I’m cursing at a lumpy, wet clay cup that’s flopping about on the pottery wheel like a flaccid penis on a naked old man riding the tilt-a-whirl wrong, considering if I can blame the lump in my stomach after signing that agreement with Hayes this morning for my poor art skills, when the door to my art studio opens.
“Don’t let Marshmallow in!” I shriek.
“Oh my god, you still make penis art!” Hyacinth shrieks back.
I gasp, blink, gasp again, and then I leap to my feet, all thoughts of my pending fake engagement fleeing my brain. I hurdle the spinning pottery wheel, and dive toward my sister.
My sister.
What is my sister doing here? “Look at your belly! I have to hug him!”
“Your hands!”
“Washing machine! Showers! You should see the showers here!” I kiss her belly. I smother her in a hug. I pet her hair. All with hands coated in goopy water. “You’re here!”
“Oh, B.” She’s laughing as she hugs me back, the two of us swaying back and forth and hugging and swaying and possibly crying. “I think you just got clay in my mouth.”
“There’s toothpaste! And spare toothbrushes! That’s fixable! What are you doing here?”
“Hayes said you missed me so he sent a fucking private jet to get me and a private nanny to stay behind with my kids and we’re going to the spa and taking you shopping for a new fucking dress and what did you do and how did you meet this man and does he have a secret twin? I don’t want another husband, but I could totally do with a rich lover who buys me fancy dresses and takes me to fancy balls. Oh my god, Begonia. Just oh my god.”
“You can’t go to the ball! Rutherfords don’t make scenes.”
She cracks up.
I crack up.
And I can’t stop hugging her.
Not until she oofs and shoves me away, squatting and rubbing her belly.
“Aww, did he kick?”
“He does not like it when I talk too much.” She blows out a breath. “I’m not having a baby this time. I’m having a demon spawn. I know I called Dani a demon spawn when I was pregnant with her too, but I think I mean it this time.”
“Oh my god, there are two of you?” Keisha’s in the doorway, in a feathered jumpsuit today—bright neon blue feathers, for the record—and she’s clinging to Marshmallow’s leash as he tries to get to Hyacinth.
Or me.
Or the clay.
“The clay!” I shriek.
I let Hyacinth go to leap back across the room and kill the power to the pottery wheel.
“Oh my god, you’re Keisha Kourtney,” Hyacinth whispers.
“Is that some kind of weird smeared penis art?” Keisha says. “Dude. I do not understand straight women.”
“It’s a cup,” I reply.
Though, as I stare down at the stopped wheel, it does not, in fact, look like a cup.
It looks like a semi-flattened crooked penis that needs to see a doctor.
“I’m not the greatest with pottery, but I love how it feels in my hands,” I confess.
“That’s cool, but if that’s also how you treat Hayes’s penis, I don’t want to know, okay? Oh, hello. Didn’t know we were doing the touching thing, but it’s cool.”
“You’re real.” Hyacinth pokes Keisha in the feathered arm again. “You’re not some kind of mirage or hologram.”
“Keisha, this is Hyacinth. She’s my twin sister.”
“And here I thought she was your illegitimate love child with yourself.”
I tilt my head. “Are you and Millie fighting?”
She glares. “No. Yes. Maybe. Do you know your dog weighs more than I do and he’s trying very hard to get in there to eat your clay penis and a little thank you, Keisha, goddess of the sky and feathers and felines would totally be in order here right about now.”
“Marshmallow. Go catch a butterfly,” Hyacinth orders.
Marshmallow plops back on his haunches and grins a doggie grin at her.
“Why didn’t that work?” Hy whispers.
“He only takes orders from Hayes now. Or sometimes from the chef. Watch this. Marshmallow! Who wants a steak? Who’s a good boy who wants a steak?”
My dog tilts his head at me like I’m speaking bear to a penguin, then lifts a paw to flick at the door handle on the art room like he wants to look behind it and see if Hayes is hiding there to play.
“Why’s he on a leash?” I ask Keisha.
“I offered to take him for a walk, but the only place he wants to go is upstairs to check on the progress in the bedroom. And god knows if Hayes wants that room finished, he should probably let the dog pick the decorations. Damn man won’t make a decision, and I’ve had it up to here with Aunt Gio telling me I’m wrong about what he’d like. Hayes would love a disco ball in his bedroom, and I paid for it, so what’s the big deal?”
I wipe my hands and give her a sympathetic smile while I ignore her comments on the disco ball. “What’s up with you and Millie?”
“She says I’m overdramatic. Can you believe that? I literally get paid to be dramatic. Sometimes I have to overdo it to stay current. And we’re touching the feathers again. Honey, I can afford a new jumpsuit, but you’re filthy, and it takes about six months to have every one of these sewn on by hand, so can you maybe wait for the touching until I’m back in silk or glitter polyester?”
