To Have and to Hate Read online

  A more modest studio apartment in a less desirable location will work just fine.

  I reply to Mason’s email immediately, carefully ensuring that Walt is copied on my reply since Mason included him on the first email.

  FROM: [email protected]

  TO: [email protected]

  CC: [email protected]

  TIME: 8:16 AM

  Subject: Re: Apartment Search

  Thank you for taking the time to send over these apartment listings, Mason. Unfortunately, none of them are within my price range.

  Could you remind your boss of my current budget restraints?

  Ideally, I’d like to rent an apartment for no more than $1,500/month. Utilities included.

  Thanks again,

  Elizabeth

  FROM: [email protected]

  TO: [email protected]

  CC: [email protected]

  TIME: 8:18 AM

  Subject: Re: Re: Apartment Search

  I’ve brought your concerns to the attention of Mr. Jennings and he has confirmed that the listings should be within your price range.

  I’m also meant to remind you that you’re responsible for signing and returning the legal documents that were sent to you two days ago by Rupert Hirsch at Hirsch & Dershowitz.

  Kindly,

  Mason Cunningham

  Assistant to Walter Jennings II

  Diomedica

  Oh screw this. Tired of going through a third party, I decide to email Walt directly and go straight to the source.

  FROM: [email protected]

  TO: [email protected]

  TIME: 8:19 AM

  Subject: Let’s Cut to the Chase

  I’m not renting an apartment for that price. I can’t afford it, so would you please just cosign on the apartment we looked at yesterday? Your concerns about it were unfounded and frankly elitist. I’ll have it professionally cleaned before I move in. Surely, that should be enough for you.

  Thank you,

  Elizabeth

  FROM: [email protected]

  TO: [email protected]

  CC: [email protected]

  TIME: 8:22 AM

  Subject: Re: Let’s Cut to the Chase

  The monthly disbursement from your trust would more than cover the rent for any of those units Mason sent over. Please inform Mason of your top three choices and he can arrange showings for each.

  Also, see the attached peer-reviewed study from the academic journal Science, which outlines how harmful living conditions can lead to poor health outcomes across all socioeconomic statuses.

  FROM: [email protected]

  TO: [email protected]

  TIME: 8:25 AM

  Subject: You’re being ridiculous

  I just tried to call you and you didn’t answer. Then I tried Mason and he said you were unable to be reached at the moment.

  Please give me a call to discuss this issue when you have a spare minute in your day. I understand you’re busy and I’m not trying to be unreasonable…it’s just that you’ve given me no choice.

  Within a minute of me sending that email, my phone rings.

  Walt’s name flashes across the screen, and my heart actually skips a beat, which I realize is slightly embarrassing, but it’s not like I can help how anxious he makes me.

  After a deep breath and a shake of my head, I grab my phone, swipe across the screen, and say hello.

  I immediately hear the road noise in the background.

  “Elizabeth, you’ll move into my apartment later this afternoon. Mason can coordinate movers depending on the amount of stuff you need to—”

  “What?! Slow down. What are you talking about?”

  He clears his throat in annoyance at being cut off. “It’s the only solution I can come up with that appeases us both. You’re hell-bent on finding somewhere to live that fits into an imaginary set of parameters, and I’m tired of dealing with this issue. I won’t budge on the apartment from yesterday either.”

  “I’m not moving in with you,” I say with a preposterous laugh.

  “My apartment is big enough for the both of us. In fact, I doubt we’d even see each other.”

  “Still…that’s…”

  “What?” he prods.

  “Insane.”

  “More insane than what we’ve already done this week?”

  “That’s poor logic.”

  He lets loose one of his trademark sighs, then he says my name like a plea.

  “Elizabeth.”

  I press my lips together to keep myself from smiling.

  “I don’t want to follow your rules. In fact, I don’t want to follow anyone’s rules. I want to live by myself. Fund my own life. Stand on my own two feet.”

  “Right. Well, while that’s admirable, you’ll have to budge on something. Either you move into my apartment for a few days or you accept your disbursement and move into one of the apartments Mason found for you.”

  “There’s a third option. I could just stay at my hotel.”

  “Yes, and continue draining your bank account for no reason. I thought you were smarter than that.”

  I fight the urge to argue with him.

  “Why don’t we put a pin in this for now?” he continues, sounding like he’s losing patience. “I’m heading to Washington D.C. for work for a few days. You’ll have the apartment to yourself. We can continue this discussion when I return. Surely, you can’t come up with an argument for that.”

  “Fine. But you should know, I’m not purposely trying to be combative. It’s not like I get some sick pleasure out of annoying you.”

  “I think we both know that’s a lie.”

  I have to bite back a smile.

  “Mason will be in contact with you shortly,” he tells me. “Don’t make his job any harder than it already is.”

  Then the line goes dead, and I’m left staring down at my phone wondering how the hell I got myself into this mess.

  I could of course go against Walt’s demands. I could stay put in this shabby hotel room with its crappy lighting and stiff bed and cramped bathroom. I could also save money and move into Walt’s apartment just for a few days, just until we’re able to resume our negotiations. Hmm…what to do, what to do.

