by L.H. Cosway
This shite makes no sense.
***
The second gift arrived mid-afternoon on March 15. This time, Tony didn’t call. He just showed up at my door with the gift in tow. Rather, I should say gifts in tow.
“There’s a lot more downstairs.” Tony gave me a confounded look then surveyed the inside of my apartment. “I don’t think they’re going to fit.”
I glanced between him and the five men behind him, all with armfuls of flowers. Daisies, roses, lilies, sunflowers, irises—every kind of commercially available stem was represented. I gaped at the scene then turned my stunned expression back to Tony.
“What-who-where—”
“There’s a note.” He clumsily pulled a card from his pants pocket, dropping a magnificent arrangement of peonies and hydrangeas.
I picked up the felled flowers then took the note, ripping it open and scanning the contents. Of course, it was from Ronan. It read:
Dearest Annie,
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
I’m using my hand
But I’m thinking of you.
- Ronan
P.S. Just to clarify, I’m using my hand to write this note…get your mind out of the gutter.
I choked and then choked a startled laugh. Then I choked again as the hallway full of flowers came back into focus.
Ronan Fitzpatrick was completely crazy.
“What do you want us to do?” Tony shifted uneasily, his black eyebrows pulling together in a plain display of anxiety.
“Um….” I struggled, glancing from left to right as I searched my mind. It was no good. Everywhere I looked, I saw flowers. I squeezed my eyes shut so I could think. “Just—just give me a minute….”
Tony was right. Just the armfuls of flowers in the hall would never fit in my cozy little apartment. Plus, it would be such a waste, having a jungle of flowers to myself. Really, they needed to be shared….
“Wait! I have an idea.” I opened my eyes and gripped Tony’s forearm. “Do you think there is any way we could have these sent to Memorial Sloan-Kettering? Distributed to the patients?”
He nodded thoughtfully, slowly at first but then with more conviction. “Yeah, yeah. I can make that happen.”
“Let me know how much it costs. I’ll be happy to reimburse you.”
He gave me a relieved smile. “Thanks, Ms. Catrel. I’ll let you know.” Then he turned back to his compatriots. “Okay, guys, back down stairs. We’re sending these to Sloan-Kettering. Come on.”
I watched them march back to the elevator. It wasn’t until the doors closed behind them that I realized I was still clutching the peonies and hydrangeas to my chest.
***
March 15
10:55 p.m.
Dear Ronan,
LOL! @ “porn-mongers.”
You are very funny.
In a way, your last email is correct, but in another more accurate way, you are wrong.
The online environment is unique, and that’s a very good thing.
Rather than be judged by what they look like or their ability to speak in front of a crowd, people are judged by the merit of their ideas and words.
-SML
March 16
12:02 p.m.
Dear Slovenly Miss. Lazybones,
People should be judged by what they look like—not 100%, but it should be taken into account. If you work hard on yourself, take care of yourself, then it’s a reflection of the person within.
People are more than just their brains. Like it or not, assuming a person has control over their personal appearance, the body is just as important.
If you ignore your body, you are ignoring an essential part of yourself.
-Ronan
***
The third gift arrived late in the afternoon on March 16.
I was just returning from my walk in Central Park when Tony called to me before I could make it to the elevator.
“Ms. Catrel! Wait—wait a moment.” He jogged over. I’d never seen him jog before.
“Oh, hi. Thank you again for your help with the flowers yesterday.”
“No problem at all, Ms. Catrel.” He made me a little polite bow then glanced over his shoulder. I followed the path of his eyes and found a very pretty lady in a very nice suit walking toward us. “So, this lady here”—Tony lowered his voice and threw a thumb over his shoulder— “she’s from Cartier, and she—”
“Ms. Catrel?” the woman asked with a wide smile. “Are you Ms. Annie Catrel?”
I nodded, shrinking back a little. She was so very pretty, sleek even. Her makeup was impeccable in a way I’d never mastered, even when I’d dabbled with eye shadow and lipstick in the past. She was also very tall, with very black hair, and very blue eyes, and very white, straight teeth.
“This is for you.” She reached into an attaché case and withdrew a red velvet box, pushing at me until my hands automatically lifted to grab it.
“For me? What is it?”
She gave me a very nice smile. “Compliments of Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
Then she turned and left, her heels clicking and echoing on the stone floor.
I glanced from Tony to the box. He shrugged then sighed, “So…this guy, this Mr. Fitzpatrick, is he going to keep sending you gifts? I mean, not that it’s any of my business. But if he is, we should maybe set up some kind of system for receivership if you’re not in the building.”
I shook my head. “Sorry, Tony. I honestly don’t know what’s going on.”
“Really?” He sounded both skeptical and amused. “Ms. Catrel, let me spell it out for you: I think you’re being wooed.”
My eyebrows jumped, causing Tony to chuckle. Then he turned and left me, too.
I gripped the box tighter and made my way to the elevator, feeling a buzzing sense of unease. In my hands was a velvet box from Cartier, hand-delivered by the store, compliments of Ronan Fitzpatrick.
