The One Who Loves You by Pippa Grant

Phoebe Lightly, aka a Woman Who Should Probably Hang Up That Phone

There are three rules to being a Lightly, the first of which is Do not make Gigi wait.

The other two?

Inconsequential if you break the Gigi rule.

“Antoinette. Call Oscar at La Fleur, and order the Luxe Stella orchid arrangement to be delivered to my grandmother tomorrow,” I instruct my personal assistant as my driver pulls to a stop in front of Gigi’s Upper East Side town house two minutes and eighteen seconds past the time when I could’ve had a tolerable evening. “No, make that tonight.”

“The standard arrangement, Ms. Lightly?” Antoinette asks through my earbud.

“Upgrade to the Baccarat crystal vase, and add a box of Vendetté truffles. The wasabi-ginger truffles. She likes them on fire. Like her soul.”

“Yes, Ms. Lightly. Oh, and Mr. Barrington has called six times since you left the office. He’s requesting his grandfather’s Rolex back.”

“Perhaps Mr. Barrington should ask his other girlfriend if she’s seen it.”

“I suggested that, Ms. Lightly. He was insistent he’d given it to you.”

“How unfortunate for his memory. If he calls back again, tell him I’ve misplaced six months of my life with a philandering rectal cavity, and ask if he might help me get those back in return. Mention I’m acquainted with his other lover’s husband, too, and I’d be more than happy to direct the press to the juicier part of our breakup story.” I disconnect the call and step out into the midspring evening, which would be lovely were it not for the invisible cloud of sulfur and ash swirling about the steps to the arched double door of Gigi’s brownstone. I take two steps, pause, and turn back to my driver, who’s still holding the door. “Philippe—”

“Byron, ma’am.”

Why can I never get that right? “Yes, yes. Don’t you have a daughter with a birthday coming up?”

“I’m single and relatively certain I have no children, ma’am.”

I channel Gigi and lift a delicate eyebrow.

He clears his throat. “But I’m sure one day I’ll have a daughter with a birthday coming up, ma’am.”

“Excellent. You can give her this.” I slip a Rolex watch from my Hermès handbag into the pocket of his uniform coat, smile the trademark Lightly smile, and turn to glide up the steps to face my punishment for being tardy.

Gigi’s butler swings the door open before I knock, and he wordlessly helps me out of my coat, taking my gloves and clutch as well. “Second-floor dining room, Ms. Lightly,” he murmurs. “Shall I escort you?”

“No, thank you, Niles.” It is Niles, isn’t it? He’s average height, white, shoulders a bit droopy for a butler, gray hair balding. He doesn’t look familiar. Does he? Gigi goes through butlers like my sister, Tavi, goes through B-listers, so I rarely pay attention. “No need for both of us to be incinerated on the spot.”

I steel myself while I take the curved staircase to the second-floor gallery one step at a time, picturing myself arriving on time rather than three minutes and forty-six seconds late, shoulders back, head high, refusing to reach up and verify that my hair is still smooth, my diamond earrings are still in place, and the clasp on my pearls isn’t showing.

Never show fear.

Own the room.

And if you are late to meet Gigi, have a damn good excuse.

“Gigi, you look fabulous,” I say as I breeze into the dark-wood-paneled dining room off the gallery. She’s already seated at the head of the Italian marble table, her short white hair and white silk Saint Laurent button-down giving off Jane Fonda vibes, if Jane Fonda were more of an angry old white lady. Her crystal water goblet is full, her bordeaux glass half-empty, and her Limoges soup bowl steaming.

Bordeaux means she’s in a mood.

Already-served soup means I would’ve been better off lighting my own hair on fire instead of waiting for her to do it for me.

She gives me the Lightly eyebrow. “You’re late.”

Show no fear. Show no fear. “There was a safety issue with paper towel production at the Knoxville plant.”

“If I wasn’t called, it wasn’t an issue.”

“You weren’t called because I took care of it.” I smile as I take my place at the foot of the table, with eight empty velvet-backed chairs on either side and a crystal chandelier hanging from the fresco ceiling between us.

My ancestors snort in derision from their spots in their paintings along the wall. They, too, are unimpressed with my show of confidence.

“I was called about the tabloids,” she murmurs over her wineglass.

“I’m taking care of that.”

“With subtle digs about the size of his anatomy in the Post? Phoebe, dear, is that truly your best? You should take lessons from Octavia. She told the Post that her last boyfriend was off to find himself after realizing what eating meat did to his anatomy. If you’re going to insult a man, insult him in a way that puts the blame squarely on him instead of his genetics.”

