Last Call
Page 8
“But three? Seriously, three?”
“It’ll be fun!”
“It’ll be chaos! How in the world are you going to manage three puppies, a newborn, and Neil?”
“I’m nesting. I’m hormonal.”
“You’re psychotic.”
“Also a distinct possibility,” Sophia admitted as we sat in the back of the Rover on our way back to San Francisco. Simon and I had driven back to Chloe’s ranch earlier that morning to say good-bye to her and Lucas and the puppies, and to pick up Sophia and Neil. They’d be heading back down in a month or so, when the puppies were old enough to leave their mother and begin their new city life.
Though I adored the puppies, I thought she was getting in over her head with so much change too quickly. But, as she was fond of telling me, sometimes it was okay to “shut the fuck up and the back the fuck off,” and just let them figure it out. But I still told her she was psychotic.
“Speaking of psychotic, I tried to call you last night to tell you Psycho was on the late-night movie.”
“Oh?” I asked innocently.
“Yeah, I called you like three times in a row.”
“Something else was happening, three times in a row,” I said, speaking out of the side of my mouth so the boys didn’t hear.
“Nice,” she said, also out of the side of her mouth, while sliding me a sneaky low-five.
“Yeah, all that marriage talk at the dinner table last night made me a little panicky, which made me go inside my head a little too much. Ended up okay, though. I think Simon might be on the marriage train.”
“Oh, you think? Forget the marriage train, come and join me on the obvious train—he’s totally going to ask you to marry him,” she said, which prompted me to put my hand over her mouth to shut her up.
“Everything okay back there?” Simon called, looking at me in the rearview mirror.
“Totally, how’s it going up there?” I asked, singsongy.
“Awesome, Simon’s letting me drive the radio!” Neil cried out, turning up Def Leppard to an obscene level.
Which thankfully was loud enough to drown out what Sophia was saying, but was even too loud to continue the conversation. So we did what all adult women do . . . we moved it to the text box.
Way too loud with that train shit, preggo . . .
Oh please, like this isn’t obvious.
Less obvious than you yelling about him proposing.
You’re the one who said marriage train. I was just pointing out the obvious fact that your mister will eventually be making you his missus. DUH.
Yes, we talked about it. In a more concrete way last night than we have before. Last night was the first time we didn’t dance around it—we kind of danced right through it.
That’s so exciting!
Yes, it is. But no one has a ring yet, so settle the fuck down.
Oh don’t make such a big deal out of this, of course he’s going to ask you. He loves you.
I love him.
Okay, this is getting trite.
Totally. We should probably start talking again; they’re going to wonder what we’re up to back here.
Are you kidding? Listen to them singing. They love this ’80s rocker bullshit. They’re happy as clams.
We still have to start talking again.
What should we talk about?
Doesn’t matter, something random.
Okay.
“Did you know they’re talking about expanding the Vera Wang boutique on Geary?”
I hate you . . .
Chapter three
Monday morning found me arranging flowers in my office as usual. Cream roses with the very tips tinged peach and raspberry. Gathered in a spiral in a clear glass vase, surrounded by hydrangea leaves for the green around the stems. Set on the far left of my ebony desk, covered with neat stacks of color-coded manila folders. Each folder represented a different private home, office, or public space, and held cost estimates, value projections, palettes, swatches, clippings, and samples. Each one told a story of a new design, a new life being breathed into a space, either existing or brand new. And today was the day that I’d debrief Jillian, just back from Amsterdam.
She’d begun a small consulting business in Amsterdam, taking on a project here and there for new friends in her and Benjamin’s new city, and she seemed to be adapting well to a multinational life.
But she was back in the home office now, and expected to be brought up to speed as soon as she was back. Though she was always in touch through email and conference calls, when she came back home she wanted to sink her teeth into every project she could. We were still finding our way with this new setup, but it was working out really well for us.
It was always great having her back in the office; it never seemed quite the same without her click-clacking around on her high heels. Which I could hear now coming up the stairs, along with a chorus of welcome backs and how are you’s from the rest of the staff.
I stepped out of my office just as she rounded the last bend. Black sleeveless dress, knee-high camel leather boots with an impossibly tall heel, hair tied back in her signature chignon; she was pulled together, gorgeous, and looked well rested. And excited to be back.
“Girl! Get over here!” she squealed, setting down her Chanel bag and sweeping me into a perfumed hug.
“I’m so glad to see you!” I replied, letting myself fall into her embrace.
“I’ve got presents,” she said, ushering me down the hall into her own office, which was cleaned weekly during her absences so it never smelled musty or unused. We couldn’t have that.
“You don’t have to bring me presents every time you come home, you know,” I said as she pulled a few boxes out of her satchel.
“Shut it, but open this,” she instructed, setting a pink box down in front of me, then spun toward her tea set in the corner. “Do we have—”
“Hot water is already in there; I just filled it myself a few minutes ago.” I knew that the first thing upon her arrival she’d want to have a cup of tea.
“You’re the best.”
“I’ve heard that said. And holy shit, where’d you get these?” I exclaimed, holding up a pair of drop earrings. Set into brushed nickel, there were beads in shades of pink, peach, salmon, coral, fuchsia; all the go-to colors in my favorite palette.
“Saw them in a tiny store in Rome and couldn’t resist. I said to Benjamin, ‘those are Caroline’s colors,’ and he insisted we buy them.”
“Benjamin has always been a little sweet on me,” I teased, referring to the constant state of blush I was always in whenever he was around. It wasn’t just me either; Sophia and Mimi shared my not-so-secret-crush on Jillian’s husband.
