by Cat Lavoie
“Yes. And a raspberry tart, please.” My eyes wander over to the sandwich and salad display. Might as well buy lunch right now. “And a ham and brie baguette, please.”
“Oh, Roxy, you are my best customer,” she says, adding an extra tart to my bag. “If you are ever in Paris you have to visit with my nephew Charles. He would love you.”
Ah, yes. Charles. I’ve heard many stories about him. In fact, I’m probably the one paying his way through college.
“That will be $17.50, my dear,” Monsieur Pocheville says.
I survey the contents of my wallet, but already know that I’ve only got a couple of dollars on me. And maybe a few quarters gathering dust at the bottom of my bag. Ethan’s voice screams out at me when I hand over my MasterCard, but I have a silent argument with him as Monsieur Pocheville hands me the slip to sign.
I got a free tart out of this so it’s a good deal. And it’s still pretty cheap for both breakfast and lunch.
As much as I try to justify my purchases, I know Ethan would have a fit if he knew I was buying all of this. According to him, I could save over $1000 a year if I made my own breakfast and packed a lunch. He’s probably right. That’s why I told him that I’d skip the bakery once we’re married. He seemed happy with the compromise even though I know I’m still going to come here whenever I can. As long as I don’t use my credit card there will be no trace of my deceit. Cheating on my husband with a bakery isn’t really cheating, is it?
“See you tomorrow, Roxy!” Madame Pocheville calls after me as I leave the bakery. Indeed she will.
I take a long sip of coffee and walk the few steps that separate the bakery from my office building. Waving to the security guard, I get into the elevator.
I can hear Tali’s voice even before the doors open up on the fifteenth floor.
“Like I just told you, Mr. Smith,” I hear her say as if she’s talking to a five-year-old child. “Leave a message on her voicemail and she’ll call you back as soon as possible. No, I don’t know where she is. Maybe she’s in the bathroom, who knows? Maybe she’d just like to pee in peace...”
I cringe as I get to Tali’s desk. She looks up at me and smiles. “Goodbye, Mr. Smith. Have a nice day.”
“Nice try, but I heard you.”
“I can’t stand this job anymore,” she says, taking off her headset and shaking her head. “Maybe I’ll call up my cousin and join the family business.”
“Doesn’t your cousin sell pianos?”
“What can I say? I like to collect glamorous jobs. Let’s go get wasted after work. I’m craving one of Adam’s chicken burgers.”
“I can’t. I’m having dinner at the Covington’s.”
“You suck.”
“Believe me, I’d much rather hang out with you than Mrs. Covington. But, you know, it makes Ethan happy and if he’s happy, I’m happy.”
Tali rolls her eyes. “Stop saying happy, you’re going to make me hurl.”
I fish out the extra raspberry tart and give it to her.
“Please tell me that’s from the Pocheville Bakery.”
I nod.
“It’s the one with the chocolate-filled crust?”
I nod again. Tali comes out from behind her desk and hugs me.
The phone starts ringing. “Shouldn’t you get that?” I ask as she crushes me against her.
“Nah, it’s probably my mom. She’s called ten times already this morning. She’s still trying to get me to go on a date with Mrs. Markov’s son.”
“The doctor?”
“Oh, please, he’s a podiatrist. Grosses me out just thinking about him having to touch all those feet.”
The phone starts ringing again but Tali ignores it. “Answer it, please,” I say. “You’re already on thin ice with Greta. Don’t make it worse.”
“Fine.” She puts her headset back on and presses a button on her phone. “Kilborn Public Relations. Natalia speaking, how may I help you?” I hear her say in her sweetest voice as I head over to my desk. But her tone soon changes and she mutters something in Russian. I’m pretty sure it’s a swear word. “Mother, I’m not going out with the foot doctor.”
When I get to my desk, there’s a Post-It stuck to my computer screen. Greta’s delicate cursive screams out at me: Roxy! In my office NOW!!! The word now is underlined about five times, each line more aggressive than the last.
I sigh and put my coffee down on the desk. It’s going to be one of those days. They usually start the same way, with Greta so impatient to have me in her office that she can’t be bothered to send me an email. Even though her door is closed, I know she probably hears me shuffling around because my tiny office is glued to her huge office and we share a wall. It’s the same wall I bang my head against now and again. And if I’m not in her office in the next thirty seconds, she’ll lose patience and come out looking for me. There’s no time to check my messages or even open my computer. My voicemail light is blinking frantically but I simply grab my coffee and go. I knock on her door and wait.
I hear her move around. “If you are anybody but Roxy, please leave right now.”
“It’s me,” I say through the door.
“Roxy. Where have you been? You’re late.”
I don’t even need to check my watch to know I am not late. It’s not a question of time for Greta. It has to do with missed opportunities. If I’m not where she needs me to be at the exact moment when she needs me, I am late and I have dropped the proverbial ball.
“Can I come in?” I ask, already reaching for the doorknob.
“Yes, yes.” Her voice is annoyed, as if I should already be in there instead of on the other side of the door.
