‘I told him to go screw himself. Or her. But definitely not me.’
Rosalie bit out the words as she stomped her foot into a one-size-too-big Christian Louboutin shoe. She was a familiar face to the staff of the glamorous Upper East Side store. They were always willing to listen to her troubles in return for a swipe of her trusty Amex. They were Rosalie’s CBT.
‘Good for you,’ one of the staff said, whose name Rosalie really ought to remember just one time.
‘Amen,’ said another, as she handed Rosalie a freshly topped-up glass of Laurent-Perrier.
The first woman, a petite blonde in a white shirt with silk neck scarf and a tight French braid, massaged Rosalie’s ankle and smoothed the skin of her foot that was exposed in the pointed shoe. ‘How does it feel?’
Rosalie smiled. ‘As painful as a divine shoe should feel.’ She assessed the way the crystal-encrusted heels looked with her royal blue silk wrap dress. ‘I’m not sure about it with this outfit, though.’
‘Too much sparkle?’ the second woman asked.
Rosalie looked to her and told her, ‘A lady can never have too much sparkle. But let’s try that pretty leopard print – print is so in right now.’
As the women fussed around her, Rosalie sipped her champagne and picked up where she had left off – the break-up.
‘Do you know what he said to me? He said I’m not responsible enough for him. He said he wants someone less frivolous. Frivolous! Oh, and that he wants a woman who is capable of looking after him. Can you believe that?’
She lifted one foot out of the sparkling stiletto and slipped it into the leopard print sandal, such that she had a different design on each foot. Pouting and adjusting her stance, she assessed the get-up.
‘You know, I cooked for him on more than one occasion. One time, I actually chopped things and made a sauce from scratch. Does that count for nothing?’
She turned her back on the mirror and looked across her shoulder at her reflection. ‘The heels of the leopard print are just so cute.’
‘How long were you seeing each other?’ The blonde woman asked.
‘Who? Oh, George and me? A while. Eight weeks, in fact!’ Rosalie sighed. ‘I just can’t decide.’ She took another sip of champagne. ‘Hell, I’ll just take them both. I deserve the endorphins, right, ladies?’
Pooped. Feet red and sore. Dehydrated. Rosalie settled herself and her shopping bags onto the padded sofa of her favourite Italian restaurant. She was anti-carb ninety-nine per cent of the time but when it came to her one-quarter Italian heritage – Mommy’s side – she made an exception. Good, al dente pasta, perhaps brightened with a little shaved truffle, was worth missing two meals either side. And that was exactly what she felt like today.
Mauricio, the owner of the restaurant, which was a gem, tucked away down a side street off Central Park, hip-swayed his way flamboyantly to her table.
‘Bella, you look as perfect as ever.’
Rosalie tried to look bashful but she knew she looked well. She had been on a juice diet since the break-up and her Dior dress hugged her slender frame perfectly, not to mention the salon blow-dry she had prescribed herself this morning, for medicinal purposes. She flicked her long brown waves across her shoulder as she thanked Mauricio.
‘Your daddy’s assistant called just a moment ago and said he would be a few minutes late. Perhaps some wine while you wait?’
Rosalie rolled her eyes. ‘Poor Daddy. He’s so hard-working. The usual would be fabulous.’
Though family run, the restaurant was not traditionally Italian in feel. It was bright and airy, with a wall of windows looking onto the street, white furniture and table-tops decorated with succulents in ceramic planters. The glasses and cutlery always gleamed under the overhead lights. The kitchen was exposed to the eyes of diners, meaning it was immaculately clean.
Rosalie slipped her heels out of her shoes under the table so that they hung loosely on her pinched toes, and she leaned back against the padded seat to enjoy her first sip of wine.
How had she been dumped, again? She was a catch, wasn’t she?
She was beautiful and slim. She had great taste in music, décor and clothes. Food and beverages were something she was expert in. And she did run her own design business, kind of – was it a business if she never asked for payment for her services? True, it had also been some months since she had designed the interior of a property but she had to be careful with the projects she chose. Any interior designer was only worth the reputation of her last client and they had to be big names. She did not get into the business to design just any old room for just any ordinary person. She designed the perfect homes for her friends and nothing gave her more pleasure than to see them and their families happy in beautiful surrounds.
The effort she had put into Stella’s mansion in the Hamptons had even earned the home a feature on Cribs!
See, she wasn’t irresponsible. She sort of worked. A lot of wealthy women didn’t work at all. Most of her friends didn’t. Other than a few years of modelling, Mommy hadn’t worked a day in her life but Rosalie had. It might not be traditional hours but not everyone had the great eye for colours and placement that she had.
And frivolous? How could she be guilty of throwing away money if it was her own money?
She never asked any of the men she was dating for a dime. The trust fund she gained access to fifteen years ago, when she was twenty-one, had been invested and earned a small fortune. She didn’t need to be supported, it would just be nice if someone wanted to support her, that’s all.
She didn’t wait much longer before her father came through the door to the restaurant, dapper as ever in a sharp blue suit and crisp white shirt.
‘Sorry, kiddo,’ he said, kissing Rosalie on both cheeks.
She beamed. ‘It’s no problem, Daddy. Is work busy?’
‘When is it not? It might have been nice for you to cross the river into Brooklyn just one time,’ he said without malice.
‘But this is our favourite and, well, Daddy, I’ve been dumped.’
