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‘Fine.’ I held out my hands to stop her from talking and looked to the heavens for strength as Jenny wrapped me up in a giant hug. She really was very strong for such a slim girl. And I was very stupid for such a British girl. ‘I cannot believe I’m going to do this. Alex is going to laugh himself sick.’
‘I don’t think there’s a single straight guy in the universe whose initial reaction to seeing their girlfriend wearing this is to laugh,’ Jenny clucked, pulling my bag from my shoulder and hurrying me into getting changed. ‘They’d strike him off the hetero register.’
Shedding my New York winter layers in the bathroom of someone else’s swanky Tribeca duplex, I slithered into the outfit and thanked the Lord that I was wearing decent knickers since everyone and their mother was going to be able to see them for the next three hours. With a gleeful grin, Jenny held out her black patent Louboutins and a pair of fishnet hold-ups.
‘None of the other girls are wearing Louboutins,’ she said as I baulked. ‘Loubous totally class this shit up.’
‘It’s not the shoes so much as the stockings,’ I grumbled, snatching them and sitting on the edge of the bath to put them on. ‘In for a penny … Classy my arse.’
Ooh, bugger me that bath was cold.
‘Who’s actually going to be at this thing?’ I asked. I just needed reassuring that it wasn’t going to be my mum, my ex-boyfriend, every boss I’d ever had and my year nine maths teacher. Because in my head …
‘Just fashion assholes,’ she said, flipping her hand dismissively. ‘Erin is trying to get this guy to give us his account. He runs some online boutique or something, and he said if we pull off his Christmas party, we’ll get his PR business. Between you and me, I think he’s kind of a pervert.’
‘You don’t say.’ I looked down at my outfit. Low at the top, short at the bottom, tight in the everywhere. I wanted to take a photo and text it to Lawrence the Lawyer with the caption ‘extraordinary enough for you?’. Except he’d probably just reply ‘no’.
‘You should wear it home and then ask Alex what he thinks about marrying you,’ Jenny said, carefully rolling my non-hooker wear and stashing it in a garment bag. ‘Pretty sure you’d get the answer you’re looking for.’
‘I thought you were going to marry me?’ I asked, taking a regrettable look in the bathroom mirror. The black eyeliner and cherry-tinted lip gloss I’d put on at home had seemed simple and classic with my jeans. Now I looked like a shop-worn Playboy bunny. Hef would take one look and banish me from the Mansion. Could there be anything more damaging to your self-esteem than being dismissed by a jilted octogenarian?
‘I’d totally hit that,’ Jenny said, leaning her chin on my shoulder and smiling at our reflections. It wasn’t a picture I was comfortable with, Louboutins or no Louboutins.
‘Good, because I’m officially taking the whole visa marriage thing off the table.’ I rested my head on hers. ‘I’m going to find another way. But I’m staying, don’t worry.’
‘I think you need to convince yourself, not me,’ she said, kissing me on the cheek and slapping me on the arse. ‘I believe you.’
It was a good thing one of us did.
With a brave face and a bare arse, I crept out of the bathroom and into the party. People were already starting to arrive, giving me very little time to scoot into the kitchen and surreptitiously neck a glass of champagne. How was I supposed to walk around the room wearing this? Catching a glimpse of my backside in the microwave window only made me feel worse. Not only because it wasn’t the most flattering angle, but also because the only thing reflected in my microwave was the cheese from last night’s pizza. For a split second I considered legging it for the lift before any more people arrived, but I didn’t. Because Jenny actually looked very nervous. Because I’d made a promise. And because I didn’t know where she’d hidden my coat. So instead of dashing for the streets, I picked up a tray of champagne, tried to forget the fact that my mum still served me a half-full cup of tea because ‘I couldn’t be trusted’ and headed for the living room. While I wasn’t quite so keen for them to get a look at me, I was looking forward to seeing what a ‘fashion asshole’ looked like.
‘Oh. My. God.’
One step into the party.
One step straight back into the kitchen.
Apparently ‘fashion assholes’ looked like Cici Spencer.
Tall, blonde and the devil incarnate, this was not good. The last time I’d set eyes on Cici, she was howling with rage and drenched in iced coffee. Because I’d thrown it at her. Cici was the assistant of my former editor at The Look magazine and had made ruining my life her pet project. She hadn’t quite managed total destruction at the time, but she did successfully destroy my entire wardrobe. Oh, and made sure I lost my job, since she was the godforsaken hell spawn of the magazine’s owner. It was ironic that a more appropriate name for Cici also started with a ‘C’, but my mother would never forgive me if I used it in public.
‘Oh my God, Angela.’ Cici tottered over, holding one very skinny hand to her flat chest, laughing with delight as though we were old sorority sisters. ‘Look at you!’
