I laugh softly.
Me: What should I get her from Freya?
Emma: A bracelet or a small necklace. Something sparkly from Tiffany, like a little heart with diamonds.
Me: And from me?
Emma: A real leather purse—maybe something designer. I don’t know. Just make it timeless but practical."
We carry on sharing ideas as I go through the mall—Short Hills in New Jersey. It’s a quick drive over the bridge, the place a gleaming temple of luxury with marble floors, air-conditioned and air scented with designer perfumes from Saks and Neiman Marcus.
As soon as I have ditched Franklin, I call her and tell her about Blake, the words spilling out as I wander the aisles, pausing at display cases that sparkle under LED lights.
"Em, he kissed my forehead goodbye—and you won’t believe it, but I freaking broke out in goosebumps…everywhere. I nearly melted. What's wrong with me?"
“OMG! Jules, this is dangerous stuff. You’re not allowed to sleep with Carolyn’s husband. She could void the whole agreement. No, definitely don’t go there.” And then, of course, she gets silly. “But just for the record, who’d you rather have park his boots under your bed? The gardener or Blake?"
"No one," I mutter, my cheeks heating as I duck into Hermes. "I just don't know how to avoid him. I just wanted to spend a little time with Freya—she's so sweet, Em, but he pops in like a magnet."
We keep talking as I buy the items Em recommended. A scarf for Frances. Soft blue silk with equestrian prints that flows like liquid in my hands. A delicate butterfly bracelet for Freya; and a lovely real leather tan purse from Coach for Dora. It is supple and roomy with great quality gold hardware.
I ask Emma what she wants. "What about you? What shall I get you?"
"Don’t get anything for me, Jules. It sounds like you're having a difficult time, and I don’t want to feel like I’m profiting off your hardship.”
"Are you insane? Buying you something is the only way I'll feel good in my situation," I insist, leaning against a display case of Chanel wallets. The glass is cool under my elbow. "Please."
"Okay... I don’t really want anything, I mean I do, but I guess, what I’m trying to say is I want something I can sell at one of those pre-loved designer stores downtown. That way I’ll be able to cover the rent for my studio for a few months. I’d really love that," she admits reluctantly, and my heart aches for her scrappy artist life.
I ring off and get her two designer purses, each worth about ten thousand—a classic black Chanel flap and a Gucci Dionysus in suede, the chains tinkling softly as the saleswoman wraps them up. Out of sheer habit, I hold my breath as Carolyn Bessant’s black Amex card is swiped through the credit card machine, and I almost can’t believe it when it glides through the reader like it's nothing, the total flashing approved as if it is the most natural thing in the world. I arrange to have the stuff, along with the receipts, delivered to Emma. The store’s courier service promises same-day drop-off in the East Village.
Then I have another brilliant idea. I decide to commission Emma to do a little painting for the housekeeper as a gift—a whimsical watercolor of the estate's gardens, something personal—so that's more extra money for her as well, two thousand two hundred to be exact, wired via Venmo. That sure makes Emma very happy. She texts back a string of hearts and…
Thank u. Thank u. Thank u. Thank u from the bottom of my heart, Jules! You're a sweetheart and the best friend a girl could ever have.
Feeling very pleased with myself, I head out of the mall to where Franklin waits, the Bentley idling smoothly. As the car pulls away, I phone Eileen's Special Cheesecake in Nolita, that little shop on Cleveland Place, is legendary for its chocolate cake. I arrange a custom chocolate layer cake with buttercream frosting with Happy Birthday in elegant script, to be delivered on the day.
Ringing off, I think of exactly how I'm going to organize my surprise party. The music room with its grand piano and velvet settees would be the best place. I’ll get hundreds of balloons in gold and soft pastels, order a chocolate fountain from Godiva, and book a string quartet. Maybe even get a singing telegram. An Elvis one would be fun. But I require more logistical information and a way to make sure Dora suspects nothing while I plan and decorate.
I need someone else to loop into my secret, but don't know who to approach. The butler is too formidable, Blake's too intense, plus I’m staying well away from that simmering sexual tension he evokes in me. Even thinking about it now makes my skin flush. I’m not looking forward to seeing the disgust in Frances’s face, but she’ll have to do. She’s fierce, but there’s no undercurrent of heat to navigate.
I decide that I will go to her.
Chapter Nineteen
JULIET
As the Bentley passes through the magnificent mansion gates, I wonder if the day will come when I don’t feel awe at it. Franklin pulls up outside the front entrance. The sun has dipped low enough to paint the white stone facade in soft warm pinks and oranges, the air is golden and still heavy with humidity. It clings to my skin like a second layer as I step out. Since Franklin rushes to attend to my shopping bags, there is nothing for me to do but square my shoulders and saunter towards the door the way I imagine Carolyn would after a day out spending thousands of dollars shopping. The foyer is lovely and cool until Dora materializes suddenly as if she were a ghost.
“Shall I take those up to your room, Madam?” she asks frostily.
“No, no. I’ll take them myself,” I say, grabbing the shopping bags from a surprised Franklin. The tissue papers inside the bags rustle as I hurry up the stairs. I feel both of them staring at my departing back with some surprise. Clearly, Carolyn doesn’t carry her shopping. Not to worry, Dora and Franklin, in three months, things will all get back to normal. A thought pops intomy mind: poor Freya. I push it away quickly. It would be stupid to get too close to the girl. This is not my family.
My mind buzzes with the details of the party as I hide all the presents in a closet and lock it. I pop the key into my purse. I pick up the bag with the Hermes scarf in it and go to look for Freya’s grandma.
When I pop over to her quarters, the two maids who are cleaning her room tell me that she is in the conservatory. I thank them and wander towards the conservatory. Last time I was there the gardener was there. The potted ferns and orchids cast long shadows on the flagstone floor of the conservatory. Frances is having tea at a low wicker table by the French doors. Her silver hair looks like spun silk in the setting light, and she is holding a delicate bone China cup. Steam curls up. The only sound is the tick of the grandfather clock. It is a peaceful, idyllic scene, and it has ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ clearly written all over it.
Taking a deep breath, I join her without waiting for an invite.