Back in my small living room, I placed the box on the coffee table and went to my room to change. I decided that, whatever it was, I had to send it back. Part of me didn’t even want to open it. What was the use of opening it when I couldn’t keep it?
But curiosity eventually overcame the better part of valor. I sat on the couch, took a deep breath, and then opened the box.
There was a note. I picked it up. Beneath the note was a delicate gold necklace with an attached gold and diamond pendant. It was breathtaking. The pendant was comprised of a series of intricate knots; I recognized them as Celtic, but I had no idea what they meant. A larger diamond was set very tastefully within the center of the knot; as well, several smaller stones were set in highlighted relief along the outside border.
It was really quite magnificent. Refined, understated, subtle, and yet must have been outrageously expensive. I quickly closed the box, setting it back on the table, then turned my attention to the note.
It read:
Dear Annie,
I saw this today, and it reminded me of you. Do not even think about trying to give it back to me; I’ll not take it. You’ll have to donate it to charity if you don’t want it. It is freely given and comes with no strings attached. Though, if you decide to model it for me while naked, I’ll not complain.
-Ronan
***
March 16
7:30 p.m.
Dear Ronan,
I cede your point about the physical being an important part of self; it’s important to be healthy, I agree. But I don’t understand spending hours primping or spending hundreds of dollars on clothes that go out of style after two months. Extremes—in either direction, ignoring the physical or giving it too much importance—I think are counterproductive and dangerous to overall well-being.
Though, you must admit, in-person interactions are fleeting. But online the interaction is preserved (basically) forever. Nothing is fleeting because it can be revisited anytime you wish.
Give it a chance!
- Slovenly Miss. Lazybones
11:15 p.m.
Dear Secretly Miss. Lonelyheart,
If you want to preserve in-person interactions, all you need to do is record them…. I’ve done this in the past, each time with stellar results.
It sounds to me like, as much as I need lessons in social media, you need lessons on how to truly live. When’s the last time you experienced any kind of in-person interaction that left you breathless or excited? Nothing online can come close to experiencing the touch of another person, a kiss, a caress—or the anticipation of these things.
Nothing in this make-believe world comes close.
I would send you a link to an article on the subject, but that would really undermine my point. You need to actually experience it. Take your own advice and give it a chance.
-Ronan
Chapter Eight
March 17
1:14 a.m.
Dear Ronan,
I’m not ignoring your last message, but I’m writing you now because I wanted to be the one to tell you before you found out from someone else. This article (attached) hasn’t been published yet, but it will be in tomorrow’s newspaper, and shortly after that all over the gossip sites. As you read it, you’ll see that your ex-girlfriend is accusing you of domestic violence and years of emotional abuse. I have a friend at the paper who sends me celebrity stuff before it’s in print.
Please don’t react! You should probably make a few benign posts on Twitter today, maybe about your boring diet (take pictures) or about your friend Tom’s restaurant. I will also be happy to tweet back and forth with you about something related to your charity.
Just…don’t react to it. She sounds completely crazy. If you react, you’ll be playing right into her hands.
Sincerely, Secretly Miss. Lonelyheart
*Annie*
My internal debate lasted from the time I went to bed at 1:30 a.m. until I awoke from a fitful sleep at 7:13 a.m.
Then it lasted two minutes more. I could stay at home and work and ignore my worry about Ronan and his spiteful ex-girlfriend, wait to be contacted by the office once the story was printed; or I could go into work, break the news to Joan, and have him called in for a damage-control meeting.
Ultimately, I gave into the urge to seek out Ronan. I justified it to myself by recalling that he wasn’t just any client. We’d been partnered, and Joan wanted me to be more present in the office. Plus, I could use it as an opportunity to return the necklace.
When I arrived at the office Monday morning, the streets were already crowded with people setting up for New York’s St. Patrick’s Day parade. I wasn’t scheduled to be in the office until Wednesday and may have been checking both my work account and my Socialmedialite email account obsessively on the way in, hoping he would email one of us. I was also checking his Twitter feed, hoping he didn’t plan to retaliate publically.
As soon as I arrived, I went to Joan’s office. Her assistant told me she’d arrived an hour ago but was currently in a meeting. I asked that she call me as soon as she had a free moment and then I retreated to my office.
I was able to get some work done. Focusing on the beginnings of an action plan to counter Brona O’Shea’s propaganda was a good way to channel my restless energy, but I continued to check my emails.
At 9:00 a.m. on the dot, my cell phone chimed. I grabbed it and saw that the number listed was the phone line from the main conference room.
I stood as I answered it. “Uh, hello?”
“Annie, are you online yet?” Joan’s voice arrived with a slight echo; I knew I was on the speakerphone in the conference room.
“Yes, I’m online.”
“Good. Listen, the Times is running a story today on Ronan Fitzpatrick, and it’s…well, I’ll let you read it. It’ll be all over the place by this afternoon. The point is we need to come up with a plan. I’ll need you in the office today.”
“Oh, well—”
She cut me off. “You should know I’m sitting here with Rachel, Becky, Gerta, and Ian. Mr. Fitzpatrick is on his way. How soon can you get here?”
