I walk into the living room and just admire it. Cameron, my designer, steered me toward using hues of burnished metals and lustrous minerals—malachite, onyx, rose gold, silver, and copper. A metallic swivel armchair is strategically set by the large picture window showcasing the wooden hills behind it. A Murano glass chandelier rests above the polished travertine cocktail table flanked by twin velveteen sofas of which I’ve only ever sat on one. A gas fireplace centers the room and a TV hangs above it, neither of which I can recall the last time I switched on. Finally, an old speakeasy bar I’ve never had a drink at burdens one corner. Everything is perfectly coordinated.

The staircase is fitted with a very safe iron railing and I take the steps one at a time, a glass of water in one hand and my purse on my shoulder. Upstairs are the master suite and guest bedroom, which I’ve turned into my office and furnished with a marble and brass desk, two plush burnt orange chairs with brushed nail heads placed perfectly in front of a floor to ceiling window, and an old wooden file cabinet that belonged to my uncle. This is the room where I spend most of my time. Glancing around I think it would probably be good for me to go through my uncle’s things. I’d moved them from a storage unit I’d had since college into this room’s closet and file cabinet. But I’ve never really gone through them.

The lamps cast a soft glow around my bedroom as I enter. The custom rose-petal colored wallpaper reflecting off the mirrored wall that includes the sliding doors of my closet makes the room look like a silk lined jewelry box and it’s my favorite place in the house.

Once I’ve pulled out a pair of soft pajama bottoms and a tank top from my drawer, I consider skipping my nighttime routine of washing my face and brushing my teeth. It’s late and I’m tired, but I just can’t do it. Walking into the room that reminds me most of my grandmother, a starlet who graced the silver screen, I admire the surroundings. It’s sheathed in glass tiles that remind me of her golden colored hair. The light fixtures of mottled glass and hammered metal punctuate the double sinks and the artful bronze knobs. My grandmother was a collector of costume jewelry. Her collection, now mine, was vast and I used some of the pieces to decorate this room. Her favorite broach holds back the shower curtain and glass beads sewn onto panels of silk stream down the window.

Looking into one of the large oval bathroom mirrors, I pull my yoga clothes off and stare. My uncle always said I looked like my grandmother and judging from pictures, I do. My prominent cheekbones are the same as hers, but my overbite was taken care of with braces where hers only leant to her offbeat beauty. I have a few curves that I work hard to keep from getting bigger. I tug my burnished golden hair down and let it flow over my shoulders in waves. It’s long enough to cover my breasts. I never wear it down but in every picture I’ve seen of my grandmother, her hair is always down and draped to one side.

A yawn overtakes me and I hurry through my nighttime routine until I’m finally lying under the silken coverlet of my bed. Before shutting off the light, I pick up the picture on my night table—Ava Daniels, my grandmother, was a striking woman. She was born in Brooklyn to wealthy parents. She attended finishing school in Switzerland and met my grandfather there. He was much older than she and passed away shortly after my uncle was born. After he died she brought her boys back to the United States and embarked on a career on Broadway before she was signed to a contract with 20th Century Fox.

Like the roles she played, she battled a troubled emotional life . . . one that often included hospitalization and shock treatment for depression. She found her career hard to manage and eventually gave it up. My father and my uncle were raised by nannies. My father never talks about my grandmother, but my uncle always did. He too fought all his life against the encroaching darkness—but unlike her, I think he managed it much better. Unfortunately, my grandmother died of uterine cancer when I was five years old, before I ever really got to know her.

Setting the picture down, I notice the red light blinking on my phone and glance at it.

Just wanted to say bonsoir.

The metal of the lamp reflects on the screen and with a grin across my lips, I snatch it from the table and assign the number a name—Jagger Kennedy. He’s now an official contact in my list.

Goodnight and thank you for the cupcake

After running three miles on my treadmill in the morning and showering, I stand in front of my closet in my thick terry cloth robe and just stare at its contents. It’s a showcase of clothes, but staring at the right side, I can’t decide what to wear. I’m a shopper. I love the thrill of finding the perfect pieces that complement one another. I never buy just one piece—always an ensemble. My outfits are perfectly coordinated—pants hang with their perspective matching tops, but today nothing seems to suit the occasion. I untwist my wet hair from the clip on top of my head and decide to check the weather. Pulling open the French door, I step outside on my balcony and breathe in the cool air. I haven’t been on a date in months and that one didn’t go so well.

Zane Perry, the new lead singer of the Wilde Ones, and I met at River and Dahlia’s wedding. He had a smile that made me look twice and when he asked me out, I said yes. I met him at a movie theater in LA. It was the most awkward date I’d been on in a while because we hardly knew each other and the movie had many over the top sex scenes—sitting there listening to the woman’s moaning made me want to slide down my chair and fade into the darkness. Once the movie ended we went to dinner. That part of the date went much better, but not great. We ate and talked, but the conversation was forced. So when he invited me back to his place, I was surprised, but wanting to give him a chance, I went. After a few glasses of wine, he moved closer to me and I asked him to turn the lights off. Once he did, he kissed me, but there was no spark. I was used to that, as it seemed to be the norm for me. When his hands slid inside my blouse, I allowed it. When his fingers trailed up the inside of my thigh, I encouraged it. When he unzipped his pants and hovered over me on the couch, I craved the human contact. But as his cock slid inside me, and he thrust over and over, I failed to feel even a hint of desire stirring. I made the noises I needed to make and he assumed I was just as into it as he was. That’s why I prefer the dark. It’s easier to fake it. Once we were done, I got dressed and told him I had to leave. He called me a few times after that, but I was busy with work. Sometime later, I’d heard from Dahlia that he and the label’s representative for the band had been having a thing on and off and that was all I needed to know—we wouldn’t be going on anymore dates.

Shivering, I step back inside and decide on denim. I pair my favorite skinny jeans with red high-heeled booties and a tight white sweater. I decide to leave my hair down— I’m not sure why, but I did like the way Jagger wrapped his finger around a stray strand yesterday. Next I decide on an Art Deco 1930s-style necklace from my grandmother’s collection. Its red glass pieces tilt back like butterfly wings. Clasping it and selecting simple gold earrings, I’m ready to go.

Butterflies swarm my stomach as I pull into the restaurant parking lot. I see him instantly—the wayfarers cover his gray eyes, the tattered jeans fit snuggly on his narrow hips, the scuffed boots with the orange laces, the messy but somehow perfect dark hair, and that blue vest. He’s got one leg canted against the brick wall of the building and the other planted on the ground. His head is bowed, and he’s got earphones in his ears. God, he’s sexy. My pulse races and I smile as I park my car next to his.