Gloria gestured to Karolina with a stack of papers.
“For me?” Karolina asked as Gloria transferred the call.
“For you. A couple of old bills. We’d put them through insurance, but they were returned. I thought it was just a problem with the coding, so I recoded and resubmitted—twice, actually—but they still didn’t go through. You may want to make sure nothing went to collections.”
“Thanks,” Karolina said, and tossed the small rubber-banded pile of envelopes into her purse. “I’ll deal with it.”
Maybe Graham would pick up her call if it related to finances? He certainly hadn’t deigned to do so for any other reason. Emily had made her promise to stop trying to contact him. But he was her husband. How was this happening to her? When had her husband changed into this person she barely even recognized?
As Karolina eased out of her parking spot, Aunt Agata’s number flashed on her dashboard screen.
“Hi, Auntie,” she said, instantly switching to Polish. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine, dear. Just fine. I’m not calling to talk about me. I want to see how you’re doing.”
“Me? I’m okay. I’m down in D.C. now, heading back to Bethesda to go to Harry’s swim meet. It feels like I haven’t seen him in forever.”
“I heard on the news that you and Graham are getting divorced.” This was not a question.
“Yes, apparently that’s how we’re all finding things out these days,” Karolina said as she merged onto the highway.
“He’s a dupek!”
“I won’t argue with you there.”
“Always has been, always will be.”
“Now, that’s not exactly fair, Auntie. Graham was different when we met. Decent.”
Her aunt hooted. “That may be what your mother and you thought, but I could always see the writing on the wall. Yes, missy, this was clear as day! Not that I’m saying ‘I told you so,’ because I love you and I would never say that, but . . . well, I told you so. Did I not? Don’t you remember that little chat we had the night before your wedding? I said, ‘Lina, that man has a fair face and a foul heart.’ Do you remember?”
“Of course I remember! You cornered me at the rehearsal dinner and told me Graham was after my money.”
“Yes, ma’am, I did.”
“And I told you that his family had so much money that it made whatever I had earned from modeling look like pocket change.”
“Well, that’s neither here nor there. The point is, I had a feeling about that one.”
“Mama loved him,” Karolina said quietly, remembering that night like it was yesterday. Her mother had been shining with a happiness Karolina had rarely seen growing up, her smile so wide it made the crinkles around her eyes look like they were smiling too. And why shouldn’t she have been joyful? Her only child—the one for whom she had essentially sacrificed her own life—was marrying a handsome, successful attorney from an established and wealthy family. Her daughter would have everything she hadn’t: stability, security, social acceptance, extended family, lots of children, and a doting husband. Her smile that night announced that all those years of work had been worth it, that the debts were all settled, and happily. If Karolina were being honest with herself, so much of her own happiness that weekend had been tied up with her mother’s obvious relief and joy: you didn’t spend your entire childhood watching your mother work herself to the bone for your benefit without feeling a lifetime’s worth of guilt about it.
“Your mother loved you. And she loved that you were settled, and to a man who could provide for you.”
“I could provide for myself!”
“She knew that, Lina. She didn’t want you to have to.”
The two were quiet for a moment, comfortably so. Aunt Agata had practically raised Karolina because Karolina’s mother worked as a live-in nanny for a wealthy family six days a week. She would come home Sunday mornings, exhausted beyond description and so excited to see her daughter, and Karolina would spend the time crying that her mother loved the children she nannied for more; that she spent all her time with them; that she was missing Karolina’s entire childhood. As if it were a choice. And then, when Karolina was fourteen—after so many weeks and years of this painful separation and brief reunion—a stylish man in a beautiful suit approached her on the street in Kraków and asked if she was interested in modeling. Aunt Agata was certain he was a predator of some kind, but Karolina’s mother asked the parents for whom she worked if they could find out more about him, and the word came back: he was legitimate. Not only legitimate but highly respected as having a special talent for finding the most beautiful girls who went on to become the most successful models. He was Italian, from Milan, and he traveled to all the capital cities and small towns and rural villages across Europe to pluck young girls from their ordinary lives and send them on to great money and fame. So when he found Karolina (“Finally!” her mother said, although she’d never before mentioned having such dreams for her child), her mother was nearly delirious with relief.
