Changes of Heart

by Liza Gyllenhaal

  “No … no, I’m sorry,” Zach snapped, “but I don’t buy that. Melina worked some deal on Janie, I’m sure of it. She had to have offered her something—something Janie really wanted—or she wouldn’t have gone. I know Janie too well. I know her.”

  “If you know her so damned well, then why the hell don’t you just call her up?” Michael replied irritably. “Ask her! I haven’t got all day to sit around assuaging your father complex when it comes to Janie Penrod.”

  “Then I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Zach said, leaning over to pick up Ad Age. It didn’t help to know that Michael’s advice was sound: why not just call her? “I’ve work to do, too. We’ve got a three o’clock on the Fidini creative, right? I’ll see you there.”

  March was coming in like a lamb that year. The air was soft, zephyrous, scented with the smells of old leaves, new grass, and the ubiquitous city aroma of exhaust fumes. Pink-tipped buds swelled along the wet branches of the magnolia trees in front of the New York Public Library. A few stalwart picnickers sat on the library steps, their faces turned up hopefully toward the weak sunshine above the noonday traffic. Zach, his mind on other things, didn’t notice these first signs of spring. His raincoat flapped at his sides as he ran across Fifth Avenue and caught the downtown M2 bus just as the doors were closing. He got off at 14th Street, passed along the bottom of Union Square Park, and found the street he wanted. Yes, there was the converted firehouse praised as “chic and yet cozy” in the article. Zach walked to the end of the block, turned, and walked back down the street again, then up and back once more.

  “Zachary Dorn, I do declare!” Melina cried when she saw him at the corner newsstand, clearly pretending interest in the morning headlines. She was on her way to a luncheon at the Plaza sponsored by the Magazine Association, dressed to kill, as she liked to think of it, in a plum-colored Perry Ellis suit with a skirt that rode halfway up her thighs. “Looking for the current issue of Ad Age, perhaps?”

  “Well, if it isn’t the talking piranha,” Zach replied, measuring Melina with a look. “Stalking the streets, are you? Looking for new business?”

  “Really, Zach,” Melina reprimanded him, “it’s not at all like you to be vulgar. Cynical, yes. Selfish, of course. But life must be tough if you have to resort to such below-the-belt tactics.”

  “Oh, I am sorry,” Zach answered with a smile, “but I thought that’s where you were the most comfortable. I was just trying to relate to you in a language you would understand.”

  “Nasty, nasty, Zach,” Melina said, shaking her head prettily, “but if you’re hoping to get a rise out of me, forget it. The last time I found anything you had to say interesting was when you asked me if I wanted to quote fuck you unquote. I would say, actually, that I already have, both literally and figuratively. And frankly, sweetheart, the latter was much more satisfying.”

  Except, even as Melina was at last saying aloud the words she had rehearsed with such relish over the past months, she knew they weren’t true. Seeing him again unexpectedly on the street, she had to admit to herself that she still had a thing for Zach. There was something about the way he stood, with his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his head tilted to one side … there was something about his world-weary gaze … about his hard, unforgiving lips. Or was it all far deeper than that, Melina asked herself, the thing that made you long for one man and not another? Whatever the reasons, she felt her body starting to sway toward his.

  “Ah, yes,” Zach said, staring down at her coldly. “Well, I do hope you’re getting more satisfaction these days, literally speaking, I mean. Who is it? The account supervisor at Ramona? How convenient for you.”

  Melina drew back from him abruptly, stung and thoroughly angry. “You know perfectly well that Madame Ramona makes all the decisions for her company. And you also know that Madame is partial to silly young men. So if you are trying to imply, Zachary, that I choose my sexual partners on any other basis besides that of personal attraction, then let me…”

  “Oh please, Melina,” Zach interrupted her, snapping his fingers in front of her face, “come off it. It’s me, Zach. I know you too well. You’re going to use everything you’ve got to get ahead, okay? We both know that. All I want to know is does Janie know this? Is she aware that you’re recruiting clients in your bedroom?”