I was frozen to the spot. Yes. Look at me. There she was in a floor-length, one-shouldered red gown, her hair sweeping down the other shoulder in an icy cascade of blonde curls with a slash of dress-matching lipstick on her perfectly porcelain face. And there I was, in my cheap, shiny, wished-it-was-Ann-Summers French maid’s costume with air-dried hair and a dab of L’Oréal lip gloss. Sigh. I really didn’t have anything to say to her.
Luckily, Cici had lots to say to me.
‘This is amazing.’ I felt a very light, very evil hand on my shoulder. ‘I was just thinking about you the other day. I was updating Mary’s holiday card list.’
‘Oh.’
‘I cut you.’
‘Right.’
I assumed she was saying I wasn’t getting a Christmas card, but if she’d meant an actual physical slashing, I wouldn’t have been surprised.
‘Figured you would have left by now. Like, run away back to England or something?’
‘Um-hmm.’
‘Because you don’t have a job?’
‘Gotcha.’
‘Because we fired you?’
Not running away five minutes ago was turning out to be a really bad idea. ‘But look at you,’ Cici gushed. A small crowd of her cronies had gathered around to watch the entertainment. ‘You are working. As a waitress. Dressed like a hooker.’
The best part was, it was all true.
But I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of me going the full Charlie Sheen, even if the idea of throwing an entire tray of Cristal in her face before beating her to death with the tray was very tempting. It was Christmas, after all, and I really didn’t want Jenny to get fired. Or to go to prison. I wasn’t sure if New York had the death penalty or not, let alone whether they served Christmas dinner inside. That said, I would have a good defence. ‘But your honour, she was a massive bitch’ would work, surely? No, I had to take the high ground. I had to be the bigger person. And I hated that.
‘Hi.’ I reset my expression and smiled. If looks could kill, it wouldn’t have even tickled. Butter would’ve actually chilled while I looked at it. ‘Champagne?’
‘What did you do to it?’ She reluctantly took one of my glasses, sniffing it with suspicion.
‘Oh, Cici.’ I attempted to laugh, but it may or may not have come out slightly more like a sob. ‘It’s just champagne. Enjoy your evening.’
Feeling my restraint starting to waver, I turned carefully on my borrowed heel, making sure not to twist my knackered knee, and headed back towards the kitchen, passing another French maid on the way out. She gave me a supportive grimace and I nodded in return. Solidarity, sister.
Once the door was closed and I was safely away from Cici and all of Satan’s little helpers, I let out what I hoped was a relatively controlled screech of rage, kicked a cardboard box across the room and slammed a cupboard door. It actually felt quite good. Not as good as throwing a drink over her, but OK. Just not OK enough. I’d only been moved to violence twice in my life, but I was more than a little bit worried we’d hit the magic number if I went back out there. Fisticuffs were becoming my natural setting.
‘Hey, are you OK?’ Jenny snuck into the kitchen and pushed the innocent cardboard box back into position under the counter. ‘You motored back in here kinda fast.’
‘Remember my friend Cici? From The Look?’ I asked.
‘Cici?’ Jenny’s smooth forehead creased with concern. ‘Your friend? Wasn’t she the one who gave you all that bullshit in Paris?’
‘Yep,’ I confirmed. ‘And had my luggage blown up.’
‘The Balmain …’ Jenny pressed a hand to her heart. It had been a difficult time for both of us.
‘She’s outside. In the red.’
Jenny Lopez was someone who wore her emotions on her face and wasn’t terribly good at camouflaging the way she felt. In the following thirty seconds she was completely silent, but we managed to get through confusion, shock and sadness (for the dearly departed Balmain) before finally settling on intense rage. She stuck her head back through the door and peered outside before turning back even angrier, if possible, than before.
‘Halston?’ she asked. ‘The one in the Halston?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’ I loved fashion, but if I couldn’t see the label, I didn’t have a clue. Identifying shoes, on the other hand, was my secret super-power. ‘It’s long and red and one-shouldered.’
‘The Halston,’ Jenny confirmed. ‘Shit, it’s gonna be so hard to do this to a dress like that.’
Alarm bells.
‘Do what?’ I reached out to hold my friend back, but she was quicker than me. ‘Jenny, where are you going?’ I hissed as she slipped back into the party with a wicked grin on her pretty face.
For a moment I stood stock still, frozen to the spot in the kitchen. What on earth was she going to do? I grabbed a small tray of snacks, mostly so that I had something to defend myself with when things got nasty, and went once more into the fray.
