Forgotten: A Novel

by Catherine McKenzie

Matt folds his hands in front of him. “We’ve asked you to come here today to discuss your work on the Mutual Assurance file.”

  I open my mouth to protest his inclusion of Sophie, but then, amazingly, Sophie does it for me.

  “That was Emma’s doing, not mine.”

  The chairman raises his hand to stop her. His fierce brown eyes stand out in the middle of his florid face. The spidery web across his nose is evidence of way too many cocktails.

  “That’s modest of you, Ms. Vaughn, but Connor Perry called me personally to express his gratitude.”

  She shoots me a glance. “Yes, I’m sure he did, but you see—”

  “That’s really not necessary, Sophie,” Matt says, a warning in his tone.

  I look from Matt to a struggling Sophie. She seems uncertain but doesn’t say anything more.

  “The coverage you got on In Progress yesterday was a great coup for our firm, Ms. Tupper,” says an elderly man sitting to Matt’s right. “As Price said, Mutual Assurance is extremely pleased with the outcome, and so are we.”

  “Thank you,” I murmur, thinking briefly of the last time the firm engineered a similar publicity stunt. It’s a little sad, really, how predictable some people can be.

  “You’ve both done some excellent work for the firm over the years,” says a man with thin black hair that flops across his forehead. It takes me a moment to place him as Kevin Wilson, the head of the Mergers and Acquisitions Department. “And we think it’s time we recognized it by making both of you partners.”

  My heart is back and making its presence known.

  “We usually wait for the end of the year to make these kinds of decisions,” Matt says. “But given the circumstances, we thought it best to break with tradition and have you join the partnership immediately.”

  “What’s he mean by ‘given the circumstances’?” I ask Sophie through the side of my mouth.

  “Mutual Assurance is looking for a new in-house counsel,” she replies quietly. “They offered it to me. And after yesterday, you can write your ticket anywhere.”

  “Did you say something, Emma?” Matt asks.

  “No.”

  “Good. Kevin will fill you in on the details later, but we thought we’d announce it in today’s bulletin and have the usual cocktail party celebration on Friday. Does that suit you?”

  “That would be great,” Sophie says brightly. “Thank you.”

  “Emma?”

  I know that this is the moment where I should whip out the Dictaphone and expose Sophie for the wrong that she has done, but somehow I can’t form the words. I don’t know if it’s the stress or the unreality of this moment really happening, but I don’t feel the joy I thought I’d feel, or the anger I need to expose her in this public forum.

  “Is that it?” I hear myself say.

  Matt frowns. “Is what it, Emma?”

  Sophie kicks me hard under the table. I bite my lip to keep from calling out.

  “What is it, young lady?” says the chairman.

  “What are you doing?” Sophie hisses.

  “I’m not sure,” I whisper back.

  “What’s that, dearie? I can’t hear you.”

  “Well, it’s just . . . I’m really grateful for this vote of confidence, but . . . you didn’t even ask us if we want to become partners.”

  “We’re not in the habit of being turned down,” the chairman says. “But if you’d rather not become a partner—”

  “No!” Sophie blurts.

  “What Sophie means is of course we want to be partners, but before we accept, we’d like a few changes around here.”

  The chairman looks like he wishes it was cocktail hour. “You mean a maternity leave policy, I suppose?”

  “Of course, but that’s not really what I was getting at.”

  “What are you looking for exactly?” Kevin asks.

  I formulate my thoughts, and then I tell them what I want. I can see reluctance form on several of their lined faces, but the chairman looks intrigued and Matt has that hard, proud expression he used to get when I met his expectations.

  “And if we agree to this, you’ll accept our offer?” the chairman says.

  I hesitate. “Can I ask for one more thing?”

  Matt shakes his head. Sophie looks like she might pass out.

  “What’s that?” Kevin asks.

  “We could do with some new art on the walls, don’t you think?”

  Chapter 30: Try and Try Again

  My first week as a partner at TPC passes . . . well, not gently, exactly, but with fewer bumps than the previous ones. The shit files disappear, the Ejector is history, and Sophie and I are almost talking to each other. The icing on the cake is the ball gown Jenny finds for me that I’m wearing tonight to Karen and Peter’s black-and-white gala to raise money for the youth center. It’s gorgeous. A white silk Regency-inspired gown that makes me feel like a character in a fairy tale. All I need is a handsome prince to find my missing shoe, and I’ll be all set.

  But that is not to be. Despite Emily’s predictions, Dominic hasn’t called or come to the apartment. But that’s okay. You can’t have everything in life. Besides, Stephanie’s starting that book-lovers dating thing, so . . .

  The sun crosses the city, the shadows long, then short, then lengthening. I leave work early to pass by Antoine’s. He works wonders with my hair, as always, and puts a smile on my face. A cab drops me off at the gala at ten after seven, just in time for cocktails.

  The ball is being held in an old train station that’s been converted into an exhibition space. Tonight, the stalls have been cleared out and replaced with fifty round tables covered in crisp white tablecloths. The flower centerpieces are tall stalks of sugarcane with fragrant climbing roses twined around them. Votive candles float in small bowls. Huge bolts of white fabric drape from the ceiling. The band on the raised dais at the front of the room is playing a Viennese waltz.

