In Pursuit Page 5

  “That catty best friend of mine did not mention that you are stunning and super thin. She is awful, that Claire,” my new client says with a sweet Southern twang, and hearty exuberance when she opens the door to her red brick single family home.

  And Claire didn’t tell me that she only associates with models, I muse to myself.

  When we arranged our appointment yesterday, my new client was the picture of professional. Now, face to face, she’s more playful, eyes sparkling in delight. We are standing at her doorstep in the heart of the affluent Lincoln Park neighborhood.

  Amanda has mile long legs and honey blonde, wavy hair. Makeup is perfectly placed across her face, resulting in an understated elegance. Her movements are controlled and fluid, like I am in the presence of a Stepford Wife. I’m well acquainted with this, because of the politician’s wives who were my clients back in DC, so I plaster on my calmest face and greet her.

  “Hi, Amanda. I’m Eddie Neff.” I extend my hand for a shake, just as she throws her arms around me much like Claire did when we met outside our apartment building.

  I sigh inwardly, thinking of Claire. Last night, she knocked on my bedroom door when she returned from dinner with her brother. She just wanted to check on me, she said. I had curled underneath my blankets without having dinner. The interaction with Harris left me legless, and not in the orgasmic way. She lay down next to me on my bed, and we talked about our days and before she left to let me sleep, she kissed me on the forehead and told me how happy she was that we lived together.

  I’m having a hard time keeping up with her mood swings. I sort of feel like I’m on a seesaw when I’m with her. However, when she’s sunshine and sweetness, I can’t deny that I enjoy her company.

  “Eddie, I’m so glad you’re here. Please, come inside.”

  Despite the opulence, I am not in as much shock as I was when I entered my new home with Claire. When it comes to my clients, I understand they have wealth ̶ that’s why they hire me.

  “Let’s sit down and talk first, shall we?”

  I’ve already characterized Amanda as a client who likes to be in charge, so I follow her lead. Some clients are unsure of what they want, so they let me control the design process from top to bottom. Others have passionate ideas and I simply provide a guide. From the way Amanda confidently leads me into her formal living room, I think she will be the latter. She indicates that I should take a seat in a dark blue sofa, and she takes a blue, gray and white patterned chair next to me.

  “What can I get you to drink? Coffee? Tea?” Amanda does not look a day over twenty-seven, but from the way she behaves, it’s like she’s been the head of a household for at least twenty years.

  “A coffee would be great, thank you, Amanda.” Shifting one leg over the other, I pull my portfolio from my tote bag and lay it on the glass coffee table.

  “Paloma, two coffees please,” she calls over her shoulder in a gentle, but firm voice.

  “You have a beautiful home, Amanda. It’s contemporary and clean, with a twist.” I gesture toward where she sits. Normally, I don’t refer to clients by their first name, but she made it clear yesterday that I simply must call her Amanda.

  “Thank you! My designer and I worked together for a year to put it together, and I am so pleased with the results. I believe in having a very close relationship with those you hire to work in your home. A successful relationship between designer and client comes from trust and mutual understanding.”

  She nods wisely at me and I return the movement in a silent affirmation of her statement. Inside, I’m thinking: Is she for real? Who talks like this?

  A slender Hispanic woman with gray hair pulled into a tight bun enters the room and sets a silver tray on the coffee table. Two teacups, sugar, and milk arrive in pristine white china.

  “Skim! As if I would drink anything else,” Amanda says, in reference to the milk.

  The maid looks at Amanda for direction, and the lady of the house smiles and waves a hand to indicate that she should pour. Though the entire scene is too formal for my liking; Amanda gives off a warm vibe and her smile seems genuine.

  After I pour a hint of milk into the cup, I take a delicate sip and moan softly in my appreciation. “Your coffee is wonderful.”

  “Don’t you love it? I got it from a local coffee shop. Claire and I will have to take you there sometime,” she gushes. I settle more deeply into my seat, feeling more comfortable because, despite her stuffy demeanor, she seems kind.