I step into the office and gasp for a second when I see Greta in her matching black lace bra and panties staring at herself in the mirror, a pile of clothes thrown on the floor at her feet. It’s not as if it’s never happened before, but seeing my boss half-naked so early in the morning is always a shock.
Not many people in the office know that Greta celebrated her fiftieth birthday last May. You’d never be able to guess her age by looking at her. She has a flat stomach and not an ounce of flabby skin on her. Everything is trimmed and toned thanks to countless hours in the gym with Juan, her personal trainer. I’m under strict oath to never discuss the Botox that I schedule for her every three months, but she’s not fooling anyone. And I might have blown her cover last month when I called her ‘the Botox Bitch’ in the middle of a crowded restaurant when I was having dinner with Ethan and she made me rush over so I could comb through every inch of her apartment to find her Blackberry. It was at the bottom of her clothes hamper. Then she asked me if I minded doing a few loads of laundry and running to Starbucks to get her a soy latte. Of course I didn’t mind completely ruining my night. When I called Ethan two hours later—exhausted and angry and looking for a shoulder to whine on—he told me that I should feel honored that Greta depends on me so much and I should work on having a better attitude. Not exactly what I was looking for. So I spent the rest of the evening on the couch with Ollie, watching CNN and thinking of the disgusting things I would have put in her coffee if I was the kind of person who did that kind of stuff, which I’m not. We both laughed when I suggested a good dose of laundry detergent would have fit the occasion perfectly.
But maybe Ethan’s right. I know a lot of people would kill for my job—just for the chance to work with Greta. I don’t blame them; she’s one of the best in her business. A genius, maybe. A scatterbrained, moody, demanding genius, who’s currently in the middle of a wardrobe crisis.
“I have nothing to wear,” Greta says, turning around to look at me. “I have an important meeting in ten minutes and I might as well go naked.”
I know about the meeting. I’m the one who typed it into her Blackberry and set up an alarm so she wouldn’t forget. I’m actually quite proud of Greta. I didn’t need to remind her twenty times. Now if I can only get her dressed and out the door, I will have accomplished something today.
>
I examine the contents of her closet (yes, Greta has a closet in her office) and think of my baby sister. This is Steffi’s world, not mine. She’d have such a good time rummaging through the hangers of designer suits and boxes of shoes with pictures stuck to them. I remember the afternoon I spent taking photos of Greta’s shoes and taping them to the box so that she wouldn’t have to open each and every box to get to her brown kitten heels. I thought it was a huge waste of time back then, but now I’m grateful because it takes me half a second to find the pair I’m looking for.
“These,” I say, handing her a pair of black sandals. I flip through a few wooden hangers and find a nice black suit. You can’t go wrong with a black suit.
“I was hoping for something more summery, but this will do,” Greta says, slipping into the shoes. “How do I look?”
I quickly grab the lint brush from the desk and run it over her back and shoulders. “Teeth,” I command, and she gives me a giant grin. No poppy seeds from her morning bagel. That’s another little office secret. As far as everyone else is concerned, Greta hasn’t had a carb in over ten years.
I hand Greta her briefcase and she leaves for the meeting with a full minute to spare. Mission accomplished.
As soon as I sit down behind my desk, my phone vibrates with a new text message from Greta, directly from the boardroom a few feet away. Don’t forget the press releases. They need to be proofread and corrected ASAP.
I look at the pile of papers on the corner of my desk. I will definitely get to them. Right after I eat my pain au chocolat and catch up on some internet gossip, which is something I can’t do when Greta is hovering around me like a swarm of bees.
A few hours later, I’m in the midst of proofreading one of the press releases when my phone rings.
“Greta Kilborn’s office, Roxy Rule speaking.”
“Rox, it’s me.”
“Hey, Izz.” My sister rarely calls me at the office. “Is anything wrong?”
“We need to talk. I’m taking you to lunch.”
I check my watch and see that it’s almost noon. “I brought a lunch. And I have a pile of work.” The thought of my ham and brie sandwich waiting in the lunchroom makes my stomach growl.
Izzie sighs and I can just imagine her walking around in circles with her eyes glued to the ceiling like she always does when she’s talking to someone who annoys her. “Leave your lunch for tomorrow and meet me at the Corner Deli in fifteen minutes. This family is in a crisis, Roxy. We need to fix it.”
She hangs up the phone before I can tell her that she’s acting like a crazy person and I have enough crazy in my life right now. But since when do I put up a fight when someone wants to take me to lunch? Especially since the Corner Deli has the best pastrami on rye I’ve ever eaten. I guess the ham and brie will have to wait until tomorrow. I grab a red marker and head for the break room.
We’ve been having lots of lunch thefts in the office lately. I don’t want to name names, but I think it’s Barry from Accounts. When I bring cookies and brownies to the office, I always see him stuff a few extra ones in his pocket. I grab my Pocheville Bakery bag out of the fridge and write my name in giant red letters. If my sandwich is gone when I get back, I’m heading straight for Barry’s cubicle and—if his breath smells like brie—I’m going to run after him with a stapler.
