by Holly O'Dell
She flashed me a grin. "Thanks. I actually thought you two were a couple when you came in here"
I vehemently shook my head. "No, no, no," I said perhaps a little too eagerly. "We're just coworkers. And speaking of coworkers," I raised my voice as Michael walked toward us.
"I'm going to wait outside while you two finish up the order." Angie gave me a knowing grin, excited that I was leaving her alone to make a play for Michael. So why was my stomach turning at the thought of it while I paced on the sidewalk?
Within two minutes, Michael had exited the store. "Hey, why did you leave me all alone in there?"
"Uh-oh, I made you fend off a girl all by yourself," I tried to tease, but it sounded somewhat jaded.
"She tried to give me her phone number, but I just didn't want it."
"What did you tell her?" I was dying of curiosity.
"That I was interested in someone else." He looked at me pointedly, and I felt static travel through my entire body. And then, rather hastily, he said, "That wasn't too bad of a rejection line, was it?"
In one instant, my chest caved in disappointment. How juvenile of me to think that he was talking about me and instead, he was just trying to let Angie down gently. I raised my shoulders and looked straight ahead. There was no reason to be like this, I told myself. We are just coworkers. And I certainly couldn't let myself fall for a coworker, could I?
The night of the Symphony Ball hadn't started out the best for me. The dry cleaners had put my black satin gown on a back shelf, so I maniacally ran to Nordstrom and had to charge $400 to my credit card for a dress that I wasn't all that crazy about. I wore a periwinkle floor-length dress with spaghetti straps, looking more like a bridesmaid throw-away than a publicist trying to look as elegant as possible for one of the most posh fund-raisers in New York City.
As I rushed around my apartment gathering my makeup to put on in the waiting cab downstairs, I saw a piece of paper sticking out from underneath the couch. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Didn't want to wake you. See you Monday. Michael."
I thought about that note while I rode in the cab. What a nice gesture. Maybe this was someone I could really like, but then I remembered what he said outside the Hugo Boss store after the Angie incident.
Despite my best efforts, I was still thirty minutes late in meeting Michael at the Ritz Carlton. He paced outside the front entrance, looking panicked and incredibly handsome in his Hugo Boss suit. I expected him to be annoyed with my tardiness, but the first thing he said to me was, "I was worried about you"
I explained everything that had happened. "Well, you can't tell you rushed yourself," he said with a cautious look from my toes to my face. "You look nice. Really nice."
He gave me an intense look, but all I could do was plaster a smile, then hustle into the main ballroom where the event was taking place. The 500-some guests were still mingling, sipping cocktails, waiting for the formal program to start. I spotted Fox right away.
"Kate, what a pleasure to see you" He kissed my left cheek, then lowered his voice. "We haven't had a chance to talk, but you've been doing a fantastic job with Devin. I'm really pleased"
I graciously nodded. "I'm glad to hear it." I was about to subtly ask him whether he felt the project was close to completion; but one of the event committee members tapped him on the shoulder and told him they were about to begin.
"We'll talk more later," he said over his shoulder.
Michael took his place beside me. "What did Fox have to say?"
"He's really happy with what we've been doing for Devin," I smiled broadly.
"Did he say-"
"Whether we were done?" I finished. "No, and I didn't have a chance to ask him."
A sea of glitter, sequins, and black tuxes rushed past us to take their seats. Devin was already seated at one of the front tables with a group of middle-aged women, drumming his fingers on the white tablecloth. But he perked up when his father was introduced as the keynote speaker and led the crowd in a standing ovation.
"Good," Michael nodded as he watched Devin. "That's good"
"You can tell he's miserable," I added, "but at least he's catching on that he should go through the motions."
Fox talked of the importance of giving to charity, while Michael and I notified the reporters and photographers of upcoming photo ops with father and son. Most of them rolled their eyes at us, the pushy publicists, while others obliged and started snapping shots.
After Fox's speech, which garnered him two more standing ovations, the formal dinner of roasted duck and artichoke risotto was served. Michael and I still stood in the back of the ballroom, nibbling on prosciutto tea sandwiches and some other fancy hors d'oeuvres I didn't recognize.
I turned to Michael. "You know what the unfortunate thing about attending these sophisticated events is?"
"You realize how poor you are?" Michael raised an eyebrow.
"Besides that" I smoothed a hand over my left hip. "You never get to enjoy the actual sit-down dinner or the dancing or any of the other fun stuff because you're so busy keeping an eye on your client or making sure the media's doing what you'd like them to do"
The full orchestra, which had been providing quiet dinner music, turned up the volume to indicate that the dancing would begin. Devin and Fox walked to the pristine dance floor with the event co-chairs in hand to do the honorary first dance. The two socialites in their forties both beamed into the eyes of their partners, basking in the charms of the Underhill father-and-son duo. Cameras flashed all around, and I smiled triumphantly. Fox and Devin put on their best face for the evening; there was no sign of the tension I had witnessed in the Burton offices a few months ago. But they were professionals.
