Page 125 of Most Eligible Billionaire

Nothing feels like her.

Or maybe I'm just getting further away.

“Speaking of makers and their studios, you put a bid in for that London thing?” Smitty asks me.

“What London thing?”

“The huge warehouse share studio—Redmond or something?”

“I haven’t ever heard of it,” I say.

“That’s weird. You have a UK presence. I would think Locke would be the first firm they’d invite to bid. It’s the kind of shit you guys have been getting off on lately. It’s some big cooperative makers space. Freaking huge. Reclaimed urban ruin, neighborhood integration…”

I sit up, interest piqued.

He goes on to outline more features…familiar features.“We bid it, and it’s not even our thing.”

“Are there places to eat, sleep?” I describe the ideas I had for the Southfield Place Studio.

He nods his head. “So you do know about it.”

“The owner’s not named?”

He gives me a funny look. “No.”

“You have access to the RFP?” Request for proposal. I nod at his phone.

“What? And let you bid against us if you weren’t even invited?”

I nudge his phone toward him. “Forward me the RFP.”

Thirty-Three

London

Vicky

It’sa rare sunny day in London. I step out from the funky share space where I have an office onto the street with Smuckers trailing behind.

We skirt around puddles like pale mirrors on the pavement, reflecting gray skies and the gray buildings all around, and the colorful lights of signs. There’s a scent of diesel in the air, mixed with the sweetness of hops from a nearby microbrewery.

We head up the street toward a bright-red phone box. A woman named Hanna converted it into a coffee booth—I was relieved there isn’t just tea here.

“Hi, Veronica!” Hanna says.

I tell her hi. I buy a muffin and coffee and hang around and talk to her, like I do every day. She always has a nice treat for Smuckers.

I love the colorful, international bustle of London. I love my fun, fashionable neighbors at the office shared space, but I miss New York.

The Vonda story broke after Christmas. My mom, of all things, found it in herself to confess and produce evidence that shows what the Woodruffs did to me. There’s speculation she was paid.

It was a big TV news-hour-style story that got picked up all over—it even made the front page of theWashington Post.

I cried when I watched it. And then I watched it again and again and again. And I just felt so clear. Like something painful inside me got washed clean in tears and rain.

But, strangely, I didn’t want to go back.

That thing that got washed and cleared is perfectly preserved, fragile in a nice ribbon. Going in front of the cameras as vindicated Vonda doesn’t appeal to me much more than going as hated Vonda.

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