Always the Last to Know(58)

Oliver would not be happy about this. Hopefully, he would never know. Juliet had taken out a separate credit card to hide the cost. Not that he would deny her anything (and not that she needed his approval to spend her hard-earned money) . . . she just didn’t want him to know she was here. That fear—if she pointed out an imperfection, he’d say, “You know what? You’re right.”

He, of course, was aging perfectly, as had his grandfather, who died at the age of 104 and looked about sixty. Helen, Oliver’s mother, could be a model, and she was seventy-five. That peachy British skin.

But Juliet was American, and ageism was a real issue.

Last week, Kathy Walker, who was six years older than Juliet, had come into the office with shocking red hair. Prior to this, Kathy had worn her prematurely white hair in a very elegant French twist, saying she couldn’t be bothered to color it. Now, it was cherry red and short—quite a lot like Arwen’s cut, gosh golly, big coincidence there.

Kathy had also taken to wearing stilettos with red soles . . . Christian Louboutins, which cost a small fortune. Juliet could afford them, too, but it felt morally wrong, paying two grand for a pair of painful shoes. Kathy had been swinging by Arwen’s office more and more, and Juliet’s less and less. When Juliet texted her, asking if she wanted to grab a drink, Kathy responded that it was a nice idea and she’d get back to her. That was three weeks ago.

Back when Juliet had been new, she and Kathy were the only women in the New Haven office of DJK, and they’d supported each other, eventually becoming friends. They’d had dinners together, sometimes with their husbands. Juliet and Oliver had gone to Kathy’s son’s wedding last year. Before Arwen got hired, Kathy and she speculated about when a new partner would be named, since they were both on track to be tapped.

The past few months, Kathy had cooled considerably.

It didn’t matter, Juliet told herself. She’d keep her head down and do her job. Her work had always spoken for itself. Sadie was the fun one, the kind of person who made a new friend every fifteen minutes, or had people telling her their life stories after ten seconds in her presence. Juliet was the worker. Organized, determined, a big-picture thinker with a list of details. Clear eyes, full heart, can’t lose, as Friday Night Lights told her. That slogan had always spoken to her. Her heart had always been full, because she truly felt blessed in life, with a mother who encouraged and guided her, a stellar education, a wonderful husband, healthy children, a job she loved.

Clear eyes meant seeing what needed to be done. Oliver often marveled at her organizational skills. She had a monthly meal plan she put together so grocery shopping and dinner prep would go smoothly. Chore charts for the girls. She maintained the family calendar, juggled her and Oliver’s work schedules so at least one parent would be present at every school or sport event. She researched their vacation destinations, booked flights, found hotels or rentals. Scheduled the dentist, the doctor, took the girls shopping for clothes (by the way, Brianna probably needed a bra, and she’d try to make that a bonding experience, the way her mom had done for her).

It was the can’t lose part of the phrase that was coming into question. When Dave had appointed Arwen as the lead of the Hermanos building, Juliet had lost project management to a woman far less experienced than she was. She may have lost Kathy as well.

“Juliet Smith?” A strikingly beautiful woman with dark, dark skin and a shaved head stood in the doorway. “Ms. Smith?”

That was her. She’d given a fake name. “Hi,” she said, standing up.

“Right this way,” said the woman, smiling gently. “You’re new to us?”

“I am.”

“Welcome.” She was shown into an exam room, and the woman smiled and left.

God. Juliet was sweating now. Why was she here? She’d never thought of herself as beautiful, but she liked her face. She looked a lot like her father, she knew, and had what Oliver’s mother called a sporty face. Strong bone structure, symmetrical enough, not particularly girly-pretty, in that she didn’t have full lips or doe-like eyes.

That was fine. She was attractive. With some makeup, she could look quite nice. She had good skin, in that it was clear and even-toned, more or less. She’d always thought she was aging well. Sure, she had crow’s-feet, which she rather liked. And yes, her throat was starting to get crepey. And her hands looked like a crone’s if she didn’t drink enough water. And there was a wrinkle on her cheek when she smiled that hadn’t been there last year.

But look at Helen Mirren. Meryl Streep. Don’t even get started on Angela Bassett. They were older than she was and had never been more beautiful.

And yet, here Juliet was, at a posh New York plastic surgeon’s office because she was terrified. She was forty-three, and Arwen was thirty-one, and maybe—gah—looking a little younger would remind the partners and perhaps the world that she was still a young(ish) woman, but really, why would you want a young architect? Wouldn’t you want someone with experience and maturity? They made buildings! Experience was a good thing if you didn’t want things crashing down on your head!

And yet she’d been passed over for the Forty Under Forty. Vanity Fair was doing a profile on Arwen. Vanity fucking Fair. “Women Who Are Changing the World.” After being lead designer on three entire projects.

Three.

So yeah. That’s why Juliet was here. It went against everything she believed in, and here she was. Not a proud moment, but she wasn’t racing for the door, either.