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So, I wasn’t nervous enough, now I’d invited my fiancé’s ex to my first public reading of my debut book. My book about Neil. She was the only human being who knew Neil as well as I did, and that intimidated the hell out of me. I’d wanted her to be there, so Neil and Emma could see me making nice, but now, all I could do was panic that she would use something in the book as ammunition against me. She’d tried to sabotage us once before, after all.
No, I told myself firmly. Those days are over. You’re being very kind to her here, and maybe it’s the first step toward a real reconciliation and a chance a challenge at a fresh start.
Neil’s healthy eating habits post-cancer made sadness eating really difficult. Not that I hadn’t gone along with it. But I was starting to gently disentangle myself from his lifestyle. He could be vegan if he wanted, but I didn’t have to eat exactly the way he did. We’d been together for long enough, the romance of trying to do everything together was starting to wear off.
That was why I’d stashed about four containers of Ben & Jerry’s in the back of the freezer. I sat on the floor with some “Everything but the…” and considered how stupid it was that I’d invited Valerie of all people to my launch, but not my best friend. Fight or not, I wanted her to know I was thinking of her, and missing her.
Sitting in front of the refrigerator, I made a mental list of all the things
I could write to her, all the apologies I could make. I practically wrote an entire thesis before I got up and went to my computer. But when I got there, nothing seemed right. I typed and retyped, then deleted it all and wrote simply:
Hey. I miss you. If you’re still angry with me, I get it. There’s going to be this thing for my book at the 310 Gallery on W Broadway in Soho next Thursday. It’s at eight. I would love to see you.
Hitting send was harder than I’d expected.
Waiting for the reply that never came was harder.
* * * *
Being the guest of honor at any party weirds me out immensely. Being the guest of honor at a party where I was under a ton of pressure to prove my salability to my publisher and my worth to readers was a thousand times more stressful. I would have rather been thrown as a sacrifice into a volcano.
When I expressed this sentiment to Neil, he’d said, “I thought they only sacrificed virgins to volcanoes?”
As a man who was used to being the immediate center of attention in every room he walked into, he didn’t understand my plight. I’d only recently been thrust into any sort of public consciousness.
I agonized over what I should wear for hours, finally settling on a deep blue DKNY dress with a plunging v-neckline, knee length skirt, and elbow length sleeves. Bands of fabric crossed over the waist, accentuating my cleavage just a little bit. Looking hot was like a suit of armor for me. I spent a long time getting my hair just right in loose, flowing curls, and I carefully contoured my cheekbones and dusted bronzer over my collar bones. I managed such a sharp cat’s eye that I hoped no one cut themselves on it. And I slicked on some YSL lipstick in “Rose Boheme” and a touch of clear gloss.
I wore my engagement ring and the platinum and pink sapphire earrings Neil had given me before our weird break up spell. They weren’t the best accent for the dress, but they were simple, understated, and reminded me of how far we’d come. After all, the book was about our journey together.
“Darling, you’re going to be late to your own appearance,” Neil called from the bedroom door. I stood in front of the trifold mirror in the dressing room and took in my outfit, from the gray t-strap pumps to the figure skimming dress and my flawless hair. If I just held on to the self-confidence I had at that moment, I would be invincible.
When I stepped into the foyer, Neil already held my coat and purse. A slow, reluctant smile broke through his annoyance at my tardiness. “Worth the wait.”
“Thank you.” I smirked a little as I slipped my arms into my coat. I turned and raised my cheek for him to kiss. “But I didn’t do it for you.”
By the time we reached the gallery, my heart was thumping and my guts were clenching in a very threatening way.
“Remember my story of how I shit myself at cross country practice?” I asked as Tony rounded the car to open my door for me.
Neil squeezed my hand. “You’ll be wonderful, and they’ll all love you.”
“You’re lying,” I said, squeezing back. “But thank you for lying.”
We entered the gallery through a back door, where India met us and ushered me inside. “Mr. Elwood, you can either go round front or slip in discreetly ahead of us,” she told him sternly. “But this is about Sophie.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Neil was too polite to make any outward sign of annoyance at India’s presumption that he would steal the spotlight from me. He kissed my cheek. “I’ll see you after.”
Alone with India, I tried to swallow my fear. “Okay, what happens now?”
“What happens now is you’ll go out, and Andrea Vessichio, a publicist from M and R, will introduce you. You’ll thank her, thank everyone for coming, you’ll read the excerpt you practiced, then it’s time to sign books and mingle. Easy as pie, and we’ll be out of here by ten.” She pressed a copy of my book, with the appropriate page marked, into my hands.
God bless India, for making the most nerve-wracking moment of my career sound easy-peasy. The book helped; it was still surreal to see my name on the cover. The art department had come up with the perfect cover image for the book jacket, nothing too flashy, nothing that screamed “my boyfriend is a billionaire.” The title, I’m Just The Girlfriend, in butter yellow on a tangerine background, with a stylized bag of bright green IV fluid in the space between the title and my name. Sophie Scaife. Right there, on the slipcover. I still couldn’t believe this was real, though I had a box of copies at home.
We walked down a short hallway, passing a few uniformed waiters bustling between the gallery and the catering truck in the alley. Then we emerged into the bright, white-walled, brick-accented main room of the currently disused gallery.
I had to admit, it was a perfect venue for an event like this. When I was Gabriella’s assistant, I would have killed to get a space like this for a reception or fashion week party. When I entered, every eye in the place was fortunately trained on Neil. He moved through the decent-sized crowd—no doubt there were some low level M and R employees forced to be here on their personal time—and drew every eye, from open stares to sidelong glances meant to be inconspicuous.
We made brief eye contact across the room, and his half-smile and subtle wink was a challenge. It was all I needed to regain my confidence. I could have all the doubt in the world, but a tiny bit of competition was enough to get me back in the game. And even though I knew that he was doing it on purpose, I thought, Step up your game, Elwood. You are about to be massively upstaged by your super hot fiancée.