  A random sampling of the city’s glitterati are chatting between the tables and floating around the dance floor. Last year’s mayor is talking to next year’s congresswoman. The latest It Girl is flirting with the guy who reports the sports statistics on the nightly news. I spot Karen in a white lace dress with a bright red sash weaving her way through the crowd. She’s talking to a woman with a headset on, looking stressed. I can’t see Peter, but my bet is he’s somewhere near the bar.

  “E.W., looking fine,” I. William says, giving me a once-over. We air-kiss with the best of them, and he plucks two flutes of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray.

  “Is one of those for me?”

  “Nah. For your friend over there.” He nods toward one of the tables I got TPC to sponsor as part of my partnership deal. Stephanie’s sitting there looking shy and nervous in a clingy satin gown.

  “You know that’s my best friend, right?”

  His eyes twinkle with mischief. “So she told me.”

  “Hurt her and you’ll have me to answer to.”

  “Is that supposed to scare me?”

  “Okay, Sophie, then.”

  “Consider me warned.”

  He ambles toward Stephanie, looking dashing in his tuxedo. She blushes as he hands her the glass and gives me a wave. I make a mental note to corner her later and warn her about I. William’s commitment issues.

  “Hey, Emma, you ready for your big speech?” Karen says, appearing out of the crowd.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Did you remember your notes?”

  “No notes required.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  “I do this for a living, remember? Don’t worry about it.”

  “Well, if you’re comfortable embarrassing yourself in front of a thousand people . . .”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  She th
rows me a smile. “No, thank you.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s more than you had to do.”

  One of the headphoned women appears at her elbow and murmurs in her ear. Karen’s eyes widen and she shakes her head vigorously. The woman turns away and barks into her headphone.

  “I’ve got to go take care of something,” Karen says, looking stressed again.

  “Trouble?”

  “Maybe.” She twirls away in a blur of white and red.

  I spend the next half an hour having brief cocktail conversations with several lawyers from my firm whom I arm-twisted into coming. Craig and I wave to each other across the room, but we keep our distance. At one point I see Sophie approach him, her face a mixture of surety and contrition. Good luck to them, I think, with only a small twinge of regret. When my champagne glass has been empty for five minutes too long, the lights flicker in the universal symbol that means sit down, people, it’s time for eats.

  I wend my way back toward Stephanie, who’s still blushing up at I. William, though it might now be a champagne blush—there are several empty glasses on the table. Steph looks happy to see me, but I don’t get a chance to sit next to her. Instead, I get hauled off by the headphoned minion who scared Karen earlier. Apparently, I’m supposed to address the crowd before it gets completely liquored.

  Peter is waiting for me. He gives my shoulder a squeeze and takes the stage to enthusiastic applause. He’s looking dapper and relaxed in his tuxedo. He loosens up the crowd with some well-placed jokes about cocktails-circuit philanthropy and then goes on for far too long about, well, me. By the time I get to the microphone, my face is hot and I’m wishing I’d jotted down some notes after all.

  “Thanks, Peter,” I say too close to the mic. My voice echoes around the room. I stare out into the crowd, looking for inspiration. And that’s when I see him: Dominic, leaning against the wall off to the left side of the stage, staring at me intently.

  Our eyes lock and my heart starts to catch in that first-love way, that way you never think you’ll feel again once it’s been disappointed and you’ve learned better. I can’t understand what he’s doing here, but for some reason, the words I was planning on saying no longer seem good enough.

  The room’s silent expectation intrudes, and so I start to speak.

  “Some of you might think I paid Peter to say those things about me. Well, you’d be right. Or to be more accurate, and you know lawyers like being accurate, I got all of you to pay Peter to say those things about me.”

  In the pause caused by the modest laughter sputtering around the room, I gulp in some air, lock eyes with Dominic again, feel my knees weaken, my courage faltering, but I have to say something, I have to say the right thing.

  “I was asked to speak tonight about a very special contribution to the community center that was made by my law firm, Thompson, Price and Clearwater. But before I get to that, I want to take a minute to salute the two wonderful people behind tonight’s event, Karen and Peter Alberts.

  “As many of you probably know, we met under unusual circumstances; in fact, we were never supposed to have met at all.” I clear my throat. “Have any of you ever played that desert island game? You know, that game where you say what thing you would miss the most, or what person you’d want to be with you?” I pause again, and a few people nod their heads. “Well, I was always terrible at that game. Mostly because I couldn’t see myself in that situation. Maybe no one can, but I didn’t even like thinking about it. Being stuck on a desert island seemed like a terrible thing, not like a cocktail-party joke.

  “Then there I was, stuck in a desert island situation. I wasn’t alone, but I didn’t get to pick the people who were with me. And though these people were some of the best people I’ve ever met, all I wanted at first was to get home. I wanted to get back to my life. I thought, naïvely, that when the chaos cleared, it would be there, waiting for me. But I was wrong about that.” I pause to take a sip from the glass of water next to me. My hand is shaking, but hopefully only I can see this. The room is ghostly silent. Dominic hasn’t moved an inch. “Life doesn’t wait. You have to make it happen. You have to live it while it’s happening around you. Life moves on.

