Page 33 of State of Ruin

“Hey, girl!” She sounds overenthusiastic too, and not in an excited way. More like she’s compensating. My stomach sinks as I wedge the phone between my shoulder and my ear and guide Fleur in the wake of her mom with my free hand on her skinny little shoulders. “I’ll keep this quick,” she says, and I already know she has a Band-Aid to rip off. “It’s a no from Voss. I’m so sorry, babe.”

I blow out a breath. “That’s okay! It’s totally fine.” My voice sounds a little screechy, and I know I haven’t imagined it when Fleur glances up at me in alarm. I shoot her a smile that probably looks a little unhinged.

“We knew it was a long shot,” she says. She’s in the office; I can hear the babble of mainly female voices in the background.

“Exactly! Totally. I mean, it was worth a shot. And I appreciate you putting me forward for the opportunity.” If I had any more platitudes on the tip of my tongue, I’d throw them in for good measure, but I’m honestly feeling a little shaky. I knew it was too much to hope for, but I guess I got excited. It was the size of the campaign, all the bustling glamour of being at the test shoot, and, honestly, the fact of it being Voss. It was like I was given a glimpse of the big leagues, and it’s hard to keep your head when opportunities like that are dangled right in front of your face like the biggest, shiniest diamonds. I’ve been more intimate with Sinclair in the shadowy corners of Alchemy than I could ever have dreamed, but this would have been legit. This would have meant a chance for me to shine in the light of day.

Her voice grows less chirpy and more serious. “Listen to me. I don’t know the full story, but my contact there is pissed—apparently, the decision came from over her head. She adored you. She thinks you have something really special, okay? I’m so sorry this didn’t work out for you, but I need you to know how positive the feedback was.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I manage. “Yeah, that’s so kind, thank you.” My throat is so tight that it feels like I might pull a muscle just from trying to speak. I tug gently on the leash as Jambon drifts toward a passerby holding a huge sub.

“Elyse? Girl. It’s not kind. It’s true. So this one didn’t happen. But honestly, we are going to find you something major. Are you hearing me? This has really made me realize that I need to get you in front of a lot more beauty brands.”

“Yeah. Yes. I hear you. That sounds great. So great! I’m just with my family—I’ll catch you later, okay?”

I hang up and almost walk into the back of Sylvie’s wheelchair. She’s stopped in front of me and is craning her head to look around. “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

“Thanks.” I aim for a brisk nod, but it ends up being more bobblehead.

“Are you sad, Lees?” Fleur asks, looking up at me and sliding her little hand into mine.

“I’m disappointed,” I tell her. “Not sad. I was hoping to get a really cool job and I didn’t get it. It would have been fun. But a lot of people went after it, so it’s no surprise, really. I’m just glad they considered me.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, leaning in toward me and giving me a sweet little bump with her shoulder.

“Thank you, Fleurie,” I tell her. Fleurie: our pet name for her and the French term for flowery. It suits her just as much as her real name.

Sylvie is still turned around in her chair. She raises a don’t give me that bullshit eyebrow. “You’re allowed to be pissed, you know.”

I make a noncommittal noise because I don’t really agree. Being pissed suggests a level of entitlement that I’m not comfortable with. Even if I hoped, deep down, that I’d get the job, it’s humiliating enough to have to admit I didn’t get it without letting these people who love me see how hard I let myself believe I might. Besides, the more devastated I look, the more my sister will tell herself that I was counting on that money to help dig us out of our hole. Therefore, the more I can seem to shrug it off now, the more she will shrug it off.

That’s the plan, anyway.

“It’s all part of the job,” I tell them both airily. “You win some, you lose some. But you have to keep showing up to be in the game. Come on,” I say to my sister with a jerk of my head, “hands off the wheels. I’ll steer. Let’s go, Jambon.”

With a sympathetic grimace, Sylvie settles back into her chair, reaching behind her to pat my hand on the handle. Fleur trots alongside us as we make our way along the sidewalk toward home, and I force myself to tuck the memory of my Voss shoot away into the recesses of my mind, every bit as pretty and pointless as the sparkly scraps a magpie hides away in its nest.

The only consolation is that I didn’t breathe a word of my casting call to Sinclair. I assume this has all taken place several rungs below his pay grade: he probably doesn’t even know casting calls happen twenty stories below him. And I have no idea if he wants a replay of Wednesday night, but if he does, at least I can meet him as an equal and not some tragic wannabe who wasn’t special enough to make the cut in his beautiful, shiny empire.

CHAPTER 18

Sinclair

I’ve stayed away from Elyse and stayed away from Alchemy more generally over the past week. There’s nothing for me at the club except for her, and, having effectively secured my monopoly over her in that conference room last week, I figured I owed myself—and her—the courtesy of some time to reflect on what I want next.

More time with her, naturally. More time inside of her, more accurately. But the occasional stolen hour at Alchemy won’t cut it anymore; I know that much.

I need more—and it certainly hasn’t taken me a week to figure that out. Nowhere near. Still, I’ve bided my time for reasons I’m not entirely clear on. But nothing blows away the cobwebs of conflict and self-doubt like the Fall Fashion Gala. Tonight, it acts like smelling salts on my love life, returning me to clarity like only a good whiff of ammonia can do.

From the moment my family and I exit our limo at the David H. Koch Theater, I’m mobbed by paparazzi. On the red carpet, I give them what I consider to be an obliging smile and wave—yes, I’m wearing Tom Ford; yes, the Vosses are thrilled to support this wonderful cultural cause—before accompanying my sister Melissa to pose in front of the meet-and-greet. She’s the perfect armor for now, golden and glowing in custom Rodarte, the label sponsoring this year’s event. But, as soon as we get inside, I’m fair game. Turning up with your sister on your arm says you’re a family man, but it unfortunately also tells everyone you’re unattached.

I smile and air-kiss my way through the cocktail reception. Whitney Halsey and Tatty Sedgwick and every other godforsaken female from Long Island are, it appears, here tonight. Having failed at Mom’s birthday lunch to extract the coveted invitation as my date to this thing, they’ve shown up anyway. While I wouldn’t presume to think they’re all here to make another play for me, it’s hard to draw another conclusion, given the hair-flicking, handsiness, and general refusal to acknowledge basic boundaries.

The ballet performances are, I have to admit, stunning. There’s one petite brunette, so ethereal and with such a pure line, who reminds me of Elyse. She makes me wonder if the woman I can’t get out of my head has a dance background. She also makes me feel as though the universe is winking at me, taunting me, even. Why the fuck am I sitting here with the same fucking people I’ve been making small talk with my entire life, when I could be at Alchemy, seeing her? Moving forward with her?

I endure dinner, behaving, of course, with impeccable manners and what I hope is the unrelenting charm I’ve been bred to exude on demand. Sometimes, I marvel that nobody can see I’m dead behind the eyes. Sometimes, I feel uncannily like Newland Archer in The Age of Innocence, allowing himself to be slowly buried beneath a mountain of hot coals. The pain of dinner is alleviated momentarily by watching my brother Xander fangirling over Sarah Jessica Parker, the gala’s creator, who drops by our table to pay her respects. I swear, seeing SJP is the highlight of his year, and I get it. She’s pretty fucking fabulous.

But as soon as dinner is done and my parents and siblings have disappeared off into the throng, I adopt one of my absolute favorite exports from the Emerald Isle and execute the perfect Irish goodbye. “Gansevoort and Washington,” I tell our driver, Andrew. He’ll drop me downtown and be back at the Lincoln Center hours before my folks are ready to leave their schmoozing.