be half her weight in pearls, multiple strands draped elegantly around her neck in varying lengths. I recognize her instantly after checking out her bio online, and stand as she approaches our table.
“Dr. Alexandra Wiggins?” she asks in a throaty voice.
“Call me Alex, please,” I say. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
She looks me up and down in a way that is obviously practiced and carefully designed to evoke insecurity. She waits until the host pulls out her chair and then sits down in an elegant side motion that seems strangely choreographed.
She does not thank him, or even acknowledge him.
“Thank you,” I smile, and the host smiles back. Great smile.
“Camilla Berthrand recommended you highly. I hope you’re able to live up to her praise.” The waiter offers her a drink or a menu and she declines both.
“Camilla was wonderful to work with, and I’m flattered,” I say, ignoring the dig. “Let’s talk about your project.”
Her eyes light up at the mention of her event, although her facial features barely move. Botox most likely, or some very recent plastic surgery. Olivia is highly polished and well put together in such a way that it makes it impossible to tell what her actual age is. Maybe fifty. Maybe seventy-five. Not that it matters, I’m just curious. There’s something about her that makes her seem like she belongs in another era altogether. Perhaps that’s just how the very, very rich are. Both Michael and I come from comfortable middle-class backgrounds. So we know to put our napkins on our laps, which fork to use at most occasions, and the difference between a red-wine glass and a white-wine glass, but I always feel a little out of my league with the caviar crowd.
