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“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“Say, ‘thank you Juliette for saving my cute, cute ass.’”
We laugh, together this time.
“I don’t know who she is…” She pauses, but—as seems to be the norm for me now—I’m not sure what she’s getting at, so I wait. “Whoever made you hesitate back there.”
Lolly turning away from me is right there the second Juliette asks.
“She’s a lucky woman. Don’t be a simpleton and let her slip away.”
Too late. Lolly Benoit came to me, but I told her I was about to sell myself to the highest bidder, choosing this over her. And now I’m never going to see her again. A bitter moment in a sea of sweet.
“Go!” Juliette waves me away. “Go and make your Aunt Juliette proud.”
JUST MAKE THE CALL
Lolly Benoit. Apartment over the Barn. Palm Beach, Florida
I’ve got a phone in one hand and a bottle of Patrón Silver in the other. I’m something of a tequila connoisseur, and Patrón is so smooth I can drink it straight so mother won’t hear the clink of ice cubes on the glass.
I’d paint my face blue and keep a broadsword in hand for the whole call if it weren’t for the fact that mother dearest might insist we Zoom so she can tell me what she thinks about my life choices while checking me out for zits, flab, and bags under my eyes. Whatever she says, it’s not going to be good. But for once I need to suck it up and let her have her say so we can get to the all-important request. Then, depending on howthatgoes… Well, Alicia doesn’t call Patrón “the memory eraser” for nothing.
I take another good sip of my tequila.
We have a very practical matter to discuss with Mother. Keep focusing on that!
“Repeat after me: this phone call is not going to kill you. It’s not. It’s not. It’s not.” I take a sip. Got to remember to sip. Glugging now won’t do any of us any favors. My finger hovers over the fast dial key, but I’m not quite ready. Not yet. Calling her takes me courage at the best of times. And this is the very worst of times. My suitcase is packed, Mr. Wiggins is pacing, and there are no jobs for me in Florida. Callingmi madre querida #sarcasmand asking for a place at the table is the fastest route to getting back on my feet, but it’s going to cost every ounce of pride I have. What’s pride got to do with anything when there’s ambition in the mix? I know what I want, I just have to take a different route to get there.
The little apartment over the stables which I’ve called home for the last year or so has been stripped to the beams. My outfit for Gustavo and Nicolás’ wedding hangs on the back of my door. Beside it is the trunk that I’m going to leave with Gustavo, just in case I ever manage to make my way back here. I’ve only kept what I absolutely must. My saddle, because it’s bulky enough that I don’t want it in my regular luggage; a pretty, glass, wave-shaped vase I picked up at a garage sale when Alicia came to stay; and my framed pictures of Velveteen and Penny and Mr. Wiggins. The vase isn’t worth anything, but that whole trip had us laughing so hard I can’t bear to part with it.
Beside the leave-here trunk is the donation pile. I try not to accumulate things, but life has this way of throwing consumer goods in your path and just begging you to scoop them up and make a home for them. That’s why the pink KitchenAid I’ve never used, the espresso machine that cost an obscene amount, and the juicer that Alicia and I bought when we were doing our fasting-cleanse, are all going to the Rag and Bone shop down on Third Avenue. It’s right next to the women’s shelter, so someone will wander in eventually and luck out.
Last, but not least, is the stack of things I plan to take with me. It’s a meager pile, topped with the invitation to Gustavo’s wedding. I’m allowing myself one last outrageous bash with the people I thought I was going to spend the next ten years with before I’m truly cast out onto the winds.Yeah, not too dramatic, Lolly.
Then there’s the spot where Mariano pressed me up against the wall and I wanted more of everything. More him, more me, more that. Even though I should’ve known he still couldn’t give it to me—not what I really want, which is everything: the sexy touchinganda man who truly sees me and thinks I’m perfectionandcan give himself to me fully. I tiptoe into the kitchen and borrow the chalk from my notes board and, as casually as I can—almost as if I can convince myself I never did such a thing—I mark a little X on the wall, where his hands met my ass and I almost reached for his cock.
X marks the spot where something almost, but didn’t, happen.
I return the chalk to its spot and take another sip, small enough that it’s not a glug, but big enough to maybe steady my nerves.
I’m stalling and I know it. Mother has been bugging me to work for her since I graduated from college, so she’s going to be “thrilled” that I’m finally “seeing it her way.” Of course, I’m not “seeing it her way” at all, but she’ll offer me an executive-level salary, so I can bank my earnings for a season or so and fight my way back here.
Being the daughter of a high-profile businesswoman has its perks—easy access to exclusive events, tables at every top London restaurant fromMarutoAve Mario, and swag bags that include Tiffany bracelets nicer than the one Stephanie flaunts, rather than tchotchkes from Nordstrom. Not that I’ve got anything against the high-end, High Street chains, but Mother would never be seen dead in an off-the-rack number, so her swag is primo shit. But behind all of her smiles and air kisses and the glad-handing, she’s a full-on fire-breathing, tail-slapping, human-chomping dragon. She eats companies for breakfast and dances around the charred carcasses of her enemies at sunset. And she’s the woman who holds the key to my future.
Just do it, Lolly. Make the call.What other options do I have? Anywhere else and I’m Charlotte “Lolly” Benoit, former assistant horse trainer and barn manager. I’ll be at the bottom of the ladder, with no fast way up. I guess there are favors I could call in, but why ask for a leg up now when I might need them later when it counts? Say it again for the people in the bleachers:Eyes on the prize, Lollz.If I am ever going to be the next big thing in the polo world, I need to stay focused.
I take a micro-mini sip of the Patrón, with a sly peek at the bottle of Casamigos Reposado tequila that’s staring down at me from the top of the bookcase. Celebrity brands often miss the mark, but Mr. Clooney seems to know his liquor. Thereposadois aged in whisky barrels, but is described as the ‘gateway tequila, for friends who think they don’t like tequila.’ Honestly, can I be friends with anyone who doesn’t understand how a margarita is the answer to at least twenty-seven percent of all life’s problems? No, I’ll keep the Casamigos for Gustavo’s wedding. There are bound to be pre-celebration drinks—prinks, as they’re called back in the UK—and the gang will appreciate something that doesn’t burn on the way down.
Mr. Wiggins sighs and offers me his belly for a rub. Even he knows that something’s going on. He hates moving, but he hates me brooding even more. Might as well get it over with, then go ride Teena. Dammit, now I’m crying again. The thought of leaving her here is tearing my heart out.
I wipe my nose on my sleeve. Ack! Mother’s spectral outline is right there tutting at me and raising an eyebrow. At least she’s consistent. I always know exactly what she’s going to say.
Stand up straight, Charlotte. Slumpy lumpers never get on in life.Or:Smiles go miles, frowns take us down.And her all-time favorite, and the maxim that underpins our entire relationship:It’s a good thing I got you away from there.Meaning, I was too much of a flirt and a sassymouth and got what I was coming to me.