Jenny was right in the middle of Cici’s circle and, unlike me, she looked like she belonged there. As much as I hated the world’s most jumped-up secretary, it was hard to deny that her overall presentation was amazing. A product of several generations of excellent Upper East Side breeding, she was tall, slender, blonde and born to wear designer clothing. Unfortunately, that sort of heritage often came both with a flat chest and a chip on the shoulder. Cici’s chip was so big, she’d have struggled to cart it around in an Hermès Birkin. But Jenny … Jenny was a goddess. Blessed with the legs of a prized pony, gorgeous glowing skin and the ability to set absolutely anyone at ease, if I’d had her natural gifts I would have (a) been a complete bitch and (b) married a billionaire at the age of eighteen. But Jenny always used her powers for good. Well, good was relative, wasn’t it? As far as I was concerned she was a white knight, but I had a feeling Cici was about to see what happened when you incurred the wrath of Jennifer Lopez. And I didn’t care whether or not the other Jennifer Lopez was one of the most famous divas on earth, she didn’t have a patch on my girl. I was almost too scared to watch. Almost.
‘We’re so pleased you could come, Cecelia,’ Jenny cooed, her arm wrapped through Cici’s skinny limb. ‘Tonight is such a special night for the designer.’
‘Thomas is one of my favourites,’ Cici crooned, batting her eyelashes in the general direction of a short, very skinny, entirely repellent man with over-dyed black hair in the middle of the room. Thomas, pronounced ‘Toe-Mah’ of course, wasn’t wearing one of his own designs. He was wearing a red PVC Santa costume. With the arse cheeks cut out. I believe trousers such as his are more commonly known in the business as chaps. Father Christmas does not wear chaps; they are not practical in his line of business. I hadn’t laid eyes on him before this moment, but at least I now realized why I was dressed like a very cheap prostitute. And at least I wasn’t the worst-dressed person in the room. Never before had Christmas made me so sad.
‘I’m so glad I could be here – the holidays are just crazy,’ Cici was saying, rolling her eyes at Jenny. ‘All the parties, all the travelling, the shopping – it’s just chaos.’
‘Isn’t it though?’ Jenny nodded sympathetically. ‘The shopping is just the worst.’
‘It sure is. I hate shopping when it’s not for me!’ No one enjoyed Cici as much as Cici enjoyed Cici. ‘I hate Christmas.’
So it was true, she was the devil. I softened the shock of this news with a handful of snack mix from my tray.
‘You’re not supposed to eat those,’ one of the other dead-eyed waitresses said as she sailed by with champagne. I shrugged and went back in for seconds. I had a feeling this job wasn’t going to be a big tipper for me anyway; might as well get my money’s worth.
‘Yeah, it’s just so …’ Jenny waved her hands around to agree as emphatically as possible. And accidentally spilled a glass of red wine right down the front of Cici’s dress. ‘Oh. My. God.’
The shriek that came from Cici’s throat would have sent the virgin Mary into an early labour. There wouldn’t have even been time to get to the stable. The little donkey would have had to act as midwife. I couldn’t believe Jenny Lopez had sacrificed couture to the great girl-vengeance gods. I nibbled on a wasabi pea. This was better than the cinema.
‘This is archive Halston,’ she hissed. ‘I have to return this to the PR.’
‘Sabrina?’ Jenny waved away her concerns. ‘One of my best friends. I’ll call her. Don’t sweat it. In fact, let me make it up to you. I’ve got one of Thomas’s designs from his new collection in the back. I was going to have a model come out in it later, but I don’t suppose I could beg you to wear it for me? I know Thomas would love it. You’ve got such a perfect figure.’
Cici gaped like a guppy. Lovely teeth. And I had to admit, this was a curveball I did not see coming. How exactly was letting Cici wear a beautiful, exclusive designer dress revenge of any kind?
‘Me? Wear a brand new Thomas design?’ She actually gasped. ‘Where do I change?’
Confused-dot-com, I watched as Jenny pointed Cici in the direction of one of the bedrooms, but just before she vanished behind the heavy white door, she flashed me a wicked smile and raised her eyebrows in a silent promise. She would have made a great Bond villain. What was her wicked plan? Maybe she was holding Cici’s head down the toilet and flushing repeatedly while I stood there watching a closed door. I wondered whether or not it was too late to retract my Christmas list and ask for a sopping wet Cici from Father Christmas this year. I wanted it even more than a Mulberry Alexa. No, really.
‘Part of me is convinced she’s going to come out of that door naked,’ a very familiar voice groaned over my shoulder. ‘She’d set a dog on fire for attention if she thought it would work.’
I turned and almost dropped my tray. Right in front of me was Cici’s double. The same long limbs, the same blonde hair, even the same icy blue eyes, but instead of knocking me on my arse with the evil equivalent of a Care Bear stare, her baby blues just looked tired and bored. On closer inspection, this Cici was altogether less frightening. The elaborate hair pleat had been replaced by loose waves, and the show-stopping red gown had given way to a classic black sheath. Still stunning, but in a ‘wow, you look great’ way, not ‘wow, please don’t steal my soul’. It was a subtle difference.