  “Screw you, Zach,” Melina snapped. “Face up to it, okay? City Slickers opted for me because they preferred my younger, trendier style to what D&D was giving them. Ramona came on for the same reason. I’m fresh. I’m creative. I’ve a whole new downtown kind of approach that our clients find a welcome change from the marketing-based, by-the-number stuff D&D does.”

  “Is that your big sell line?” Zach demanded, laughing down at her. He took a step back and turned. They both started to walk together toward Union Square. “It’s palaver, pure and simple, Melina, and you know it. Though it’s not a bad positioning statement, I admit. But you know what you have got that does make you a bit different?”

  “Of course,” Melina said, “it’s just what I said: freshness, a new perspective.”

  “No, none of the above,” Zach replied. “You’ve got Janie. I don’t know how you convinced her to jump ship. I don’t know what you offered. But it must have been one hell of a good deal. And I’ll tell you something, sweetheart, it’s probably going to be worth every penny you spent.”

  “Janie didn’t come over because of money,” Melina replied as they reached Park Avenue South. “She just believed in what I was doing, that’s all.” Melina searched the oncoming traffic for a taxi, and when one stopped with a screeching of brakes in front of them, Melina added, “I’m heading uptown. Can I give you a lift? Or are you in the neighborhood for some other reason than to pick a street fight with me?”

  “Actually, no,” Zach told her, as he helped her into the back seat, slamming the door behind her. “I wanted to see for myself what you were up to. Now I know you’re just pulling the same old tricks, Melina. And it’s really too bad because you have enough going for you to play it straight. Be honest with yourself … and with Janie. You don’t have to hedge your bets by sleeping around.”

  “Fuck you, Zach,” Melina snapped, winding down the window and leaning out. “I told you before, I sleep with whomever I want to sleep with.” She hated his high-and-mighty attitude, but she knew it was more than that. What had she been secretly hoping for? That once he realized she could make it on her own in business he’d fall passionately in love with her? Had she ever for a moment stopped smarting from his rejection of her? Now she wanted to see him hurt so badly, she reached for the weapon closest at hand. “I’d stop worrying so much about my personal life, Zach, and start looking after your business. ’Cause you’re in for another blow. We just got our first project for Chanson. Driver,” Melina continued, leaning forward, “I’d like to go up to Fifth and…”

  “What? Hold it!” Zach cried, taking in what Melina had said. He started to trot along beside the taxi as it tried to work its way back into traffic. “Are you screwing him, too? Melina, answer me … are you?”

  “I’ll let you guess,” Melina replied, laughing as she wound the window back up. Zach watched as the taxi swerved into a right-hand lane and headed uptown. He wandered into the park and sat down on a bench beside a raggedy homeless woman who was feeding pigeons from a crumpled box of Cheerios.

  “Here you go, birdies,” she murmured, scattering the cereal pieces into the fluttering flock. “Eat up, now, eat up.” Zach watched her silently for several minutes, not really focusing on what he saw. His thoughts kept circling around the problem of Melina and Alain. No, that wasn’t really it. He was only thinking about Janie. Why she had left. What she really wanted. It wasn’t the challenge, as Michael thought. It wasn’t change, as Zach had speculated. It was what it had always been: Alain.

  He stood up slowly. He had to get back to the office. He was already late for the three o’clock meeting. He watched the woman throw her last han
dful of Cheerios into the swirl of pigeons. “That’s all, birdies,” she said, turning the box upside down. “Share and share alike.” Zach fished a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet.

  “This is for you, ma’am,” he said politely, leaning over to give her the bill. She stared up at him warily, grabbed the money, and stuffed it up her sweater sleeve. “Buy yourself some dinner,” Zach added kindly.

  “What? With all of them going hungry?” she demanded harshly, spreading her arms out to the birds. “I should think about myself?”

