Ella James - Unmaking Marchant

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

I pick and pull at the mess, but it’s overtaken the entire left side of my head. I glance around the bathroom, searching for a clock that isn’t here. Of course I don’t have time for an emergency trip to Julian, my stylist. But I can’t go to the clients’ house with gum in my hair. It’s a consult. They won’t hire me if I look like a crazy bag lady.

“Damn, damn, damn!” I tug open a drawer, grab my small, stainless steel scissors, and get to chopping. Fifteen minutes later, I’m dressed in a red Armani pants suit with a slouchy fedora. Underneath it, my now-straight hair hangs just a little bit below my chin.

My shoulders feel too light. My face looks blunt and sharp and not like me.

I grab my makeup bag and dash out the front door, down the porch, toward my lilac Land Rover, still dotted with dew under an overcast sky.

I know for sure I’m having “one of those days” when a bird smacks into my windshield before I even get out of my driveway. It’s cute and small and brown, and based on the tailspin it takes in the wake of the Land Rover, I’m guessing I just punched its ticket to bird heaven.

Lovely.

As I jet from Crestwood Place, a columned, brick home on one-hundred acres just outside downtown Napa, to the valley, I try driving with my knees, something my father absolutely loathes and something I’ve never been great at. I manage to run off the road once, smear my eyeliner (top and bottom) on my right eye, and put on the wrong color eye shadow, so I appear to be going for an emo look.

Lovely.

When I’m finished with my makeup, I flip the mirror up, press the pedal to the floor, and turn up some Florence and the Machine, holding onto the wheel as I fly down hills, around curves, past acres and acres of grapes. I make it to the Bernards’ house only two minutes after our set appointment time of ten o’clock.

The crumminess of the day is once again confirmed when I climb out, briefcase on my shoulder, smile polished and ready, to find Dr. and Mr. Bernard standing several feet apart in their freshly sodded lawn, screaming obscenities at each other.

Behind them, their sprawling Tuscan-style home stands empty, waiting for my finishing touch, but as their heads whip to me in unison, I know it’s not going to happen.

“Miss Dalton.” Mr. Bernard strides forward, trying to greet me, and his wife throws a wine glass at his shoulder. It shatters, falling in glittering pieces to the lawn as my mouth drops open. He turns around. “Honey, now is not the time or—”

“Yes it is the time!” Her shoulders are heaving, her long blonde hair bouncing down her back. She’s wearing scrubs, no makeup, and she looks like she wants to murder her husband. “You lying, cheating, small-dicked bastard—”

“Miss Dalton,” Mr. Bernard starts. “Perhaps another—”

“No.” The woman turns to me. “No other time. This is my money, my vacation house, and he won’t get a thing after I divorce his cheating ass!” Panting, she quickly gathers herself and adds, “Sorry, Suri. We’ll have to try this another time. Give your mother my regards.”

I stand there only a second longer before Mr. Bernard turns to go inside. His wife intercepts him, shoving him toward the garage. “Don’t you even think if stepping foot into my home you fucking asshole.”

Just great. I lost this job. I don’t have another booking until mid-May. This leaves me with enough to pay the essentials, but not as much as I need if I’m going to save for a trip to Paris in the winter.

And—damnitty damn!—I cut my own hair for these people. Because I didn’t think I had time to get to Julian’s.

My shoulders slump. I climb into my car. Turn down the Florence. Turn up some Bon Iver. But listening to Bon Iver while driving out of the valley reminds me of my good friend Cross Carlson. Cross, who last November had a motorcycle accident on one of these very vineyard roads. Cross, who a mere week ago was the recipient of my… My what? My desperate advance? My half-naked body and enthusiastic lips? My dashed dreams? My fledgling hopes? I roll my eyes at myself and turn down the music. I’m sick and tired of replaying the sad scenario with Cross. Putting the moves on him was a stupid thing to do—one I probably wouldn’t have done had I not still been in a state of shock and alarm over the way things ended with Adam.

Adam.

Ugh.

I’m tired of thinking about Adam, too, and I’m tired of slow, sad songs.

I roll the windows down, find some Sara Barilles, and am headed toward Julian’s studio when my mother calls. I hit ignore. She calls again. And calls, and calls, and calls.

I sigh and answer. “Do you need me, Mom?”

“I do, as a matter of fact. Where are you, darling?”

“Leaving the Bernards’ house.”

“Oh that’s right. How did it go?”

More than thirty years of being married to an uber secretive tech tycoon has made my mother very discreet—or maybe she always was. I give her a quick rundown of the situation at the Bernards’ house, figuring she’ll hear it soon enough from Dr. Bernard, anyway, since the two are good friends. I’m almost to Julian’s, and am feeling a little less pessimistic about the world, when Mom asks, “So…are you going to New York?”

I nearly choke.

“You haven’t asked to use the jet this weekend.”

“That’s true,” I hedge. “I thought I might just…go commercial this time. You know, since I’ve used the jet so much this last year.”

I can almost see her jaw drop over the phone line. “Book and board ? Well, what time are you leaving, darling? You know, there may not be anything left in first class.” Her voice lilts up on “first class,” as if this is a catastrophic possibility.

“I know, Mom. But I can handle business class.” I’ve flown that way a time or two, and I’ve yet to get pick-pocketed, infected with scabies, or kidnapped for ransom. “I am a business owner,” I remind her.

“I know.” It’s half sigh; again, like this is a shame. “I assume you’re on your way there now?”

“Um, in just a little while.” Not . I’m an outright liar now. I blink at the tidy buildings around me, feeling like a goldfish on a rug.

“Well aren’t you going to miss the big event?”

I exhale slowly, tightening my grip on the steering wheel. “Mom, what event?” I know I’m busted before the words leave my mouth, but what am I to do? I’m not keeping up with Adam anymore. It’s unhealthy.

“I knew it,” my mother cries. “Something is going on with you and Adam!”

“Is it?”

“He has a book signing at the Time Square Bookseller in three hours, Suri.”

Despite myself, I feel my stomach flip. “What do you mean, a book signing?”

“For the décor book, darling. The one you and he thought up. For the series?”

Sweat prickles under my hairline. “What series?”

“The series of home books on…crafting and art and, you know. I noticed the write-up in the Times didn’t mention your name. I thought it was a joint project. What’s going on, darling?”

What’s going on is Adam stole my idea. My idea. Sure, we talked about my idea together—a series of simple, colorful coffee table books on home décor and cooking. I’d originally thought of them as fun gifts for my clients, but Adam had urged me to dream bigger. “This could be a hit. Like HGTV,” he’d said. “Everyone is interested in this stuff. It’s really hot right now.”

We outlined the chapters for the home décor book on a weekend trip to La Jolla. Or rather, I did. I left the notes in his Audi, and when we started to argue over the outlines for the second, third, and fourth books, Adam suggested we drop the project.