“I was misquoted.” Lightly rule number two: Don’t make excuses. I’m on a roll. “The Sandovals are hosting their annual masquerade tomorrow, and I heard the Bancroft sisters didn’t get an invitation. They’ll crash, and everyone will forget that I’m being painted as ‘the other woman’ and that I dared insult Fletcher Barrington’s manhood in public. Did I tell you I requested a transfer at work into the environmental-sustainability department for experience broadening?”

She dips her spoon into her soup and sniffs. “I heard from your father.”

Translation: I’m well aware you were afraid to tell me yourself that you were turned down for a transfer into the skin-care division’s global marketing department when the paper-goods division failed to meet production expectations last quarter, hence why you were summoned tonight.

For a woman whose position on the board of directors for the world’s largest consumer goods manufacturing company is ceremonial only, she still has pull, and she still hears all.

At least, when it comes to the portion of the company she inherited from her own father-in-law.

No surprise.

Gigi is the reason the Remington family is no longer involved in any of the operations of Remington Lightly.

Not that much of our family is left in the family business either. It’s Gigi on the board of directors, my father in the legal department—also a ceremonial role at this point, as I understand it, and I’m surprised to hear he knew anything about what I’ve been up to—and me working my way up through the management chain. My mother, brother, and sister have pursued other interests, though all of us together hold the largest minority share of stock in the company.

Held in trust funds controlled by Gigi, but unlike my siblings, I work for what I earn.

But it’s not about the paycheck.

It’s about the fact that I’m on track to be the next Lightly to sit at the helm of the company my ancestors founded, which hasn’t been done since my great-grandfather retired.

I want that top-floor office. The Manhattan-skyline view. The role my family heritage has bred me for. The destiny I was born to fulfill.

I, Phoebe Sabrina Lightly, will be the first Lightly in three generations—and the first woman—to rule as chief executive officer of Remington Lightly.

I want it all, and when I have it all, I’ll get the other thing I’ve always wanted—my grandmother’s unconditional seal of approval.

I take a glass of bordeaux from Gigi’s personal assistant. “A good leader understands the challenges faced in every department, and environmental issues aren’t going away. We can’t stay at the forefront of consumer goods if we don’t—”

“Yes, yes, save the whales, bamboo is the future, talking points, buzzwords, et cetera. Did you hear that Alexander Bentley is back from his Italian sabbatical?”

This is dinner with Gigi.

Work hard. No, harder. Care about something. No, something else. Your roots are showing. Marc Jacobs doesn’t suit you, Phoebe. You would’ve gotten the promotion if you’d worn your McQueen. The eligible bachelor I picked for you last quarter is no longer worthy of a Lightly, but have no fear—I’ve found another. No, I’m not yet ready to speak about the real reason I’ve called you here. I need to torture you with a litany of your other disappointments first.

We’ve made it through soup, salad, and her dissertation on why Spanx has ruined the younger generation’s self-control when my phone buzzes inside my blazer.

I ignore it, because I don’t have a death wish.

Gigi’s chef enters the dining room with two Limoges plates covered with silver cloches. He sets the first before her and unveils it with a flourish. “Kobe filet mignon with peppercorn brandy sauce on a bed of mesclun, with shaved brussels sprouts and flash-fried shallots on the side, madam.”

“Thank you, Arlo, that will be all.” Gigi manages to murmur softly yet still speak distinctly enough to be heard across the room.

“Yes, madam.”

My phone buzzes again as Arlo delivers my plate and quietly slips out the side door toward the elevator to the kitchen. Gigi dismisses her personal assistant with the subtlest flutter of her eyelashes, and then we’re alone.

Just me, Gigi, the elephant without a name—there is always an elephant, the question is merely which one—and my persistently vibrating cell phone.

“Are you watching more of that reality television, Phoebe?” Gigi asks while she slices a delicate piece of meat.

“No, Gigi. I don’t have time for television.” I am 100 percent bingeing Lola’s Tiny House before bed this week. Lola Minelli and I went to the same college-prep school, and even knowing everything’s staged, I cannot believe she’s actually forcing herself into that tiny house, even if it’s only for filming.

My shoe collection won’t fit into that house.

No idea how Lola’s ego is managing.

And no, I don’t want to talk about the reality show that my sister talked me into for one season in college either.

I pretend that time in my life doesn’t exist.

Gigi eyeballs me like she knows my life outside the office and social commitments is ruled by my streaming services. “I don’t understand anyone’s need for that rubbish when you can have actual scandal and gossip in real life.”

“Gigi, not everyone can live in New York. Some people lead honestly boring lives.”

My phone stops vibrating.

But I’ve barely sliced my own filet before it vibrates again.

And now I’m getting another Gigi eyeball. “Would you either answer that or turn it off?”

I slip it out of my pocket, fully intending to shut it off, except Tavi is calling me.

