On the way to the meeting, I stop in the ladies’ room for a quick touch-up. Natalie’s in there, probably hiding from Miranda.
Natalie is pretty in a librarian sort of way. She’s got long brown hair and a small face, and she’s so thin sometimes I wonder if she’s got tapeworm. When I walk in, she smiles weakly. “Hey, Ms. Holloway.”
“Hi, Natalie. Surviving?”
“Yeah.” She turns the cold water on, removes her glasses, and splashes her face. I set my makeup bag on the shelf above the sink beside her and extract my essentials. I run a brush through my hair, retouch my lipstick, and blot the shine from my nose, then I step back and give myself a quick appraisal.
In the mirror, I notice Natalie watching me. “You’re so pretty, Ms. Holloway. Have you ever thought about being a model?”
“No, but thanks. My brother is a model. Grayson Holloway? He was in those bottled water ads a few years ago.”
Natalie’s large brown eyes widen behind her glasses. “Really? That was your brother?”
“Cute, huh? He’s still single.”
Natalie blushes and looks down.
“Want an intro?” I’m totally serious, too. Gray would stay out of trouble more if he were dating a girl like Natalie.
“Did you see that episode of America’s Next Top Model last night?” Natalie asks.
“Oh, my God, yes!” I glance at the door quickly to be sure no one will interrupt the ritual reality show rehash Natalie and I have once a day. I don’t mind if Natalie knows I’m a reality show junkie, but I wouldn’t want it to become public knowledge. “Can you believe Kristen L. didn’t get kicked off? I hate her. She is so mean to Kristen K.”
Natalie nods furiously. “But neither of them are as pretty as Kristen R. She should be the next top model. Ms. Holloway, you should be the next top model. You should audition!”
I smile. “It would be pretty cool to be on a show like that, but not America’s Next Top Model. I’d want to be in charge, you know? Like Simon on American Idol or the woman on The Bachelorette. I’d be a good bachelorette.”
“Yeah.” Natalie nods. “Maybe you’ll get a chance to be on TV before you expect.”
I frown. “Unless the producers of The Apprentice are coming here, I don’t think that’s likely.”
Natalie shrugs and looks at the floor. “You never know,” she murmurs.
“I better go before Miranda has an aneurism. It’s almost one-thirty.”
“Okay. Talk to you later, Ms. Holloway.”
I walk out, shaking my head. Natalie is so sweet. She’s like twenty-two—a bit young for my older brother—but the poor girl worships me. I’m not used to that. Most women don’t like me until they know me.
And men? Most men like me even before they know me.
I think that’s a combination of several factors. I pause. Through the windows of the conference room, I can see that the meeting has started, but now I’m thirsty, so I beeline for the break room and a bottle of water.
I pass a kid from mailroom, and when I turn into the break room, he’s still watching me. See, guys—Dave notwithstanding—like me. Why? I’m a size two and my bra size is 32C. And no, I haven’t had plastic surgery, and I don’t kill myself at the gym. Sorry. If size ten, 36A were in vogue, I’d be the one out of luck.
Why else? I come from money—lots of money. My parents are very, very rich. Imagine Chicago society as the Sears Tower. Okay, now look way up. No, way up. See those tiny dots waving at you, all stiff and condescending, from the 103rd floor? Meet my parents, Mitsy and Donald Holloway. I’m their youngest, Allison.
But I’ve had my share of pain and disappointment in life. My family, though rich, is far from perfect. My father was one of those absentee dads who worked so late he never made it to my dance recitals or choir concerts. My mother is on The Committee. I don’t even bother specifying which one anymore because she’s on so many. Sometimes when I was little I’d wish I had cancer so that my mom would pay as much attention to me as she did to raising funds for kids who were terminally ill.
And then there’s my brother. There are good things about older brothers and bad. The good thing is that their cute friends are always around. The bad thing is that their cute friends are always around.
The first time I thought I was in love it was with one of Gray’s cute friends. I was fourteen; the guy was eighteen or nineteen. Bottom line: He used me for sex and discarded me. I will never forget that feeling of powerlessness and rejection. I still get flashbacks.