More and more couples joined the foursome on the dance floor. I looked around and saw that I was the only one left standing. Where was Michael? At least I would've had someone to talk to. Suddenly I felt like I was in junior high, watching all the popular kids slow dancing. But rather than get sucked into a pity party for one, I welcomed the opportunity to sit down and give my feet, squeezed into open-toed, ivory-colored heels, a much-needed break.
Michael reappeared and hovered over me. "Sorry about that. I saw someone I knew from my days in L.A." He then extended his hand. "For those of us who never get to have any fun ... may I have this dance?"
"Don't worry," he laughed in response to my frantically looking around the room. "Everyone will be fine for a few minutes. It's just a dance"
He escorted me onto the dance floor, not letting go of my hand once. I put my left hand on the back of his shoulder, and he gently put his right hand on my waist. I thought I was going to melt. It was the closest physically I had been to a guy in years, and it was Michael, no less. I secretly inhaled his scent of airy cologne and soap and shuddered with pleasure. Don't do this to yourself, Kate. I willed myself to withdraw from his grasp, but instead, he drew me closer. Our faces touched as we started swaying in time with the music.
"How can I tell you what is in my heart? How can I measure each and every part?" crooned the lead singer with her throaty, soulful voice.
"This is a beautiful song," I whispered in Michael's ear. "I've never heard it."
"It's How Deep is the Ocean." Michael's low voice resonated in my ear.
I watched the singer as I rested my chin on Michael's shoulder. She thoughtfully closed her eyes; it was only she and the music in the room, just as it was only Michael and I in the room. "How much do I love you? I'll tell you no lie. How deep is the ocean? How high is the sky?"
Michael gently pulled away from me, his hazel eyes softening. "Kate, I need to talk to you about something."
I looked up at him, expectant, breathless.
"I don't think we should work together any more"
Come see me immediately!"
The note, sticking on my computer monitor, was written in Gwen's frenetic hand. I had been holed up in the conference room all day, and these were my priorities: check my e-mail and voice mail, leave work on tim
e on a Friday for once, and go immediately to a warm bath-with the hopes that it would make me forget about last night.
Last night. It kept rearing its ugly head all day. "I don't think we should work together any more." Any rational person would have asked, "Why not?" But I was caught off guard, and I fled the scene. I locked myself in one of the bathrooms at the Ritz, staring at the back of the door. After what felt like an hour, the restroom attendant tapped on the stall.
"Are you okay?" she asked in accented English.
I opened the door and peeked out. "I'll be fine. Just feeling a little dizzy."
The dark-haired woman nodded her head and went back to her post, and I meandered over to the sink and splashed my face. I took a deep breath, mustering any ounce of pride I could find before returning to the dance floor, where Michael was still standing, just as I had left him.
I jutted out my chin. "I think you have all this under control. I'm going home."
"Maybe we could talk about what just happened?" he suggested weakly.
I put my hands on my hips and looked down. "No, I'd rather not," which was a bold lie, because it's all I wanted to talk about, but I didn't want the pain I was feeling to cut any deeper.
So not only did I have the somewhat embarrassing memory of last night, but now I had this note from Gwen to contend with. I rolled my eyes as I grabbed it, crumpled it up, and threw it in the recycling bin. I pushed off from my desk and walked to her office.
"Shut the door."
My heart leapt as I processed the reality of the situation. I had heard the tone and witnessed the start of this routine before, and it usually ended in an employee leaving in tears and packing up her desk.
"What the hell is this?" Gwen shoved toward me a magazine page, the page that happened to feature the one public photo taken of Devin and me.
This was it. The moment I feared from day one of this project. I should have been honest. I should have been up-front. Instead I participated in this charade of pretending I'd never heard of Devin Underhill before and would likely lose my job because of it.
Instead of taking accountability or apologizing for my actions, all I could muster was, "Where did you get that?"
"It doesn't matter."
My eyes clouded. "Did someone hand it to you?"
"If you must know, it was mailed to me. Anonymously." Her eyes bore into me.
Why did I feel like I was part of some covert CIA operation, or a conspiracy and someone was out to get me? "Was there a note attached?"
"No need. The picture explains itself."
"You realize it's from over two years ago, right?"
"You realize you lied to me, right?"
I shifted my eyes toward the ceiling, hoping the tears would retreat. I took a deep breath and returned to steady eye contact with Gwen. "I am really sorry. I guess I got caught up in the idea of a promotion to partner. I'm not making excuses . . " my words trailed off.
"You know how I feel about liars, Brown"
I bit my lower lip and nodded slightly.
"You're not gonna cry on me now, are you?"
Two tears worked their way down my cheeks. "I'm sorry I disappointed you"
"I'm sorry you did, too, but I know that you're more disappointed in yourself than anyone" It was the softest I had ever seen or heard Gwen. But it was a brief lapse. "Now if you mess this up, there'll be hell to pay"
"Of course, of course. You have my word."
"You're dismissed."
I smoothed my black trousers and rose from the chair, showing myself the door.
I immediately locked myself in my office. I was fortunate to even have an office, though Gwen was thisclose from taking it away from me. I had dug a grave for myself, and I understood how quickly-and unexpectedly-the career rug could be yanked from underneath you.
There was a brisk knock at my door. It was probably Gwen, here to inform me that she forgot to fire me before I left her office.