“Sorry.” Hyacinth snatches her hand back from Keisha’s outfit again, but she still keeps staring. “You’re just so…real.”
“Hy, where’s Hayes?” I ask.
“At the office. He put me in a helicopter. And this big scary guy stared at me the whole time.”
“Probably thought you were gonna pull a Marshmallow and try to open the door mid-flight,” Keisha says. “Are you both ready to hit the spa? Millie hates the spa, and I have to let her stew while she thinks I’m stewing too. I’ll send her a new Porsche and it’ll all blow over—she can’t resist a good Porsche—but right now, I need someone wrapping my body in seaweed and telling me my pores are gorgeous.”
“If Françoise has any seaweed in the kitchen, I could do it for you,” I offer. “I have good clay for masks, and your pores are gorgeous.”
Keisha’s face goes three shades past horrified. “Begonia, I like you a lot, but suggesting DIY spa days in these parts of the social ecosphere is like asking me if I know who Elvis Presley is. You don’t ask, because you just know the answer.”
I grin.
Hyacinth makes a noise that might be a laugh or it might be don’t anger the scary short celebrity by smiling at her when she’s having a shit fit.
And after a long beat, Keisha breaks into laughter. “Oh my god, I’m so glad Hayes finally found someone with a sense of humor. C’mon, ladies. Don’t even bother getting changed. The spa will have robes for all of us. You. Begonia’s twin. You’re gonna have to leave your phone at home because I don’t trust you yet. No pictures. Maybe later if you quit gaping at me like that. Nikolay! Nikolay, we need the chopper, please. And Marshmallow needs a babysitter.”
Hyacinth makes a face.
“Down the hall, first door on your right,” I tell her.
“Stupid pregnancy. I don’t know if I can get a spa treatment without having to pee.”
Keisha pats her arm. “Sweetie, we only go places where you could literally shit on the table and no one would blink. Don’t shit on the table if you can help it, but for real—they can handle it if you need to pause mid-body wrap to take a piss.”
Hyacinth waddles down the hallway to the bathroom. Keisha disappears with an order for me to wash my hands and meet her at the helipad in twenty minutes, or she’s going without us.
And I take a chance and dial Hayes. I’m planning on leaving him a voicemail, but instead, I get the man himself.
“Good afternoon, Begonia. Having fun today?”
Goosebumps break out on my arms at the sound of his warm voice. He woke me early this morning after keeping me up late last night, and I can honestly say my body has never been more satisfied. “You brought me Hyacinth.”
“You seemed to be missing her.”
“I—I was. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Dammit. My eyes are getting hot again. Chad used to complain about how much time I spent with my sister, even though I never felt like it was enough. And here the man who wants me to agree to fake being engaged to him just does it, despite how little time we’ve known each other. “I don’t think I can explain how much this means to me.”
“No need, bluebell. Just enjoy your time.”
How is it possible that the sweetest man on the entire planet is hiding under that grumpy exterior?
It’s a good thing we’re having sex now.
I don’t know if I could thank him properly with anything less.
“B, you wash up yet?” Keisha calls.
An hour later, we’re touching down in New York City.
I text a selfie with Hyacinth and the skyline to Hayes. OMG! I can see the Empire State Building! Is there anything I should know about spa days and shopping with Keisha?
He’s working, so I don’t expect an immediate answer, but I get one anyway. Tell her to use my credit card and have fun. Follow her lead and don’t talk to anyone she says to not talk to. But mostly, have fun.
We do.
It’s limousines and hours of spa treatments at what Keisha tells us is a secret spa. But I recognize the name. Silver Crocus was the brand of lotion Hayes had at his house in Maine, and the Silver Crocus logo on the spa’s front door matches.
This spa is so classy that I’m pretty sure I’m lowering its reputation just by setting foot inside the door. Everything smells like eucalyptus and lavender, the floor is marble, the walls a deep burgundy damask—to absorb light and sound, Keisha says—and the light fixtures flicker like candles, even though they’re modern bulbs. The orchids, lilies, and crocuses are real, displayed in real crystal vases, and the sheets are smooth as silk, and the towels are fluffy and perfect.
I get my hair touched up so that it glows even brighter, and Hyacinth and I have a couples massage where she only has to get up and pee once. Then there’s a body scrub. All three of us have facials in the same room while we’re getting pedicures and manicures.
“Usually they’d be separate treatments, but we’re on a timeline,” Keisha tells us as we recline in heated chairs with organic, fresh-picked cucumbers on our eyes and our feet soaking in bath salts and our hands being massaged with fancy oils before our nails are painted.
