The First Taste(41)

With a deep breath, I stand and smooth out my dress. The show must go on—it’s my mantra, always has been. Without the show, what else would I have?





TWELVE


Before I exit the car, I check my makeup one last time, close my compact, and straighten my shoulders. My muscles have been tense since I slid into the backseat. Getting nominated for an award doesn’t excite me like it should. These events have more to do with who’s attending than who’s being honored. When I step out, the world is my stage.

When I get home, I should relax with a bath.

The thought comes out of nowhere, and for the first time since this morning, I smile. Until Andrew, it’d been months since I’d used the tub. I’d forgotten how comforting a bath could be—until Andrew. Andrew. He was exactly what I’d needed when I’d needed it. I barely knew him, but I knew he was different from Reggie. I still don’t trust my judgment entirely, but it never felt like a game with Andrew.

I’m still not sure I should’ve kicked him out. Right now, I’d love a few more hours with him. But the moment I stopped seeing him as a one-night stand and saw him for what he really was—a considerate, sexy man any girl would be lucky to have—I knew it had to end. I’ve learned enough in my thirty-two years to know when that shift occurs.

“What’s happening at the hotel?” the driver asks.

I glance at him in the rearview mirror. I’m not really in the mood to chat, but he looks at me expectantly. “There’s an awards dinner.”

“Oh yeah? Are you nominated?”

“My firm is.”

“Congrats. What for?”

“Ironically, a campaign we did for a kids’ clothing store last year.”

“Why’s that ironic?”

I return my gaze out the window. “Children and I don’t get along. It’s not my account. I didn’t think it’d be the reason for my first nomination.”

He nods. “Children are a pain in the ass. A good pain, though, like the way you feel the day after a good workout. Know what I mean? Or runner’s high. I don’t run, but I’ve heard some people get addicted to it. That’s kind of what kids are like.”

I do know what he means. Bikram yoga can get so intense, I’d cry during each session if I had any fluid left in my body. Yet I attend weekly without fail. “I don’t know,” I say, “but I have a feeling parenthood is a lot more nuanced than that.”

“Sure, sure. I’m just trying to say having your own kids would be different.”

I glance at my lap. Every holiday, I send my sister’s kids gifts chosen and wrapped by an assistant, but it’s been a while since I visited them. The last time I did, I could barely stand it. The house was a mess. There were toys, food, baby accoutrement everywhere. Walking through the living room was like traversing a minefield, complete with the sounds of battle—constant crying, obnoxious cartoons, and hair-raising screams, from both children and adults.

The driver turns the car onto the street of the venue. “There’s a bit of a line,” he says. “Shouldn’t be too long, though.”

“Thank you,” I say.

We creep forward a few feet. “Unless you prefer to walk,” he adds with a smirk.

I narrow my eyes. And then, for some reason, I laugh. As far as drivers go, and I’ve been in the company of many, he’s pretty inappropriate. He also doesn’t cower like the others. “I think I will, actually,” I say.

He stops the car so I can get out. “It’s a nice evening,” he says. “Spring’ll be over before you know it. I’d hate for you to miss it.”

“Next you’re going to tell me to stop and smell the roses,” I say.

“You should,” he says. “Plenty of bodegas got those little bouquets out front.”

“Maybe you have a point.” I’m getting soft. His attitude reminds me a bit of Andrew’s, and my stomach instinctively drops when I remember how Andrew convinced me to submit to him. I open the door and climb out of the car. “Thanks again.”

My heels aren’t exactly made for walking, but I’m only a block from the venue. The driver was right—it is a nice night, with a mild May breeze. I stroll around the spotlight in the middle of the sidewalk, past the side alley crammed with smokers, and by the press crowded around the step and repeat.

In the hotel ballroom, I spot a few familiar faces. I air-kiss a marketing manager at Estée Lauder and greet an old assistant of mine who’s now a buyer for Barney’s Ready-to-Wear department.

It’s crowded, so it takes me a moment to scan the room and locate the table I purchased for tonight. As I take a step toward it, a hand on my elbow stops me. “Excuse me, Miss. Can I offer you a glass of our finest single malt whisky?”

I turn to upbraid the waiter for touching me, but find myself face to face with a bottle of sixteen-year-old Glenlivet and a stark red tie where a waiter’s uniform should be. I look up into blue eyes that feel more familiar, more comforting, than they should.

“What are you doing here?” I ask Andrew more brusquely than I mean.

Sadie appears out of nowhere, shaking her head at me. “Amelia,” she scolds. “Play nice.”

I look between the two of them. If Sadie knows anything, she doesn’t let on. I’d like to keep it that way, so I shut my mouth and swallow my astonishment. “I’m sorry . . . I just don’t understand why the plumber is here.”