Barbie grabbed the phone from me. "Don't worry, Stan, I'm on it. Yes, definitely. You're right. Our girl is never going to stop, so she should take it to the next level. Yup, got it."
"What did he say?" I asked as Barbie hung up the phone.
"He said you need to dress for the job you want, not the one you've got," Barbie said. "He just texted over the appointment information. You have just enough time to make it to Union Square."
"This is insane," I said as Barbie pushed me back down the stairs. A town car, hired by Stan, glided to the end of my driveway. The driver popped out and opened the door. I was on my way, waving feebly to Barbie before I could even protest.
"This is insane," I said again as I shook hands with the personal shopper.
He was a brightly swathed young man with sharp eyes and an efficient manner. Before I could even take a breath, he bundled me into a dressing room. I stood there and gaped at the wall of designer clothes he had chosen for me.
"I don't think I can do this," I said.
"Me neither. Can you help me? I think this zipper is stuck," a voice in the dressing room next to me said.
"Ivy?" I asked, recognizing my friend from college. "This is insane."
She laughed and pulled me into a tight hug. "Tasha, it is so great to see you! Ever since I married Aldous, I never see anyone anymore. I mean, of our friends."
Ivy Madison had married an investment banker straight out of college and the last I heard she was vacationing in St. Moritz with the top of the jet set. I hugged her back, glad to have found someone to help me navigate the new world of wealth that I had fallen into. I filled her in as quickly as I could, and Ivy congratulated me.
"It feels like I fell down the rabbit hole," I said.
Ivy clapped her hands and turned to the wall of designer clothes. "I know just how you feel and I'm so glad you're here. Now, let me introduce you to Wonderland."
Chapter Six
Rainer
"Give me the weekend, and I promise I can have this place feeling like home," the interior designer said. She smiled and me as she took my arm and led me through the marble-floored foyer.
"Wow, that's some echo," I said. My voice bounced off the gleaming floor and seemed to reach up to the arched dome above the crystal chandelier.
The interior designer patted my arm. "A nice Berber rug will solve that. Let Sheila take care of you."
Sheila squeezed my arm with another flirtatious smile as we clattered through the foyer and up the curved staircase to the second floor. There we paused to look over the balcony to the great room. She listed a hundred changes she was going to make, totaling god knows how much money, but I still wasn't convinced. The Presidio Heights mansion was outstanding, but it was cold, and her voice rattled through the empty spaces. It looked more like a blank gallery space, or maybe a museum.
I knew I could spend a million more and the mansion would never feel like a home. A memory nagged at me: the childhood weekend I had spent at my classmate's house. It was a small, two-bedroom bungalow in the East Bay hills. I remember every room was jammed packed with books and photographs. The floor was littered with shoes and toys, and everywhere I went I ran into someone. I had always been jealous of that home.
"Or would you prefer brick?" Sheila asked.
"I'm sorry, what?" I tried to concentrate on the white-walled expanse of the great room below us.
Sheila snuggled closer. "For the fireplace. The white tile is too feminine for you. I was thinking slate or perhaps brick. Something more suited to your tastes."
"Sure," I said.
"Oh, Rainer." Sheila laughed and let go of me long enough to lead the way to the master bedroom. I watched her tight skirt and swinging hips with absent-minded interest.
The address was elite, the commute to work easy, and nothing could beat the up-close views of the Golden Gate Bridge, but I still wasn't convinced it was the dream home I should be lavishing my billions on.
Sheila noticed my skeptical expression. "Don't worry, Rainer. The pastels will be gone, we'll put in more substantial window treatments, and make it a room fit for a man. What do you think of plaid?" she asked.
"I was never much of a hunter," I said.
Sheila tossed back her glossy hair and laughed. "Funny, I was thinking just the opposite. And this would be the heart of your lodge, your lair. Imagine a heavy, four-post bed right here, smooth Egyptian cotton contrasting with the dark quilt." She scooped her hair up and wriggled her body as if settling into a sinfully comfortable bed.
"Sounds good," I said.