Perfect Together by Kristen Ashley

I felt something unpleasant skate over my skin. “And is that what you think happened to me and Remy? I let Bea’s drivel penetrate?”

“I think everyone who understands these things knows there are two preeminent architects of our age. Prentice Cameron in Scotland, and Remy Gastineau in Phoenix. And I think one of the people who knows that is Remy. I think his ego got the better of him, and when you started to compete in your own field with his success in his, he started acting like an ass. And I think that Bea was in fits of fucking glee that he did, and she pounced on that faster than you can say, ‘we need a marriage counselor.’”

I stared in his eyes and whispered, “That’s what I think too.”

He whirled to the desk, fell to his forearms and whispered back, “Oh God, gurl, really?”

“I’ve let him go, Noel.”

His face fell. “Oh God, gurl. Really?”

“It’s time. High time. Past time. It’s just…” I nodded once, decisively, “time.”

“Because of that Myrna.”

I shook my head. “It’s just time.”

“Manon hates her, baby,” Noel said.

Important note: Noel was tight with all my kids too.

Oh hell.

I had to spill.

“They’ve broken up. She’s moving out.”

Noel brightened.

“We’re over, honey. Don’t get excited,” I said swiftly. “It’s done. He’s moved on. Now, I need to too.”

“Well, I suppose there are silver linings here, what with you realizing you weren’t really over him and Bea got you in her evil clutches. But this still makes me sad.”

“Bea isn’t that bad.”

He twitched his head so he was looking at me out the sides of his eyes.

“Is she?” I asked hesitantly.

“I wasn’t around when she was brought into your crew, but since I met her, I’ve been fighting asking if I could hand her a piece of coal so she could shove it up her ass and make me a ten-second diamond. And trust me, I know you care about me. I know I’m family to you. I also know you’re my employer. So understand, I know me talking trash about a friend is not cool in the best of circumstances, and you having future payments of my mortgage in your hands, you understand the risks I’m taking in sharing this opinion.”

“And Bernice?”

“I’ll let Bernice share Bernice’s take during Cock and Snacktails.”

I drummed my signature “wildfire red,” long, rounded nails on my raven-black desk blotter and stared at my pearl-gray walls.

“How about we get back to work,” Noel suggested.

I stopped drumming and took a sip of my latte before I answered, “Yes. Let’s.”

He started walking the long walk to his office that was outside my office.

But I stopped him when I called, “Did you really order lobster rolls?”

Noel didn’t break stride or even look back when he answered, “Those are Remy’s favorite, darling.”

Well then.

Whatever.

He closed the door behind himself, and I glanced around.

When I’d decided to expand the brand into exclusive subscription boxes and online sales of curated pieces, I also decided that brand needed a headquarters.

So I left my home office and took this space between Thomas and McDowell, close to the Botanical Gardens, that had been abandoned during the recession before it had ever gotten the chance to be anything.

And in it, among other things, was my office. Long, starting with an area that looked like a living room, complete with flat screen TV, and ending with my white desk in front of my built-in covered in a sheen reminiscent of mother-of-pearl.

The room had recessed ceilings, lit exquisitely. Two crystal chandeliers dripping from carved installations. A couch upholstered in gray silk with various toss pillows covered in white, black or gray. There were mirrors. There were black-shaded, crystal-bottomed lamps. There were fabulous leather armchairs. There were black-framed, black-and-white photos of me with clients or sitting beside runways.

Even if the building was surrounded by the city but felt like it was in the middle of nowhere, my office was elegant, glamorous, luxurious, and the like of which Fiona Remington (now a good friend), or Helena Abraham (another client), or Chloe Pierce (daughter of perhaps the most famous actor in the world, Imogen Swan), would not walk in, stutter step and think, “What on earth?”

The reception area was much the same, but dialed down several notches, and Noel’s office was half the size of mine, in the same colors but had more blacks, whereas mine was more whites, and that dial for him had gone back up (way up).

Attached was an open office space for the rest of my staff.

Beyond that were two massive spaces: one, a warehouse where the subscription boxes were carefully hand compiled and sent out four times a year. The other where we kept our limited, exclusive stock of clothes, shoes, handbags, accessories and makeup items I deemed worthy of Wyn’s List and sold on my website, this stock shifting out for a new list that shifted in every two months.

Outside Noel, who along with taking direct care of me, managed our two managers (subscription boxes and website sales), I also employed our receptionist, Jana, two computer engineers (one in charge of maintaining our website, the other in charge of all of our machines), one IT tech (who designed and sent newsletters and assisted the engineers), two creative directors (who reported directly to me, one who designed all editorials, the other who designed catalogue shoots for sales and marketing), three customer service reps, five stockists (who saw to inventory and filled orders), a marketing director and assistant, a rotating intern (who assisted Noel), and another who shadowed me. We contracted with various photographers, hair stylists and makeup artists when they were needed. And finally, I had a scout, Sabrina, who did what I used to spend a lot of time doing: traveling, shopping and monitoring trends.