  She was a hopeless case, Zach decided, as he headed back toward Park Avenue South to find a cab. But then who wasn’t hopeless in one way or another? Zach asked himself. He thought of Melina: hungry for power and money, not even realizing that she was starving to death for love. He thought of Janie: dazzled by a man she hardly knew, blind to her own beauty. And, finally, as he settled down in the back of the cab and closed his eyes for a second, he thought about himself: someone who saw so clearly into the hearts of others … but who couldn’t begin to know how to read his own.

  Chapter 23

  The note attached to the enormous bouquet of damask-colored roses read simply: “To go with your hair. Alain.”

  Janie stared down at the card and realized that her hand was trembling with excitement. She tucked the note away in her handbag and, when Melina asked where the flowers had come from, she murmured something vague about a late birthday gift. Long after the roses had wilted, she carried the card around in her wallet, fingering it whenever she was feeling down, as though it were a talisman, a good luck charm. He didn’t mean anything by it, Janie warned herself from time to time. It was just Alain’s way of thanking her for her work. European manners, she told herself, nothing more. And then one day a book arrived via Federal Express for Janie from Paris. It was an oversized, full-color, extravagantly produced tome about Bordeaux, its vineyards and countryside, famous chateaux and families.

  “Homework,” the handwritten note on the inside cover said. “With affection, Alain.”

  She hauled it back to her apartment that night and proceeded to devour every word, though she was disappointed to discover that it was not nearly as informative or detailed as some of the texts she had studied for the presentation. And, she admitted only to her innermost self, the four-color work was slipshod. Still, she told herself, it was the thought that counted. But just what was Alain thinking? She kept telling herself that he was only being kind, considerate. For some reason he had taken an interest her. He probably sent a dozen gifts a day to various women around the globe.

  She finally drummed up enough courage to casually mention to Melina one morning, “Alain sent me a book.”

  “Oh?” Melina had replied vaguely.

  “Yes,” Janie continued. “A very pretty one about Bordeaux. Thoughtful of him, don’t you think?”

  “Hmmm,” Melina murmured. “He’s very generous. Just how much thought’s involved, I couldn’t say.”

  But Melina’s words did nothing to dampen Janie’s mounting anticipation. She was exhilarated. She was scared out of her mind. She wasn’t sleeping well. And she wasn’t eating. Janie would wake up each morning counting the days: three more weeks until the trip to France, two more weeks … and now it was five days away…

  “Lord, Janie,” Melina exclaimed one morning, “are you on a diet or something? You’re losing a hell of a lot of weight all of a sudden. You’re okay, aren’t you?” She looked fine, Melina told herself—in fact, she looked more than fine. Not only was Janie slimming down, but she had started to wear her hair loose around her shoulders, rather than in that messy bun she used to affect. Heavens, was she still pining away for Alain? Well, whatever the reason, Melina decided, her partner was at least starting to look reasonably well turned out.

  “I feel just great,” Janie assured her, leaning back on Melina’s new white leather Italian couch. They were waiting in Melina’s office for the reporter from New York magazine who was coming to do a follow-up interview for her piece on the emerging trend toward women-owned advertising agencies. “I guess it’s just all the excitement … I haven’t had time to eat.”

  “I know what you mean,” Melina replied irritably. “Now where the hell is that damned Denise? I’ve got to get up to Ramona by four. We’re cutting this close.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Janie told her. “If we start to run late, then you can take off, and I’ll finish the interview.”

  “We’ll see,” Melina replied, stealing another quick glance at the couch: Janie had started to dress better too. Gone were those tentlike jumpers and overalls. Gone were the ankle boots and leotards. In their place were classically tailored trousers and vests. Silk blouses in muted colors. A simple string of pearls. She was starting to look like she’d just stepped out of some goddamned Calvin Klein spread, Melina thought. Melina had given Janie and herself juicy bonuses when the new accounts came on; it was amazing, wasn’t it, Melina told herself, what a little money could buy?

  Even Alain had noticed that Janie was looking less tacky. Last time she had met him at the Plaza, he kept bringing up her name. “Where does she come from?” Alain had demanded after he had once again told Melina how pleased he was with Janie’s new work. It was not, Melina decided, a subject she particularly wanted to explore at that moment. Her body was still glistening from their recent exertions in bed.

