Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
“We just have to talk,” she quickly reassures. “Candidly.”
There’s the word I don’t like in this context.
“I have a few topics that I have outlined to discuss in my book and need a new case study to assist in explaining as well as supporting them. My questions are going to sound similar to a therapy session-”
“No, thank you.”
“-and I’ll record it.”
“Extra no thank you.”
“Relax, darling. Your audio will be locked in my personal encrypted files to prevent source tracing. No one will have any idea that I used you, besides me. You have my word.”
I don’t want her word.
I want my damn privacy.
Seeing Janice’s mother arrive in person – a rarity –, I press the intercom button for her room, knowing the woman’s distaste for waiting. “Lizzie, Janice’s mother has arrived. Please, have her ready to go.” Immediately after the command, I look up and warmly greet her, “Good evening, Mrs. Leonard. How are you?”
“Beautiful,” she theatrically gushes proving my best friend isn’t the only melodramatic mother in the building. “They were having a huge sale at Neiman Marcus, and I went home with the most splendid array of new heels from designers I decided to try since they were at bargain prices.”
Yeah…our bargain prices probably aren’t exactly the same caliber.
“I mean just look at this pair of Zanotti’s I got for only seven hundred,” she pauses and turns her body to display her recent purchase. “Aren’t they gorgeous?”
I stand to get an actual view of them.
“Aren’t they simply the most fantastic piece of discount couture you’ve ever seen?”
The gold stiletto pumps don’t look special to me. They look like every other pair of shiny shoes that struts in here, looks down at me like the overpaid help, and then saunters off to pick up the human accessory they just had to have to fulfill some trophy wife mandate. Sometimes I feel like those shoes. Like I was on sale, someone grabbed me, loved how shiny I was in the beginning then put me in the closet with all the other shit they know they have, yet don’t care if they wear or not until someone else points it out. Then they’re important again. Then they’re worn for a day, falsely idealized once more, only to have the sick cycle repeat.
I know it’s not healthy.
But then again, I’m not so sure I know what healthy in the self-esteem department is.
The smile on my face is the most professional one I can conjure. “They’re definitely something special.”
“Kat?”
“No.”
She hates to be called Kat.
We’re talking hates.
Like buy the entire hole-in-the-wall bar just to rewrite the handbook to include a line that says never to call her Kat again.
That actually happened about three months into our unexpected friendship, which began at that very same bar where we bonded over literature – would’ve never pegged her for a J. Ivy fan – and a secret Richard Gere crush we both have in spite of the fact we’re much too young for him at both twenty-eight – me – and thirty-four – her.
The little nomenclature hatred makes me snicker when we’re out and about having lunch or shopping or seeing a movie her husband would never be caught dead seeing, but at work, I try to always remain professional where other parents can see. She feels the shortened version of her name makes her sound juvenile, like a meager adolescent no one would ever take seriously, regardless of how much money or what her degree says. To me? A name is just a name. Just another card you’ve been dealt. Just another card for you to figure out how play in the game of life. To me, your name doesn’t define you or destroy. Make or break you. There are probably much more brutal cards than your name that are shuffled into your deck. And if there aren’t? Count your goddamn blessings.
Kathleen – Mrs. Leonard – stops her posing to inquire, “No, they aren’t something special or no, don’t refer to you as Kat.”
“Yes.”
Her curt answers prompt me into intervening before shit can get out of control. “Little Janice probably can’t wait another minute to see you. I got the feeling she was missing you extra today.”
“Oh, you’re probably right. My little poopsie woopsie prolly wolly missed her mommy wommy while I was out shopping wopping.”
“Just fucking shoot me,” Katherine mutters under her breath.
“David wants us to go out to dinner tonight, some new sushi place that he called in several favors to get us reservations at, so I should probably hurry to get her home to the nanny. Wouldn’t want us to be late even if it would be fashionable,” she haughtily sniggers upon her self dismal.
As soon as she’s around the corner – yet probably not completely out of earshot – Katherine gags, “If I ever turn into a steaming pile of useless silicone that wobbles in my stilettos and can’t stop pouting my lips because of the injections, swear on your autographed copy of A Light in the Attic that you’ll bitch slap me with the latest copy of Vogue.”