And I remember the last time I thought I was in love. Bryce is not a friend of my brother’s, but there was still that same feeling of vulnerability when he broke it off two months ago. He said I didn’t have time for him, and he found someone else. End of story.
Except he was the first guy in a long time I thought I might really like, and he didn’t care enough to forgive a few late nights at the office. We were decorating Oprah’s studio, for fuck’s sake. I’d thought he was The One, and then he dumped me for Another One. I can’t stand feeling all weak and useless like that. No more.
So I’ve pretty much decided I won’t ever fall in love. And really, when I sit and analyze my feelings, it turns out that I’ve never been in love anyway. Why should that change?
I reach the conference room door and pause, hand on the doorknob. I don’t get it, this obsession with love. Why all the hype? Why all the sonnets and Michael Bolton ballads? In my mind, relationships are mini–power struggles. If a guy knows you love him, you give up your power. And if you let a guy get too close to the real you, that’s when you open yourself up to the serious pain and heartache. So I’m glad I didn’t open myself up to Dave. It would have made his rejec—what happened—harder to take. Besides, Dave is so not the man of my dreams.
Typically my dates are a little more sophisticated than burgers and Gatorade. For instance, a year or so ago, when I was dating the son of a prominent politician, we jetted to Paris unexpectedly to dine on le tiramisu de pommes au pain d’épices avec glace vanille at Maison Blanche. Another time one of Gray’s model friends got me into a film premiere, where I sat next to Orlando Bloom.
Even as a kid, I was—well, spoiled. For my sixteenth birthday, I not only got a Mustang convertible, but Mitsy took me shopping in Milan. A lot of girls get clothes for their birthdays. I went to Fashion Week in the most stylish city in Europe for an entire new wardrobe.
Not that I’m above basketball games or anything. Like I said, I was a cheerleader from sixth grade until my senior year at Lincoln High. I’ve had more than my fill of sports and jocks. But I’m not a cheerleader anymore, and entre nous, there’s nothing stylish or sophisticated about basketball.
Now, if my best friend Rory heard this she’d say I was kidding myself. She believes love is the greatest thing since Luke Skywalker. She can’t remember a time when she wasn’t in love, and she’s always loved (yawn) the same guy. Crazy, huh? She wouldn’t believe that I’ve never really, truly been in love.
At least not with a man. I once saw a pair of Jimmy Choos that made my heart go pitter-pat, but other than those…oh! and the Hermès Kelly bag my dad gave me for my thirtieth birthday. It’s gorgeous—red Ardennes leather with goatskin interior and an adorable lock, key, and clochette. The perfect shoes, the perfect bag. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.
So I have money, great clothes, and good friends. I also have a great job, which isn’t going to be so great now that I’m late for this meeting. Miranda is probably really pissed. See, life isn’t all sports cars and mansions.
I slip into the conference room, doing my best to ignore Miranda’s glare, and slide confidently into a seat beside Josh, my partner in design. I twine my OPI Taupe-less Showgirls fingers together, steeple two fingers under my chin, and survey the room. Miranda is seated across from me, Josh next to me, and three or four Japanese businessmen occupy the chairs at the head of the gleaming glass table. Behind me, someone takes a seat, but I don’t peer around to get a look. A small Japanese man is speaking when I glide in, and once I’m seated, he continues.
In Japanese.
He talks, waves his arms, points out the window, then at the artwork on the walls, then gestures to his companions. I don’t know what he’s saying, but it must be pretty involved. Finally he opens the black leather notebook in front of him—nice, wonder if it’s Coach?—and reads, flips the page, and keeps reading. When he’s done, Miranda, Natalie, and Josh turn to the young Japanese man seated next to the speaker. Hmm—cute, not too shabby in Hugo Boss.
The guy wearing Hugo Boss nods at his employer, nods at us, and says, “Mr. Kinjo say he is most honored to work with you.”
We wait. I mean, Kinjo talked for like five minutes; that can’t be it. But the translator makes another bow and defers to Mr. Kinjo.
Kinjo starts to talk again, and I give Josh a sidelong glance. He rolls his eyes heavenward, and it’s not too hard to read his mind: I need a drink. A moment later, he scribbles on the pad of paper he’s pretending to take notes on—but on which he is actually drawing raunchy pictures—tears it off, and slides it in front of me. Mindful that I am supposed to be entranced by our speaker, I pretend to ignore the paper, then I unsteeple my hands and, still keeping my eyes focused on Mr. Kinjo, unfold the note.
