Forgotten: A Novel

by Catherine McKenzie

  Carrie answers the phone with an enthusiastic “Hello!”

  “It’s Emma Tupper.”

  “Ms. Tupper! I’m so glad you called. We’ve been on tenterhooks all day.”

  What kind of person uses a word like tenterhooks?

  “Why?”

  “Wweeellll, we were so hoping, Cathy in particular, that you’d agree to come back on the show. You know, to do an update, how you’re making out now that you’ve had a chance to get back into your old life.”

  You must be kidding me.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Oh no! That’s really going to disappoint your fans.”

  “My fans?”

  “Of course! We received more viewer mail on your segment than we have in a long time. Everyone is so curious about how you’re doing. Especially you and your boyfriend—what was his name again?”

  “Craig.”

  “That’s right, Craig. He’s sssooo cute. And that kiss. I think I actually swooned.”

  “We broke up.”

  “Pardon?”

  “He’s with someone else now.”

  A shadow crosses my floor. Sophie’s standing in front of Nathalie’s desk, waiting to see Matt.

  “Ohmygod! Who?”

  We make eye contact. Sophie shoots me a dirty look.

  “Someone from my office,” I say quietly.

  “Wow, this is so great!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Think about it. This way we can recast him as the Bad Guy.” She lowers her voice. “While she was lost in Africa, he was screwing her best friend.”

  “What? That’s not what happened. She’s not my best friend.”

  “Sorry, did I take it too far? I do that sometimes when I’m in the moment, you know?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Anyway, we’d love to have you on Monday’s show.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “This is so disappointing.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Can I at least leave you my cell number in case you change your mind?”

  “I guess.”

  I write it down mechanically on the pink slip that contains her original message and hang up. A few minutes later, the Initial Brigade appears in my doorway, brimming with gossip.

  “What up, E.W.?” I. William says in a tone of voice he reserves for especially juicy news.

  “Not much. You guys?”

  “Just spreading a little g-o-s-s-i-p.”

  “Yeah,” J.P. says, tugging on his red suspenders. “We’re your friendly neighborhood news service.”

  “You’re going to like this one. Guaranteed,” Monty adds.

  “Will you put me out of my misery already?”

  I. William pauses dramatically. “Craig and Sophie are Splitsville.”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “Yup. Fiona’s assistant told my assistant this morning.”

  Fiona is Sophie’s one and only friend in the office. She has a big mouth, but she doesn’t tend to make things up. If she told her assistant they broke up, it’s probably true.

  “When did this happen?”

  “Two nights ago.”

  “Any idea why?”

  J.P. steps closer and lowers his voice. “We’re hearing it’s because of you.”

  “Me?”

  “Apparently, things starting going south between them when you came back.”

  “They almost broke up after that kiss,” J.P. adds. “And when you guys went to the museum together, that was the last straw.”

  “Well played, E.W.”

  “You’re giving me too much credit.”

  I. William taps the side of his nose. “Sure, I get it. Say no more, say no more.”

  “Seriously, guys. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Why’d they break up, then?” J.P. asks.

  “Search me.”

  “You’re not getting back together?”

  “No. God, no.”

  “Interesting,” I. William says.

  “Sorry to put a damper on the headline.”

  “’S all right. We can roll for a couple of hours on the breakup alone.”

  “Watch your billables.”

  “Don’t worry, we always get by.”

  “I’ll bet you do.”

  “You going to make it to cocktails later?” J.P. asks.

  “I’ve got a thing.”

  “Catch you next time.”

  They leave as quietly as they arrived, making sure not to catch Matt’s attention. None of those guys is ever going to make partner, but making partner isn’t the be-all and end-all, right?

  This is the point when somebody laughs hysterically.

  I wonder why they broke up? He can’t really think there’s a chance we could get back together. No, I can’t believe that. Craig may be a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.

  I, on the other hand . . .

  I pick up the flyer for Dominic’s show and stare at the photograph of the photograph that was propped against the wall in Dominic’s room. I turn it over, revealing a black-and-white version of his handsome face—a studio pose. His hair is freshly cut, and the white of his shirt makes him seem tanned. He looks happy, like he just told a good joke and is appreciating the reaction.

  I flick the flyer toward my desk. It hits the surface and skips like a stone across a calm pond, coming to rest on the floor. Dominic’s face stares up at me, his smile an invitation.

  I accept.

  I arrive at the museum looking like you’d hope you’d look if you were about to do what I’m about to do—perfect hair, perfect makeup, and, of course, the perfect dress. All the education and near-death experiences in the world can’t kill that basic instinct.

  I leave my wool wrap at the coat check and exchange my winter boots for a pair of black slingbacks. I put the little numbered ticket in my purse and stop in the bathroom for a final once-over. Satisfied, I follow the signs toward the Bushnell Gallery.

  I pass on the offer of a glass of champagne from a white-shirted waiter in a bow tie and stroll through the surprisingly large crowd. The room is full of thirty- and fortysomethings in their Friday-night best, clutching champagne flutes and dropping hors d’oeuvres into their mouths. The air smells of expensive perfume and aftershave.

