“Come in,” she said with a smile, all traces of upset gone.
She sat on her unmade bed and gave me one of the tiny bottles of Grey Goose. Then she checked her phone, her focus pulled away by the screen.
“What?” I said.
She shrugged. “Just checking the latest on Cannes. I’d love this job if my boss wasn’t so horrible.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
Laila was a smart woman. She understood people. There was a very real possibility that she knew exactly what had happened and was seconds away from confronting me. I may have just walked into a trap. I glanced at my bag, which I’d left on the desk. I needed to find the right moment, and I needed to find it soon.
Laila shrugged. “He’s a grumpy little man.” She gulped down the rest of the miniature bottle. “Do you like working for yourself?”
“It has its ups and downs.”
“I admire you, Constance.”
I thought she was joking. Call it the fact that I’d just experienced the most distressing event of my life or that I needed to figure out a way to slip that jewelry into one of her suitcases while I was in the room with her. But mostly, it was because I still remembered what she’d said to me, about my terrible taste in men and how I was throwing my life away for the promise of a good fuck. Everyone else could see what was wrong with me, and yet I could never manage to save myself from it.
“No you don’t,” I said, sounding lighter than I felt.
“I do. I know where you started. And I see where you are now.”
Laila turned her phone to me. On it was a picture of the yacht party from an Instagram account I didn’t recognize. In the background, you could clearly see me talking to Dorian Fisher and Carly Wolf.
Right there, evidence. I would not escape this.
“I better be invited to the wedding,” Laila said deadpan.
She saw the shock on my face and laughed.
“Kidding! Men like him don’t get married. But you’ll get your moment of fame and you’ll make the most of it. Won’t you, Connie? This will be good for you if you don’t overthink it. Because how can you bethisserious at this time of night? Or is it morning yet?”
She glanced out the window.
It was as good a chance as there would ever be.
I’d only taken a tiny sip from my bottle and tipped the rest of its content onto her lap.
“I’m so sorry!” I said, jumping to my feet.
I went to the bathroom to get a towel. When I came out, Laila was calmly extracting a new pair of pants out of a suitcase. I just needed a few seconds. I could do this. I had to. But she started to undo her pants right in front of me. Her thong was lace, completely sheer.
I gave her a pointed look, but since she was (at least) three vodkas in, that might not be enough. I patted the bedlinen dry.
“Laila, sweetie, you don’t need me to tell you that you’re one of the most beautiful women I know, but you might have to buy me dinner first.”
She scoffed. “You see much more at work every day.”
She had a point. “Exactly. I’ve been working nonstop and you’re making me feel like I’m on the clock. Next you’re going to ask if these pants look good on you.”
“Oh please. Iknowthat. Fine, I have to pee anyway.”
Laila disappeared into the bathroom. The relief was so intense I felt like I might pass out. But there was no time for that, obviously. I opened my bag and emptied it straight into the corners of one of the suitcases, pushing the black velvet pouches to the bottom so they would blend in with all the ones already in there. Laila had packed the Clapard jewelry loose among her own clothes. Hopefully, she’d never know it hadn’t all been there to begin with.
I’d just sat back down when she emerged.
“My ass does look amazing in these.”