Nice of you to finally show up, beotch.
Are those shoes Prada?
Still pretending to be vastly interested in Kinjo’s monologue, I extract a pen from my appointment book and jot an answer.
Jealous? How about we scratch each other’s eyes out over martinis?
I pretend to stretch, shift, and slide the note back to Josh. A moment later he drops his pen, pretends to bend over and pick it up, and drops his reply in my lap.
Rehab or Lacquer Lounge?
Kinjo is still talking. What can he possibly be saying? And why is Miranda smiling like she understands? I scrawl LL and 6 on the note and pass it to Josh under the glass table. He reads it and, since everyone is paying rapt attention to Kinjo, blows me a kiss.
“Mr. Kinjo also say he expect this venture to be great success. And further he is honored to have support of Mr. Parma, who is here from Europe to oversee the project.”
Everyone whips their attention to me, and I freeze, thinking I’ve been caught passing notes in class. And then I realize they’re looking behind me, and I turn to see an extremely attractive man dressed in dark slacks and a stunning royal-blue linen shirt sans tie.
His eyes, as startlingly blue as his shirt, are on me. Kinjo starts another long monologue, of which I’m sure the translator will give us the abbreviated version, but I don’t turn away from Parma.
What kind of name is that? It sounds familiar for some reason. I size him up: thick dark hair styled expertly to look as though he just woke up, heavy-lidded eyes, aristocratic nose, and a full mouth, set in that debauched European style. Not the pursed look of the British or the open sensuality of the Italians, more of the cynical, slightly amused look of the French. He’s dressed in Armani, and his long limbs rest languorously in the chair. He appears perfectly at ease, and yet there’s a sense of the patrician about him. A sort of benevolent condescension.
Now this guy is the definition of my dream man.
He watches me size him up, and while I take him in, his eyes skim over me, making no secret about the perusal. I’m wearing a thirties-style fawn-colored cigarette skirt and fitted jacket with a chocolate silk shell underneath. My legs are tanned and bare and my feet are strapped into three-inch open-toed Prada sandals, the exact color of the OPI Taupeless Showgirls polish on my fingers and toes.
Our eyes meet again, and to my amusement and chagrin, he deliberately glances at Josh, then me, takes a pen—no, a limited-edition Montblanc pen!—from his shirt pocket and jots something on the paper before him. That’s a five-hundred-dollar writing instrument. He folds the note with slow, elegant movements, then places it on the table between me and Josh.
By this point, Miranda seems to have noticed that Kinjo is not the only person in the room, and she’s watching me. But more important, he’s watching me. Parma.
I skate the note carelessly over the glass until it’s before me but leave it on the table unopened. I attempt to appear completely engrossed in Kinjo’s speech, but every few seconds, I run a fingernail over the note.
At that point the translator passes out thick documents, which look like contracts. I pick up the note, press it to my lips, and watch Parma’s slow smile. A moment later, I notice everyone signing the documents, so I scrawl my signature and set the note on top.
Josh looks at the note, then me, and when I meet his gaze, he quirks a brow. Poor boy. This is why all of Josh’s boyfriends leave him. He’s too eager, too impulsive, too open. Of course, those are the exact qualities I love in him.
That and he knows good shoes.
Josh starts to squirm. To put him out of his misery, I slowly unfold the note. Two words:
I’ll buy.
The words glide across the page in an elegant script that perfectly mirrors Parma’s outward appearance. I haven’t heard his voice, but I imagine he speaks formally, his accent soft and Gallic.
Josh reads the note over my shoulder and practically breaks into excited applause. I, on the other hand, pretend to ponder the issue. The delay is too much for Josh, and he finally snatches the note and writes:
BEWARE. We’re not cheap.
Then he folds the paper and passes it over his shoulder to Parma. The Japanese guy beside Josh frowns, but Josh gives him a don’t-even-think-about-messing-with-me-because-I’ll-bitch-slap-you-without-a-second-thought look, and the guy turns back to the discussion. Meanwhile, Parma takes the note absently, opens it, and then nods at us, as though to say he’s up for the challenge.
