Page 8 of The Yes Factor

“Hi, Ethan,” I say with fake cheerfulness—why hasn’t this three-shot latte kicked in yet? “How’s the trip going?”

“Hello, darling. Listen, I’m terribly sorry, but this case is turning out to be more complex than we’d imagined. Alan thinks it’s going to be at least another week in this desert oven. So I won’t be able to meet you in Provence after all. I’m sorry, darling.” Ethan’s crisp delivery belies no trace of emotion other than extreme politeness. He’s like a nervous, amateur actor doing a Hugh Grant imitation.

My heart sinks, though I’m not exactly surprised. This isn’t the first time a weekend away has been spoiled by a case. I’d booked a beautiful suite in a renovated farmhouse in the lavender fields of Luberon. Ethan was going to fly from Dubai to Nice, rent a car and drive out to meet me. My flight was due to leave tomorrow from City airport. I knew he’d forgotten about the trip when we talked about it at the charity gala last week. And I held on to that hurt and anger in order to justify the night with Francois. Still, I didn’t want to give up hope and in my foolish heart of hearts I thought maybe, just maybe, Ethan and I would actually get away together. Maybe distance from London and the rut we seem to be in could help turn things around for us. Certainly more so than those therapy sessions with Emma.

“Oh, um, that’s okay, darling.” I try to sound upbeat, while thinking that “darling” must be the most overused word in strained British marriages. “It sounds like a big case.”

“Why don’t you take Clarissa instead and have a shopping weekend? Alan’s already checked with her and she’s free.”

Is he serious? Even after the snide remarks she made to me at the gala event he’s still suggesting a girl’s getaway with Clarissa, the mean girl of Treadwell & Sloane wives. Clarissa, who despite being ten years too old, is still mad that she’s not Kate Middleton. Uh-uh, no way. Why is Ethan always trying to set us up anyway? Is it his and Alan’s not-so-secret plan to fob us off on each other so they won’t have an ounce of guilt about making these “Darling, I’m sorry” calls? That I’d be too busy shopping and brunching to notice my invisible husband is missing. Besides, what kind of shopping does he think Clarissa and I would do in the countryside of Provence? There’s only so much lavender soap you can buy. The whole point of this long weekend away was for Ethan and me to get time together, for him to at least look me in the eye, talk to me about something other than a client or a case, and maybe even caress me, run his hands over my body instead of his damn laptop. After our failed therapy sessions, we’re in do or die territory and he doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Um.” I’m stalling. I can’t face being alone in the country with Clarissa. “I’d rather wait until we can go together. I should be able to cancel the reservation without a charge,” I say, distracted by what’s brewing in my subconscious. “Hope the case goes okay.”

We hang up after exchanging a mutual “Bye, darling” in an everything’s fine and dandy voice.

The prospect of a long three-day weekend suddenly free of any plans has me thinking, and not with my head. I swipe back to the text message from Francois and imagine what a “next time” would entail. “Liv, don’t go there,” I say to myself. But the freedom of a next time is so damn tempting. I think of Bex. I envy her freedom—she could do this any time. Which is why I don’t get why she spends most of her nights with Netflix. Bex is gorgeous, so warm and charming. Could it really be that hard out there as a single woman? Isn’t it a fun, secret sisterhood? Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” for God’s sake! In our twenties, living together in Atlanta, we practically had to hire a bouncer to keep the guys away. Well, that was almost twenty years ago. I shiver at the thought.

“Hi, Liv.” Emily waves to me as she prances by my desk. I hadn’t really given her much notice in the office before. All the interns blur into one. It’s not that I actively try to ignore them, it’s just that their bright-eyed eagerness is salt in the wound to the fact that I’m getting burn-out with my so-called career. It’s not like being in ad sales for a media company is my dream job. Does anybody do their dream job anyway?

I eye Emily suspiciously. Could she have been born in the 2000s? Maybe UK child labor laws are different than in the US. Spiced turmeric oat milk latte, my ass. She walks down the hall like it’s a catwalk and I can’t help but admire her fringed boots with a perfect heel—not too high, not too low, sturdy enough to trot around town but still with a sexy edge. The fringe tassels bounce to the rhythm of her stride, matched in movement by her smooth as glass mane that dances along with each step. Watching her, I start to feel sick.