  “Who?” she had replied, sitting up on the pillows and trying to smooth back her hair.

  “Jane,” Alain repeated, “Jane Penrod. Where does she come from? She has a rather odd accent. Clipped and very schooled.”

  “How could you tell? She’s usually so tongue-tied when she talks to you,” Melina answered snidely. “You just like her because she adores you so. But—just as a warning—I doubt she’s ever been fucked, let alone in the places you prefer.”

  “Don’t be vulgar,” Alain snapped. “I despise this American tendency to say anything one wants in the name of frankness. And how would you know what my real style is, Melina? I merely do what is appropriate for the occasion. And with you … well…”

  “Okay.” Melina sighed. “Let’s drop it. I spoke out of line. Janie’s from New England. Massachusetts, I think. All I know about her is that her father’s a schoolteacher, and she has a million older brothers and sisters. I’ve always thought of them as the kind of family who would, you know, darn their own socks and make bread from scratch.”

  “Frugal is the English word, yes?” Alain asked, and then he seemed to lose interest in the discussion as he started to massage Melina’s breasts. Leaning down to kiss one of her nipples, he murmured, “Not like our extravagant little Melina.”

  He was by far the most generous lover Melina had ever known. He’d already presented her with a heavy gold Picasso broach from Tiffany’s. A double string of pearls from Mikimoto. He brought her gifts in Paris—a brocade Kenzo jacket, the sheerest of silk negligees—and then draped them over her side of the bed as a surprise. And yet, Melina admitted, she felt no real affection in the gift-giving. Because she knew he didn’t see her as a person, as a woman; he saw her as yet another object he had acquired. Sometimes she felt as though Alain were merely decorating one of his possessions—her—with these other beautiful things. Even the gold broach, which she adored, and in fact had on that day for the interview, felt like something on loan to her. The way his interest in her—she could hardly term it love—was a temporary thing. But what did that matter? He had given the agency a major boost when they badly needed it, and that’s what she cared about more than anything. Would she, Melina wondered, really miss him when he moved on to his next lover?

  As the reporter from New York magazine hurried into the room, apologizing profusely for being late, Melina concluded that, no, she wouldn’t mind losing Alain. Not the way she minded letting go of Zach. And, dammit to hell, Zach’s name was one of the first words out of Denise’s mouth when she sat down.

  “I must say, girls,” Denise
began as she clicked down on her tape recorder, “that your alma mater is being extremely polite about the recent defections of their clients to your roster. Zachary Dorn—Lord, what an attractive man, don’t you think?—had only the most glowing things to say about Janie, here.”

  “I’m sure Zach’s very discreet on the record,” Melina replied evenly. “Too bad he’s so awful about all this in private. He nearly attacked me—physically, I mean—on the sidewalk the other day.”

  “Melina, you never told me that!” Janie interjected. “When did you see Zach?” She’d been feeling increasingly guilty as the weeks slipped by and the news of Ramona and then Chanson leaked out through the trade press, that she hadn’t phoned Zach. Each day when she woke up she promised herself that she would call him, but then there was always some handy excuse not to. She was so busy. Or she was too tired. But the truth of it was she still had no idea what she would say, how she could explain away her role in what had happened.

  “I didn’t want to worry you, Janie,” Melina replied soothingly. “He was most insulting. And this is not for the record, Denise, but it was just after the Ramona announcement—and I’m afraid he was just a little unhinged by the news. Zach’s brilliant and all, I’m the first to admit, but he’s also so damned explosive. Quite honestly, if it weren’t for his awful temper, I’d probably still be in his employ. He practically threw me out on the street right after Janie and I had just about single-handedly landed the City Slickers account. Admit it, Janie, he was pretty abusive.”

  “Yes, well, Zach can sometimes be difficult,” Janie agreed, then turning to Denise added, “but that’s not what you came to talk about, right? And you won’t use any of this in your article, will you?”