Love, Chloe (20 page)

I sat on the couch and pulled my shoes off, pushing aside any excuses to go upstairs. One side effect of starting to find myself? I could decipher my own bullshit.

New York City loved its parties. And the rich of the city loved to throw them, each soiree an excuse to flaunt their wealth while exhausting their staff. As an NYU student, I was all for a good party. As Nicole Brantley’s personal bitch, I was learning to hate them. Chanel’s birthday, I thought I’d be able to manage, had actually gotten excited by the thought, envisioning a party so perfectly executed that puppy attendees would leave with their minds permanently blown.

I forgot this was upper crust New York.

I forgot this was Nicole Brantley.

I forgot that I had absolutely no party experience in anything other than looking hot and slinging back expensive champagne.

But this was Chanel’s birthday party, and I had confidence on my side. So surely it would be
fabulous
. It had to be. All the best bitches would be there. No, literally. The Best Bitches. We’re talking top-notch AKC pedigree.

I fell down the rabbit hole, into the world of canine couture and pup-arazzi and tenderloin-topped cakes. I spent two hours on the phone with a bitchy assistant, trying to get Triumph the Insult Comic Dog (he’s a PUPPET in case you weren’t aware) to give me a firm RSVP. I sweated over an Anthony Rubio original for Chanel that arrived two sizes too big and two days late. And Nicole wasn’t helping.

“You know this is her big day,” Nicole said to me impatiently, as if I wasn’t putting Chanel’s interests first. “Did the Shankmans confirm? They have a Labradoodle that Chanel really got along well with. She’ll be crushed if he doesn’t attend.”

I looked up from my laptop and over at Chanel, who was licking her crotch with some serious focus, and tried to find a response that didn’t involve me tossing my laptop aside and screaming at the top of my lungs.

Now, with the party over, I’d come to grips with reality. I was not going to be the poster mother that I always planned on being. You know the type, moms who carried everything anyone needed, all fitting neatly in a designer purse. The ones who hosted sleepover parties with fifteen kids and whipped up a beautiful meal for unexpected guests without missing a beat. No, my future seemed more along the lines of throwing a TV dinner in the general direction of my kids before sulking off to my bedroom with a remote and Nutella for some “quiet time.”

The first party disaster came with our celebrity guest: Mavero. Mavero, the Australian terrier who appeared in all of the
Dog Whisperer
movies. Mavero, who performed in Kanye’s latest music video. Mavero, who Nicole saw on a morning show and decided
must
attend. Mavero, who charged eight thousand dollars for a public appearance. I mean, WTF? Eight
thousand
dollars for a dog’s two-hour appearance? His ridiculous fee aside, I also had to fax over proof of liability coverage.
FAX
. It took me fifteen minutes to figure out how to use the fax machine.

Mavero, it turned out, was an asshole.

First, he peed on Chanel’s custom doghouse. Lifted his leg up right during Nicole’s lengthy introduction of him and pissed all over the brownstone, designed to be a mini-replica of the Brantleys’. Nicole’s face went ashen; I went for Mavero’s contract. Turned out he was allowed to piss on anything he pleased.

Then, he bit the photographer. That got him put in his cage where he barked at the top of his doggie lungs until Nicole finally broke down and had his handler take him away. Nicole was
still
dismayed that Mavero didn’t get to stay and watch Chanel open her presents.

At the end of the party, Nicole stomped into my office and read me a long list of complaints. The fact that I didn’t roll my eyes once during her rant was a testament to my self-control.

She finally stopped, leaving in a blur of shimmer and highlights, my eyes glancing at the clock. Eleven PM. Just enough time to get to SoHo before it got too late. Benta’s company was having a party of their own, one that wouldn’t involve slobber and leg humping. At least, not from any dogs, though I couldn’t promise anything from the men who would be there. The matchmaking industry was a frisky one.

I grabbed my purse and keys, kissed an exhausted Chanel, and turned out the lights, slowly trudging down the stairs, my desire to escape not enough to counteract weak calves and blistered heels. If I ever won the lottery, my mansion would be one story or have one hell of an elevator system. Nicole had turned off their elevator for reasons of pure insanity, something about claustrophobia and maintenance costs. The woman dropped a small mortgage on her bottled water delivery but choked on things like valet fees.

I rounded the second floor landing and saw the front door open, Nicole standing in the doorway, her back to me, her voice quiet as she spoke to whomever stood before her. Something made me pause, one foot a step higher than the other, and I leaned on the bannister and tried to see more.

It was
Paulo
, his stance hard and unmoving, Nicole’s soft murmurs of the soothing variety. I watched as she reached out and stroked his face. This was
bad
; he shouldn’t be here, not when Clarke was home. Nicole was getting reckless. Though, from the glimpse I got of Paulo’s face, maybe he was the one getting reckless.

I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me, but I knew that smell, a mix of leather and spice, when it floated by me. He paused next to me on the step, a worried look on his face when he spoke my name.

“Chloe? Chloe, are you okay?”

I tried to move, tried to think, tried to do something, but I could only watch as Clarke’s gaze moved past me and down to the front door.

“Nicole?” he called, his steps easy and fluid as he jogged closer to his wife.

I watched Nicole’s hand push at Paulo’s chest, but it was too late.