  Obviously, I have my bags packed within the hour and I’m sitting in the back seat of a cab, heading toward the address Mason emailed me shortly after I got off the phone with Walt.

  Once I’m deposited on the sidewalk outside the trendy Tribeca building, a doorman rushes out to greet me. He’s a young guy with pep in his step and a huge easygoing smile.

  “Mrs. Jennings, welcome, welcome. Let me retrieve your bags.”

  I don’t pay attention to anything he says after “Mrs. Jennings”.

  Did Mason tell this man I’m Walt’s wife?! Was he supposed to?! I mean, yes, technically, it’s true on paper, but I’m taken aback by someone actually referring to me in that manner.

  The doorman winks as he takes my two suitcases. Maybe he can tell I’m in shock.

  “Everyone in the building has already heard the good news. Word travels fast around here.”

  I nod with a weak smile, trying to come up with a response that doesn’t equate to me putting my foot in my mouth.

  The doorman mistakes my awkwardness for shyness, shaking his head apologetically. “My bad. I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Terrell. I’m on duty most days. You’ll probably meet Josh too. He takes the night shift.”

  “Nice to meet you, Terrell.”

  I extend my hand only to realize he’s carrying both of my suitcases. We laugh at the blunder and then he bends his arm, suggesting we do a silly elbow bump. I immediately like him, and I’m glad I’ll at least have a smiling face to greet me at the door while I stay here, however long that may be.

  He walks me through the lobby and I stare up at the ceilings, trying to guess their height. Twenty feet? Thirty?

  “Three stories high,” Terrell confirms for me as we
arrive at the elevators.

  I immediately close my mouth, aware that he’s been staring at my slack-jawed reaction as we walk through the lobby.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  He nods. “Yeah. I’ve worked in a few high-end residences, and this one definitely takes the cake.” Then he leans in. “I’m not supposed to say anything, but Harry Styles owns the unit on the floor underneath yours.”

  Now my jaw is really on the floor.

  “Sorry to say though, I’ve only ever seen him here once.”

  Pfft. Like that’s going to stop me from using a spoon to create one of those Shawshank Redemption holes in the floor of Walt’s apartment so I can peek through.

  The elevator doors sweep open and we step inside. Three out of the four walls are made of glass, and as we ascend floors and go up and up, the lobby gets smaller and smaller beneath us.

  “You’ll be in the penthouse up on the 35th floor.”

  A mild jolt of excitement spikes my blood. I can’t wait to see the views from inside the apartment.

  When we arrive on Walt’s floor, Terrell waves for me to proceed before him, straight out of the elevator into the formal entry gallery of the apartment. There’s a woman standing there, waiting for us, wearing a silk blouse tucked into trendy wide-legged trousers. Her cropped blonde hair and pale pink lipstick accentuate her pretty features.

  My stomach drops as I realize what I’ve just walked in on.

  Oh god. I hadn’t even considered this scenario.

  Six

  “I’m so sorry!” I mutter quickly, turning back for the elevator and running straight into Terrell. He releases an audible oof as he tries to stay standing and, fortunately, succeeds in keeping us both from sprawling out onto the black and white checkerboard marble floor. I’m eternally grateful to him considering I’d hate to embarrass myself even more in front of this woman.

  “Oh, Mrs. Jennings, I’m sorry to have surprised you!” the woman says, rushing forward to help steady me.

  I frown as I step back to get my bearings again, confused as to why Walt’s girlfriend, or mistress, or whoever she is, is apologizing to me.

  “I’m Rebecca, the concierge here at Penthouse 35,” she says with an award-winning smile.

  “I should have warned you she’d be up here,” Terrell says with a light laugh.

  “Concierge?” I ask, glancing between them.

  Rebecca steps forward. “Yes. I work here in the building to help serve all the top-tier residents. You and Mr. Jennings are among them. Normally, I won’t be waiting for you here when you arrive home, but Mr. Jennings requested that I give you a tour and help you get settled.” She glances past me and nods at Terrell. “Would you please take Mrs. Jennings’ bags to the main suite at the end of that hall while I give her a brief tour?”

  Brief.

  Ha.

  Sure, it could be brief—if not for Walt’s palatial floor plan. It’s like I’m touring a museum.

  We walk down the central hallway, past a few of the bedrooms, all with en-suite bathrooms. From briefly poking my head into a few of them, I can tell each one would be like living inside a luxurious hotel suite.

  The hall dead-ends directly into what Rebecca refers to as a breathtaking great room with two terraces and views of the Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Williamsburg Bridges. I listen intently as she tells me how the apartment was renovated by Reber Design Architecture in coordination with Emma Donnersberg Interiors.

  In the main suite—where Walt sleeps and where Terrell drops my suitcases—there’s a fireplace, a sitting room off of an outdoor terrace, and a master bathroom with radiant heated floors, steam shower, and deep soaking tub.

  I barely have a moment to appreciate it before Rebecca sweeps me out into the hallway to the open chef’s kitchen where there are two islands, double Sub-Zero refrigerators, and a Miele double oven.

