The anger that had been eating at me with every passing minute sitting on that beautiful, uncomfortable chair waned slightly. “I appreciate that. Right now, I'd like you to steer me in the direction of her apartment so we can get to work.”
“Right this way.”
I followed her into the elevator with at least half a dozen questions. “How long have you been working with Jessica?”
She scanned a key card and punched the top floor. “I've known Jess since we were kids. Two bad ass rich kids with chips on their shoulders.” She smiled to herself, like she was conjuring up images of times long past. I didn't point out that Jessica was still living the life with her chip in tow.
After our last meeting she threatened me with some party that would make the headlines and she didn't disappoint. She invited some indie rock band for a private concert on the rooftop of the building. Traffic was backed up for miles with people stopping to look up at the rich decadence, swaying and dancing to their own music, wondering what it would be like to live in Jessica's world.
One look at Esther's face and I knew that it wasn't nearly as fantastic as it seemed. “She needs help.”
I understood. “If she needs to go to rehab-”
“She doesn't need rehab,” Esther snapped, barely waiting for me as she breezed out of the elevator.
The corridor stretched towards a wall of frosted glass. Bamboo floors, wall to ceiling windows on both sides. Esther slammed the brakes and I nearly tumbled into her.
She pointed in the direction of the glass. “She's waiting inside. I know her, and she'll put up a front if I'm there.” She gave me a sobering look. “Ask the right questions.”
Before I could ask what that cryptic question meant, Esther was floating in the opposite direction. I was left alone. Silence wasn't a problem since the closer I inched toward Jessica's apartment, the crisper the music that flowed into the hall was. Classical music. The same kind of music Jacob listened to when he needed to shut the rest of the world off and focus.
When I opened the door, I half expected to be confronted by a smattering of naked bodies, wall to wall of champagne bottles, used condoms, confetti, and wrinkled couture dresses. Instead, her apartment was spotless. Unassuming furnishings, with just the basics. A charcoal gray sectional and ottoman, a dining set. A chair here and there. Artwork framed and leaning against the wall. It looked like a place of transition; like someone had begun the process of building a home but stopped at the bones.
“I'm upstairs!”
I followed her voice up the floating staircase, going into publicist mode. Something told me it was going to be a long afternoon. I expected to be called into her office, made to stand while she sat behind her desk, trying to glare me into submission. There was only one person I submitted to, and that person was not Jessica Lenoir.
I did afford her a courtesy that she denied me and knocked.
“You can come in.”
I tried to not pin too much hope on her cheerful voice. If our last meeting taught me anything it was that nothing was as it seemed. I opened the door and took in a room that was more of the same. There was a mattress up against the wall, stripped and bare. Bleached white walls. And then there was Jessica. She was dressed in a black jumpsuit, her mahogany hair pulled into a messy bun on top of her head. She was in front of a bay window, the sun shining in and illuminating the canvas in front of her. If the rest of her apartment was a blank slate, an anonymous story to be written, her canvas was her. Angry slashes of red and black and blue. Colors collided and split and ran together like blood. She pivoted toward me, holding a brush and a look so serene that I almost apologized for disturbing her.
The look was fleeting though, along with the urge to apologize when her face darkened with displeasure. “I thought I could do this, but now that you're here...” She turned back to her canvas. “I'd like you to leave.”
I laughed. Just a single, brutal guffaw. Brutal enough that she spun back around to look at me with surprise instead of disgust.
And then the laughs wouldn't stop. They shook me from the inside out. Pouring out of my lips, squeezing my sides. I wiped the tears, trying to turn off the spicket. When I could breathe without giggling and look at her without finding humor in this crazy situation, I started over again.
“I don't belong in this world. Your world. All the money, the fame, the excess. I stick out like a sore thumb.” I walked over to the bed and kicked off my heels and dropped down with a sigh. “The last time I went over to my mother-in-law's she had a servant whose only job was to make sure her wine glass was filled and my water remained cold. But this is my life now. I go to the store and I don't have to look at prices. If I want something, I can have it. There's no need for budgets. No coupons. If I wanted to hop on a plane when I leave here I could set the destination for anywhere in the world.”
Jessica's green eyes were still wide with surprise, but a hefty dash of confusion was in the mix. “...congratulations on the come up? You're the American Dream.”
“No, I'm the fantasy. The chances of me meeting my husband, falling in love, and marrying a billionaire had to be a million to one. At least. Shit like that doesn't happen in real life.” I gestured around us. “This apartment, partying all night, properties from here to Tokyo, that doesn't happen in real life. No one takes you seriously because your life is so far outside of reality. We have to show the world that you're real.”
She held the brush out like a knife. “How the hell do I show the world I'm 'real'?”
“You can start by dropping the act,” I said darkly. “I don't know why you're pretending you're nothing but a socialite, but it's doing you no favors.”
Her face was a storm of emotion. Anger, hurt, and guilt lashed across her eyes. Singed her lips. “You don't know me.”
“And neither does the world,” I answered. I rose from the bed, walking toward her. She backed up a few steps like she was expecting me to hug her, but I looked through her. The indignant, obnoxious girl before me was just as much a front as the party girl. What was on the canvas was closer to the truth. “You painted this?”
She stepped up beside me. “I...yes. It's probably not very good.”
I stole a look at her, watching the vicious, overly confident person I knew her as hide behind this quiet, self conscious artist. Someone closer to the truth.
“It's great, actually.”
“Right,” she scoffed, like my opinion was worth less than nothing.
I bit back the urge to call her on it. To take her to task for doing everything she could to make me not like her.