“It’ll be fun!”
“It’ll be chaos! How in the world are you going to manage three puppies, a newborn, and Neil?”
“I’m nesting. I’m hormonal.”
“You’re psychotic.”
“Also a distinct possibility,” Sophia admitted as we sat in the back of the Rover on our way back to San Francisco. Simon and I had driven back to Chloe’s ranch earlier that morning to say good-bye to her and Lucas and the puppies, and to pick up Sophia and Neil. They’d be heading back down in a month or so, when the puppies were old enough to leave their mother and begin their new city life.
Though I adored the puppies, I thought she was getting in over her head with so much change too quickly. But, as she was fond of telling me, sometimes it was okay to “shut the fuck up and the back the fuck off,” and just let them figure it out. But I still told her she was psychotic.
“Speaking of psychotic, I tried to call you last night to tell you Psycho was on the late-night movie.”
“Oh?” I asked innocently.
“Yeah, I called you like three times in a row.”
“Something else was happening, three times in a row,” I said, speaking out of the side of my mouth so the boys didn’t hear.
“Nice,” she said, also out of the side of her mouth, while sliding me a sneaky low-five.
“Yeah, all that marriage talk at the dinner table last night made me a little panicky, which made me go inside my head a little too much. Ended up okay, though. I think Simon might be on the marriage train.”
“Oh, you think? Forget the marriage train, come and join me on the obvious train—he’s totally going to ask you to marry him,” she said, which prompted me to put my hand over her mouth to shut her up.
“Everything okay back there?” Simon called, looking at me in the rearview mirror.
“Totally, how’s it going up there?” I asked, singsongy.
“Awesome, Simon’s letting me drive the radio!” Neil cried out, turning up Def Leppard to an obscene level.
Which thankfully was loud enough to drown out what Sophia was saying, but was even too loud to continue the conversation. So we did what all adult women do . . . we moved it to the text box.
Way too loud with that train shit, preggo . . .
Oh please, like this isn’t obvious.
Less obvious than you yelling about him proposing.
You’re the one who said marriage train. I was just pointing out the obvious fact that your mister will eventually be making you his missus. DUH.
Yes, we talked about it. In a more concrete way last night than we have before. Last night was the first time we didn’t dance around it—we kind of danced right through it.
That’s so exciting!
Yes, it is. But no one has a ring yet, so settle the fuck down.
Oh don’t make such a big deal out of this, of course he’s going to ask you. He loves you.
I love him.
Okay, this is getting trite.
Totally. We should probably start talking again; they’re going to wonder what we’re up to back here.
Are you kidding? Listen to them singing. They love this ’80s rocker bullshit. They’re happy as clams.
We still have to start talking again.
What should we talk about?
Doesn’t matter, something random.
Okay.
“Did you know they’re talking about expanding the Vera Wang boutique on Geary?”
I hate you . . .
Chapter three
Monday morning found me arranging flowers in my office as usual. Cream roses with the very tips tinged peach and raspberry. Gathered in a spiral in a clear glass vase, surrounded by hydrangea leaves for the green around the stems. Set on the far left of my ebony desk, covered with neat stacks of color-coded manila folders. Each folder represented a different private home, office, or public space, and held cost estimates, value projections, palettes, swatches, clippings, and samples. Each one told a story of a new design, a new life being breathed into a space, either existing or brand new. And today was the day that I’d debrief Jillian, just back from Amsterdam.
She’d begun a small consulting business in Amsterdam, taking on a project here and there for new friends in her and Benjamin’s new city, and she seemed to be adapting well to a multinational life.
But she was back in the home office now, and expected to be brought up to speed as soon as she was back. Though she was always in touch through email and conference calls, when she came back home she wanted to sink her teeth into every project she could. We were still finding our way with this new setup, but it was working out really well for us.
It was always great having her back in the office; it never seemed quite the same without her click-clacking around on her high heels. Which I could hear now coming up the stairs, along with a chorus of welcome backs and how are you’s from the rest of the staff.
I stepped out of my office just as she rounded the last bend. Black sleeveless dress, knee-high camel leather boots with an impossibly tall heel, hair tied back in her signature chignon; she was pulled together, gorgeous, and looked well rested. And excited to be back.
“Girl! Get over here!” she squealed, setting down her Chanel bag and sweeping me into a perfumed hug.
“I’m so glad to see you!” I replied, letting myself fall into her embrace.
“I’ve got presents,” she said, ushering me down the hall into her own office, which was cleaned weekly during her absences so it never smelled musty or unused. We couldn’t have that.
“You don’t have to bring me presents every time you come home, you know,” I said as she pulled a few boxes out of her satchel.
“Shut it, but open this,” she instructed, setting a pink box down in front of me, then spun toward her tea set in the corner. “Do we have—”
“Hot water is already in there; I just filled it myself a few minutes ago.” I knew that the first thing upon her arrival she’d want to have a cup of tea.
“You’re the best.”
“I’ve heard that said. And holy shit, where’d you get these?” I exclaimed, holding up a pair of drop earrings. Set into brushed nickel, there were beads in shades of pink, peach, salmon, coral, fuchsia; all the go-to colors in my favorite palette.
“Saw them in a tiny store in Rome and couldn’t resist. I said to Benjamin, ‘those are Caroline’s colors,’ and he insisted we buy them.”
“Benjamin has always been a little sweet on me,” I teased, referring to the constant state of blush I was always in whenever he was around. It wasn’t just me either; Sophia and Mimi shared my not-so-secret-crush on Jillian’s husband.