  Dominic’s photographs are hanging on the wall that was empty when I was last here. About half of them are from the same series as the Las Vegas print. The others are from his recent work in Ireland. The one I like the most is the piece Dominic told me about. It’s of a wizened man and a young boy driving a horse and buggy through the mist. Behind them, a large crane reaches toward an improbable sun.

  I move sideways, giving each photograph its due. And when I reach the last one, I almost stop breathing. It’s of a woman sitting on the floor with her head bent intently over a half-unwrapped Christmas present. The lights on the Christmas tree behind her are slightly blurred, like there was a time lapse on the camera or the photographer didn’t have a steady hand. The woman’s features are blurred too, enough so that she’s unrecognizable to everyone but me.

  I don’t know whether to feel touched or mad that this private moment is hanging on a wall for all to see, even though he protected my privacy. Feeling shaky, I scan the crowd, looking for Dominic, but the only face I recognize is Victor Bushnell’s. I’m surprised to see him for a moment, but given that this is his gallery, I guess I shouldn’t be.

  Over six feet tall, he has a head of nearly white, bushy hair that rises back from a high forehead. His light-blue eyes stand out above a hawkish nose in his tanned face. His black wool suit is handmade, and his white shirt is perfectly starched. He’s wearing a conservative platinum wedding ring. The only evidence of his trademark maverick ten
dencies is a diamond stud in his left ear.

  I inch closer to get a better look, stopping in front of the marble bench where the old women were sitting the other day. His deep voice reverberates above the crowd as he gestures enthusiastically toward a Degas canvas. Two society women are listening to him with rapt attention.

  I turn away and take in some of the paintings on the wall where the Manet rested briefly.

  “They’re very beautiful, aren’t they?” a man next to me says a few minutes later.

  It’s Victor Bushnell. Up close, his eyes shine with intelligence and interest.

  “Yes, very. The owners of these paintings are very lucky.”

  He gives me a slow smile. “You’re right.” He shifts his body toward Dominic’s wall. “Do you know the artist?”

  “A little.”

  “He’s going to do great things, I think.”

  “Yes.”

  “Victor?” an older man calls from across the room.

  He raises his eyebrows. “Duty calls.”

  I feel tense and nervous as my eyes resume scanning the room. I walk to the bench and sit on the cold, hard surface. The din of the crowd gets louder by the minute. Dominic remains invisible.

  One of the catering staff walks up to me. “Excuse me, ma’am. I need to get in there. Do you mind?”

  “Of course.” I stand and move out of the way while the white-coated waiter bends down and lifts the heavy seat. Inside the bench, there’s a large metal cooler full of white-wine bottles.

  “Supplies,” he says unnecessarily.

  I nod and turn away. As I do, I catch someone’s elbow and stumble. Two strong hands steady me.

  “Emma?”

  I look up into Dominic’s startled face. Hours of preparation all ruined by one sloppy elbow. Of course.

  “Oh. Dominic. Hi.”

  Oh. Dominic. Hi? That’s great, just great. Scintillating, even.

  His face reddens. “What are you doing here?”

  “I, um, came to see your exhibit. It’s great.”

  And now I’m incoherent. This was the worst idea I’ve ever come up with.

  “What’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Man. I can’t deal with this right now.”

  The blood rushes to my head. “You can’t deal with this right now? That’s rich. We . . .” I realize a couple of the other guests are staring at us and lower my voice. “We slept together, and then you told me it was all a ‘mistake.’ One minute you’re Superman in a bright red cape, and then, poof, you’re just another man up to no good in a phone booth.”

  Dominic’s mouth sets into a thin line. “I’ve been trying to apologize for that, but you wouldn’t talk to me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I left you three messages.”

  “You what?”

  He looks past me to where a Waspy-looking couple are watching us intently over their champagne flutes. “I can’t do this here.”

  He takes me by the elbow.

  “Hey, what the—”

  “Hold that thought.”

  He leads me toward one of the Corinthian pillars in the corner. There’s a space between it and the wall that’s a little more private. We stand there facing each other. My brain is shouting out questions like, Why’d you blow me off? Why didn’t you want to come back to the apartment? Why won’t you look me in the eye?

  He looks up from the spot on the floor he’s been staring at like he heard me. “How come you didn’t return my calls?”

  “You really called me?”

  “Your assistant said she’d given you the messages.”

  That doesn’t sound like Jenny.

  “What did your messages say?”

  “What do you think? That I called.”

  “Oh.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Was I supposed to pour my heart out to your assistant?”

  “Only if you wanted to read about it on her blog the next day.”

  He laughs, letting it fade into a smile. “God, I’ve missed you.”

  “This is where you’re hiding,” Victor Bushnell says as he appears at Dominic’s side. “There are some people I’d like to introduce you to.”

  A spasm of annoyance crosses Dominic’s face, which Victor misses as he turns toward me. “I didn’t catch your name earlier.”