My sister hasn’t called me in months. And she’s now called three times in a row. “Excuse me, Gigi. It’s the office. If production in Knoxville is being held up by the picketers . . .”

She makes her displeased noise. There are actual picketers in Knoxville—being handled by someone three levels below me, but still there—so I have a verifiable reason to slip away. And while I don’t talk to my sister often, I will 100 percent take a call with her over whatever it is Gigi is planning on dropping on me next.

I’m already doomed.

At this point, it can’t get much worse. Maybe if I stall, she’ll be struck with a rare bout of amnesia and forget all my sins. “Hello, this is Phoebe.”

“Phoebe, love,” the deep baritone of Fletcher Barrington, ex-boyfriend currently at the top of my shit list, replies in my ear, “you’ve been avoiding my calls.”

I pull the phone away and glance at the caller ID, confirming that my phone does, in fact, think Tavi is on the other end. “What did you do with my sister’s phone?” I hiss.

“Darling, never underestimate an heir to a telecommunications empire.”

It takes a second for me to catch up, which is a bad sign. “You spoofed her number so I’d answer.”

“Desperate times, desperate measures.”

“I have nothing—”

“I heard a rumor your grandmother’s rewriting her will. Give me back my grandfather’s watch, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

How convenient that he’d have a rumor about my grandmother when he wants something from me. “I don’t have your grandfather’s watch.”

“I’m serious, Phoebe. Give it back, or I will make your life hell.”

“You overestimate your importance in my life. Enjoy your time pretending to be the hero here. Everyone falls from grace sooner or later.”

“You think you’re low now? Your real fall is coming sooner than you know, darling.”

“I’m shaking in my Louboutins, Fletcher. Shaking.”

“And what happens when Grammykins hears the true reason you were passed over for the international marketing position?”

My veins fill with glaciers, and my clammy palms betray the outward calm I’m suddenly struggling to hang on to. “Goodbye, Fletcher. Might want to hit the gym. You’re going to need your right fist in shape to keep you warm at night very soon. And if you don’t want the world descending on your busboy lover, you’ll back off. Two can play this game, and you know I will.”

I hang up on him.

I’d tell myself the lie that there’s no way he knows the inner workings and secrets of the executive-level drama at Remington Lightly, except I also know better than to underestimate an enemy.

Especially an enemy working at a family corporation with its own drama.

I need to go on the offensive. I sink onto the velvet couch in the gallery outside Gigi’s dining room, perfectly positioned for her to sit and gaze at her favorite painting—a lone woman leaning on a cane and surrounded by beasts pawing at the ground, an impressionist-style piece of art that she had commissioned not long after Gawgaw passed—and I fire off a text to my assistant.

Antoinette—I need the doormat files first thing in the morning. We’re going to war.

How dare he threaten to blackmail me?

Who does he think he is?

You’d think he’d know who I am by now.

You’re letting your grandmother eat by herself. That’s who you are.

I snap upright again, smooth down my skirt, check my lipstick and earrings as I pass a gilded mirror on the way back into the dining room, and stroll back inside as though I’ve just hung up.

I’ve already angered the beast enough. “Honestly, Gigi, some people can’t do anything themselves. An employee was threatening to—Gigi?”

She’s not in her chair.

But—oh God—“Gigi!”

Her wineglass is upended. Plate skewed. And her Jimmy Choos–clad feet are visible on the floor beside her chair.

I dash up the length of the table, tripping on the carpet runner, until she comes into view.

Her face is mottled purple, her mouth gaping open, eyelids shut, hands resting on her neck. “Oh my God, Gigi, are you choking? Did you have a heart attack? Gigi? Gigi!”

I shake her.

She doesn’t open her eyelids.

“Help!” I scream. “Help!”

I’m suddenly shoved aside while Niles leans in to give her mouth-to-mouth. It’s slow motion and all too fast at the same time.

Gigi’s larger than life. She drives me crazy. She’s demanding and catty and shrewd.

She’s everything I want to be when I’m a seventy-year-old billionaire widow.

And her butler is hefting her limp body off the floor, fisting his hands under her breastbone, and pumping her.

“That’s not how you do CPR!” I scream.

The last syllable is still hanging on the air when a chunk of Kobe beef comes flying out of Gigi’s mouth, hits my collarbone, and falls down between the lapels of my suit jacket, landing in my cleavage and dropping into my bra.

Niles drops her again and bends over her mouth, and a lifetime that lasts mere seconds later, Gigi gasps on the floor.

I’m sobbing.

I didn’t know I knew how to sob, but I’m sobbing as I drop to my knees and grab her hand. “Gigi.”

She has blue eyes.

How did I never pay attention before to the fact that she has blue eyes?

She does. She has blue eyes, and they’re staring at me in horror. “Phoebe,” she croaks, “I think I just went to hell.”