"Go away!" I wanted to yell like an angry teenager. But I took a deep breath, blotted my eyes with a tissue, and opened the door. There stood Michael, looking down at a folder in his hands. "Kate, I'm wondering if you could take a look at these press releases for me"
"Sure," I said softly, grabbing the folder and trying to quickly turn so he didn't have to see my puffy eyes. But I wasn't fast enough.
"What's wrong?"
"Just got some bad news, that's all" Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. Thankfully, my weepy ways kept their distance-at least for now.
"Anything I can help with?" Michael's forehead creased; he looked genuinely concerned. "You wanna go out for coffee? Besides, I feel like I should explain my motives for last night. I stopped by your office about ten times today, but you were never there"
"You know me, always busy," I managed weakly, avoiding any significant eye contact.
"I just need to return a quick phone call, and we can run over to Billy's a few blocks from here" He slowly backed out of the office, never taking his eyes off of me.
Regardless of the companion, I was glad to be out of the office. It was one of those magical spring days, the kind that have been romanticized in movies and novels for generations. Wispy clouds scattered themselves overhead in the bright blue sky. The early evening sun was just warm enough to hint at what lay ahead for the rest of the summer.
Michael and I walked to the coffee shop in silence. I was not in the mood for idle talk, and either he sensed that or he, too, had nothing to say. In fact, I preferred the sound of the New York work force all leaving at the same time, as if a school bell had sounded, to soak up the warm sun and start their weekends. It kept my mind, albeit briefly, off my conversation with Gwen today, and my talk with Michael last night.
Michael held open the door for me at Billy's Hut, a coffee shop off the beaten path that probably wouldn't be so cozy once one of the city magazines deemed it "Most Charming Place for a Cup of Coffee" and every other person made it the new place to be seen. I was just glad to know about it before everyone else did, for once. This place comforted me. Billy was a real guy whose family photos hung on the wall. And they weren't the vintage 1890s photos that had become so chic to display. They were taken in the 1970s and '80s, with kids in plaid pants mugging for the camera, or posing on their banana-seat bikes with the ribbon tassels coming out of the handlebars.
Kids who were now my age. Wearing clothes I would have worn. With parents wearing clothes my parents would have worn.
It made me want to cry again.
Michael must have seen my reaction. "Hey, are you going to be all right?"
"Just one of those weeks."
His brow wrinkled. "Let's talk about it."
"Not till I get some caffeine," I said with a half-smile.
"No arguments here. What sounds good to you?"
"Double espresso"
He returned in five minutes with our drinks. We awkwardly sat in silence, me tracing the rim of my coffee mug, him blowing into his latte.
"So, uh," Michael started, "we should talk about last night. I really want you to know that-"
"I'm afraid I might lose my job," I blurted, feeling oddly more comfortable talking about that than last night.
"What?" Michael was incredulous. "Why would you say that? You are Gwen's right-hand woman."
"Yeah, apparently I crossed my mentor today."
Michael raised a confused eyebrow.
"She found out about Devin. That we had a past."
"How?"
"You know that picture you saw of him and me, the one in my apartment? It was mailed to her anonymously." I searched Michael's face for a reaction, and he appeared upset.
"Creep," he mumbled under his breath.
"Who?"
"Come on, this has Devin written all over it."
"Why would he do something like that? It's just a waste of his time."
"All right, if you think it wasn't him, then who could have done it?"
"Miranda?" I knew how stupid it sounded bef
ore it even left my mouth, yet I said it anyway. And I hit a nerve, evidenced by the pained expression on Michael's face. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I said that," I recanted. "I'm just upset. Heck, looking at the pictures on the wall in here almost made me sob."
Michael shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
"Don't worry, I won't cry," I assuaged him. "I was just a little jolted after talking with Gwen, that's all. I don't even know where to go from here"
"How did you leave things with her?"
"She basically told me not to screw this up or else."
"Hmm" Michael sipped his coffee thoughtfully. "I only suggest this if you're comfortable with it, but what if I talked to Gwen about it? You know, vouch for you, let her know that you've been nothing but professional on this project?"
"I don't know ... do you think it would seem premeditated?"
"Not at all. I've learned with Gwen that you just have to deal with facts. I could simply tell her that nothing's happened between you and Devin, so why should she worry about it now?"
"Yeah, that still doesn't help with the fact that I withheld this information from her in the first place." I slouched in my chair.
"As hard-nosed as she comes across, I think Gwen knows deep down that you wouldn't cross her and understands that we all make mistakes." He looked at me through lowered eyebrows. "Speaking of which, I'd like to talk about last night."
I nodded slowly, not quite sure if I was ready for this. "Go on"
"What I said did not come out how I wanted it to, and when I tried to talk to you about it, it just got worse"
"Well, let's just put it out there. Why can't you work at Burton Relations anymore?" I held my breath, anticipating his answer.
"It's because of you"
My mind flooded with anger, hurt, fear, sadness, confusion, and a dozen other emotions I couldn't identify, or put into words.
Michael's face reddened, which I had never seen happen before. "No, no, no. That sounded bad. I didn't mean it, what I meant was-"
