Page 7 of Best Woman
Everett’s brownstone sits on a quiet, tree-lined street, the kind of street you can only afford to live on if your net worth is at least eight digits. Everett’s would be even if he didn’t design the homes of the rich and famous—not the rich and famous anyone has heard of, of course. We’re talking people withrealmoney, the kind of money that makes it both possible and preferable to be mostly anonymous. Everett has access to them because he’s one of them, a trust fund baby with good taste who fills the summer (and winter…and spring…and fall) homes of the elite with vintage vases that probably belong in museums and oversees the contractors who soundproof their private screening rooms.
I met Everett through River. They went to the same prep school and bonded at alumni events over being the only queers who came out, despite most of their classmates having canoodled with them. Everett is ten years older than me, though he and his dermatologist would disagree, and hired me after fifteen minutes of conversation and two vodka martinis.
“What interests you about interior design?” he’d asked.
At the time, the real answer had been “Eight hundred dollars a week.” But I didn’t say that.
“I like the idea of transforming a space, that the things you’ve decided to fill your home with say something about you.” Bullshit, but bullshit I’ve come to believe. I love walking into one of our clients’ homes when it’s raw and unfinished and seeing the possibility of what itcouldbe. In the year and a half that I’ve worked for Everett, he’s slowly handed me more and more responsibility. He listens when I weigh in on cabinet finishes or paint colors and has even started sending me out to oversee installations when he’s busy snowboarding with Anderson Cooper.
A text from Everett:Can you grab some wet wipes at CVS? This place doesn’t even have a bidet :/ and pls start sourcing rose quartz countertops for the Thompsons’ meditation room.
Waiting in line at the coffee shop, I unlock my phone and scroll through my recent calls to find a contractor’s number. At the top of the list is Aiden’s call from the day before.
Kim Cameron. Kim Cameron. Kim Cameron.
In CVS I find the most expensive wet wipes possible and grab two packs, plus a moisturizer some beauty influencer convinced me to buy, charging it all to the company credit card Everett would ratherliterallydie than check the statement for. And a pack of gum. And a phone charger.
Back at the brownstone, Everett accepts his latte. “I asked for almond milk, Julia, but it’s fine. Is everything OK with you today? You seem a bit off, babe.”
I hand Everett his wet wipes and smile beatifically. “Everything is fine.”
Born to Brideis nearly empty.
I spent the entire train ride praying it would be full of brides and the staff would be so busy that my transaction would be handled with brutal efficiency. More than anything, I prayed Lorraine would not be working today. I wanted to be in and out of there as quickly as possible. If I wasn’t saving literally every penny for this damn wedding, I would have paid the exorbitant delivery fee, but I’d checked my bank account balance, winced, and started applying winged eyeliner, which heavily flagsgirlon the days I can’t be bothered to wear something feminine.
There’s no one behind the register, and the only sales associate I can spot is helping a middle-aged woman choose between garters. I wait for her at the register, texting Kyle about our movie plans for this evening and replying to the selfie my mom just sent me, identical to every single selfie she’s ever taken.Beautiful! Did you do something with your hair?
“Picking up?”
Shit motherfucker fuck shit. Lorraine is behind the register, her smirking lips painted a shocking pink. “Hi, yes, I got a notification that my dress was ready.”
She nods and starts clanking away at the ancient computer terminal. “Ah yes, the Rosenberg wedding.”
“You must get a lot of those.”
She glances up at me, unmoved. “Weddings?”
“Rosenbergs.”
Her mouth purses. “That sounds a little anti-Semitic.”
“Rosenberg ismy last name. The groom is mybrother.”
She makes ahmphnoise and clacks away at the screen. “Here we are.Julia Rosenberg,” she draws out the name, theallegedlyall but audible under the words. “I see you’ve already paid the base price, but there was an additional tailoring fee. We had to let it out in a few places to suit your…unique proportions.” She makesuniquesound like a slur, and I’m sure the word she’d rather useisone.
“Why wasn’t I informed about these fees at my fitting?” Perhaps she can be reasoned with. Or bullied. I channel my mother and slip into my bestI’d like to speak to the managervoice. “Since I’m just finding out about this now, I’m sure you can do something about waiving them.”
“I wish I could.” There’s not a single ounce of sincerity in her voice. Her pink lipstick has cracked into the lines of her mouth, and in one place it’s smudged over her teeth. She’s narrow and hawklike, spends her days bullying brides for minimum wage plus commission, and probably goes home at night with aching feet. She’s enjoying this little bit of power she has over me, probably hoping I’ll cause a scene so she can have mall security escort me out.
“Fine,” I say through a smile as nasty as I can make it.
“Excuse me, I think I need the next size up.”
The voice has come from the door to the dressing room, and as annoyed as I am to be interrupted when all I want is to get the hell out of this store, this mall, the entire situation…something in it makes me turn.
It’s Kim Cameron. Shit motherfucker fuck shit.
Kim Cameronis standing at the entrance to the dressing rooms, wearing a burnt sienna version of the dress I’m picking up. I can see why she’s asking for a different size: she is spillingout of it, clasping the back closed behind her. It’s not necessarily a bad look. The color offsets her dark skin remarkably, the slit shows off a shapely leg, and her long braids are loose over bare shoulders. She is even more beautiful than I remember.