“But, Mama, I want to become a teacher,” Karolina had said when her mother insisted she go to the meeting with the man in Milan.
“Who’s saying you cannot? Not me. Not Mr. Italian. What’s his name? Fratelli. Just go. See what happens. That’s all I ask.”
So Karolina had gone. It was thrilling, of course—her first time out of Poland and headed to fashion’s capital! Everything was so new, so bright and gorgeous and exciting. And it felt wonderful when the people in Mr. Fratelli’s office fawned all over Karolina, examining her from every angle and seeming happy with what they saw. Just one month later, they booked her first job. Three months later came the invitation from Miuccia Prada to headline the fall runway show. Within six months Karolina was on the cover of Italian Vogue, and then came the ultimatum: Leave school if you’re serious about this; you’ll have the rest of your life to study, but work as a professional model is the shortest of earning seasons, so take advantage when you can. So at sixteen, right before the start of her junior year in high school, Karolina dropped out. And when she arrived in New York City to live in a cramped walk-up with three other teenaged models and a kind of housemother who cared more about sourcing diet pills than enforcing curfews, Karolina could sense—more than sense, she was certain—that her teacher dreams were over.
“Lina? Are you there?” Her aunt’s voice was quiet but insistent.
“Sorry, yes. I’m here.” As Karolina always did when she talked on the phone, she was cruising in the far right lane at exactly fifty-five miles an hour. “I can’t even imagine what Mama would say now.”
“She would be so proud of how strong you’re being. That I know for sure. Your mama was smart and capable, and more than anything in the entire world, she wanted her girl to have a better life than she did. I’d say there’s no arguing that your mama would be greatly relieved to see where you are now. May she rest in peace.”
“May she rest in peace.” The words came out as a whisper.
“Okay, that is enough pep for one day. Give Harry a big hug from me, okay? And send me some pictures on the iPad.”
“Will do, Aunt Agata. I love you.”
“Love you too, sweetheart.”
Karolina waited for the call to disconnect and slowly pressed down on the accelerator. Was this how her mother felt on Sunday mornings, when her workweek was finally finished and the bus was making its way to Agata’s house, where Karolina perched by the front window, clutching her doll baby and waiting, waiting, waiting? It must have been. Harry’s meet didn’t start for a while, and he certainly wouldn’t be counting the seconds until she arrived—she may not even warrant a hug in front of his friends now that he was twelve—but none of that mattered: she couldn’t wait to see her boy.
13
Celebrities Are Fickle and Oftentimes Stupid
Emily
“You look so fucking hot in that.” Miles’s voice was a growl, and it made Emily’s stomach flutter.
&n
bsp; “What, this?” she asked coquettishly, motioning toward her teensy spandex shorts and strappy sports bra that was cut lower than it needed to be. “I always work out in this.”
She accelerated a little, her feet hitting the pavement rhythmically, and she nearly jumped when Miles grabbed her upper arm. Not softly. “I can’t wait until we get home.”
They had run only twenty minutes or so along the Santa Monica beach, and Emily wasn’t ready to go back home yet. But she slowed to a jog, Miles pushed himself against her thigh, and she could feel exactly what he meant.
“Naughty boy! You’re like a horny teenager. Stay focused!” She sprinted ahead, but already she had a plan, and she knew he knew she did.
He followed a few paces behind as Emily led the way up from the beach walkway to Ocean Avenue, which had the most amazing views of the coastline stretching from Venice Beach up to Malibu. Wordlessly, she ran toward the entrance of Shutters on the Beach and waved at one of the bellmen when he opened the door for them.
“Welcome back,” the man said, clearly assuming they were hotel guests returning from their morning run.
“Thank you,” Miles and Emily called out in unison.