We leave carrying the spa robes and our old clothes, along with more sample products that look like full-size products than I could use in three years. Anything for Hayes Rutherford’s girlfriend, the woman at the counter whispered to me while she slipped two more full bottles of that amazing hand lotion into my bag. Be sure to tell people you love these, and we’ll send you more. Here’s a card with our public website. And another with our private website for exclusive clients.
I have no idea who went shopping for us while we were being buffed and polished to within an inch of our lives, but I’m now in new jeans, an emerald green halter top that matches my eyes, and the most comfortable ankle boots I’ve ever worn. I’m even in a new bra and panties.
Hyacinth is glowing in a soft pink maternity dress, and Keisha’s bodysuit is now black. She’s topped her ensemble with a beret and blue-lensed sunglasses.
“You okay to walk two blocks?” she asks Hyacinth.
“I chase two toddlers all day. I can handle walking two blocks by myself.”
She nods to someone on her security team, and it’s not until we leave the building and step onto the busy Manhattan street that I understand the question.
And possibly why Keisha’s on sabbatical.
“Keisha! Keisha, look here! Keisha, when’s your next album? What do you say to the rumors that your ex-girlfriend is dating a man? Were you involved in Thomas Rutherford’s death? Is that your cousin’s new girlfriend? Begonia! Begonia! Look this way!”
“Keep walking,” Keisha murmurs to us as her security team surrounds us. “Don’t speak. Either of you. Just keep walking.”
Hyacinth grabs my hand.
I squeeze.
And as much as I like people, I’m exhausted by the time we push into a shop two blocks away. “Is it always like that?” I ask Keisha.
“Yep.” She waves to someone in the back of the empty shop, and a curvy Black woman glides out with a broad smile.
“Keisha, my darling. So good to see you.”
They share air kisses, then Keisha introduces us. “Begonia, Hyacinth, this is Cecily. She’s a goddess, and she’s going to find us the perfect dresses for the Windsor Gala tomorrow night.”
“Lovely to meet you, my angels.” Cecily air-kisses my cheeks, then Hyacinth’s, and doesn’t blink when we both get it wrong in return. “Come, come. I have the perfect gowns.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’m going,” Hyacinth says. She points at her baby bump. “I mean, not that you thought I was.”
Cecily smiles. “I dressed Emma Roberts during her pregnancy.”
“And I have Hayes’s credit card, and it would make Begonia’s day to know that you’re doing dishes in Versace,” Keisha adds. “You could go TikTok famous.”
Hy gapes at all of us.
I want to tell her no, that she can’t have a dress, that this isn’t what Hayes meant, that I don’t want to waste his money, or use him for his money, but I can’t.
The amount of joy this would bring her?
And knowing it’s pennies to Hayes?
The man bought me a temporary art studio in his home, sent a private jet for Hyacinth, and Winnie texted me that she’s booking Hy’s whole family for a two-week all-expenses-paid, no-limits, exclusive-access-pass trip to Razzle Dazzle Village and wanted to check allergies, Hy’s due date, and if they prefer cotton, linen, silk, or flannel sheets.
Hayes won’t object to a dress.
And if he does, I’ll pay him back, no matter how long it takes.
I nod to her. “Hayes would want you to. I want you to. Keisha’s right. You’d rock the dishes in Versace.” I couldn’t pick a Versace out of a dress line-up if my pottery wheel depended on it.
“I have died and gone to heaven,” Hyacinth whispers.
I want to agree with her.
But I think I’m hitting overwhelm for the day.
The crowd, and the pampering, and Hyacinth being here—it’s all amazing.
More than I could’ve hoped for.
But it’s also not real.
I mean, yes, my sister is real. The spa was real. The clothing, the dresses, hanging out with Keisha, the reporters—they’re all real.
But this dating-a-billionaire lifestyle?
That isn’t real.
And I don’t want a billionaire.
I don’t want a fake relationship. I don’t want a fake fiancé.
Right now, I want the man who slept with me under the stars, who went diving under the covers to kiss the hummingbird tattoo on my hip, who smiles just for me, who makes me feel like I’m perfect the way I am and that I deserve to be loved for all of me, not just the convenient parts or the socially acceptable parts or the non-annoying parts.
I want the man who makes me believe that two people really can love each other the way love is supposed to be.
But he’s not mine.
It’s all fake.
And despite making more promises this morning that I would, I don’t want to do it anymore.
“Begonia?” Hyacinth asks.
I beam at her. “You’re going to be the most gorgeous diaper-changer in the world.”
“We’re totes getting you the seamstress package so you can have the dress refitted after…” Keisha waves at Hyacinth’s belly. “Well, after.”
I make myself crack up at the look on Keisha’s face.
Hyacinth squints at me.
She knows I’m faking it.
But she doesn’t press.
She will later. But for now, I point to the anemic display of dresses, which I assume is merely a front for the good stuff somewhere else.
That’s how it seems to work in this world. “Let’s go have some fun.”
