The Maid's Diary(7)
Daisy tries to calm herself. But the words—Well, hello, Daisy—reverberate inside her skull. They’re the exact phrasing of the weird, disappearing text messages she’s been receiving since she and Jon arrived back in Vancouver.
Well, hello, Daisy.
Welcome home, Daisy.
It’s been a while, Daisy.
I know who you are, Daisy.
They appear via her WhatsApp app, then vanish twenty-four hours later. All from unfamiliar numbers. She blocks them, but they just arrive again via another number.
The condo owner absently plucks three grapes from a bowl that Daisy has very carefully positioned on the kitchen island. She saunters into the center of the living area and plops one of the fat grapes into her mouth. Chewing, she turns in a slow circle, critiquing the furniture layout and the paintings Daisy has hung. The woman’s hair is pixie short. Her face is all elegant angles. Luminous white skin; big, flashing dark eyes. And she’s runway-model thin. Basically a coatrack. Daisy feels herself bristle.
The woman plops another fat green grape into her mouth, carefully avoiding her red lipstick. “Sorry I’m late. My meeting ran over time, and I—” She stops suddenly. Her eyes flare to an art piece above the fireplace. She spins back to face Daisy. “Are you confident this is the right look for—”
“Designing for a show home is not the same as designing for living,” Daisy snaps.
The woman’s brow crooks up at Daisy’s tone.
Daisy fights to temper her irritation and her dislike for the coat-hanger woman. This is her mom’s client. Reputation is everything in this business. The Wentworth name is on the line.
She inhales deeply, slowly, and says, “Our goal here is to subtly emphasize the openness of your gorgeous space, to draw one’s eye to the artistic angles of the architecture. We want to be inviting, yet also remain neutral enough so as not to overshadow that magnificent view. We want prospective buyers—no matter their tastes—to be able to step in here and immediately have their eyes go out to the view. We want them to be able to imagine themselves inhabiting this space.”
The penthouse owner plops the third grape into her mouth. “Well, I trust Annabelle. She’s well recommended and gets results. So . . .” She trails off, chewing as her gaze flits over Daisy’s tight dress and the comfortable walking sneakers Daisy picked up at the mall on her way over here. Daisy detests her mass-produced white sneakers with the orange stripes, but she was running late, and her other shoes were killing her back and swollen feet. She needed an emergency replacement.
“I’m over eight months pregnant,” she says in her defense, then immediately hates herself. Why did she even say that? What an idiot. As if she needs to explain her body and her comfortable shoes to this . . . this coatrack snob.
“Oh.” The woman turns her back on Daisy and faces the view.
Heat flares into Daisy’s cheeks. She expected a perfunctory Congratulations at the least. She goes to the grape bowl on the island and turns over the bunch of grapes to hide the ugly stalks that the woman exposed.
I don’t have to work. I could buy your fucking penthouse twice over myself with my trust fund.
Instead, Daisy says, “Do you have kids?”
A deep, dark laugh.
Daisy turns. “Of course you don’t. Silly question.”
“What do you mean?”
“Anyone can see from this penthouse that no child comes near this place.”
The woman’s eyes narrow slightly. “My husband and I made a conscious choice when we married—a commitment—to not have babies. We don’t want to bring children into this world.”
“So it’s not your first marriage?”
The woman blinks. “Excuse me?”
“He’s had a vasectomy, hasn’t he? Your husband. Snip snip. I’m guessing he’s already got his kids. Grown up. From a first marriage?”
The woman’s mouth opens.
Bingo.
Daisy manages to say sweetly, “Such a male privilege, isn’t it? Meanwhile, you and I have to worry about those ticking biological clocks. And if your husband trades up again, it’ll be too late for you.” She reaches for her purse. “Well, it was so nice to help make your place look salable. Some places just need that extra help, you know? Oh, when the delivery guys come up with the coffee table, show them where you want it. I’m running late myself.” She waddles to the door on her swollen feet. Her heart thumps as she exits the condo and makes her way to the elevator. But inside she grins with glee. Daisy Wentworth Rittenberg has just refound some of her mojo. The young, popular “It girl” that Daisy once was at school is still buried somewhere deep beneath the puffiness and pregnancy hormones. The attractive, wealthy, blonde teen who could cut anyone to the quick with a scathing comment has not totally vanished. Deep inside Daisy is still the schoolgirl who snagged famous gold medal downhill ski racer and sex icon Jon Rittenberg when everyone else was throwing themselves at him.
A little shaky and a lot exhilarated, Daisy enters the elevator and triumphantly jabs the button. She forgot just how damn good it feels to stand her ground, stick in the knife . . . and twist.
Outside the high-rise the October air is cool and welcome. When Daisy reaches her BMW parked down the street, she sees a white envelope tucked under the windshield. She reaches for the envelope, opens it, and extracts a simple card.