I stood in place on the stairs and watched Clarke step toward Nicole and Paulo. Nicole swallowed, and I saw the moment when she decided to lie. I’d said it before and I’d say it again: Nicole could act. And she was about to pull off an Oscar-worthy performance.

“Clarke, thank God. A voice of reason.” I watched her claws reach out, wrapping around Clarke’s arm and pulling him closer, as if she wanted him there. “Paulo wants to pay for Chanel’s doghouse. Since he hooked us up with Mavero.”

“It’s late.” There was a layer of suspicion in Clarke’s voice, and I mentally cheered him on from my frozen spot on the stairs. Surely he wouldn’t buy that crap. Surely he would see what was really going on.

“Oh God, don’t be such a New Yorker.” She slapped a casual hand on his chest. “It’s, like, seven on the West Coast.”

“This isn’t the West Coast.” I’d never heard that tone in Clarke’s voice before. It was still and dark, with a sharp edge. I silently moved down a few steps, closer to the train wreck that was finally unfolding, my heart beating faster. This was finally it.

“Clarke,” Nicole said dismissively, the words
shut up
clearly in the name.

“You should leave.” Clarke gripped the door’s edge and, from my perch, I saw the white clench of his knuckles as he spoke to Paulo.

“It’s so kind of you to offer to pay for the doghouse,” Nicole blabbed on, her voice bright.

Clarke said nothing.

Paulo said nothing.

I stared at the action and wished I had popcorn.

“Chloe.” Nicole’s voice pierced through the room and I blinked, suddenly aware that I just stood there, like a creepy ogler on the subway.

“Yes?”

“Go home.”

I nodded quickly, galloping down the remaining steps, my eyes down, my squeeze through the front door done without anyone shifting to give me room.

Someone shut the door behind me, the heavy wood slamming into place and snuffing out any sound, my eavesdrop dying a quick death in the cool night air.

It took a moment for me to move, stepping down the sidewalk to the next cross street, my arm raising out of habit and flagging a cab. I needed, wanted, to go home. Forget the party Benta was throwing that night. I wanted my bed.

An affair was a dirty virus, taking in innocents as it spread and grew. I could feel it diving under my skin, my corruptibility growing simply out of proxy. Maybe this was the end. Maybe, come tomorrow, I would walk into a different household.

The next day, I carefully opened the door, pausing for a moment and listening for sounds of carnage, looked for splatters of blood, crime scene tape, or dead bodies. I saw nothing and eased inside. Whispered my hellos to the Brantley staff and trotted upstairs to my office as quietly as I could in my super-cute new sandals. I shut the door and didn’t hear a peep from anyone until Chanel scratched on the door around nine.

Any concerns I had over Nicole and Clarke’s marital woes were addressed an hour later, when—from the ceiling of my office—a loud thumping started. I stopped typing the letter to Mavero’s management, demanding a full refund of his performance fee, and listened. Chanel let out a low growl and I picked her up, moving to the door and sticking my head out, on high alert.

Then, Nicole shrieked. Loud and long enough for me to instantly understand what was causing the thumping. Her hyena call was followed by a scream of Clarke’s name, and I closed my eyes in thanks. If I had to listen to my boss have sex, at least it was with her husband, one indignity I could handle. I ducked back into my office, pulling the door shut and put on Spotify, blaring Gwen Stefani loud enough to drown out any more sounds of sex. My door swung open forty-five minutes later, a perfectly put together Nicole glaring at me from the doorway. I paused the music. ”Good morning,” I said.

“I’m shooting in Brooklyn today.”

“Yes.” I lifted her set bag that, sometime around her fourth orgasm, I packed with her snacks, clothes and makeup. “Dante is out front.”

“Make sure everything I’ll need for today is in there; I don’t need you to hang around with me today.” She pointed at the bag with one long finger, as if I might get confused.

“Okay.” I nodded and noticed the humongous diamond still on her ring finger. Between the orgasms and her ring, it appeared to be business as normal for the Brantley marriage. Maybe she was done with Paulo. Or maybe she lied it all away and Clarke bought it. Or maybe I needed to stop speculating and get my butt moving. I stood. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Ten minutes later, I slid into the backseat and pulled out my phone, checking my texts as Dante headed to Brooklyn. One from Joey, two from the sound production girl, one from wardrobe. Nothing from Carter. Almost a week since our quasi-double-date with Joey. The double date where he’d left me panting for more with barely a goodnight kiss.

My fingers itched to text him. But weren’t men supposed to pursue? Vic certainly never needed chasing. And I was the one who invited Carter out. I was the one who knocked on his door in the middle of the night when I got locked out. I was the one who’d done ALL of the pursuing. If the damn man was interested, he needed to make a freakin’ effort. Was it possible … *cue Justin Long* that he was just not that into me? I sat on my hands to keep them from misbehaving and looked out the window, Dante slowing as we approached the temporary set.

When he pulled over, I hopped out, grabbing the set bag and running around to help Nicole. I rounded the back end of the car and saw the couple, running across the road in between moving traffic, their hands linked. My feet froze in place, Nicole huffing out an irritated sigh as she snatched the bag away. I stuttered out an apology, pulling my gaze away from the couple and busied myself getting Nicole on her way inside.

When I looked back, my hand on the car handle, they were gone.