They then looked at Jamie. What in the world was she getting into?
Chapter 32
Jamie had rarely been in this part of town before. It was old – stylishly so. A hundred years ago this was the neighborhood anyone with any means lived in. A status thing. Now it was a place the obscenely rich kept on the side in case they needed to stay in town, like Etta and her penthouse. There were a few, however, who kept their permanent residences here.
Most of them were older. They grew up here and it felt like home. Or they bought their townhouse thirty years ago and were too stubborn to move, no matter how much their doctors told them a move to their country estates would be beneficial to their overall health. The occasional young family, freshly minted as millionaires, would purchase a house and declare how rustic and Victorian the homes were, but for the most part, the only people screaming about how much they loved this neighborhood were also screaming about youths and the economy from their childhoods.
Jamie watched the immaculate townhomes go by as her driver eased down the street. Although old, every home was updated with fresh paint and repairs that were as seamless as the dresses the women waltzing around wore. Houses that had garages sported luxury sedans, Rolls-Royces, and the occasional Italian sports car like the ones dotting Etta’s property upin the hills.She hasn’t taken me out for a drive in so long. Jamie could still remember the day Etta first took her to the house in the hills. The scenic route was all they had as she enjoyed the wind in her hair and Etta gunned the gas in her Maserati.
Houses without a garage had rental cars appearing and disappearing from the curbs. Women in Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Prada, Hermès, Givenchy, and the occasional up-and-coming name Jamie had yet to hear of marched with their tiny dogs and tacky phones. It was the same fare Jamie saw in the lobby of the penthouse building, but these people were actually outside. Some enjoyed the sun hitting their skin! What a rare breed.
“We’re here, Miss,” the driver said, pulling up in front of a frosty blue house flanked by rose pink and humble chestnut. “Should I wait here?”
“I’ll text you when I’m ready to be picked up. I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”
“Very well.” The driver got out and came to Jamie’s door.
The calling card said she was welcome anytime between the hours of one and four. Of course, this was written in Ira’s hasty handwriting and delivered to Jamie via a courier who slipped it beneath the penthouse door. Hopefully, nothing had been lost in translation.
She buzzed the front door and waited, a spring chill brushing against her bare legs.I hope I didn’t overdress. Jamie was learning to err on the side of fancy whenever she called upon someone. Especially someone she had never been formally introduced to. Which still felt like everyone.
A young, mousy maid answered the door. Jamie handed her the calling card and said that she still hoped to be expected. The maid, who instantly recognized the handwriting, invited Jamie in but said to wait in the front hall for a minute.
Jamie could never tell if these rich women had good taste or were tackier than they would ever let on. Today was no different. She stood in a hallway that managed to be both airy and stuffy, depending onwhere one sat herself. If Jamie sat on a plush red bench by the coatrack, she felt stifled, the old wood behind her taking her back to a time when this place smelled like liquor and mothballs. Yet if she transferred to an armless oak chair by the staircase, she felt a cool breeze coming from the brightly lit salon in the back.
“Yes, yes, send her in,” came a hasty tone. “Get us some drinks, would you, Greta? We’ll need them.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The maid returned, nodding in Jamie’s direction. “The madam is waiting for you in the salon. You may go in.” The mousy lady trotted off to the kitchen, presumably to get these demanded drinks.
Jamie walked slowly through the hall on her way to the rear salon, taking in the crisp photographs on the wall, like her mother and grandmother would have decorated such a place years ago. Even the older photos, hailing from an era only existing in the memories of the middle-aged, looked like they came from yesterday.Okay, maybe before phone cameras. Decent digital ones from 2005. Jamie lingered in front of a wedding photo. The bride was a blast from the ‘90s, with large, poufy shoulders and lace that clutched her breasts. Her hair spilled over the lining of her veil while her groom, a younger man with permed hair, patted her pregnant stomach. Indeed, the bride glowed. Not just in the hormones of pregnancy, or the jubilant wedding day, but in that hasty youth that was so fleeting that not even Jamie could claim to be as young as this bride anymore. She was nineteen, twenty-one at the most.
Trophy wife.