They jogged into the middle of the lobby and helped themselves to two cups of citrus-infused water from a console table near the elevators. “Wait here,” Emily said, and she ducked into the ladies’ room. As she’d known from previous pit stops, it was not only empty but also featured luxurious floor-length doors instead of the usual stalls. She poked her head out of the restroom and motioned for Miles to join her.
He glanced around, looking guilty before ducking behind Emily into the ladies’ room. In an instant, he had her pressed up against the full-length mirror and was grinding into her, kissing her sweaty neck and moaning ever so slightly.
“In here,” she whispered, dragging him into the toilet room farthest from the door. It was spacious and immaculate but still a bathroom: Emily tried not to think about that part as Miles pulled down her shorts and pushed into her. She held on to the sink for balance, and they moved in their familiar way. Only this time she found herself thinking about Miriam. Did she and Paul really not have sex like this? It was pretty much the only positive thing about marriage, as far as Emily could see: the regularity of sex with someone who knew exactly how you liked it. This wasn’t even their hottest: when she’d gone to pick him up at LAX after his flight back from Hong Kong, they’d flashed their Platinum Cards and disappeared into one of the computer carrels in the first-class American Airlines lounge. She’d worn a skirt for exactly that reason, and neither needed to say a word when she hiked it up just enough to straddle him in the ergonomic desk chair. No one had noticed them then either. No one ever did. They’d had sex every single day for the ten days he’d been home, and it never would have occurred to either of them that there was any other option.
When they finished, Miles kissed her neck and said breathlessly, “You’re amazing.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.” She kissed him back and cleaned herself as well as she could with toilet paper. “Can we finish this run now?”
Miles was laughing when they opened the door, and a woman around their mother’s age looked at them in horror. When had she come in? Emily hadn’t heard the door open at all, so she hadn’t particularly tried to keep quiet . . .
“Excuse me!” the woman said in a pinched voice. “But this is the ladies’ room.”
“I was just leaving,” Miles said. He winked at Emily and walked into the lobby.
Emily could feel the woman glaring at her as she washed and dried her hands. She offered the woman a little wave and “Have a nice day” as she left the bathroom.
“Come on,” she said, tapping Miles on the butt. “Let’s get out of here before we get arrested.”
The weather was gorgeous for mid-February, and the sun shone on them as they ran the two miles back to their house on the border of Santa Monica and Brentwood. Emily glanced at Jennifer Garner’s house as they passed, to see if any of the kids were playing outside, but since Ben had moved out, there seemed to be a lot less action. When they finally arrived home, both of them were drenched in sweat but grinning.
“That was an excellent send-off,” Miles said as he opened their Sub-Zero and pulled out two bottles of vitaminwater.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving tonight already. It was all too fast.”
“Offer still stands, you know. The Peninsula in Hong Kong is not terrible. You could relax a little, go to the spa. Shop. Fuck me. Does that sound so absolutely awful?”
“Of course that doesn’t sound awful,” Emily said truthfully. “But I have to get back to Greenwich. Karolina needs me.”
“Why? Her husband is still cheating on her. She’s still banished to Greenwich. I’d say she could wait for another week.”
Emily took a swig. “All true. But she’s getting crucified in the press. Did you see the new Us Weekly today? She’s on the cover. Looking hideous. And the headline says FROM RICHES TO RAGS: THE EXPLOSION OF A FAIRY TALE. The longer these things are drilled home, the harder it is to undo them. And there’s custody at stake here. You should hear her talk about Harry. This is a big job for me. Potentially a huge one.”
“You have famous clients all the time.”
“Yes, but this particular one may be married to the president one day. That’s a different level. If I can do this right—and trust me, it won’t be easy—those little shits Rizzo Benz and Kim Kelly will be begging me. And I will savor every second of telling them to go to hell.”
“Sounds about right. I think I saw that Rizzo was interviewed by Breitbart last week? Not good.”
Emily laughed. Yet another reason she loved Miles.
“I’m going to go shower,” he said. “Join me?”
