The excitement of the evening makes it hard to sleep, despite my big, comfortable bed and the view of the dazzling city skyline outside my window. I tell myself I won't, but I listen for the sound of his footsteps coming up the stairs. The door to his bedroom shuts, and I imagine him in there, Victor St. Clair, running his hand through his hair.
Just before I fall asleep, I hear his footsteps again. This time down the staircase and out the front door. I hear it shut.
I lay awake for a long time, but I don't hear him return.
"It can't have gone that bad," Nadine says.
"How prone am I to exaggeration?"
"Look, you've worked on your business start-up for what, two years? And I've seen you slaving away at it on weekends. You've researched everything about this."
"The weekends I could, at any rate. But yeah. He warned me he'd tear it to shreds, and he did."
"Details," Nadine says. "I need them."
I reach for my glass of wine. It's served in a stemless glass, part of the hipster decor in this fancy bar. "He sat in his home office, looking just like he did at work, and I presented it to him like he was an investor and I was an entrepreneur."
"Which you are."
"Hopefully. But he's definitely a real investor." I shake my head, my cheeks heating up. "What he said makes sense. That I'm not ready yet to launch. That I need to make it clear what positions I want to hire and where, not to mention how I'll compensate them. My branding is muddled and if I'm looking to take in outside investors, I need to have a fully-functioning website up and running. A place where clients can purchase tasks or hours with us virtual assistants."
Nadine's eyes widen. "This," she says, "is why I chose a career in the arts. Not a single word you just said makes sense."
I laugh, putting my hand on hers. "It's fun when you finally get it, I promise. It took me a long while."
She shakes her head. "No, you knew all about it in college. I remember. You'd sit in our dorm room with your bed littered by books. Like, you couldn't even sleep in it at night before you stacked them all up."
"Never stopped me from partying, though."
"Sure didn't. We could party all night long in those days."
"We're getting old," I say.
She nods. "I went out with a few buddies from the studio on Wednesday and I think I'm still hungover."
"That was three days ago."
"Yes," she says. "Exactly. Are you happy, though? With your husband's feedback?"
I groan. "Don't call him that."
"Your husband? Isn't what that he is?"
"Technically yes, as you very well know. But I don't think about him like that."
"My job is to tease you. It's in the job description of a best friend. Sorry, Cece."
I roll my eyes. "Fine. Yes, I was happy with his feedback, even if it made me doubt everything for an evening. But he knows what he's talking about, at least business-wise."
Nadine takes a sip of her rosemary gin and tonic, a staple of the trendy Soho bar we're at. It has trendy price tags too. "Is that this guy's secret? I haven't forgotten how much he made you work this past year, you know. Or how you cried on my couch two months in about how impossible he was to please. But you're still willing to take his advice."
"Gosh, I was really exaggerating back then."
"No, you were stressed and overworked. I'm friends with past you too, you know, not just present you."
"I guess I was. Thank you."
"Anytime. But can you explain it to me?"
I lean back in the chair, thinking of Victor. It's not hard to. He's everywhere in my life now, just as present as he was when I ran his schedule. "He has a driver who idolizes him and a housekeeper who's Wonder Woman. From what I can see, he barely interacts with either, but they're such class acts at their jobs."
"And he had you as his assistant," Nadine says. "What is it with this guy that has so many great people willing to work for him? From what I can tell, he's awful."
"He is. I'm not making any excuses for him. But… he invites excellence. You can't be anything but your best around him, you know? He wouldn't let you. And he works just as hard himself, Nadine. I've seen it up close. He'll drive the hardest bargains, and watching him do it is impressive. Even if it's scary sometimes."
Her smile tilts. "You sound like you're joining his little army of sycophants. I don't want you to become a Stepford wife."
I laugh. "Oh, there's no risk of that. Truthfully, I think I'm getting the best bargain out of this deal."
"Just make sure you do," she says, lowering her eyebrows and wiggling them. "I found someone I want you to meet."
"You did?"
"Yes. Jake, at the Francis Hunt Gallery. He's one of the curators and he's razor-sharp, but not in an I-color-coordinate-my-closet kind of way, you know?"
"Hey," I say. "I color-coordinate my closet."
She grins. "I know. I've lived with you. And you can't have two people like that in a relationship. What if your organizational systems clash? You'd argue forever!"
"No," I say. "Mine would win."
"Well, Jake would let you organize his closet. I can just tell. He isn't too artsy for your taste, either. A few years older than you. I don't know, Cecilia, but I think this guy could be the one."
"You say that about every guy you want to introduce me to."
"And have I ever been wrong?"
"Yes," I say. "Every single time."
She snorts. "Everyone's a possibility. But Jake is a certainty. Both you and your hubby are allowed to date other people, right?"
I groan. "Hubby?"
"Yes. Your better half, the yin to your yang, your happily-ever-after."
"St. Clair would have an aneurysm if he heard this conversation. But yes. We can date other people as long as it's kept discreet. Although," I say, reaching for the stem of my glass and twisting it between my fingers, "I don't know if that's changed since we went to dinner with his business partners."
"When you pretended to be happy newlyweds."