“You mean they are stuck up bitches?”
I burst out laughing.
“That is one way to describe them. They’re not my kind of people.”
After my call with Amy, I feel better. I always do. She gets me in a way very few people do, always knows what to say to lighten the load. I love her straight-talking attitude. I miss my friend. In New York, I have no friends—I’m making acquaintances, but not friends. Brad keeps setting me up with his friends’ wives, hoping I will start to blend in. I haven’t found anyone I click with.
Our apartment is exquisite. I’ve never stayed in a home so luxurious. I feel completely out of place. Brad is very set in his ways; nothing has changed since I moved in. There is none of my clutter on display, no candles or cushions. The décor is just the way the interior decorator designed and planned it to be. It screams high-class bachelor pad, that a man with money lives here.
After being here for one month, he told me to cancel my contract with Celia. He paid the penalty for exiting early.
“Don’t worry, darling. It is a drop in the ocean. We will get you a better agent over here. There will be someone in the business who can nurture your talent, but have some time first to settle,” he told me.
I’ve asked him multiple times to set up a meeting about it. He keeps blowing me off with excuses. “You support me, Katie, and I will make sure you are a success. Just do what I tell you when I tell you.”
Celia was devastated by my call. She begged me to reconsider. Begged me to keep my career separate from my personal life. Even though she encouraged me to move to America, I could tell she was regretting her support now. Everything I had worked for was slipping away, and the traction I had created would not last long without another book being released or activity on my social media platforms. Katie Clark, the author, has gone radio silent. She will be forgotten.
***
It’s a Friday night in December, and for once Brad was home early, walking in the door at 5 p.m. We have a Christmas ball this evening, a fundraising event for a local charity. This is our first big public appearance as a couple since I moved here. The press will be there, and he’s making us official. All the nights out up until now have been practice runs for this evening.
The stylist has poured me into a tight-fitting corset dress that flairs from my waist. It is tomato red—there will be no missing me on the red carpet tonight. When I questioned his choice, he told me, “When you’re unique as you are, darling, you must own it to appear spectacular.” I wasn’t sure how to react to that comment, so I decided it was best to say nothing. I let him dress me however he wanted so he could ooh and ahh at his efforts.When Brad had seen the finished results, his eyes bulged in surprise.
“Well, what do you think?” I prompted.
“He stuck to the brief, I suppose. No one will miss you. You stand out,” he said, and my confidence dive-bombed. “The car will be here in five minutes. Be ready. And Katie, don’t embarrass me tonight. It’s an important night. Everyone who is anyone will be there.”
The Wycroft Foundation is one of the most active cancer charities in the city. Derek and Denise Wycroft set up the charity in memory of their son, who died of a brain tumor in his teens. For the past twenty years, they have raised millions of dollars to support patients and their families with cancer.
Walking through the swarms of ballgowns, I realize that this is real privilege at its finest. Most of the attendees will not think twice about the amount of money the night is costing. I’ve watched men in tight tuxedos give away thousands of dollars for auction prizes they will never use. Every hour, they announce the running total, which is sitting close to a million dollars.
Brad deposited me at the table when we arrived. He has returned to eat each course of the meal, then disappeared into the crowd again under the guise of mingling. I’ve talked briefly to the women on either side of me to find I have nothing in common with either. I had met them both before, but that did not make the exchange any easier. Neither was interested in me as a person, only where I came from and what I had.
The woman directly across from me, Amelia, is married to a stockbroker and spends her days in the spa or beauty parlor. Her evenings are spent entertaining guests of her husband and schmoozing whoever is offering the next big investment. She has never had a job per se, but she has made a career of being a wife. Of all the women I’ve met in New York, she has been the kindest and most willing to give me unsolicited advice.
She’s a pretty woman, doll-like, with porcelain skin and jet-black hair. Each time I’ve seen her, she has been an image of perfection, never a hair out of place. Tonight, she’s wearing an azure-blue fitted gown with a plunging neckline. Huge diamonds hang from her ears, and she waves around the rock on her finger.
“The secret to success in these circles, Katie,” she whispers, “is to make everyone think you don’t need the money. Then they throw it at you in spades.”
We are sitting at the table on our own, sipping champagne. I think she has taken sympathy on me, and my obviousfish out of the watersituation.
“Let me tell you a story. When I met my husband.” She points to a balding old man standing across the room and catches his eye. He smiles back at his wife; she smiles sexily and gives him a little wave. “I was not looking to get married, but he had the means to treat me right, and I enjoyed it. My options were to become a wife and enjoy life, or attempt to build my own career. I didn’t come from money, Katie, but I found it and held on for dear life. He told me if I went in my own direction, we would be over. He needed me as his support, and he would look after me. But I needed to be willing to do what was required.”
I nod to encourage her to continue, though not sure where this story is going.
“I was twenty-one, and he was forty-seven when we married. There were to be no children. I was to be completely devoted to him.”
“Do you not regret giving up your chance at a family?” I ask, stunned that she has lived a very similar life to what I did.
She thinks for a moment. “Yes, and no. I would have liked to be a mother, but I chose my path. I’ve been rewarded handsomely for it. I have money to burn and very little demand on my time during the day. I can live the life I want. And he’s a good man.” Her eyes flick to her ageing husband. “He treats mewell. I just have to do as he asks. Schmooze the right person or sleep with them if necessary.”
“What?” I splutter as my Champagne shoots across the table.
She laughs at my shocked expression. “Oh, come on. You’re the romance writer. You must realize that a lot of business deals are concluded between the sheets.”
The next morning, Amelia’s words spin around my head. Am I prepared to do anything to progress Brad’s business and career? Am I willing to give up on my own dreams for a financially secure life?
Chapter thirty-nine