Emily opened her mouth to tell him that she was going to wait, but he had already left the room. Her phone rang the special shrill version of “Lady Evil” by Black Sabbath as the tune for Miranda Priestly. Staring, Emily knew she had to answer it. Otherwise the junior assistant would keep calling every four to six minutes, around the clock, until she picked up. Emily had invented that little trick herself.
“Emily Charlton,” she said crisply, bracing herself.
“I have Miranda Priestly calling. Just a moment, please, while I connect you.”
“Emily? Are you there?” Clipped and cold, as usual.
Even after all these years—and despite the fact that Emily was no longer terrified of her—Emily still had a visceral reaction to the sound of Miranda’s voice. Her heart beat a bit faster, and her mouth went dry. “Hello, Miranda. Yes, I’m here.”
“Lovely.” She said the word like she meant its opposite. “Listen, I need you. Gabrielle just announced that she’s been put on bed rest!”
“Bed rest?”
“She’s expecting her fourth. Four children is appalling. Not to mention I’ve already had to endure three maternity leaves.”
“Well, you know what they’re saying: four is the new three.”
“Anything over two is distasteful. I’m sure she won’t return.”
“Gabrielle’s been there for ten years, Miranda. She loves Runway. She’ll be back.”
“I need you to fill in for her, Emily, effective immediately. We are three months out from the Met Ball, and it’s not going to oversee itself. Good Lord, how could she have done this?”
Emily suppressed a smile. Even childless, she knew that babies didn’t always cooperate with the Met Ball schedule, though she’d bet that Gabrielle had tried her very best.
“Yes, of course she should have. I’d love to help, but—”
“Good. I’ll have HR forward you the freelance paperwork. I’ll pay you whatever you’d like, but I will plan to own your time for the next three months. You’ll start tomorrow?”
“Miranda, I’m in L.A., and I can’t—”
“Monday, then. You’ll fly first. Or I can get Michael Eisner to give you a lift. That’s fine.”
“I’m so sorry, I would love to help, but I’ve accepted a client who’s going to require quite a bit of hand-holding. I wouldn’t be able to give you what you need for the Met right now. What you deserve.”
There was an icy pause. “And here I had heard your business wasn’t exactly, how shall we put it? Thriving.”
Emily’s stomach dropped. “Is that so?” Word had reached Miranda Priestly—who concerned herself with nothing she deemed beneath her? That little punk Rizzo was probably telling everyone and their mother that he had flown her all the way from Los Angeles in the middle of the night just to tell her she was fired before she was hired. Or maybe it had been Kim Kelly, who had been yapping to everyone that Emily didn’t know how to Snapchat. Like it was crucial to know how to turn a selfie into a rainbow-puking piglet. Because that’s how crises were remedied and celebrity achieved. Perhaps Olivia Belle had something to do with it? Who could ever be sure?
“Allow me to remind you, Emily, although I shouldn’t have to: celebrities are fickle and oftentimes stupid. It’s a terrible combination and not one that ensures job security. Heading the Met Ball, however? That’s the job a million girls would die for.”
Everything Miranda said was true, but Emily couldn’t return to Runway. No matter how many girls would die for the job. Not after all these years. She’d practically saved Kevin Bacon and Kyra Sedgwick from bankruptcy during the whole Madoff drama and had most certainly saved Ryan Phillipe from complete irrelevance. Dealing with Amanda Seyfried’s leaked nude photos? Handling the public outcry after Robin Thicke was accused of child abuse? The brilliant way Bruce transitioned publicly to Caitlyn? All Emily. But Emily had enough firsthand Miranda experience to know she should try to smooth things over.
“It’s a wonderful opportunity, Miranda. No one knows that more than I. But sadly, I’m not in a place where I can accept it.”
“Emily.” Miranda’s voice was tight but barely controlled. “You’ll work with all the top people, but you’ll answer only to me. You can hand out business cards on the red carpet for all I care. But I need your organizational genius, that Emily thing you do.”