I crept into her room, no matter how unnecessary the creeping was, and turned on the light before navigating through the piles of shoes, scripts, and magazines that completed the look of Fi’s natural habitat. Then, with complete and total abandon, I opened her Narnia closet to see what treasures awaited. Whatever closets she’d had throughout her life had always been Narnia closets. You opened one up, expecting a normal storage center for clothing, but what you found was so much more. Each outfit either had a story or was a story, packed with intrigue and occasionally peril—as was demonstrated by the height of some of her heels—and I always exited wishing Aslan were there to guide me home.
I took a deep breath and reached to the back of Narnia, where Fi kept her best shoes. I knew not to pick from the top of the heap, since the ones she wore most often were the ones I was most likely to fall from, so I grabbed a box about midway down. When I took off the lid, I was staring at a pair of Christian Louboutin stilettos, trying to make sense of them. “How do you even get your foot in?” I gaped as I surveyed the twisty-turny ivy-like strap circling up from the bottom of the heel to, presumably, the space where your ankle was supposed to go. Morbid curiosity caused me to attempt to slip them on, but after a quick peek into the box to see if they came with instructions, I gave up.
After returning that box to its proper place, I decided to go all the way to the bottom of the pile. “Oh, you’re lovely,” I whispered to the pair of Jimmy Choo pumps I uncovered, still protected in their Bergdorf Goodman box. “What do you say, Jimmy? Want to join Stella and me at work today?”
I removed the right shoe and set it on the floor in front of me, then set the box on the bed as I slipped my foot in. That must have been what it felt like for Cinderella. The slipper was a perfect fit, and my days of sweeping floors and hanging out with mice were over. I was well on my way to becoming a princess, but with a much more practical patent-leather footwear option instead of that glass monstrosity Cindy had worn. I’d have cracked those babies before I ever stepped out of the carriage.
Once both shoes were on my feet I tested them out, and having confirmed I could walk across the room in them without resembling an ostrich, I indulged in one more fairy-tale princess moment. I twirled and curtsied low to the ground, as if I had just been asked to share a waltz with the prince. My waltz came to an abrupt end, however, when I knocked the shoebox off of Fi’s bed and my feet were suddenly surrounded by enough tissue paper to cover the entire castle in pom-poms and other DIY wedding decorations.
Okay, so maybe there wasn’t that much, but it was enough to cause a little bit of anxiety as I looked from the cloudlike mound of delicate paper to the box and back again and wondered how Fiona had fit it all in there. Even her Bergdorf boxes possessed a Narnian quality.
Still feeling like Cinderella—the somewhat less glamorous version—I knelt down and began picking up my mess and stuffing it all back into the box. One unwieldy handful didn’t fold over and stuff down as easily as the rest. It took me a second to realize it was an envelope. It took me a second more to realize it was a letter addressed to Fiona. But it didn’t take any time at all for my pulse to quicken and my temples to begin to throb. I ran my finger over the unmistakable handwriting, which I had seen so many times on notes he had written to me when we were dating—notes I had carelessly thrown away after reading.
March 11, 2010
Dear Fiona,
I can’t tell you how nice it was to hear from you. Best surprise I’ve gotten in a long time.
“What am I doing?” I muttered to myself as I stood. I didn’t even remember opening it, much less deciding to read it. And yet there I was. Sticking my nose where it didn’t belong.
Although Fi had said I could read the letter. As we sat on her office floor, she’d asked me if I wanted to read what had to have been this specific handwritten letter, before they became casual e-mail correspondents. Whether or not my nose belonged there, it was an invited guest.
No.
I returned Liam’s letter to its perfect trifold and stuffed it back into its enclosure. I knew better than to revisit. Finally—finally—I had moved on. In the past year I’d even gone out on a few dates. Nothing came of any of them, but for the most part I’d managed not to think about Liam while sitting across from those other guys. And Fiona had moved on too. After his last e-mail, a year prior, in which he’d announced he and Samantha were getting married, she had written him back to congratulate him, and then they hadn’t been in touch again. It had been a Liam-less year, and I knew it wouldn’t do my heart any good to rehash any of it. To allow myself to read words he had written nearly three years ago. Words that, according to Fiona, mentioned me at some point.