‘I’m Delia.’ She held out her hand and I couldn’t help notice the lack of manicure. Was it possible that this Cici clone actually worked for a living? ‘The living Barbie doll is my sister. Twin sister. For my sins.’
And suddenly it all made sense. Cici’s sister. Why did I know Cici had a sister? Clearly it wasn’t from our cocktail hour heart-to-hearts …
‘I’m Angela.’ I took her hand and shook it, as was traditional amongst humans. ‘Cici and I actually used to work together. Sort of. Because, you know, she doesn’t really work.’
Delia’s eyes flashed with recognition and I readied myself for a slap. It was one thing to slag off your own sibling, but it was quite another to have Krystal the Call Girl-cum-Waitress do it for you. She raised her arm, but before I could duck I was pulled into a huge hug and her dry voice gave way to a glorious laugh.
‘Angela Clark!’ She pushed me away then grabbed my arms. I dropped my tray but managed to stay upright, so I took it as a win. ‘Ohmygod, I love you!’
I froze, wide-eyed, and took the hug.
‘Thank you?’
‘No, really.’ Delia had quite the firm grip. ‘I love you. I used to read your blog all the time. I told Grandpa I was never going to speak to him again when he killed it.’
Grandpa. Delia’s grandpa was Cici’s grandpa. Who was Bob Spencer, the owner of my previous employer, Spencer Media. Who had fired me after reading a particular email that was somewhat peppered with expletives and other colourful expressions describing his little princess. Every single one of which was justified, but still, I imagined very few people would enjoy seeing their pride and joy described as a ‘raving psycho that should be beaten to death with a spoon’, even if it was true.
‘Thank you?’
And again.
‘And I know it probably doesn’t help, but I’m so sorry – I know what a bitch she can be.’ Delia finally let go of my arms. Funnily enough, I still couldn’t really relax. ‘One time, when we were in high school, she pretended to be me to get a date with this guy. I was super-excited to get to school on Monday morning and find out I’d lost my virginity when I thought I’d been in the Hamptons studying.’
‘Woah, really?’ That was genuinely evil. Maybe Jenny had competition in the Bond villain stakes. ‘Who is that evil that young?’
Delia shrugged. ‘She didn’t want to get a reputation, so she gave me one instead. Not the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten. Happy sweet sixteen, Delia. I bought her a Tiffany charm.’
‘And you didn’t kick her arse?’ I would have actually killed her. Actually murdered her.
‘Living well is the best revenge,’ she replied. ‘Or something. And with Cici, that means just ignoring her. There’s no point going to war with someone like that, sister or not. I’d rather just not deal with her.’
‘You’re my hero.’ I pressed my hand against her shoulder. ‘I’ve been having some trouble controlling my rage lately, and I won’t lie, I’m a bit worried about being in the same room with her.’
‘Oh, please, feel free to punch her in the face.’ Delia gave me a beatific smile. ‘After what she did to you? She totally deserves it. So what are you doing now?’
I looked down at my outfit and back at Delia.
‘Right.’
‘Yeah.’
We stood in awkward silence for a moment while I tried to think of something to say that didn’t involve how much I hated her sister. This was the season of goodwill, after all.
‘Christmas, eh?’ I nodded at the black PVC tree in the corner of the room. Obviously Thomas’s tastes ran to the more exotic, but I was always excited by the presence of a Christmas tree. The mini dildo baubles made me blush a little, but still, ’twas the season. Each to his own. ‘Any exciting plans?’
‘Just to actually have Christmas.’ Delia gave me a tired smile. ‘I just can’t believe another year has gone by already. I swore I was going to get myself together before New Year’s, and here I am again. Still working for Granddaddy, still under the thumb.’
‘You work for Bob – I mean, Mr Spencer?’ I corrected myself quickly. We probably weren’t still on ‘Bob and Angie’ terms any more. ‘You’re at Spencer Media too?’
‘Bob, yes,’ she replied. ‘Spender Media, no. He runs a bunch of real estate businesses too – I’ve been there for a few years. I’m overseeing an apartment complex in Brooklyn right now.’
‘I live in Brooklyn!’ I exclaimed. Probably wasn’t any need for me to sound quite so excited about having something so minor in common, but still, common ground. Nice. ‘Do you like it? The real estate thing?’
‘I actually always wanted to work in publishing,’ she admitted. ‘But of course, Cici got there first. Cecelia always gets there first. Once she had a foot in the door, there was no way I could follow, and I wanted to stay on at school, get my masters. She went straight into the office.’