I cleared my throat, a ripple of excitement running through me at the news that Ronan was already on his way. I’d be spending time with him today. I wished it were under different circumstances, but I couldn’t deny that I was excited to see him. My hand smoothed down the length of my knee-length black dress. Like the other clothes Joan had purchased, it fit me like it was made for my body yet was completely appropriate for the office. I’d paired it with a cropped pink cardigan and black velvet heels.
“I saw the article early this morning. I’ve put together a basic action plan and can send it to the team. Basically, my take on the situation is that we need to pair him up as soon as possible. We need an appropriate and steady date for him, and we need to step up the public appearances, both with the date and without.”
“I agree.” This came from Ian. “Those were my sentiments exactly. We need to pair him with someone the media will love, someone with credibility and the opposite of Brona O’Shea, and give them plenty of romantic photo-ops. A new love interest will bury this story. We’re going to have to scrap the earlier plan for multiple partners, at least for now.”
I swallowed a sudden bitterness in my throat and tried to focus on the plan, the good of the client. “Ronan is interested in charities for disadvantaged children. I know the program director for Sports Stars, and I know she’d love to have Ronan for events.” This was mostly true. The Socialmedialite knew the program director for Sports Stars. Either way, the charity focused on pairing sports celebrities with at-risk youth, and The Socialmedialite had orchestrated several introductions in the past. The program director owed me a favor. The group was great for photo-ops and positive press.
“We need a final list of candidates by the end of the day, Ian.” Joan’s voice held an edge, and I could almost see his pained expression. “And no actresses or models or spoiled, rich brats. We don’t want any drama. Profile women in sports or a professional type who is looking for career advancement. We need someone serious, so this Brona will look frivolous in comparison. Maybe check with the district attorney’s office, see if they have any up-and-coming legal stars with an eye on politics. But she’s got to be gorgeous because no one will care if she isn’t gorgeous.”
“So a smart, serious, gorgeous professional woman who doesn’t mind pretending to date a foul-mouthed, obnoxious Irish rugby player whose trashy ex-girlfriend is accusing him of domestic violence…did I get that right?” Ian’s sarcasm was so heavy I wondered that we weren’t all crushed by the weight of it.
“Just get it done, Ian. We need someone now.” Then Joan turned her attention back to me, and her voice softened. “Listen, Annie. I really need you in the office when Mr. Fitzpatrick arrives. If you can head him off and assure him we have a plan, I think it will go a long way toward easing the Rugby League International people. The story broke last night in Ireland. It was all over the evening papers, and to say that they’re having a meltdown is an understatement.”
“Yes.” I nodded, pacing my office. “Yes, I can do that. I’ll speak with him when he arrives.”
“Thanks, Annie. Send out your action plan to the team, and Ian will fill in the blanks for the candidates,” Joan said and then clicked off the call.
I pulled the phone away from my ear and scrolled through my Socialmedialite email account again, looking for a message from Ronan. Still nothing.
My stomach growled just then, and I realized with some fascination that I’d skipped breakfast. This was highly unusual. I loved breakfast food. I especially loved waffles. I never got twisted up and distracted by client drama; but then, I’d never kissed a client before, and I’d never emailed back and forth using actual words instead of infographics.
I allowed myself to think about the kiss. My fingers drifted to my lips. I touched them, recalling the feel of his mouth against mine, his hands on my legs, my fingers fisting in his shirt, the way he smelled, how he tasted.
The kiss.
My body warmed at the memory, and I leaned against my desk because my knees felt a little wobbly and—double doughnut dammit—that man was an excellent kisser.
But more than that, we’d connected in some rudimentary way last Thursday over lunch. Hearing about his childhood, listening to him speak, how open he was, how guileless and willing to trust…he made me want to trust. I hadn’t wanted to trust anyone since I foolishly entrusted my virginity to the high school quarterback on prom night. The night had been so stereotypical in its tragedy and disappointment, thinking about it now made me both laugh and cringe.
I’d been so stupid.
People couldn’t be trusted.
Waffles, however, never let me down or dumped me the morning after. I could count on waffles.
I decided all at once that I needed waffles…or an éclair…and peppermint tea. Maybe I would message WriteALoveSong and see what she was up to…
I grabbed my black clutch wallet and bolted for the door, not really paying attention to the occupants of the hallway as I made my way to the elevators. I pressed the call button, then checked the messages on my phone again. Peripherally, I was aware of the ding of the elevator. Without glancing away from my email, I took a single step toward the lift.
“Annie.”
I stopped short, recognizing Ronan’s voice immediately, and glanced up just as he stopped directly in front of me. He was coming off the elevator and he looked…awful. He looked upset and irritated and frayed. His hair was wet, but he hadn’t shaved. The dark shadow of his stubble mirrored the worry shadows under his eyes. He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans and his black leather jacket.
He looked just as yummy as an éclair but with an aura of dark vulnerability that made me want to cuddle him and make him tea and kiss him a lot. These feelings were alarming as I’d never done these things for someone, nor had anyone—well, since I was six—ever done them for me.
“Ronan….” I breathed, automatically reaching for his hand and searching his gloomy expression. “Are you okay?”