And now he was married. He had to be by now, right? I knew I could find out if I wanted to—I could google him, or search the Boston Globe wedding announcements. Brandon had probably been at the wedding. Maybe Sonya had been a bridesmaid. He took my threat of showing Sonya perm photos seriously, so my brother wasn’t going to bring it up. But he’d tell me if I asked. I had ways to find out . . . but for an entire year I’d moved on. And I’d moved on pretty well, overall. I couldn’t go back.
But the letter seemed to be my Prince Caspian, not only asking me to come back to the hidden world of Narnia, but giving me a credible reason to. Wasn’t I letting the whole past with Liam affect me more if I didn’t read the letter? If I was over him, which I clearly was, wasn’t it irresponsible of me to remain uneducated about the past? Fi had said I could read it, and then said it wouldn’t make me feel better, but there had been so many emotions between us that day, who could even say what was decided in clarity and what was not?
I sat back down on the edge of Fi’s bed, taking a quick peek at my watch to see what time it was. If I left right then, I’d still be too early. The doors didn’t open until nine, and I didn’t have a key yet. I would have to sit in the parking garage for a while, and that sounded nerve-racking. Instead, I pulled out the paper once again and proceeded to read with emotional distance and nonchalance.
March 11, 2010
Dear Fiona,
I can’t tell you how nice it was to hear from you. Best surprise I’ve gotten in a long time. Seeing you in Boston was a nice surprise, too, of course, but I, like you, from the sound of it, wasn’t exactly thrilled with how I reacted to that surprise. I think it was a shock for both of us—all three of us, I guess—but I think we handled it as well as could be expected. If I came across as anything other than delighted to see you, please forgive me. Your apology was so kind and considerate, but completely unnecessary, I assure you. You were as lovely as ever. And it actually ended up being a good thing to have that chance to talk with Olivia, I think.
You’re right . . . you and I had said goodbye. You didn’t know I was leaving LA (heck, I didn’t know either), but walking on the beach that night, I think we both said everything we needed to say to each other. As hard and sad as that was at the time, I’m so grateful for it now. I’m grateful to you. Olivia and I didn’t have that, and I always felt like there was more I needed to say. After seeing her in Boston I think I finally accepted that I’ll never get to say it all, and I have to be okay with that. The truth is she was my favorite person. I know you understand that, because I’m pretty sure she’s your favorite person too. She thinks she’s so normal. So average. So unremarkable. But I know that you and I have always known how wrong she’s always been. I hope that someday someone will convince her, but I finally had to accept that I’m not going to get to be the one.
Anyway, yes, let’s definitely keep in touch, and next time you’re in Boston, I’m taking you up on that dinner offer. I should probably warn you that I’m not a big fan of lobster rolls or chowder, but if you say you’ll teach me how to eat like a Bostonian, I trust you. If there’s anyone who can teach me how it’s supposed to be done, I have no doubt it’s you. Many people have already threatened to throw me out of the state. Maybe you can save me.
And one last thing.
I know that people get carried away with “I hope we can still be friends,” and it can be such a line, but I hope you know that when I said it to you in Santa Monica, it wasn’t a line. I meant it as much as I had ever meant anything in my life. You’re remarkable, and my life is better because of the time you were part of it.
Love always,
Liam
* * *
An hour of bumper-to-bumper traffic later, I was pulling into the Heartlite parking garage—a parking garage I had pulled into many times before. But for the first time I turned right instead of left. And rather than beginning the search for any empty spot in the peon section, as I always had before, I drove directly to the executive section and parked in the spot that boasted a sign that let everyone know it was reserved for the “Head Writer of Dramatic Programming.” There was a parking spot at Heartlite reserved for me.
“Good morning, Ms. Ross,” the parking attendant greeted me. “Traffic was a bear this morning, wasn’t it?”
