“They are not!” I say. Are they? Maybe she’s right. I try not to panic. “So what do you suggest I do?”
“Leave,” she says, her mouth full of more chips, more guac. “Walk away. Tonight.”
“From the Harrisons?”
“From the Harrisons, from Metcalf, from all of them. Hey, here’s a thought.” She leans in. Her gorgeous green eyes are sparkling even more than the diamond pendant necklace she’s wearing, a gift from her second husband. “Let’s go away somewhere, just the two of us. Remember when we went to St. Croix?”
“Vic, that was twenty years ago.”
“We had such a great time. That’s what you need now—a great time. Someplace warm. A resort! Pilates lessons on the beach, salsa dancing at night… what do you think?”
“I think it’s a great idea,” I say. She smiles. A smile that quickly disappears when I add, “But not yet.”
“Oh, fine!” she says with a swoop of her hand that almost knocks over her margarita. “Let’s just order.”
“Another round?” I say, slurping the last of my drink.
“Nope. Just dinner.”
“Are you pressed for time?” I ask.
“No. But your ponytailed stalker might show up any minute now to rub you out. Rubbothof us out. Frankly, I prefer to die of natural causes.”
“Oh, Vicky,” I say as I signal the waiter. “You alwaysweresuch a princess.”
CHAPTER 60
IT STARTS OUT LIKE every other day off…
I drive into town to window-shop at all the high-end stores dotting Main Street. First is Design Within Reach (whose reach? Certainly not mine), then Jo Jo Ma’s Coffee (with ambient cello music on a loop), then Gussied Up—glorious dresses and gowns for the kind of galas I will never be invited to in this lifetime.
But as I stand at the counter of Coldilocks Ice Creamery trying to decide between kiwi vanilla and persimmon cookie dough, I have a better idea.
I’m going to spend the day in New York City.
Lily and Amber are still away, the dogs have been fed,and Hailey is sleeping over at a friend’s house. I haven’t been back to my own apartment since the night I packed up all my plus-size clothes. And I can hardly wait to use my prized FBI perk for the very first time: space in a parking garage right around the corner from my building.
I’m wearing regular clothes over my foam bodysuit when I arrive back at my building. I hope I don’t bump into anyone I know. But just as the elevator door is closing, someone joins me. Luckily, it’s sweet old Mrs. Bannihan. She smiles. I smile back. “Hello, dear,” she says. Clearly, she doesn’t recognize me. Then again, she never has. Mrs. Bannihan is a few Milk Duds short of a full box.
My dust bunnies have missed me—I can tell because they’re waiting for me at the front door and everywhere else. They seem to have grown a lot since the last time I saw them. Kind of like other people’s children.
Dusty or not, it’s home, and it’s good to be here, even though the place is a lot darker and smaller than I remember. Compared to the Harrison home, it’s a hovel. But it’smyhovel, with my favorite things in it. A cranberry velvet sofa that was my grandmother’s; a Mission-style rocker and a green glass Mission-style lamp; various needlepoint pillows; hundreds of books in no order (Janson’s History of ArtbetweenFreakonomicsandGone Girl); a blue chenille throw for when my superintendent skimps on the heat; my twenty-five-inch wide-screen TV, which looked a lot bigger before I got used to the Harrisons’ hundred-and-forty-six-inch micro-LED TV, the one that Samsung refersto as “the Wall”; and a signed Chagall print I picked up at a flea market years ago that might or might not be authentic. I’ll let my executor worry about that.
Compared to the Harrisons—well, compared to virtually anybody—I live simply, sparsely, preferring to spend my money on decent wine, decent restaurants, decent travel, and decent junk food. Not necessarily in that order.
I strip off my bodysuit and step into the shower. The water from my old showerhead drips slowly, grudgingly, as if it’s doing me a favor. I vow to buy myself one of those fancy rainforest showerheads like the Harrisons have. It will be my first luxury purchase, as soon as my back-pay windfall comes through.
Then, out of habit, I step on the scale. To my shock and amazement, I have lost six pounds! I get off and on again a few times, just to make sure. But it’s true. Who knew that walking around in foam rubber burns more calories thanSweatin’ to the Oldies? I guess it’s like being strapped in a sauna for weeks. Maybe I’m just dehydrated. Whatever it is, I’ll take it.
Clearly, this is a day for celebration. And what better way to celebrate an unexpected weight loss than with a rich fancy meal at an elegant French restaurant?
I go to my bedroom closet and there they are, waiting for me: Real clothes! Real shoes! As I’m deciding between a Diane von Furstenberg green-and-white wrap dress and a White & Warren cashmere sweater with a slinky black silk skirt, I plan my night on the town. I’m going to enjoy this. An adventure I callThe Invisible Woman’s Guide to Dining Alone.
Call that trendy new French brasserie that just opened in Tribeca and make a reservation. When they ask, “How many people?”don’tsay,Just one, is that okay?Say: “One,please.” And say it proudly.
Wear something sexy because… well, just because.
As you follow the maître d’ to your table, hold your head up high. Don’t slouch. See if you can make eye contact with someone as you walk and smile if you do. Extra bonus points if you get a smile back.