I turn back to the computer screen and pull up the image search of Francois, leaning in to look at the gallery photo. She’s not wearing those glasses, but I sure as hell recognize those boots. Dammit, it is her. Francois and Emily, the intern. My cheeks burn with indignation and embarrassment. Maybe she’s his daughter? But no father holds his daughter like that. How many women (girls!) has Francois texted “magnifique” to in the last week? That’s it. I delete Francois from my phone.

Okay, let’s do the right thing. Let’s be sensibly English. A weekend in Provence with Clarissa seems like the best option after all, even if she is a mean cow. What would I do otherwise? Sit at home and eat cheese puffs, watch the Golden Girls, and get lost in an Internet wormhole of stalking Emily and Francois? And what would Clarissa and I do away? I conjure up an image of Clarissa and me on a girl’s trip, practically boring myself to sleep. Now if it were Bex and me. I smile at the thought, already hearing the percussion of popping corks and howls of laughter.

If it were Bex and me…

I tap at the keyboard. London to LA. Departing tomorrow—Friday. Screw Clarissa. Screw Ethan’s case. And screw Francois. Well, maybe not, no screwing Francois. I can still be sensible and have fun. I need me some Bex time and Bex, well, she needs her some man time and I’m going to help her get it. Monday’s already a public holiday here, and I can squeeze in four vacation days. It’s August after all, and things are dead. A week in LA. How many dates can I get Bex to go on in that time? Go big or go home—seven for seven. Considering some of the conversations I overhear at the office about all these dating apps, it should be easy.

I reach into my Chanel handbag to retrieve my credit card. Ethan won’t care if I buy the ticket. Hell, he doesn’t even read the credit card statements. But, on second thought, I’m not going to use his money. Something about Francois, even if he is an intern dating lothario, has given me back a tiny bit of me. I’m going to do this my way. I used to juggle temp jobs during the day and a hostess gig at a Cajun restaurant in Atlanta. Before Ethan, before London, before I ever knew anyone like Clarissa, I survived just fine with my own money and purses from Target. And that was before Target was cool. I look around for a better price. With a layover in Zurich and a top up with miles, the price comes to £286 (damn those airport taxes).

The time on my phone says 1:23 p.m. So, 5:23 a.m. in LA, Bex is probably up by now. I know her too well, she wouldn’t have gone out; instead, she’d have fallen asleep halfway through an episode of Outlander.

“So soon?” Bex answers groggily after three rings.

“Hey, are they still doing all that construction at LAX?”

“Yeah, it’s a real shitshow.” Bex groans. “No one knows where they’re going and Ubers are everywhere,” she says with increasing alertness, the topic of LA traffic setting her on edge. “Why are you asking? And why are you calling me so damn early?”

“I need you to pick me up.”

“What? Now!” Bex says, fully awake.

“No, tomorrow. Friday at four thirty p.m. Don’t forget to wear makeup and don’t even think about wearing sweats. You never know who you might meet at the airport. Oh, and we’re going out tomorrow night. You’re officially back on the market, baby!”

Chapter Three

The Weeper

BEX

I’m driving to the airport in my freshly washed and vacuumed Lexus SUV. It’s an old one, the first hybrid model, peppered with a few dings and scratches, and still no AC, but with a good wash it looks presentable. Kind of like me, I half-laugh to myself.

Exhausted after a full day of errands, I run through my mental checklist of all the prep I’ve done for this last-minute surprise visit from Liv. The house is clean; the bedding has all been changed, and I even made Liv’s favorite ranch dip. Oh, and I bought a month’s supply of wine, which I doubt will be enough. And Advil.

Liv told me to put makeup on and to “not wear sweats.” She says this like I wear sweats all the time. Which I don’t. I wear workout clothes too. I believe “athleisure” is the name. I quickly look in the rearview mirror, checking to see if my cleavage situation isn’t too much. It’s been about a decade since I’ve worn this top, and well, let’s just say gravity can do a lot over ten years. Thank God, it still fits. Working from home with little to no social life apart from going to Zumba and chauffeuring Maddie around means my regular attire has me looking like a hobo who found some leggings in a dumpster dive haul.

I don’t know what Liv has planned, but honestly, I’m a little nervous. I can tell when Liv is in “go-mode” and she’s full throttle right now. She hasn’t lived in LA for a while and she doesn’t know what it’s like anymore. She has no idea what kind of hell it is to be single in this town.

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