  “Let’s talk about what I can do for you and your home, Amanda.”

  It’s like the sun decides to peer between the clouds and shimmer down on her directly, making her perfectly styled waves glow, and her stark white teeth shine even brighter; or it could just be my active imagination. I didn’t have any siblings growing up, so I had to entertain myself.

  “Yes, you are probably wondering what you are doing in a perfectly decorated home.”

  Even though the comment is slightly arrogant, from what I’ve seen, she’s pretty much right. This house is stunning, right down to the crown molding and the accessories artfully placed on a console table against the wall.

  “My designer moved back to her home state of New York. We spent a year reconstructing the kitchen, living and dining spaces. The master bed and bathroom were our final projects. We never got to the guest bedrooms, other than some paint.” She pauses to take a tidy sip of coffee. “My husband and I needed a break from our house constantly being under renovation, so we took several months off. At that time, my designer decided to get out of town. I could fly her back and forth to do our bedrooms, but I can’t bother with the hassle. Once Claire showed me your work, I knew you would be the perfect person to help me finish. It was fate that you moved here right when I was ready to pick up the project, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” I agree heartily. “I would love to partner with you to decorate these rooms.”

  I mentally pat myself on the back when she encourages me to continue. “Would you like to review my portfolio before we venture to the guest rooms? That way you can call out any pieces or concepts you like.”

  Once the words are barely out, she gracefully hops up and slides onto the open piece of sofa next to me. We smile at each other like we’re sharing a secret and I forget that she could probably buy and sell me down the river in a minute; right now we’re just two girls looking at a picture book.

  As we flip through the pages, Amanda praises my work and makes note of some techniques I used. We comb through the book together, both excitedly discussing ideas that might work. To my surprise, Amanda seems very knowledgeable about design concepts.

  “You really know your stuff,” I say to her softly. We make eye contact over my leather bound book, and she smiles tentatively at my comment.

  “Thank you.”

  “Forgive me for being so bold, but I think you could be a great interior designer. If you’re ever interested, I could help you.”

  “Me?”

  Since she doesn’t appear to be put off by my boundary breaking statement, I keep going. “You clearly have an eye for design.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” she says, immediately returning her eyes to the book. One finger strokes an image of a dining room so slowly, it could be mistaken for longing. “My husband needs me at home to run our house. We’ve been married for five years, and we have our routine.”

  I nod as though it makes sense, but to me it doesn’t. If she wants to be a designer, she can definitely afford the schooling and she likely has a huge client network built in with her friends. But I recognize my place as her employee and keep my lips shut. “I understand family obligations, for sure. I hope I didn’t offend you. I only meant it as a compliment.”

  “I know. Thank you, Eddie. You are too kind.” The polite mask is firmly back in place, with a canned smile.

  We finish looking at the book in silence. It’s not uncomfortable, but the bond we shared just a few minutes earlier has dissolved into the air con
ditioning. I close the book with a satisfying thump and give her an eager smile, trying to bring back our lighthearted connection.

  “Would you like to show me the space?”

  “Yes! How about a house tour first? You can see what we’ve accomplished already,”

  She leads me into a formal dining room, with a white marble tabletop and curved chairs.

  “I like white marble,” Amanda admits, almost sheepishly, when she walk into her bright kitchen.

  “Stunning,” I say appreciatively. The look she tosses my way says, I know.

  We climb a staircase off the kitchen up on the next floor, but we pass it so she can show me the master suite on the third floor. Amanda describes the process it took to get the custom bedding for her king size bed, but I am caught next to a photo of her wedding day. She and her husband Peter are posing on a terrace overlooking a vineyard. The black and white photo enhances the milky perfection of her lace dress. Amanda’s husband, Peter, is gazing at her with adoration and she is coy, looking down at their joined hands.

  “What a lovely, lovely photograph. You two are so in love.”