Mauricio topped off Rosalie’s glass and poured one for her father, who audibly appreciated his first mouthful. ‘By the man you brought to dinner the other night?’
She nodded. ‘Mmmhmm. What’s wrong with me, Daddy?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with you, kiddo. You just know what you like and it intimidates men, that’s all.’
She smiled. ‘You think so?’
‘I know so. What are you ordering?’
‘The usual.’
‘See. A woman who knows what she likes,’ he added with a wink.
Rosalie chuckled. Her father always knew exactly the right thing to say. ‘I got a new dress today for the memorial concert for Sir Presley John next week.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes. I think you’ll like it. It’s blue, your favourite.’
‘Kiddo, anything is my favourite on you. Just make sure you coordinate with your mother this time. We don’t need a fall-out.’
They ordered food and talked about the usual things, his work, her social calendar. They ate their food and drank their wine. Rosalie loved their lunch catch-ups. Her father had so many stories and even the ones he repeated she never got tired of hearing. He was intelligent and funny, not at all the shark CEO the media portrayed him to be. He was gentle and kind, a real family man. He was the kind of man Rosalie wanted by her side but just couldn’t seem to get, or keep.
As their plates were cleared and after they had turned down the offer of the dessert menu, Rosalie asked, ‘Daddy, do you think I’m irresponsible?’
‘Irresponsible? Why would you ask that?’
‘Well, George basically said that’s why he was breaking up with me. And, you know, some of my friends have busy jobs, like Andrea, or have kids, like Hannah.’
Her father dabbed the side of his lips with his napkin then set it down on the table, all the while seeming to think of his next words. ‘You have plenty of friends who don’t have full-time jobs or kids, Rosalie.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘All they want to talk about is clothes and shoes and who’s screwing who. Do you think I’m like them, Daddy? Do you think George is right?’
‘Not at all.’
She sighed. ‘He is, isn’t he? I mean, Hannah has just had a third baby and you just promoted Andrea to CEO of her own label. I mean, she’s a woman, I’m a woman. We’re practically the same age. Am I not as capable as someone like that?’
He paused for a moment and shuffled awkwardly in his seat. ‘Andrea has had a very different upbringing to yours, Ros. She works hard but she’s doing something she loves and she hasn’t ever known anything different.’
It was true, Andrea had lost her mother when she was just a girl. Her dad had started the Sanfia Records label when he moved home to New Jersey after her mom, who had been a singer-songwriter, had died months after giving birth to Andrea’s younger sister, Sofia. Her father was always at the record label he had founded and by all accounts Andrea and Sofia’s education had been sitting in the production booth at Sanfia Records, eating take-out and hanging with budding rock stars. Rosalie had actually met Andrea, Hannah and Sofia six years ago when she was briefly dating one of their artists, who had gone on to make the big time with his band. They had split but she got to keep the friendships, so in all, she won. She had loved how refreshing Andrea and Hannah, who was working at Sanfia Records as an administration assistant back then, were. Even Sofia and her quirkiness, though she was more the younger sister of the group with her own friends. They were just so ‘down-to-earth’ and different from her usual girlfriends. But…
‘That doesn’t exactly answer my question, Daddy.’
Her father rubbed his chin and said, ‘I think that not having an awful lot of responsibility doesn’t make you irresponsible. How’s that?’
Rosalie scowled. ‘You don’t think I could do it, do you? You don’t think I could run a business like Andrea.’ And for the first time ever, Rosalie felt bitter with envy.
Her father shook his head. ‘I think you could do absolutely anything you set your mind to, Rosalie.’
She watched him, her mind speeding through a thousand thoughts as she sipped her wine. Then she set the glass down on the table, folded her arms across her chest and sat up straighter in her seat. ‘Prove it,’ she challenged.
Her father chuckled. ‘Waiter, can we get the check, please?’
‘Daddy! I mean it. Give me a label at XM.’
He coughed into his napkin and she knew he was attempting to disguise laughter, which made her endlessly more determined. ‘I’m serious. I’ve been around the music industry for years. I love music.’
‘Rosalie, you have no experience of running a business.’
‘Not true. I run design projects.’
‘You decorate your friends’ homes very occasionally and when you feel like it.’
She blew breath from her nostrils. ‘I manage my investments.’
Her father dropped his napkin to the table in a move that reflected Rosalie’s own exasperation. No one ever took her seriously. Well, no more.
‘You have no experience in music production, Ros. Designing interiors based on Elvis Presley’s jungle room and dating rock stars really doesn’t count.’
She gasped. ‘You came from Wall Street!’
‘Rosalie, I can’t just gift you a record label. You have to earn a position like that.’ His tone softened. ‘Look at Andrea. She has been a producer as long as she’s been adult. She’s won countless awards. That’s experience.’
‘But you think I could do it if I had experience, don’t you, Daddy?’ she asked sweetly.
He reached out and took her hand atop the table. ‘Sure I do, kiddo.’
Rosalie snatched her hand back petulantly. ‘Fine.’
‘Fine?’
‘Yes, fine. I’ll get experience, then you can give me a label.’ She stood from the table and gathered her bags excitedly. ‘I know exactly what to do.’ She bent and kissed her father’s cheek. ‘Thank you for always believing in me, Daddy. I won’t let you down.’
And she turned on her heels and strutted out of the restaurant, leaving her father to pick up the check and his bottom jaw.