Even as it sits here on my desk, surrounded by the colorless trappings of corporate law—the desk blotter, my computer, the phone, boring briefs and legal memos, even the post-it notes I use are stark white with the ABC corporate heading on them—the feather is so incongruous it’s surreal.
As though I needed a more obvious contrast between the two women.
I try to picture Honey (Dewberry!) sitting across from me dressed in one of her pink outfits. Or maybe in attendance at one of the events held by the firm.
I’m surprised to find myself somewhat sold on the idea, a begrudging smile coming to my face.
It isn’t that she wouldn’t stand out like a flamingo in a group of eagles (and deliberately so), but she’d probably handle it with nothing but confidence and charm.
Certainly better than I have over the years.
In fact, I’d probably get a kick out of seeing her in action.
I cough and straighten up, already dismissing that idea.
Emily is right here, ripe for the plucking and I’m high enough on the ladder of success for her to be within my reach once again.
So why am I still so tempted by the forbidden fruit that lives across the hall from me?
Chapter Eight Honey
The party is only a few hours away from starting. Helping me set up are Annabelle, Esmerelda, and Rose—The Girls, as we like to refer to ourselves.
These three work with me at Gideon Theater, and are more than just friends, they’re like my sisters.
Since the crowd for tonight’s party isn’t picky (a far cry from what I’m used to with Francis) setting up has mostly consisted of picking the right song playlists and putting out the snacks.
Everyone coming has been encouraged to bring their own favorite libation of choice to go with the case of champagne I ordered.
The Girls and I are all dressed to the nines, looking glamorous as all get out. We do love to dress up.
I’m in my pink Marchesa gown, the very one Francis bought me for the UNICEF Masquerade Ball. My hair is in a French twist accented by pink filoplume feathers. The dress is pink and ruffled and completely over the top, but then again, this party will soon be filled with people who live for excess—at least as much as they can afford.
Everyone coming tonight is a performer of one kind or another: The Girls, drag queens who are friends of Jerome, and friends from my days at the theater.
Right now, we four Girls are lazing around enjoying a freshly popped bottle of Veuve and having a proper bitch fest. From the speakers, John Newman sings “Love Me Again” set at a low volume.
“So he hasn’t so much as called you since last Monday?” Antoinette’s blue eyes are wide with the same indignation that fills my veins. She shakes her head in disbelief, her platinum blonde waves swishing across her shoulders.
“Well, to be fair, I haven’t called him either,” I point out, even though Antoinette has touched a raw nerve that’s been eating me up for the past seven days.
I did stick to my guns and put Francis out of sight, out of mind until today.
All the better to remind him of what he’s missing.
But is he missing me?
“That’s the sign of a coward—no, un pendejo,” Esmerelda spits, her dark eyes blazing with fire at those choice words. “Why should you be the one to call? You need to find a man who has the cojones to make it clear that you are the one, as opposed to this man-stealing puta.”
She continues on in rapid Spanish that none of us can keep up with, save for a few more very choice words.
“I think we can all get behind that sentiment,” Rose says with sardonic amusement.
Rose has a cynical sense of humor that fits her perfectly into the role of mother hen among the four of us, despite being around the same age. Her red hair and pale skin are highlighted by the emerald green she never ceases to wear even outside of work. Right now she looks like Jessica Rabbit, in sparkling green instead of red.
“Essie’s right, Hon,” Antoinette says, condensing our names the way she does almost everyone. “What kind of man dates another woman while still with you, even if it is fake? Peter would never suggest a such a thing to me.”
Antoinette is the only other member of our quartet who is seriously involved with someone. In her case, it’s a very sweet med school student named Peter who worships the ground she walks on.
Esmerelda keeps a bevy of men at her disposal and will probably never get married, but who knows?
Rose dated an investment banker but ended it last year, which was a surprise. She seemed so happy with him.
“Have we forgotten that tonight is meant to be uplifting?” I remind them. “We’ve spent the past week trash talking him each night, and yes, rightfully so, but tonight I want nothing but love.”
“So find a man who will actually give you love,” Antoinette says.
“Or multiple men,” Esmerelda says, with a grin, lifting her glass of champagne.
“Or at least another obscenely rich man,” Rose says with a dry smile before taking a sip.
“Boy y’all, I’m really feelin’ the love tonight. What about having faith that my man is remaining faithful?”
“But still not calling,” Rose points out with an eyebrow arched.
“Ahem,” I cough out in a pointed way.
“Okay, so no more nasty words about your cabrón—sorry, tu amor,” Esmerelda says rolling her eyes in exaggeration. “What about this…cocha?”
I give her an exasperated look.
“What? I’m Puerto Rican, I refuse to use the word Muffy. It’s an offense to my heritage.”
“Mine too, and I’m whiter than white,” Rose says with a laugh. “What kind of name is Muffy anyway? It sounds like something my grandmother would call her poodle.”
That gets a small laugh out of us.
“She isn’t even that pretty, at least not as pretty as you, Hon,” Antoinette says.
We’ve all seen the photographs of
