Brendan Ronald Jr. was an Abbott, which meant privilege simmered out of his ears, he was so fortunate. The Abbotts were a well-known family in New York. Their last name opened doors . . . and wallets. BJ being connected gave him a shine I’d only ever seen on telly shows. Me, I grew up in a council flat in Tooting Broadway, with my parents only recently graduating to a semidetached a block away from the flat we grew up in. When I first met him in Cambridge all those years ago—me on a full ride, him with a library section under his family’s name—all I could think about was how to keep him. To make his good fortune my own. Literally and figuratively.
My stepdad owned a chippy, and Mum was a homemaker. We were the opposite of influential. What would that be called? Outfluential. Mum would buy discounted potatoes at the Portuguese shop downstairs and constantly try to find Lidl coupons to buy milk and bread.
My mobile vibrated three minutes later.
I swiped the screen. “Yes?”
“Midnight. FAO Schwarz. A woman named Kayleigh is going to open the store for you. But you only have ten minutes, and the lights are gonna stay off,” BJ said reluctantly. He must’ve been pissed about my not falling at his feet.
“Oh, come on, Duffy. You know I’ve been working my ass off for the past few years. I deserve this vacation. And it’s only for six months. I’m gonna hang out with monks. Learn how to meditate.”Fractions of our breakup conversation, which had taken place at our favorite restaurant, assaulted my memory.
“That’s more than I’ll need. Thank you.”
“. . . you promised, BJ. You said you’d pop the question. I counted on you. That’s why I stayed put. My visa expires in two weeks. You can’t do this to me.”
“So . . .” BJ seemed reluctant to hang up. “I feel like you’re still mad at me. Are you ever gonna hear me out?”
“Jesus, Duff, talk about putting me under pressure. No wonder I’m second-guessing our engagement. I feel like a walking, talking meal ticket. Besides, you can always come with me to Nepal.”
“No, I cannot. I can’t leave the US if I want to stay, you wanker.”
“I heard you out at the restaurant,” I clipped out. “Honestly, I’d bleach my own ears if it meant unhearing some of the things you’ve said.”
“If all you care about is the freaking visa, just find some other sucker to marry, Duff. Just because you and my mom are pressuring me to do it doesn’t mean I’m ready for marriage. I know I said I would be, but people change their minds. It’s called growth.”
“I wasn’t being snarky. I know how much you love this city. That should show you how much I care!” he protested. “I gave you permission to do something that’d hurt me badly so you can reach your full potential. This is the ultimate sacrifice. You marrying someone else.”
Permission. Someone needed to buy the man a calendar. And a clue. We weren’t in the nineteenth century anymore.
“Cheers for the help again, BJ. Have a grand night.”
“So we’re not even gonna hook up before I leave? One last time for the ride?”
I hung up the phone, shaking my fist at the ceiling of my five-hundred-square-foot Madison Avenue flat.
God had failed me. He could well forget about me ever going on Lent again.
It was half past midnight when I cabbed it from FAO Schwarz to Gretchen’s ritzy flat on the Upper East Side. If I were lucky—which, as you could suspect by the way this evening was unfolding, wasn’t a characteristic of mine—she’d be fast asleep, and I could quietly dispose of the wrapped gifts.
“Must be a special birthday girl to get so many presents.” The cabdriver eyed me in the rearview mirror. I was buried in pastel-colored gifts—anatomically correct baby dolls, Barbie fanny packs, a ride-on unicorn, and a life-size kangaroo. (Was civilization ever going to address the fact that kangaroos were aggressive arseholes and not cute? I needed their PR person.)
“Wouldn’t you think,” I muttered, peering out the window as skyscrapers zinged by. Manhattan was especially lovely at night. Elegant, gritty, and dewed with promise and opportunity. “Throwing money at children isn’t love. It’s an admission of guilt.”
The cab pulled up at the curb. I saluted Terrence, the doorman, as I zipped past him. He was used to my coming and going at all hours of the night. After practicing mindful breathing and telling myself that the worst of the night was definitely behind me, I stuffed myself and Lyric’s gazillion presents into Gretchen’s elevator.
When the elevator slid open, I was greeted by four overrun garbage bags my boss had decided to position outside her door. Gretchen once explained to me she didn’t believe in taking out her own trash. As though keeping her flat tidy was aliens or cryptids.
Sidestepping the leaky things, I balanced Lyric’s gifts as I punched in the code that unlocked Gretchen’s door.
I swung the door open. The bloody kangaroo slipped from between my arms to the floor. I tumbled over it, diving headfirst on a gasp. Luckily—and I use the term loosely—I landed on the fluffy thing. My dress rode up, giving my bum some airtime. To make matters worse, I was still wearing the sexy knickers I’d bought last week in hopes BJ would propose tonight. Black and lacy, with a red bow just above the crack.
With my face buried in a kangaroo’s knob (of course I didn’t fall atop it missionary-style; that wouldn’t have been quite as humiliating), I thought tonight really, truly, undoubtedly couldn’t get any more disastrous.
Yet again, the universe rose to the challenge.
Because as soon as I lifted my face from the kangaroo’s crotch, I realized what I had walked into.
My married boss having sex with a man who definitely wasn’t Jason.