  “I’m Emma Tupper.”

  “Emma Tupper. Now, why is that name familiar?”

  My heart skips a beat. He knows my name. And any second now he’s going to figure out who I am. Oh well, in for a penny . . .

  “I’m an attorney,” I say, feeling bold. “I represent Mutual Assurance.”

  “Ah, yes. I was reading all about you just yesterday.”

  Dominic looks confused. “What do you mean, ‘reading all about’ her?”

  “He’s suing my client for twenty million dollars,” I say. “But we really shouldn’t talk about it.”

  Victor Bushnell laughs. “I’m sure you’re right, but what’s the fun in that?”

  “There you are, Emma,” Craig says, peering around the pillar. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  Now my heart’s keeping double time. What the hell is Craig doing here? Dominic’s looking at him like Victor Bushnell was looking at me a few moments ago. I can almost see his thoughts, and they’re all falling into place.

  “Are you . . . Craig?” he asks.

  “That’s right. And you are?”

  “He’s the man of the hour,” Bushnell says.

  “Did you come with him?” Dominic asks.

  Craig’s face registers recognition. “You’re Dominic.”

  “You got it.”

  “Remind me how you met Emma?”

  “He lives in my apartment,” I say way too loudly in a high-pitched voice.

  The three men surrounding me like tall trees turn my way, a mixture of surprise on their faces.

  This is so not working out the way I thought it would.

  I modulate my tone. “He’s the person who was living in my apartment when I got back from Africa, or moving in, and anyway . . . um, Craig, have you met Mr. Bushnell?”

  Bushnell looks amused as he extends his hand toward Craig.

  “Nice to meet you, Craig . . . ?”

  “Talbot.”

  “Ah. Always nice to meet another one of Mutual Assurance’s attack dogs.”

  “Well, now, I don’t think that’s fair.”

  “Dominic?”

  Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

  I turn around slowly, and there’s Emily, standing tall and collected, wearing a silvery silk dress. Her perfect red hair caresses her creamy shoulders.

  “What are you doing here?” Dominic says, his voice thick with emotion.

  Her cheeks are tinged with pink. “I wanted to talk to you, and you won’t return my calls, and . . . what are you all doing behind this pillar?” Her voice falters as her eyes travel to mine. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “I . . . came to see the exhibit.”

  Victor Bushnell guffaws loudly. “Ha! I think this is where I make my exit. Come see me when you’re free, Mr. Mahoney. We should talk.”

  Dominic’s eyes don’t leave Emily’s beautiful face. “Yeah, sure.”

  Bushnell extricates himself from our tight little corner.

  “How do you two know each other?” Dominic asks me.

  “We met the other night at Tara’s.”

  “Dominic, please, will you just talk to me?”

  Craig takes my hand. “Come on, Emma. We should give these two some privacy.”

  Emily looks grateful. “Oh, could you? I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Of course.”

  Craig tug
s on my hand, but I’m frozen to the spot. I turn toward Dominic, willing him to look at me, but his eyes are still locked on Emily. From this angle, I can’t tell what he’s feeling. Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with me.

  And so, when Craig says, “You coming, Emma?” I follow him without another word.

  Chapter 21: You’re Shaking My Confidence Daily

  When I finally manage to unlock my hand from Craig’s, we’re three galleries past Dominic and Emily and Victor Bushnell. A gallery later I find my voice, and I let Craig have it. What is he doing here? Why’s he following me? What is going on?

  He starts to give me some stammering excuse about how he’d noticed the poster when we were at the museum and was curious.

  I cut him off. “Try again, Craig.”

  He looks sheepish. “I wanted to see you outside of work.”

  “So you’re stalking me?”

  “I’m not stalking you.”

  “It kind of feels like you are.”

  “No. I wanted to talk to you, and I knew you wouldn’t say yes if I asked. I took my chances that you’d be here.”

  I consider him. “And you wanted to check out Dominic.”

  He colors. “I admit I was curious. Especially after how you reacted when you saw that poster.”

  I consider denying it, but what’s the point? I had reacted, and pretending I hadn’t wasn’t going to change anything. “We know each other too well.”

  “Yes.”

  I walk to the coat check and give the girl behind the counter my ticket. Craig does the same.

  “I could use a drink,” he says. “You?”

  I ignore him, staring silently at the rows of coats. The coat-check girl comes back with my wrap and boots and Craig’s coat. He takes my wrap and drapes it across my shoulders.

  “One drink, Emma. Then I’ll leave you alone, I promise.”

  I nod and he leads me outside, flags a cab, and directs it to his street. Though his apartment is the last place I want to go back to, I don’t have the energy to protest. Having won his point—for the moment, anyway—he wisely stays silent.

  When we get to his place, Juliana’s still there, finishing up the meals she makes for Craig to get him through the weekend. When we were together I often wondered, idly, if Craig and Juliana were a package deal. If we ever got married, would she continue to play such a considerable role in his life? And if she did, would I care?