  “Yes, it was a great day.” The word choice agrees with my statement, but begs the question – what about the days after that?

  “It’s magical, that photo. Are you sure that you and Peter aren’t models?” I ask, trying to break up the suddenly dour mood.

  Amanda laughs lightly. “You want to talk about models, how about Claire and Harris? I can’t really speak about my best friend that way, wouldn’t want it to get back to her that I am complimenting her.” Amanda winks at me, and I join her laughter. “But, Harris. Fuck me, he is sex on a stick.”

  My mouth drops open. Who knew Amanda had that language in her?

  “Don’t look at me like that! If I wasn’t a married woman, I would be all over him like a hungry girl on a cheesecake. You disagree?”

  “No!” I splutter through laughter. “He is totally hot, but Harris and I don’t really get on that well.”

  Amanda shakes her head as we exit the bedroom and start our descent down the stairs. “Harris doesn’t ‘get on well’ with anyone. Now, Claire blames it on a lack of sex, but he has no problems finding friends, if you know what I mean.”

  My heart sinks at the nugget of information. Stop! I tell myself, I have no ownership over him. He’s just my roommate’s brother.

  But you wouldn’t mind something more.

  “Peter, my husband, told me about some of his escapades. They are friends, both are partners at the firm. According to Peter, Harris is discreet, and basically fucks ‘em and chucks ‘em.”

  Using her relaxed mood to my advantage, I ask her, “Why is Harris so closed off?”

  We pause at the foot of the staircase while Amanda considers the question. “Well, I’d say it’s because he doesn’t have steady sex, but that’s not it, because I know for a fact he could have any woman he wants. No, there’s more to it, but Claire barely talks about it, and I don’t want to push her.”

  Talks about what?

  This conversation is turning a bit heavy for a client and employee relationship, and I would rather not be accused of having too much interest in Harris, so I change the topic when she enters the first bedroom. “Why, Mrs. McDaniel, I never knew you could be so vulgar.”

  “Only with my friends.”

  I feel a warmth unfurl in my gut at her friendliness. I pull a tape measure from my bag and we set off to get the dimensions of the room and talk shop.

  This time I lean up to hug Amanda goodbye. “Thank you for trusting me to help you, Amanda,” I say genuinely.

  “I’m so happy to have met you. I’ll talk to you later this week?” she asks as she retreats.

  “Yes, I will be in touch soon with an official proposal.”

  “I can’t wait!” Her eyes light up with excitement, and she clasps her hands together. “Bye, Eddie.”

  “Enjoy your day,” I singsong to her as she gently closes the door. In addition to establishing a new client and pseudo-friend in Amanda, I leave rich with the promises for referrals from my new client.

  It’s another beautiful day in Chicago, and I have nothing on my agenda for an hour at least, so I decide to stroll through the neighborhood. I’m crossing Armitage, heading west toward some of the trendy shops, when a buzzing against my side alerts me that my phone is ringing. I dig into my bag to pull it out.

  “Sarah!” I trill out loud. A woman pushing a stroller down the street gives me an odd glare and I blush, swiping my finger across the screen to accept the call.

  “How did you know I wanted to talk to you?” I ask when I pick up the phone.

  “It’s a best friend thing because I wanted to talk to you. I miss your voice, Eddie! When can I come visit?” Sarah asks.

  “Um, tomorrow? I miss you, too. What are you doing?” We always ask each other this when we first get on the phone, even if we know what the other is doing. Sarah always says she wants to envision me and I’ve picked up her habit. Especially now that we are so far away, picturing her doing something at home is a familiarity I want.

  “Walking out of a meeting from hell with Congressman Stephens’ wife. I never would have guessed someone from Louisiana could be so rude. The woman had no manners.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice. You know that’s why I left.”

  “Bitch.” She sighs. “What are you doing?”

  “Same as you, walking out of my new client’s house. Sar, she’s awesome. Yeah, a little stuffy, but once I got to know her we really clicked.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Claire’s best friend, Amanda McDaniel. Have you heard of her?”