“It sure was . . . Terrell,” I said as I looked at his name tag. Then I subconsciously looked down at the front of my Stella McCartney to see if I was wearing a name tag. Nope. Terrell just knew me. Weird. “Have a good day, Terrell!”
“You, too, Ms. Ross. Good luck today!”
I was going to need it.
I had seen no point in getting there any earlier than when they opened the doors to the public, but my new administrative assistant—who had been quick to inform me he had been standing by the door waiting for me to arrive since eight fifteen—didn’t seem to understand or care about that sensible rationale.
“No, no. It’s fine, Ms. Ross,” Rupert said in a tone that indicated it most certainly was not after I had apologized profusely. “You’re the boss. You can get here whenever you like.”
“But it’s not like that,” I advocated on my own behalf. “I’ll be the first one here, nine times out of ten. I mean it. I just didn’t have—”
“Yes. You didn’t have a key. I know. That’s why I was standing by the door for the last forty-five minutes. So that I could let you in. But no, it’s totally fine.” Once again, his tone betrayed him.
He showed me to my office and with a little too much glee pointed out the stack of papers on my desk, all of which needed to be completed and sent to human resources before noon. I thanked him, determined to win him over with excellent manners and never-again-in-doubt punctuality, and then asked him where I could get a cup of coffee. He offered to get it for me, but I was in complete and utter dread of putting him out again so soon, so I assured him that would not be necessary. If he would just point me in the right direction . . .
That was also the wrong choice.
“Sure, Ms. Ross. Of course. It’s right over there in the corner. Now, if you need me, I’ll be over here, sitting at my desk, doing absolutely nothing.” He huffed off before I could apologize again, though I was certain he would give me plenty of opportunities before all was said and done.
I greeted a few people as I crossed through the galley. They all stared at me, despite being fully aware of who I was. I, meanwhile, knew no one. Rupert hadn’t introduced me to a single person on my staff or anyone else’s staff. That had probably been scheduled for eight fifteen. Finally, I arrived at the coffee station in the corner and breathed a sigh of relief. At least the next time I had to uncomfortably cross the room of curious strangers I would have coffee in my hands.
And on my dress.
“Oh no, I am so sorry! Here, let me get a paper towel.”
I stood in shock, looking down at the brown, amoeba-shaped accent that, though I was not a fashionista, was difficult to imagine as part of Stella’s original vision for her fall line. I heard gasps and teeters behind me, and I knew my desire to make a memorable first impression had been achieved with unparalleled success.
“Geez, I’m mortified. I’m so, so sorry. Here. Here are some paper towels. Should you get it wet? Or do you want me to try and track down a Tide stick or something?”
I glanced up at the man who had ruined my dress, prepared to tell him he owed me 279 Tide sticks in order to make up the cost of the most expensive thing I had ever worn, but I hadn’t been expecting to see a face I knew.
“Caleb?” I asked.
His eyes squinted as he opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He pushed up his glasses, then crossed his arms before words finally came out. “I’m sorry. You look familiar, but—”
“Olivia Ross. The last time we saw each other . . . Well, it was pretty much just like this, actually.” I laughed and groaned simultaneously. “At 90 Craic, you—”
“Oh no!” He gasped. “You’re Fiona Mitchell’s friend. I opened the door and knocked you to the ground!”
“That’s me!” I exclaimed and gave him a big thumbs-up. “I believe you are even worse at first impressions than I am. And that’s saying something.”
“I feel awful. How can I make it up to you?”
I’d heard similar words from him before, and a year ago I had very nearly told him he could buy me dinner in response. But then my heart had once again stalled out on the Liam Howard Hang-up Highway.
A year later, Caleb was as attractive as ever, but this time he didn’t seem to be flirting with me. Could he tell I was in my forties now? That was probably it. He knew I was forty. Maybe single men heard fortieth birthdays communicated to them with a whistle that only they could hear. Although the change in Caleb seemed to go a little deeper than that. He just didn’t come across like that same cocky player Fi had warned me about.
