You Knew Me When - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Emily Liebert is the award-winning author of Some Women, Those Secrets We Keep, When We Fall, You Knew Me When, and the nonfiction book Facebook Fairytales. She’s been featured on Today, The Rachael Ray Show, and Anderson Cooper 360°, and in InStyle, The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, and the Chicago Tribune, among other national media outlets.

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Katherine

Click, click, click. Her sandals rattled against the pave­ment, ten toes pinched and bonded by silvery strips of crisscrossed leather, iridescent in the oppressive sunshine. She squinted at her mother ten paces ahead, fi­nally slowing down as they approached the corner. Click,  click, click. The bulky red truck careened around the bend, pointing its bulbous nose at the diminutive green sedan  hurtling through the intersection. Click, click, click.  The shrill cry of a passerby. Her mother’s body soaring through the air, limbs flailing like a marionette.

Katherine jolted upright, her creamy white sheets slick with sweat. She inhaled the bittersweet smell of lavender and perspiration; slid her smooth, tanned legs over the edge of the bed; and walked toward the bathroom determinedly. Surveying her reflection in the mirror, she grimaced at each new wrinkle and splashed cold water on her face. Her work­out gear, which she’d arranged neatly on her makeup chair the night before, confronted her. Predictably, she met the challenge.

It was only six a.m., but light was already peeking through the sheer, billowing curtains garnishing the floor-to-ceiling windows in her personal gym, affording the treadmill a godly presence. “A spacious guest bedroom,” the Realtor had dubbed the clean space with pristine white walls and dark hardwood floors. A gym, Katherine had thought, nod­ding politely. She skimmed the channels on her flat screen, scanning e-mails on her iPhone with the other hand. Half the world had been doing business for hours, and she couldn’t help but feel breathlessly behind every morning as soon as she woke up. There was always a launch in London or Paris or China, and people depended on Katherine’s directives. Sometimes when she couldn’t sleep in the early-morning hours, she’d ease her insomnia with an hour on her laptop. Just a little leverage over her fellow cosmetics executives who dared to get a full night’s sleep.

“Shit,” she sighed dramatically after reading a new e-mail. One of the VPs in her department had failed to sign off on ad copy, and now the head of advertising, waiting for his six thirty a.m. flight out of JFK, was pissed. Why was it always so fucking difficult to get people to do things the right way at the right time? Katherine increased her speed to a sprint. Two-minute intervals for every five minutes of jogging. Every morning, in sickness and in health. Her rela­tionship with the treadmill may have been her most suc­cessful to date.

She set her phone down and raised the volume on the TV. Matt Lauer was interviewing a morose-looking Karrie Kashman, who—despite the headline “Another Failed Marriage”—had managed to pour herself into a searing-red Herve Leger bandage dress.

“Fifty-eight days. A full two weeks less than last time.” Matt shook his head and leaned toward her sympa­thetically. From anyone else it would have come off as a reprimand.

“Yeah.” Her glassy eyes were comforted by the longest pair of fake lashes Katherine had ever seen. She’d have to ask her assistant to find out the brand.

“Where is Kurtis now?” Matt prodded, as a photo of Kar­rie’s estranged media mogul husband flashed on the screen.

“I’m not sure.” Karrie sniffled.

“I know this is hard for you.” But I’m just getting started. Karrie nodded. “Is there a chance of reconciliation in the future?”

“No.” Karrie was unwavering. “But my sisters and I have a lot going on, like the launch of our sixth perfume, and our new line of kids’ clothing for Target.” Katherine upped the incline on the treadmill, pumping her arms to the beat of Karrie’s PR pitch. That a girl.

“And this isn’t your first divorce—not even your sec­ond,” he reminded, in case it had slipped her mind.

“No.” She gazed longingly at nothing. Poor Karrie wasn’t exactly on her A game.

“Something to think about.” Matt turned to the camera. “We’ll be back with more on Karrie’s devastating third di­vorce in a few minutes.”

The rest of the interview was a bloodbath. After the com­mercial break, Karrie had promptly disintegrated into a heap of heavy makeup and designer duds, no doubt leaving her entourage withering in the wings. Most people couldn’t put their finger on the public’s fascination with the Kash­man clan, but Katherine knew. It was obvious, really. Not only did you want to be them, but also you were them. There was Karrie’s sister Kleo at a movie premiere, looking flaw­less in some dress you’d never own. And there she was the next day, fleeing the room as her drunken baby daddy smashed his fist into a mirror. And that you could relate to.

Sure, Katherine was an executive at one of the top cos­metics companies in the world, a thought leader in the way of brand marketing, but still she had to admit that the Kash­mans had mastered the art of spinning grass into gold. Pretty grass, sure. Plump-assed grass, absolutely. Still grass, though.

Karrie had worn Blend Cosmetics on more than one oc­casion. She’d even tweeted about their pomegranate cheek stain, which had promptly sold out in every store across the globe. And now Katherine was in talks with Karrie and her sisters to become faces for the brand. Some of the male execs had scoffed at the idea, feeling particularly smug when the whole divorce debacle had reared its ugly head again, but Katherine hadn’t flinched. The divorce would be old news within two weeks’ time and, if anything, it had only ampli­fied her popularity. Nothing like a practiced pout to sell lip gloss.

Katherine sprinted for the last five minutes of her workout, running through the day’s schedule at the same time. She’d be at her desk by eight fifteen, which would give her forty-five minutes to go through the rest of her unanswered e-mails and tie up any loose ends. She had back-to-back meetings un­til two, when she’d return to her office to play catch-up until at least five. She’d need to sit down with her assistant at the end of the day to regroup, and then it was back to unreturned e-mails and departmental issues that only she could address. There was probably an event or two tonight where she could swoop in, swap air kisses, schmooze, and treat herself to a glass of champagne before heading home by eleven to once again conquer the breeding e-mails that lived in her in-box around the clock. And maybe catch a late rerun of The Real Housewives of Somewhere or Other.

She spent the next hour playing out the same meticulous routine as every other morning. It no longer took careful at­tention, much less effort. She could shower, straighten her glossy, shoulder-length black hair, and line her piercing green eyes while composing a speech for next week’s board meeting and keeping up on her e-mails, her phone affixed to one hand, a hot iron in the other, with nary a singed strand.

Coiffed to perfection, she strode through the lobby, oblivi­ous to the lavish holiday decorations already up the week before Thanksgiving. Click, click, click. Her heels punished the marble floor. There was a plump Christmas tree adorned with silver and white ornaments—no tinsel on the Upper East Side, thank you. A small menorah sat on the window­sill, a nod to the many Jewish residents of 1152 Park Avenue, who still preferred the tree. Wreaths dressed the tops of the elevators—front, back, and service. But Katherine bypassed it all, staring down at her...