Page 131 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
I don’t believe either type is actually born that way. They’re created in whatever work environment they’re part of. But the fashion world isn’t especially big at Valente’s level of both luxury and ready-to-wear. That means designers are tight-lipped about what it’s like to work at the big fashion houses. Not only because some of the biggest brands are owned by one conglomerate, but also because no one wants to be blacklisted from working at other houses if things go sideways where they’re at right now.
So, even though I did plenty of research about Valente before applying for the internship, I couldn’t dig up much about the company culture. Honestly, even if I’d known it was the cliqueytype, I wouldn’t have turned down this opportunity. If I do well here, I can work anywhere. I just have to keep my head down and do my best for the next six months. Once the senior designers realize that I can be trusted and that I’m really good at what I do, I’ll find opportunities to show them my designs.
It's just after seven p.m. when I get on the bus toward the beach house. I keep my head down the entire ride home, mostly because I’m too tired to keep it up, but also because, apparently, more men than women ride the bus after the sun goes down. And not the sweet, romantic kind of men.
Nope, these guys are big and sweaty. Some of them reek of beer or weed, and I don’t want to sit next to any of them. I put my bag on the seat next to me, but that doesn’t stop a guy with too many gold chains and even more Axe body spray from asking to sit. There are empty seats at the back of the bus, but he’s holding up the line of people behind him, so I nod and pull my purse into my lap.
New Yorkers are friendlier than they’re given credit for, and the friendliest thing they do isnotstrike up conversations with strangers on public transportation.
LA is a different story. For the next thirty minutes, I listen to DJ Risky tell me how he got started in the music industry (he found an old turntable at a garage sale), how many gigs he’s played (five—not including his cousin’s bar mitzvah), and where he’ll be playing this weekend.
He doesn’t give off creeper vibes—despite the overabundance of body spray that makes my eyes water—but I’m tired, hungry, and have no cares left to give when it comes to pretending to enjoy this conversation.
I stand as we approach my stop, and he hurries to invite me to his upcoming gig. I politely decline, then literally jump off the bus as the doors open.
I walk quickly to the house, which is a few blocks from the stop, stopping at the 7-11 on the way for a cheap can of coffee. My feet are killing me after the day I’ve had, and all I want to do is eat something yummy and process the day with someone. I’ll talk to anyone, even Archie, as long as there’s no talk of turntables.
But the house is dark and empty when I let myself in the front door via the code Sybil sent last week when I thought I’d have the house all to myself. I call Archie’s name, just in case he’s there in a towel or something equally awkward—although I have no idea what that might be.
When there’s no answer, I flip on the lights in the kitchen.
If I thought things would be more “fun” when I got home, Archie’s mess from last night, in addition to the spilled milk and cereal from this morning, erases that idea. As do the milk-crusted bowl and spoon still on the table.
I don’twantto clean up Archie’s mess, but I have to use every bit of willpower not to do it. If he’d made even a little effort—put his bowl in the dishwasher, or even his spoon—I’d take the time to make this kitchen look as spotless as it should. But his messes feel purposeful.
Add the alarm and the missing coffee this morning, and he’s definitely messing with me. Any guilt I felt at my pranks yesterday disappears, now that I can focus on what he’s done...and not done. I didn’t mess with his first day of work. I didn’t do anything that could affect his career, such as it is, and I’ve cleaned up after him every day since I got here. Instead of playing his game and cleaning the kitchen, I grab a yogurt and an apple, then head to my bedroom to eat dinner alone and plan my next move.
Game on, Archibald Forsythe.Game. On.
Chapter 12
Archie
Tuesday morning, I wake to music blasting through the built-in speakers that are in every room. The stereo system was pretty advanced twelve years ago when Dad had it installed after buying the house. I haven’t used it in years, but apparently, Piper has discovered it.
I check my mobile. Six am. Not too early to get up, but I was out late last night with Rhys, who’s in town for a few days in between shows. The waves are supposed to be rubbish this morning, so I didn’t have a reason to get up early.
Piper’s curious music choice has fixed that, though. I’ve never heard the song she’s blaring, but I’d guess she heard it in New York at one of those clubs that only play electronic dance music. Except, this is worse than that. It’s borderline eighties pop, and the singer has a high, girly voice.
Worst of all, the chorus feelsverypointed. Basically,hey, hey rich boyis repeated about a thousand times in a row.
I reckon this is payback for Sunday night, and I let out a soft chuckle. Clever. If I’m not careful, I might start liking this back and forth with Piper. She knows how to keep things interesting.
I won’t be going back to sleep, but I won’t be rushing downstairs as proof her little ploy worked. I clasp my handsbehind my head and wait for the song to end. The song that follows is something about a pretty boy. Dunno whether to be flattered or offended by that. Does Piper think I’m pretty? Do I want her to?
Like she’s reading my mind, the next song that plays is “You’re So Vain.”The line,you probably think this song is about you,is particularly cutting.
Not chuckling anymore, I roll out of bed and check the surf report. Wave isn’t great—like I expected—but I’d rather bob around in the ocean than wonder if I am, in fact,so vain. I dig around in my closet until I find a pair of Speedos to wear under my wetsuit. No more going au naturale for me while Piper is around.
As I walk downstairs, a familiar loud grinding sound comes from the kitchen, making my stomach rumble. I’ll have to wait for Piper to finish whatever she’s doing with the Vita-mix before I make my protein smoothie.
The kitchen isn’t my first destination, though. That honor goes to the stereo encased in the built-in entertainment unit. I’m across the room from Piper, but her back is to me, and she doesn’t hear me over the sound of the high-powered blender.
Piper’s mobile is connected via Bluetooth to the system, and her Spotify playlist is visible on the stereo screen. Next song up? “Super-Rich Kids” by Frank Ocean. Playlist name? Rich, Spoiled Kids with Daddy’s Money.
I’d be an idiot not to feel targeted, but at least now I know it wasn’t only vanity or paranoia spurring me to think so.
Quietly, I cross the family room into the kitchen. There’s a bit of an odor in there, which I realize might be from the dishes I used yesterday that are still on the counter. When I’m less than a foot behind her, I yell, “Good morning!”
