Itinerary delivered, she set my bag on the floor, gave me another crisp nod, and then left me alone in the room.
Overwhelmed and anxious, I sank onto the bed.
Maybe I wasn’t ready for this. I had spent so many years believing this world—publishing, media, glossy magazines, stylish, au fait websites—was right for me. I had never considered that maybe I wasn’t right for this world. I mean, who was I really? A girl with glasses who liked books and wearing arty, thrift-store finds. A girl who knew more about Oxford commas and Adobe InDesign than how to schmooze with strangers and network with prospects.
A nobody. Just like Owen had thought I was.
I thought of the still-unread email in my inbox and let all my conflicted anger send me to my feet. Owen was wrong. Not only was I somebody, even being from a semi-poor family and all, but I was going to carve out an incredible path for myself, starting tonight.
I was going to wow the hell out of Elizabeth Preston.
With a deep, determined breath, I started dressing for dinner.
* * *
Bay House was just as tasteful inside as it was on the outside. Original wood floors and molded ceilings set the tone, and the decorations were done with an elegant but restrained hand. It looked like something, ironically enough, from a magazine. As I walked down the hallway looking for the dining room, I was acutely aware I’d never been anywhere as palatial as this. The van Doren residence was a mansion, yes, but a city mansion, squashed comfortably between other mansions and department stores and buildings filled with million-dollar apartments. Bay House had nothing around it but expansive lawns, and it stretched to fill them all. It was like the house was stretching all the way to the sea.
I hoped I matched the setting tonight.
Sera and Aurora had agreed I needed something glamorous but understatedly so, and we’d opted for a black maxi dress with long sleeves and a deep V neckline. I’d balked a little at showing so much skin at first, but after I’d tried it on, I’d agreed it was the one. The silk jersey material and long sleeves gave the dress an elegant, but casual feel, and my polka-dotted open-toed high heels gave a kick of playfulness to the whole affair. I wore my hair down, letting the ash-blond waves tumble over my shoulders and down my back, and I kept my makeup simple—some mascara and pink lip gloss. Then I was done. I wanted to look like I’d be at home in this world, but not like I was craving attention. After all, my job would be to keep the attention on Gotham Girl and Elizabeth, not to draw it to myself.
I had to ask someone hauling a crate of champagne for directions, but finally, I made it to the dining room, which was long and surprisingly cozy with a fireplace and an entire wall of windows that looked out over the bay. Snow had started falling, big flakes that meant business, and from somewhere else in the house, I could hear the strains of a string octet warming up.
“You must be Tanith Bradford,” said a cool British voice as I approached the table. A tall, slender white woman was standing beside the fireplace, her hips pushed to one side and a glass of white wine nestled in her hand, the long stem hanging down like a frozen icicle. Her hair was the kind of platinum silver that was achieved by artifice, not age, and her lovely, yet stern face was unlined. She wore a white pantsuit that wouldn’t look out of place on the red carpet or in a Gotham spread.
She was beautiful. And terrifying.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, for some reason fighting the urge to curtsey. She was a magazine editor, not a queen, for God’s sake.
But she did have complete power over my future right now, and that made her queen-like at the very least. So I settled for offering my hand as I came close, and this seemed to please her a little. Her dark blue eyes didn’t thaw, and her thin but pretty mouth didn’t move. However, she did take my hand and returned my handshake with a firm one of her own, giving me a small nod after.
“Elizabeth Preston,” she said, “although I imagine you already knew that. Was the drive quite bad?”
“Oh no, not at all,” I said. “It was lovely. Thank you so much for offering to pick me up and take me home. It saved the van Dorens from having to send out their car.”
“Don’t thank me,” she said coolly. “It’s basic hospitality. And my assistant was given to understand that you didn’t have a driver of your own.”
I didn’t think I was imagining the curiosity or the faint disapproval in her tone. “No, Ms. Preston. I don’t.”
“Where’s your family from, then?”
I swallowed. “Um. New Jersey.”
Her eyes moved over me appraisingly. “Your resume was impressive, Miss Bradford. The Everston Fellowship, your academic career at Pembroke. I’m willing to let your work speak for itself, but you should know that chances for girls in your position are few and far between. I trust you won’t waste this one.”
“No, Ms. Preston,” I said, not sure how to feel about this. Was this encouragement? Outright classism? A weird, old-money mix of both?
“I know from my son’s stories that Pembroke often chooses an eclectic blend of pupils to constitute its student body—ah, there’s my husband. Jasper, come meet Tanith Bradford, one of the new Gotham Girl interns.”
Son? Husband?
I couldn’t remember ever reading anything about Elizabeth Preston having a family, but then again, maybe I’d never paid close enough attention to her personal life. I’d usually been focused on her accomplishments and her sharp, witty comments in interviews.
And wait—“Your