“Come in!” That bride, now aged thirty years, cheerily bade Jamie to enter the moment she knocked on the paneling transitioning into the salon. While the rest of the hall was dark, wooden, and carrying remnants of the past, the salon looked as if it took notes from Hyacinth Winston in its delicate white furniture and green plants soaking up the sun by the large windows. The occasional red or pink flower bloomed, but for the mostpart, the focus of the room was a frosted glass chess set and the woman who probably spent half her day here.
“Pardon my intrusion,” Jamie said, stepping into the bright light of the salon. Sitting at a bistro table was the woman of the house.That is… an outfit.Red, long-sleeved, cut off at the knee. What made it stand out, however, were the swaths of black lace pouring over every inch of the crimson fabric hugging this thin woman’s feminine frame. Her dark hair was pulled up into an intricate twist sporting drops of black onyx and peeks of blood-red rubies. Her makeup, while subtle, made her look as dark and red as the rest of her, while from her ears dangled more onyx. Her shoes were downright frightening: six-inch monsters that looked liable to pierce the marble beneath them. Black straps wound up the woman’s legs, her red toes wiggling against them.
Her posture was impeccable. Inviting, casual, but impeccable. In her hand, she held an electronic cigarette that emitted the scent of peaches. She took one last puff before turning the thing off and standing to welcome Jamie.
“No intrusion at all. I’ve been dying to invite you to my humble abode, anyway.”
Jamie accepted a light handshake and an air kiss on the cheek. “You have?”
Carolyn Graham-Mathison stepped back, on the verge of laughing. “You are one of the most interesting, most talked-about women around right now. Why wouldn’t I want to meet someone like you? Unfortunately, it took my daughter’s introduction to make it happen. I should have done it myself. My apologies.” She gestured to the bistro table. “Care to sit? Greta will be here with some drinks soon. I hope you like cider. I’m in a rut. Cider every day.”
Cider made Jamie think of that terrible wedding shower she threw Monique. “It’s very kind of you. In truth, I haven’t beeninvited to many places in this manner.” She sat down, shedding her coat and letting it drape over the back of her chair.I don’t see a basket to put my bag in…Screw Adele and her helpless advice. Jamie was putting her bag right on the floor. Looked clean enough. How could one go wrong with marble?
“So I’ve been informed.” Carolyn sat back when Greta arrived, carrying a silver tray holding a bottle of sparkling cider and two crystal goblets. While the bottle was certainly fancy, with its long neck, exquisite opaque glass, and label printed on the finest paper, Jamie still recognized it from local supermarkets. It couldn’t have cost more than twenty dollars a bottle. Yet the moment she accepted some and tasted it, she immediately thought that it was far better than the hundred-dollar per bottle fare she served at the wedding shower. “Isn’t it divine?” Carolyn asked, shooting back a whole gulp and then gesturing for Greta to fill it up again. “I figured you wouldn’t care if I shared the good stuff with you. Most of my guests would shit themselves to see something so cheap. They only care about how much it costs, not how good it actually is.” She pointed to the label after Greta set the bottle on the side of the table. “It’s made in New York, from a mixture of American and Western European apples. English and French, I think. Sweet, isn’t it?”
The sweetness hit Jamie within another second. “Definitely.”
“The ‘fancy’ stuff is always so bitter. Who wants to drink that, other than to show off?” Carolyn shrugged. She maintained her ladylike posture, but her countenance betrayed the low-class girl lurking inside of her. “I mention this because I know why I was prodded into inviting you to my home. This isn’t a pleasure call, is it? You want to know how to elevate yourself to ‘billionaire’s respected wife.’”
Jamie swallowed, and it wasn’t cider going down her throat. “I don’t know how much they told you…”
“My daughter and I have a very candid relationship. I think they said, ‘Mom, this poor girl is getting made fun of wherever she goes because all thesnots think she’s nothing more than a temporary trophy wife out to suck Etta Coleman dry of her money. Help her, would you?’ Well? Is she wrong? Am I wasting my time and we’ll spend the next hour merely speaking of your wedding details while I sit here reminiscing of my own wedding?”
“That was your photo in the hall, right?”
