Page 29 of Best Offer Wins
By six o’clock, the team from Rivière is starting to set up food stations around the sprawling lobby. I’ve confirmed with Chef that the kitchen is on schedule and let him know that I might bringa few VIPs back to say hello once service is winding down. The whole place looks epic. Jordana must be thrilled.
Taylor must be, too. Her step-and-repeat is all set up—“The Bexley”–branded backdrop looking very Insta-worthy, with a strip of red carpet in front beckoning guests to strike a pose. Here she comes now, in a strapless black jumpsuit, strawberry waves grazing her freckled shoulders.
“Hey, Taylor, congrats! Everything looks awesome.” My smile does not summon one from her.
“Thanks, Margo, glad you’re feeling better. Do you have the coasters?”
The coasters.
Oh my God.
I shut my eyes, the panic closing in. Four boxes of custom coasters—emblazoned with the QR code and Instagram handles that are pretty much the linchpin of the entire social media strategy around the event—are in the back of the Prius. I picked them up from the office yesterday, when we were all divvying up tasks for tonight, and agreed to bring them here.
But I took a Lyft.
“Margo?” Her voice is more hiss than whisper.
“Taylor, I am so sorry. I forgot they were in my car.”
Now her face does contort into something closer to a smile—but there’s violence behind it.
“Margo! What the fuck!”
“I’ll call Ian right now,” I say, fumbling around in my clutch for my phone. “I’m sure he can run them over. It won’t even take ten minutes.”
She glares at me while I dial, my skin getting hotter with every ring.
The call goes to voicemail.
“Hey, babe, it’s me. Listen, I was such an idiot and I forgot I have something really important for tonight in the back of the car.I need you to run it down here. Please call me back. Party starts at seven, so it’s an emergency!”
Taylor has stopped blinking, her false eyelashes lending a bug-like quality to her face.
“I’ll text him,” I say. “If he doesn’t respond, I can go back for them myself. It’s going to be okay.”
I tap out:EMERGENCY!! Check your voicemail. Need you to bring me the car NOW.
Relief washes over me as the three dots appear. I glance up at Taylor: “He’s typing! Just a sec.”
But then his message comes back:Just got to Pittsburgh. Told you I have depositions here for the river dumping case, starting early morning.
Taylor’s face darkens as she reads mine.
I swallow hard, my throat like sandpaper, trying to think of something—anything—to say that will cushion this news. I’m coming up empty.
“He… um… he took the car,” I whisper. “To Pittsburgh.”
For a split second, I think she might hit me. Instead, she whips around, fists clenched, and marches all the way across the lobby, straight to Jordana, who’s huddled in a corner with the hotel’s general manager. When Taylor reaches her, Jordana’s face snaps up and hunts me down like a sniper rifle.
I look toward the elevator bank to avoid her glare, and I see them there, like a mirage at the end of the world. My charges fromBon AppétitandGQ. Jordana can’t flay me while I’m entertaining VIPs. I rush over to escort them to the roped-off cocktail lounge.
By the time we reemerge, the place is packed, a steady thrum of chatter and clinking glasses barely audible over the bass from the DJ. I circulate like everything is normal, taking care to surround myself with black wristbanders. Human shields in case I bumpinto Jordana. They all have some gushing piece of feedback to share—“My suite has such a killer view!” “The steak tartare is better than anything I’ve had in Paris!” “Holy shit, who designed that chandelier?”—and a full cocktail in hand, per our marching orders.
Except for one.
I spy the older gentleman through an opening in the crowd, a strip of black peeking out from his cuff. He’s holding a highball glass containing only a few melting ice cubes—but he’s standing with Jordana. How has she possibly let that slide? Maybe it’s the multiple flutes of champagne that I’ve downed, but a jolt of confidence surges through me. This is my chance to prove that I am not totally worthless.
I squeeze my way through to them. “Hey, Jordana, how’s your evening going?”