  Off of the kitchen is a granite and brass 550-bottle wine closet and a marble bar, both hidden behind washed oak doors. Across from that is the library with floor-to-ceiling millwork.

  I can barely pick my jaw up off the floor. If I was alone, I’d be running from one room to the next with crazed eyes, my hand covering my mouth to try to quell the squeals of glee. I grew up around wealth. I know how the truly rich really live, but this is different. This isn’t the 1%, it’s the .0001%. Walt’s art alone would make any discerning critic weep.

  There’s a David Hockney landscape hanging in the great room. A Jenny Saville large-scale nude in the dining room. One of Albrecht Dürer’s sketches of hands hangs back in the entry gallery, and most notably, A Banquet Still Life by Jan Davidszoon De Heem sits above the fireplace in the library. I stare at it after Rebecca leaves, slightly stunned. I knew it was slated to go up for auction at Christie’s recently, but then it was sold to a private collector before the auction could take place. It was a low-key scandal across the art world. All the blogs I follow were speculating about who could have purchased the masterpiece. The best guess was that it had been acquired by the Menil Collection, which makes sense considering it could easily be the capstone of their Houston museum, and yet, here it sits in Walt’s apartment.

  It feels oddly intimate to be alone with the painting, like I’ve been allowed in for a private viewing. The large-scale piece is done in true Dutch style with a moody color palette and meticulous attention to detail. It depicts the remnants of a heavily laden banquet table, in the aftermath of an extravagant dinner. Sitting on top of draped linens are a half-eaten pie, a sliced peach, a pewter cup tipped on its side, and a wicker basket overflowing with fruit. I know De Heem loved to inlay metaphors into his work. For instance, the apples in the basket undoubtedly refer to the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden. The glasses of wine likely allude to the redemptive nature of the Last Supper.

  I could stare at it all night, but my fingers are itching to get to work. I don’t bother unpacking my clothes or exploring the apartment. I rush back to Walt’s room, unzip my suitcase, and toss around supplies until I find a new sketchbook and a sharpened drawing pencil. Then I take both back to the library—almost running—as I round the corner, like I’m scared the painting will have disappeared in the time I’ve been away.

  With a sigh of relief, I find it right where I left it, and that same zing of excitement jolts through me as I contemplate how best to arrange my setup for drawing.

  I turn on the chandelier hanging in the center of the room since the sun is starting to set, and then I look around the space, inspecting the furniture. There are two comfy leather couches that face each other near the fireplace. Between them is a heavy coffee table adorned with decor and books. For a moment I consider moving everything aside and sitting on the table to sketch, but my back would be killing me after five minutes. Instead, I grab a chair from the high-end chess table in the corner and—after learning that I can’t actually lift the damn thing—I push it across the parquet wood floor until it sits in front of the fireplace. It’s still not right. Positioned where it is, it’s like I’m in the front row of a movie theater, craning my neck to see the painting.

  I really need to be right where the coffee table sits, but the thing weighs 300 pounds and it doesn’t budge no matter how much I push it. Thinking quick, I use my cell phone to call Terrell, grateful that both he and Rebecca gave me their contact information before they left.

  Less than five minutes later, he’s standing beside me in the apartment’s library, frowning down at the coffee table.

  “It looks expensive,” he notes. “Are you sure we’re allowed to move it?”

  I prop my hands on my hips. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

  The worst thing that could happen is that we rip the rug that sits underneath the coffee table the second we start to push.

  Oh crap.

  I didn’t even think about how delicate the rug was.

  I glance up to see the color drain from Terrell’s face as he assesses the damage.

  “Maybe he bought i
t at IKEA?” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

  Terrell looks even more horrified.

  “Okay, right. Listen, you were never here,” I say, already prodding him toward the door of the library. “I moved this by myself. Do you understand?”

  “No. That’s not right.”

  “Yes, it is! I’m Walt’s wife and this is my apartment now too, and you were only following my lead. You’re not in trouble. You were helping me. So thank you and have a wonderful rest of your night.”

  “I can’t let you take the fall—”

  “The fall? Don’t be silly. Walt has enough money to buy a thousand more of these silly rugs, and besides, he’s wildly in love with me and won’t care one bit about any of this when he gets home. I assure you.”

  He nods then, finally starting to believe my lies. They do make sense. Why would Walt care that much about a rug anyway?

  I convince him not to take the situation too seriously by the time I’ve escorted him out of the apartment, and in doing so, I’ve almost convinced myself too. I mean, it’s a rug. It’s nothing compared to the painting hanging up in the room, the painting that lures me back into its clutches when I walk back into the library.

  I decide to put the issue with the rug on the back burner for now as I scoot my chair to the perfect position in front of the fireplace, pick up my pencil and sketchpad, and get to work.

  I spend my entire night in that spot, only moving to use the bathroom and grab an apple from the kitchen before I get back to work. When my hand aches and my eyes turn blurry, I move to one of the leather sofas and wrap myself up in the cashmere throw draped over the side arm.