“Do you work for me?”
“I don’t know.” He smiled and tilted his head. “What do you do?”
“First day as head writer of dramatic programming.”
“Then nope. I’m marketing.”
I nodded. “Okay. Just trying to figure things out. My assistant hates me.”
Caleb looked behind me and gestured with his chin. “That guy?”
I turned and looked back and saw Rupert sitting at his desk, staring at me with a mixture of boredom and loathing. “Yep. That’s him.”
“Yeah, I think he hates everybody.”
“Well, that’s better, then. Second question: I haven’t had a chance to read the employee handbook yet. Is there any sort of dress-code policy that my coffee-stained dress is currently in violation of?”
“Dress-code violations? I don’t think so. Fashion violations? Yeah. All of them.” He sighed. “I feel so bad. It’s a nice dress.” He raised sheepish eyes. “Well, it was. Do you have another outfit you can change into, and I can get that one sent off to the dry cleaners for you?”
“Nope. No extra outfit. Although now that I know you and I are going to work in the same office, I’ll be sure to have an entire wardrobe brought in.” Playful, unabashed, klutzy Caleb had been cute and appealing. Mortified, responsible, klutzy Caleb was pretty irresistible. “Do you happen to have an extra dress shirt in your office? Maybe I can come up with something avant-garde-ish enough to make it look like I’m a style maven.”
What would Fiona do?
The words had just begun bouncing around in my head when I heard them come out of Caleb’s mouth.
“That’s exactly what I was wondering!” I exclaimed.
He laughed. “I think I have a shirt. Be right back.”
A minute later he met me in my office, carrying a crisp white dress shirt on a hanger. That, of course, was after I had the pleasure of walking back through the galley wearing the latest in coffee-splat fashion and hearing Rupert’s dry, “Oh, that’s a nice look.”
If you cut yourself off from the outside world apart from your job—which for a long time is done at home—and your best friend with whom you share an apartment, before long there is no outside world. Caleb felt like a nice welcome back to the world. And though I was determined that after ten years I was finally done with all the Ironic Day stuff, it was pretty tough to ignore that Caleb was now part of the motif. Maybe after a decade of drama and an
gst, there was a lesson to be learned. Maybe Caleb was there at the end to get my attention in a casual, limited-impact sort of way. I had no desire to fall in love again. Malcolm had pretty much ruined me for life in all of the bad ways, and Liam had ruined me for life in all of the good ways. I was forty years old and at peace with being alone. But it couldn’t hurt to make a new friend along the way.
“Do you want to have lunch with me?”
“I would like that,” he responded.
“Okay.” I nodded my head once. “I hope it goes without saying that you’re paying.”
He cackled but still had that sheepish, regretful expression on his face. “Yes. In fact, I would assume I’m paying for at least the first twenty lunches.”
I looked down at my beautiful skirt popping out from under Caleb’s shirt. “This is Stella McCartney. And today was the first time I wore it.”
“Okay. Fifty lunches.”
The next two hours were spent combing through the mountain of personnel paperwork and caring a little bit less all the time about my ruined Stella—and a whole lot less about my annoyed Rupert. I couldn’t believe I had the job I had. All day, every day, I would help scripts get made into movies. Sure, most of them were going to be sappy love stories involving a small-town bakery and a Christmas miracle, but I had enough influence to maybe make them a little less sappy. To maybe make the heroines more independent and the heroes less unrealistically perfect. And in the meantime, I was going to make all sorts of connections with agents and actors and directors, and when the time was right, I would say, “Funny you should mention looking for a vehicle for Hamish MacDougal,” or “A script with romance and intrigue? Well, as a matter of fact, I might have something you’d be interested in.”
When all of the forms had been signed and turned in for processing and I had received my key—and assured Rupert I would be on time for work the next morning—I made plans to meet Caleb at a bistro around the corner. Though I was perfectly on time, he beat me there, which was ideal. That way I got to see him light up a bit when I walked in and stand up for me when I approached the table.
Plot Twist Page 23
