I haven't slept properly in a week.
More like six months, a niggling voice in my head insists. I push it back as far as I can because it doesn't matter how long it's been. Last night was opening night of my whisky club, Malt, so it's no wonder that I've barely slept a wink wanting to make sure everything was ready.
Opening night had gone about as well as expected, with a few inevitable and unavoidable hiccups that come with opening night.
The few friends who are still talking to me after I moved to New York City showed up. I'd been touched to see them. It's easy to take friends for granted, even casual acquaintances. Maybe after that last few months here with nothing but unanswered phone calls and indefinitely postponed lunches has taught me to not rely on promises from the people who I used to call friends.
Last night's entertainment, Georgana Best, a local blues singer, had turned out to be quite the draw card. And high priced as she was, I've made sure to book her for the coming three Saturdays. The half-price drinks for opening night had also proven to be incredibly popular, and we still managed to break even despite the Mt. Everest-high stacks of empty bottles of high-end liqueur currently clogging up the alley behind the club.
And while it was only the first night, the early success gives me a little hope that I can make a success of this.
Which is exactly the lift I need.
Since moving out of my family's apartment three months ago, I've been living in the upstairs storage space of the club. Dusty. Roach infested. And only an abandoned couch as my bed. But it's free and my commute is the forty-five seconds it takes me to go downstairs. Which is convenient considering I will regularly be finishing work after two a. m.
Not that anyone knows. Not that anyone can ever know.
Closing my eyes, I do some quick additions in my head about the upcoming costs that are going to have to come out of my quickly depleting savings. Building rent, wages, promotions, finishing the renovations…This place is going to have to start bringing in regular money and fast.
The thought makes my lung suddenly unable to inflate, and my blood starts to pound in my ears. A sweat breaks out all over my body.
Fuck.
Not again.
I stagger over to my desk, grabbing the little pill bottle from the drawer and tip four little white pills into my hand and swallow them, wishing the drugs could be delivered to me in the form of an IV instead.
Why, just why?
The desk chair creaks under me as I sink into it, my head falling into my hands, the sweat from my forehead dripping down my forearms as I drag air into my chest.
And I can't help wondering…if it's going to be like this forever. Is this panic is ever going to stop fucking up every single day of my life?
I shake the thought from my head, focusing on my breathing.
And I calm down.
A glance down at the sleeve of my dress shows me a small thread unraveling from the sleeve. They must've done it at the dry cleaners. I can't afford to get a new shirt right now. A rummage around in my drawer for a small pair of scissors comes up empty, and the prospect of stepping out of my office into the club edges me back on another anxiety attack.
Fuck!
I sweep my hand across my desk, scattering a pile of papers into the air.
Watching the sheets flutter to the ground brings me a small sense of peace, however, and when there's a small knock on my door a few seconds later, I feel like I can brave the day again.
"Yes?" I call out, hoping my voice doesn't give me away.
A soft voice pipes up behind the door. They must've played rock paper scissors to see who would have to talk to me. "Ms. Masters, you told me to tell you when it was time for your appointment with Leanne."
My decorator. She's here to look at some of the footage from last night to see how everything looks with the club full and dark. I stand up, wiping my hands down over my shirt and pants, and then pat any errant hair into place.
My reflection shows a woman who has it much more together than I feel inside.
And that is just going to have to do.
I'm doing the best I fucking can.
CLARISSA
A
week later, my cab stops outside of a brownstone in the West Village, a few buildings down from where a group of girls are squealing and taking pictures in front of the house used for the
exterior shots of Carrie Bradshaw's apartment in Sex and the City.
My lip curls in distaste.
I can't imagine any of my friends causing such a scene in London in front of Sherlock Holmes's building.
You don't have any friends to cause a scene with, a bitchy voice in my head reminds me. Wow. My inner voice is even more of a bitch than I am.
I climb up the stairs just as they come skipping down the sidewalk, hands-in-hands, faces flushed with the excitement of squealing.
"Hi!" one of them says to me. "I love your shoes!" Her eyes are locked on my pink Ferragamo pumps. "Guys, look! This lady is so pretty!"
They all stop in a pile of matching outfits, smiles, and coos.
It takes me completely by surprise, and all I can do is respond with a curt nod.
The other girls start walking forward, while the girl who's been speaking stays and says to me, "We've got a reservation at Via Carota for tonight! We've never been to such a fancy restaurant before."
I bite back a little snicker. Via Carota, while definitely delicious, is hardly a fancy restaurant in the scheme of "fancy" restaurants in Manhattan. But the sheer unadulterated joy on her face touches me and I surprise myself by saying, "That's nice. Have a lovely dinner." "You have an English accent!" she squeals.
Sometimes I forget that I sound different than most of the people I talk to. "Oh, yes, I grew up there.