That’s what he thinks.
Mr. Kinjo, wonder of wonders, finally stops talking, and the translator asks, “Then we are in agreement?”
“Perfectly,” Miranda says. “Interiors by M will make Kamikaze Makeover! an absolute television sensation.”
The anticipatory warmth pooling in my belly at the thought of a cocktail or two with Parma grows cold, and I shuffle the papers before me in confusion. “Excuse me, Miranda. Did you say television?” My heart is beating fast now. Is this what Natalie meant when she said I might be on TV sooner than I thought?
But maybe it’s like the time we remodeled Oprah’s studio. We’ll be decorating the set for Kinjo’s show.
Miranda shoots me an annoyed frown but answers in a sugary tone that fools no one. “Oh, Allison, I forgot that you came in late. This is Mr. Kinjo and his business associates, Mister—”
The translator comes to the rescue. “Hai.” He bows, and not sure if I’m supposed to do the same, I bow back. He smiles, which either means I’m a stupid American trying too hard or that my bowing was the right thing.
Then he says, “I am Peter Yamamoto, this Mr. Watanabe.” He gestures to a flashy guy with long straight hair and a garish red tie.
“He the director,” Yamamoto says. “This is Mr. Fukui.” The man to the right of Watanabe waves at me with four fingers. He’s wearing a lavender shirt and matching tie.
“Mr. Fukui is top designer. And so is Mr. Takahashi.” Takahashi is the frowning man sitting next to Josh.
“And this”—Miranda interrupts, pointing at Parma—“is Nicolo Parma. He’s a major investor from—where is it again, Nicolo?”
He smiles. “My family lives in Roskilde, but I travel so much, I consider myself a resident of the world.”
“He can be a resident of my world any day,” Josh whispers.
“Sorry,” I whisper back. “I’ve got dibs.”
“Nicolo,” Miranda continues, “is the man who referred Mr. Kinjo to us.”
Nicolo smiles at Miranda, and she blushes. Miranda is at least forty-five, thin as a rail, with platinum-blonde hair pulled tight into a jeweled clip. She wears power red almost every day and has a tendency to tap her sharp hellfire-red nails on the glass conference table. She’s as hard as the three-karat rock on her finger. But when Nicolo smiles at her, she turns pink from her neck all the way to the dark roots of her blonde hair. Miranda, diamond-hard, cold as a meat locker, and, I often suspect, the spawn of Satan, is blushing. Now I have seen everything.
Since Miranda still hasn’t answered my question—and that’s not an accident, by the way—I say, “And what is it that Mr. Kinjo has contracted us for? Is he planning to buy property in Chicago?”
Oh, I hope so. Even though it would be great to design another television studio, I prefer residential work. Maybe Kinjo’s going to buy a section of Gold Coast and build luxury town homes, and maybe he’s hired Miranda—which really means the associate designers, me and Josh, and maybe Mia, but she just had a baby and has been working at home most of the time—to come up with a design for the interiors. Window treatments, color schemes, pewter knobs on the kitchen cabinets, pewter faucets and clear glass bowls in the sinks. And carpet—or would Persian rugs be better? Yes, but only if Kinjo uses hardwood floors. Oh, but then it would be such a shame to cover that gorgeous wood.
“No, Mr. Kinjo is not buying property,” Miranda says, shattering my design concept. “Mr. Kinjo is an assistant to Ramosu Kobayashi, the owner of Dai Hoshi, Japan’s largest media conglomerate. He’s here to fill us in on the details for the new show.”
I glance at Josh, but he appears almost as clueless as I am. Almost. His expression is grim—not a good sign.
“What new show?”
Miranda smiles, if you can call what a snake does smiling. “Allison, the one we discussed last week. Honestly, where is your head today?”
Right on my shoulders, where it always is. What is Miranda up to now? We never discussed a TV show. Miranda never even so much as mentioned Dai Hoshi or Kinjo or a European hottie. I would have remembered the hottie part.
“Oh, you know me, Miranda.” And she does, which is why she didn’t mention any of this until now. When it’s too late.
“Kamikaze Makeover!, Allison, dear. You’re going to be on the next number-one reality TV show.”