  “Why am I saying these serious things on a night that’s supposed to be about celebrating? I guess it’s because while we’re all dressed up and drinking and eating well, it’s important to remember why we’re here, why the community center exists. There are so many people less fortunate than us. I know we say that all the time, but when you’ve lived it, when you’ve seen and heard and breathed it, you don’t have a choice but to realize how lucky we really are, and how much we ought to give.

  “So, Karen, Peter, I want to say thank you. Thank you for my life, and thank you for what you do. As for all of you, well, I hope you give generously tonight and continue to do so long after your dresses are dry-cleaned and your next gala is just a date on a calendar. And finally, I want to salute Thompson, Price and Clearwater, which, I’m proud to say, has committed to providing thirty hours a year of free legal-clinic time from every lawyer in the firm.” I raise my glass of water. “To Karen and Peter, and to the future of the Point Community Center.”

  I step away from the mic, coming back to myself as the room erupts in applause. After being enveloped in a bear hug from Peter, I allow myself to look at the honor table, where Matt is sitting with his wife and TPC’s chairman. He looks happy and pleased with himself, like this is the culmination of some well-thought-out plan. And maybe it is. Didn’t all of this start because he was looking for some publicity for the firm? Or maybe that wasn’t the start, but it was near enough to the beginning to feel that way.

  Why not? He deserves applause. I put my hands together and clap in his direction. Kudos, Matt. Take a bow.

  I step aside and am replaced by the emcee. His tux is a smidgen too tight, and his black hair is slicked back from his high forehead. He unhooks the microphone from its static stand.

  “You ready for it to get loud in here?” he booms.

  I walk to the safety of my table, searching the room for Dominic, who seems to have disappeared. Did I just imagine him? And if I didn’t, what am I going to say to him?

  Stephanie gives me a fierce hug, and I know she’s saying she’s proud of me, though I can’t really hear her. I sit in my seat and half listen to the emcee as he tells bad bawdy jokes through the first course of mixed greens and berries. I block him out by listening to I. William attempting to impress Stephanie, while trying not to search out Dominic’s face in every dark-haired dinner guest.

  When the waiters clear away the plates, the emcee is thankfully replaced by the band, which starts an ABBA/Village People mash-up. It knows its audience—the dance floor fills up quickly.

  I. William tugs on Stephanie’s elbow. “Let’s dance.”

  She shoots me a look. “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Don’t be silly, Steph. Go ahead.”

  “Why don’t you come too?”

  “Yeah,” I. William says. “Let’s boogie.”

  We find a space on the dance floor between the old folks doing the Watusi and the few young ’uns who were dragged here by their parents and who’ve clearly been taking advantage of the open bar.

  It’s hard to move in this almost–wedding dress, but I manage. I. William acts the gentleman and splits his attention between the two of us, twirling Steph, then me, until we’re both dizzy and smiling.

  Then the band takes it down a notch and segues into that song from the movie Once, “Falling Slowly.” The three of us stand there awkwardly as the guests couple up.

  “I’m going to head back to the table,” I say.

  “I’ll come with you,” Stephanie replies.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  I turn away, but not before I. William gives me a grateful look. I smile to myself as I weave around Mat
t and his wife. His hand is placed on the small of her back, holding her close.

  Someone catches my hand on the edge of the dance floor. I turn. It’s Dominic.

  He’s here. My great, big romantic ending is standing in front of me in a tux, for God’s sake. And what the hell am I wearing?

  Is there a panic button I can hit? Or better yet, a button that will pause this whole scene while I figure out how I want to play it?

  But no. That’s not how it works in real life. How it works is I say, “Oh no.”

  His face falls. “What is it?”

  “No, no, no, this cannot happen this way.”

  “What way?”

  “Like this.” I motion toward my dress. “Me here like this. You wearing that.”

  “What’s wrong with the way you’re dressed? You look amazing.”

  “It’s too much, it’s too . . .” Perfect, I want to say. “Contrived,” I say instead.

  “So you’re saying you won’t talk to me because of the way we’re dressed?”

  “It’s bigger than that. It’s . . . what are you doing here, anyway?”

  “You invited me.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  He reaches into the interior breast pocket of his jacket and pulls out an invitation. “How did I get this, then?”

  I think about it. “I’m guessing Stephanie had something to do with it.”

  He cocks an eyebrow. “You’re not actually trying to blame your best friend, are you?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Will you just dance with me already?”

  “No, Dominic. I can’t.”

  I start to move around him, but he blocks me, taking hold of my arms above the elbows. “Emma, please.”

  Something in his tone stops me. He needs something from me, and I want to give it to him. Maybe I have to give it to him.

  I nod, and he pulls me toward him, lacing his hands behind my back. I breathe in the scent of his freshly laundered shirt. It makes me feel safe and warm. But I’m not safe. Not safe at all.

  He leans toward my ear. “Does all this protesting mean you’re not happy to see me?”