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And I can't help wondering…if it's going to be like this forever. Is this panic is ever going to stop fucking up every single day of my life?
I shake the thought from my head, focusing on my breathing.
And I calm down.
A glance down at the sleeve of my dress shows me a small thread unraveling from the sleeve. They must've done it at the dry cleaners. I can't afford to get a new shirt right now. A rummage around in my drawer for a small pair of scissors comes up empty, and the prospect of stepping out of my office into the club edges me back on another anxiety attack.
Fuck!
I sweep my hand across my desk, scattering a pile of papers into the air.
Watching the sheets flutter to the ground brings me a small sense of peace, however, and when there's a small knock on my door a few seconds later, I feel like I can brave the day again.
"Yes?" I call out, hoping my voice doesn't give me away.
A soft voice pipes up behind the door. They must've played rock paper scissors to see who would have to talk to me. "Ms. Masters, you told me to tell you when it was time for your appointment with Leanne."
My decorator. She's here to look at some of the footage from last night to see how everything looks with the club full and dark. I stand up, wiping my hands down over my shirt and pants, and then pat any errant hair into place.
My reflection shows a woman who has it much more together than I feel inside.
And that is just going to have to do.
I'm doing the best I fucking can.
Chapter 3
Clarissa
Aweeklater,mycab stops outside of a brownstone in the West Village, a few buildings down from where a group of girls are squealing and taking pictures in front of the house used for the exterior shots of Carrie Bradshaw's apartment in Sex and the City.
My lip curls in distaste.
I can't imagine any of my friends causing such a scene in London in front of Sherlock Holmes's building.
You don't have any friends to cause a scene with,a bitchy voice in my head reminds me. Wow. My inner voice is even more of a bitch than I am.
I climb up the stairs just as they come skipping down the sidewalk, hands-in-hands, faces flushed with the excitement of squealing.
"Hi!" one of them says to me. "I love your shoes!" Her eyes are locked on my pink Ferragamo pumps. "Guys, look! This lady is so pretty!"
They all stop in a pile of matching outfits, smiles, and coos.
It takes me completely by surprise, and all I can do is respond with a curt nod.
The other girls start walking forward, while the girl who's been speaking stays and says to me, "We've got a reservation atVia Carotafor tonight! We've never been to such a fancy restaurant before."
I bite back a little snicker.Via Carota, while definitely delicious, is hardly a fancy restaurant in the scheme of "fancy" restaurants in Manhattan. But the sheer unadulterated joy on her face touches me and I surprise myself by saying, "That's nice. Have a lovely dinner."
"You have an English accent!" she squeals.
Sometimes I forget that I sound different than most of the people I talk to. "Oh, yes, I grew up there. But I live here now."
She clasps her hands together and visibly swoons. "You're so lucky! Where else have you lived?"
This young girl is very chatty, but it's the first conversation I've had in a long time that wasn't about the club. Something makes me want to answer her. "Well, I lived in Sydney, Australia, for a few years before I moved here." The memory still hurts.
"Sydney!! That's next on my bucket list. Did you see anyone famous?"