  “Yes, the Southern transplant and I have met a few times at charity galas.” Sarah runs in these circles with her familial connections. “She is sweet, and her husband is a fox. They married young, right?”

  “She looks about our age, and she says they’ve been married for five years, so I’d say so.”

  “I’m so happy for you.” Even though she says it, the words fall flat. The tone is more wistful than anything else.

  “How you could ever leave a place like this is beyond me. The people are friendly and there are so many opportunities just waiting to be had.”

  Sarah laughs halfheartedly, and in my mind’s eye, I can almost see her readjusting her posture and telling herself to straighten up when she responds. “Just wait until winter.”

  Our cell phones have gotten a lot of exercise since I arrived in Chicago. Sarah and I send many text messages every day, so she knows that Claire’s shifts in temperament are throwing me off a little. The only thing I haven’t revealed to my best friend is my tenuous relationship with Claire’s big, scary, tantalizing, glorious, gorgeous brother.

  “What’s going on? Is something happening with Greg?”

  Greg is Sarah's boyfriend. They’ve been dating for six years and, since Sarah is an interior designer like me, they live together in a well-decorated, colorful apartment. By trade, Greg is a lobbyist, by practice he is a devoted boyfriend to Sarah, doing whatever he can to make her happy. Including spending time with me and becoming the older brother I never had. Somewhere along the last six years, Greg became a fixture in my life. Before I moved to Chicago, he and I would cook dinners for Sarah (she abhors working in the kitchen, but loves designing them) and go for runs along the tidal basin (Sarah doesn’t exercise unless forced by knife-point).

  I halt my walk at some park benches on Bissell, waiting for her to go on.

  “No, no, nothing like that. It’s just different without you here. I feel like I’m seeing the city for the first time.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know, I’m just being dramatic. Let’s change the subject. I’m sending you a gift and you’ll get it very soon.”

  “Sarah! You’ve already done so much.”

  There’s no greater best friend than Sarah. She put up with my shyness in college, but also helped me break out of
my shell a bit. Her family owns a liquor wholesale store in Chicago, so she was no stranger to the rules of booze in college and helped me navigate my way through alcohol, boys and demure tendencies.

  “There’s never enough good things I can do for my best friend.”

  My throat constricts, eyes becoming distorted with a salty liquid. “I’m so lucky to know you, Sarah.” A tear leaks out of my eye and I brush it away on a sniffle.

  “Stop being a pussy!”

  We laugh together.

  Suddenly, I remember. “Hey, Sarah, there was one thing I wanted to ask you about.”

  “What?”

  “Who is Cooper Grant? Claire got all weird when I asked her about him.”

  She gasps. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot you don’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  There’s a scuffle on her end of the phone. “I’m so sorry, Eddie, I have to go, I just ran into Natalie Hart.” She's a girl we went to college with. “I’ll call you later.”

  She’s gone and I still don’t have answers.

  Working one on one with clients is fun, but virtual styling really makes me happy. Attribute it to the introvert in me, but chitchat over tea and coffee is exhausting. With online clients, I can work without interruption. Most of my online design clients find me through my website, and we never meet in person.

  Tonight, I’m focusing my efforts on a layout for one of my favorite clients. Beth and I have never met face to face, but I am responsible for the design of her living room, dining room and bedroom. She lives on the west coast, and we only communicate through email, phone and video chatting. I enjoy working with Beth, because she wants the relationships to be just as low maintenance as I do.

  I’m rifling through some websites I’ve bookmarked with options for her den, when I hear the door to the apartment swing open and close with a clatter. It’s Thursday, so I’ve lived with Claire for less than a week, but I am now familiar with the door opening and closing with gusto. The Grant siblings don’t go anywhere quietly. Loud, surprising sounds don’t bode well with my clumsiness, but this time I am able to refrain from jumping at the sound.