“Okay,” she says.
He smiles. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Okay? That’s all you’re giving me? Not ‘I’ll miss you, too’? Not ‘I’m also not used to having someone to talk to like this’?”
She shrugs, but she’s smiling, too.There’s nothing yet to tell him about my family history, she thinks.
“Okay, then. Well, how about I take you to dinner Saturday night, when I return?”
“I’ll have to check my schedule,” she lies. She is not doing anything. And if she were, she would break her plans.
He kisses her, first her neck, and then lower. “Well, check your schedule and clear it, because Saturday, V, you’re mine.”
The way he calls her V makes her so hot inside.
“Do you want to dine here? At the Knox? Or Toscano, perhaps?”
“I thought guests aren’t normally allowed at the Knox?”
“Saturday nights are the exception.”
“And the masquerade ball,” she adds.
He laughs. “Yes, that too.”
Normally she would never pass up the opportunity for Toscano’s handmade linguini vongole. “Let’s do the Knox,” she says, as casually as she can.
He gives her a smile, one of those earnest ones that betray his childhood, and then, to her disappointment, hops out of bed. He’s naked as he strolls to the bathroom. No cover needed for him.
Peter closes the bathroom door, and she hears the toilet flush and then the shower turning on. Just as she’s contemplating how she’s going to manage to get home wearing the Alice + Olivia pantsuit Peter accidentally ripped in their fervor, he pops his head back out.
He nods toward the door that leads to the hall, and, as if on cue, there’s a knock. “I’ve arranged some clothes for you. So you don’t have to do an adult walk of shame.”
“Thanks.”
He winks and then disappears back into the bathroom.
She gathers the quilt around her once again and shimmies to the bedroom door, smiling. Who does this, ordering clothes like takeout? Also,whendid he manage to do this?
But her smile vanishes when she sees who is on the other side. Rose stands there, holding a stack of clothing. There’s an unreadable expression on her face. Vivian pulls the sheet tighter.
“I was told to get you a size six shirt, but they were out,” Rose says, pushing the pile toward Vivian.
“Thanks,” Vivian says.
But Rose doesn’t leave; she stays put. Her eyes travel overVivian’s shoulder, to the bathroom door, where they both hear the shower running. Then she looks Vivian squarely in the eye. “You know, you’re not the first girl Peter’s brought round and you won’t be the last. You are pretty, but that will fade. And when it fades, people don’t look at you the same. When it fades, Graham won’t want you anymore.”
Graham?If Rose is aware of her slipup, she doesn’t show it. She turns on her heel and leaves. Vivian closes the door and leans against it. Rose is not the first territorial employee in a wealthy household she’s come across. There’s usually one, in fact. The wealthier the family, the bigger the house, or houses, and the more the family is pulled into high society—serving on boards, hosting and attending social functions. The greater the need for someoneelseto assume care for the place like it’s their own. Vivian’s mother herself had a “Rose.”
But this Rose needs to learn her place. Vivian is not going anywhere.
She looks at the bag. It’s from Crush Boutique, one of her favorite clothing stores on Charles Street. There’s a receipt inside, showing the time stamp of 9:20 a.m. They don’t open until ten on weekdays; for the Knox, store hours are apparently meaningless.
There is no way there was not a size 6 shirt in that store. Rose is fucking with her.
Luckily, Vivian wore a camisole under her pantsuit last night, and so she slips that back on, and then leaves the too-small button-down shirt that Rose gave her open. The pants—black, stretchy—fit perfectly, and Vivian does believe she’ll get good use out of them.
