I shake my head. "I haven't won yet. The committee is considering new information and referral letters right up until the awards gala." Still, guilt flares in my stomach that she learned about the news from someone else. “How’d you find out?”
I turn to see Mom scoot gracefully to the edge of the bed and retrieve her phone from the desk drawer. “Someone I worked with on the show whose daughter runs events, including this awards gala, called to congratulate me once the nominees were announced. I didn’t even know you were under consideration.”
“You’re not supposed to have phones in here.”
“You think I haven’t figured out how to get my cell phone in after all these years?” She purses her lips. “This woman’s daughter is getting married at twenty-five.” Mom retrieves a picture of a smiling young woman and a man I assume is the fiancé. “I told her you were unmarried at thirty-one.”
Christ. “I own a four-thousand-square-foot condo.”
She sinks into the desk chair, draping an arm over the back. “All I wanted was for you to have the kind of family I never made for you.”
“Mom… I’m fine.”
“Well. I’m not going to burden you with more money to manage until you get your life in order.”
I want to tell her it’s not a burden, that I manage hundreds of millions, that I don’t take a cut on any funds she sends me.
“Come to the gala. You’ll see everything in my life is in order.”
Her gaze narrows. “Champagne and suits hide all manner of deficiencies.” At the desk, my mom goes through the contents from my pockets, lifting the three-inch dog. “What is that?”
“From Daisy.”
Mom turns the dog over in her hands. “She still sends me cards every holiday. This Easter, she said she saw a new network airing reruns of my show.”
I rub a hand through my hair. Of course Daisy would find a way to check up on my mom without making it seem that way. She’s the smartest woman I know. She has an eye for details and can read people. I’d love to have her at the negotiating table, except she’d never leave her company and I can’t blame her.
I don’t know what I would’ve done over the years without our friendship. She’s the rock I hang onto when the world tries to drag me off into its waves.
But in the bathroom at brunch this weekend, she was the one who wanted to redraw the boundaries, pushing me out of her life by design. It was surprising and disturbing.
“If you could find a nice girl like that,” Mom goes on, “I’d be convinced you have your life in order. I could relax knowing you’re looked after.”
“I have a nice girl like that. Daisy’s coming to the gala with me.”
Mom’s face lights up. “Really? I had no idea you were dating.”
The utter delight on her face, as if this is the culmination of everything she set out to do, floors me. If I’d known everyone in my life was holding out for me to date my best friend… I would’ve done it sooner.
In for a fucking penny. “We are.”
“Good.” She sucks in an excited breath, hands balling into manicured fists. “You know I love a party.”
6
I take a seat across from Aiden Vane and his future bride on the structured couch.
“Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials,” I say by way of introduction. “I’ll do everything in my power to present the image you want.”
Aiden, whom I met for the first time today, is sitting at least a couple of body lengths away from his fiancée at his father’s corporate headquarters. He’s tall and straight-backed, with a lean face and strong jaw. He looks as if he’s been tapped to run for office but doesn’t want to.
Camila, by contrast, looks relaxed, ankles crossed easily under her dress, hand in her lap.
We run through a few of the questions.
“How do you like to spend your time alone together?” I read off the sheet in front of me.
Aiden clears his throat. “Cross that question off.”
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but more warmth for sure.
By the fifth question he vetoes, I can’t stand it anymore. “We’ve already crossed off five questions. At this rate, it won’t be an interview, it’ll be a photo with your names on it.”
Camila stifles a snort.
I need a new approach. “Why don’t we put the questions aside for a moment and you tell me about yourselves? How did you meet?”
Aiden shifts back in his seat, his dark hair and suit perfect. “Eight months ago. At a charity event.”
I hide my surprise. “And were you attracted right away?”
“Aiden does cut an impressive figure,” Camila comments, but I get the sense there’s an inside joke.
“That’s not why we’re getting married, and you know it,” he says.
“Why are you getting married?” I ask.
They exchange a look, but the bride-to-be answers. “Because sometimes an opportunity comes along that you’d regret turning down for the rest of your life.”
Instead of tenderness in their shared gaze, there’s tension.
Interesting. But at least it’s something.
I spent last night getting lost online in the digital footprint of Aiden and Camila. Hers was mostly on the charitable side. His was more checkered. There were some questions about the legitimacy of his business dealings on behalf of his father’s company. Maybe that’s why he’s so tense— he’s concerned the magazine will raise his business dealings.
“Aiden,” I say carefully, “I’ve told the interviewer specifically to focus on you two as a couple. But if they raise any questions about business—”
“I’ll tell them there’s nothing to discuss.”
“If there is anything to discuss,” I go on pointedly, “it’ll be easier if I know.”
“There’s nothing to know.” The finality rings through the room.
I started to text Ben last night to see if he knew anything about Aiden personally, but second-guessed it because of the dynamics between us leaving the Met. I could still feel his presence down to my toes.
So much so that when Lily came in, she stared me down with delight. “You’re doing it. You’re fake dating, I can tell.”
I’d groaned and sworn her to secrecy, saying, “I’ll have a check for your tuition soon.”
At which point she hugged me and vowed I was the best sister ever.
We circle back to the questions, and Aiden and Camila’s interactions improve, but it doesn’t feel light or warm or romantic. Unless the writer is a miracle worker, this might come off closer to a prisoner interview than a wedding one.
But this is what Richard will use to judge my ability to market the resorts. If it doesn’t get better fast, I’m screwed. I try to stay focused on the conversation, prodding them toward something that feels like connection, but I know I need a backup plan.
“If we’re done, I have another commitment,” Aiden says fifteen minutes later.
“Of course. The interview is set for Thursday morning.” I try one more time before he leaves. “My firm has handled numerous campaigns with discretion. I assure you, anything you tell me that would help us do our jobs would be kept in confidence.”