Page 30 of Best Offer Wins
She looks surprised at first but plays along. “Fabulous. Let me introduce you to Marshall Chandler, editor-in-chief ofTravel & Luxury. Marshall, this is one of our vice presidents, Margo Miyake.”
“Such a pleasure to meet you, Marshall.” I shake his hand. “You know, I think the director of The Bexley’s cocktail program has something special for you. Pardon me for just a moment.”
Jordana arches an expertly sculpted eyebrow. “How thoughtful, Margo. Thank you.”
I weave back through the mob to the cocktail lounge, where I find Serina and three of her staff quartering lemons and limes.
“Hey, I know you’re probably slammed, but I need another favor,” I tell her. “Could you possibly whip up one of those Tom Collins riffs from the tasting that we all loved? The one with the yuzu?”
“I could,” she says, looking up from her cutting board, “but we’re supposed to stick to the approved cocktail list for the party.”
“It’s for a mega VIP. Trust me, no one will mind.”
She shrugs. “Whatever you say.” She dumps the ingredients into a shaker. As soon as she’s finished adding the garnishes, I whisk thedrink across the party, over to Jordana and Marshall, still huddled where I left them. I hand him the fizzing creation, topped with a paper-thin slice of pear and a spiral of lime peel.
“It’s exquisite,” Marshall says, inspecting Serina’s work. “How special to see a cocktail program take such care with a nonalcoholic offering.”
Before I fully process what he’s said, he brings the glass to his mouth and drinks. He pauses for a beat, glancing at Jordana, then spits the mouthful of clear liquid back into the glass.
“There seems to have been a misunderstanding here,” he says coolly, passing the cocktail back to me. “Excuse me, Jordana, I need to find some water.”
As soon as he turns his back, Jordana has me by the arm and we’re tearing through the room at a speed that seems inconceivable for a woman in nearly five-inch heels. She pulls me into a secluded space behind a black marble column.
“Marshall has been sober for twenty-three years, Margo!” She struggles through clenched teeth to keep her voice down. “He wrote a fuckingmemoirabout it, for chrissake! Which you would’ve known if you’d read the notes on the fucking VIP list.”
I flash back to last night. Jordana’s same look of utter annihilation coming from Jack, and then Curt. The same all-consuming humiliation burning through my body. I can’t think of anything to say.
“Margo, you have to leave.” Jordana takes a step back. “I don’t know what’s been going on with you this week, but I think you need to take some time off.”
“Jordana, what? Are you letting me…”
She holds up a hand. “Margo, this isn’t the place for that conversation. I’ll be in touch next week to figure out what’s next.”
Every inch of me feels numb on the Lyft ride home. The tears only come once I unlock the door to Natalie’s apartment and find Fritterlying on the sofa. At the sight of me, he thumps his tail loudly on the cushion, then rolls over to show off his belly and ask for a rub. I snuggle in next to him and burrow into his wiry fur, the injustices of the last twenty-four hours pouring out of my face.
“Thanks, Fritter.” I scratch behind his ears as he studies me with bottomless brown eyes. “Time for a walk. You’re sleeping at my place tonight.”
I snap on his harness and lock up Natalie’s apartment behind us.
10
Monday.
And no work.
I haven’t told Ian that I may not have a job anymore, which is probably the most Dad-like thing I’ve ever done. My sophomore year of high school, he spent weeks setting his alarm—showering and shaving—pretending he still had an office to go to. He must’ve known long before then that we weren’t going to be able to keep the house.
We could all tell something was wrong. For one thing, he’d started smoking again. On the nights he was home for dinner, he would sit at the table like a zombie, wordlessly shoveling food into his mouth, never looking up from his plate. The afternoon that Mitch and I got home from school and found the foreclosure notice in his nightstand was almost a relief. At least we understood what had been going on.
My situation isn’t anything close to that, of course. I’m not lying to Ian—just withholding some details. I have been loyal to Jordana for over a decade. She knows we’re trying to buy a house and start a family. She isn’t heartless.
But until I hear from her, the day blinks back at me like the cursor in an empty search bar.
I’m at my desk, where I’d been pretending to respond to work emails before Ian left for the office. Now I’m mindlessly scrolling Twitter. Oh, look, here’s a nice little nugget from CNBC: “30-year fixed mortgage rates inch past 5 percent.” Fuck me.
Now we really can’t go a dollar above one-three. Though higher ratesmightweed out some of the competition. Wonder what Ginny thinks. I’ve put off calling her long enough, and this is as good an excuse as any. I’ll wade in with some interest-rate chatter, then ease into my “It’s not you, it’s us” breakup speech. Obviously, we can’t use her to bid on the dream house if we want to keep our offer anonymous, but I’ll just say we want a fresh start after so many losses.
I get my phone from the charger in the kitchen. But her number doesn’t even ring—it cuts straight to voicemail: “This is Ginny Gunther, it’s a great day to make a deal! Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
