Page 21 of Fighting the Pull

Now, with Zoey on board, simply having an assistant gave me the prestige to make bookings I’d never be able to make if it was me on the other end of the phone or email.

There were those who came to my little studio who got it. They knew what it was like to claw your way to where you wanted to be. They knew it looked like that when it started, but if it worked, it ended the opposite.

There were those who came in with nasty twists on their lips after they rolled up to be interviewed in a warehouse in Brooklyn.

But they then had the choice of Perrier, San Pellegrino or Fiji water, with triple-filtered ice. Chilled Veuve and fresh pomegranate juice. Cîroc or Hendricks or Rémy Martin XO, if that was their jam. And always a spread of glistening fruit, gourmet cheeses, fresh French bread with European butter and cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery.

And then there would be Fliss, who had her own following that was far from small, who would be there to do their hair and makeup if they didn’t bring their own stylists.

It might not be class without, but within, it absolutely was.

In other words, I hobnobbed with the rich and famous, went to events on both sides of the country that organizers had spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to make memorable, and sat down to interview people who thought they were better than me.

But I had never seen anything like Hale’s apartment.

Three-sixty views. Open space. A fireplace. Expansive living room. Twelve-seater dining room table. Chef’s kitchen. And a swirl of a staircase that took you up to a second floor.

It was mammoth. Modern, with warmth. Massive mushroom-colored sofas. Inviting cream bouclé chairs. Subtle area rugs. Interesting light installations. Warm throw rugs scattered. Full potted trees in corners.

And the view of the East River and beyond was phenomenal.

I got a better view when I heard Fliss say under her breath, “Whoa,” and I shifted my attention to Hale, who was sauntering to where we were standing outside the elevator that opened right to his pad.

He wore faded jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. Simple white Adidas Superstars with black stripes on his feet. His dusty brown hair had some product in it to keep it off his forehead and tamed.

He looked edible.

I stepped forward, my hand out, my gaze again scanning the living room, where Chuck and Zoey were already setting up. “Hale, good morning.”

I went back to him when he took my hand in a firm grip and murmured, “Morning, Elsa.”

His gaze was on my dress.

I pulled my hand away.

When I did, his gaze zoomed up to my eyes and the crinkles by his came out in sharp relief.

It made him even more attractive, which was infuriating.

“I’d like to introduce you to Felicity Jones, the makeup artist I told you about in my text,” I stated formally, turning and indicating Fliss at my side.

He appeared perplexed for a moment, as he would, considering my hair and makeup were fully done.

Nugget of news: I’d been unable to talk my friend down.

I’d told her and Carole about my run-ins with Hale Wheeler, and obviously this included what an ass he was, and Fliss demanded to accompany me for moral support.

I knew she knew this also came in the form of me seeming to have a posse, which would give me more cachet. I suspected this further had something to do with her possibly being able to do makeup for Hale.

When I told her that last was unlikely, she’d said, “Considering my calling, I can’t in good conscious allow him to appear before camera looking splotchy with gigantic pores.”

Even if I assured her he was neither splotchy nor did he have any issues with his pores, and indeed he was damnably tanned, healthy and perfect, she was adamant, and when Fliss was adamant about something, you let her do it.

She offered her hand to Hale as Chuck called out, “Elz, we’re thinking sofa. Come over here and have a look.”

I walked deeper into the space, noting the closer you got to, well…everything, the better it was.

Another nugget of news: this was what I wanted,exactlywhat I wanted. A roomy, fantastic apartment in Manhattan that was still homey and welcoming.