When I get to the deli, Izzie is already settled in a booth. Her laptop is open and papers are spread out all over the table. She quickly puts them back into her briefcase when she sees me.
“Are you working?” I ask, stuffing myself into the opposite side of the booth. As far as I know, the partners at Izzie’s firm haven’t let her go back to work. They won’t even consider it until a therapist gives her a clean bill of mental health. And seeing as my sister thinks the concept of workaholism is a joke, I don’t think a therapist will be able to get within fifty feet of her.
“Just because I’m not practicing right now doesn’t mean I’m not a lawyer anymore. I need to stay informed. And the research I do now could help me with future cases.”
“What’s happening with Chaser?” I ask. I’ve been meaning to ask my sister about her thieving musician.
I browse through the menu even though I pretty much know it by heart. When Izzie doesn’t answer my question, I look up and see the faintest of blushes on her cheeks.
“His case was given to another attorney but the plaintiff dropped the charges before he went before the judge.”
“What made him change his mind?” I ask, growing suspicious that the course of justice was interrupted by that the fact that my sister has too much time on her hands.
Izzie’s face grows red. “Listen, Rox. The man gets burglarized every other week by the same gang of thugs and he never presses charges. He just did it this time because he was fed up. He just needed to realize that suing Chaser wasn’t going to solve his pre-existing problem.”
The waitress comes to take our order before I can ask my sister if we need to go into hiding now. Who is this girl sitting in front of me? She’s definitely not my big sister. The Izzie I know loves the law so much she’d never dare talk herself out of a speeding ticket, let alone go around vouching for shoplifters.
Izzie takes a sip of water and clears her throat. “Roxy, we need to talk about Steffi because this situation is getting ridiculous.”
And... she’s back.
I sigh and look over my shoulder, hoping to see the food coming. The deli is crowded and noisy as usual and people are lining up outside for a table. I suddenly wish I was back in my tiny office, enjoying a lovely brie and ham baguette in peace.
“We can’t do anything about it, Izz. She’s going to have a baby. You can bitch and moan about it all you want but it’s not going to make it go away.” I take a long gulp of water and try to avoid my sister’s gaze.
“I see you’ve jumped aboard the Denial Train too. Say hi to Mom and Dad for me.”
I open my mouth for a clever comeback, but my mind goes blank and I start fiddling with the paper napkins. We sit in silence until the waitress brings us our lunch.
“Crap,” I say, as I try to wrap my mouth around a pastrami sandwich and a blob of mustard falls on my blouse.
Izzie stops stabbing at her chicken caesar salad and dips a napkin in water before handing it to me.
“Thanks.” I try to scrub out the stain but it only gets bigger. I throw the napkin on the table. “How am I supposed to go back to work like this?”
“Here, take my cardigan. If you button it up, nobody will see the stain.”
I put on Izzie’s red cardigan and, of course, it’s so tight across my chest and stomach that the buttons seem to be holding on for dear life. But it does cover up the mustard stain.
She smiles at me. “See? I know how to take care of my sisters when they need me. How can that be a bad thing?”
Leave it to Izzie to turn my mustard mishap into a closing argument. “But Steffi hasn’t asked for your help yet. I don’t think that forcing her to talk about her situation is going to do any good.”
“Didn’t she say she was dating somebody when she came over at Christmas?”
I try to think back to a few months ago. “I don’t know. She might have.”
“Well, I’m sure somebody knows.”
I’m not sure I like her tone. “Izzie. Please stay out of this.”
“I can’t. We need to know who we’re dealing with here. Do we even know if she’s going to keep it? What if she decides to give it up for adoption? The father has a right to know.”
I hadn’t even thought about that. I’d always assumed Steffi was going to keep Peanut. Why would she be knitting a sweater if she didn’t want to keep her baby?
“If she won’t tell us who the father of her baby is, I think it’s our obligation to seek him out and make him take responsibility for his actions,” Izzie says, using her lawyer voice. “Where is she going to get the money for diapers and clothes and formula? And what’s going to happen when you
get married and move in with Ethan? Where is she going to stay? She needs a plan.”
I shake my head. “I think we need to stay out of her business. She’ll deal with things when she’s ready.”
“I disagree. No offense, but I think this is why you never get ahead at work. You’re too happy just sitting back and watching things happen instead of making them happen. You’re working for one of the most brilliant minds in public relations and you’re nothing more than a glorified gopher.”
I almost choke on a forkful of coleslaw. When did this conversation become about me? I certainly don’t need to be reminded of my failures. My eyes start to sting and I can feel my throat close in on itself. I need to get out of here. Now. As I reach out for my purse, Izzie grabs my arm.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I was way out of line. Let’s order some cheesecake. Cherry is your favorite, right?”
She smiles at me but I get up and turn to leave. “No thanks. I need to get back to work. I’m sure a coffee cup needs to be refilled somewhere. Greta gets upset when her gopher takes a two-hour lunch.”
Izzie rolls her eyes. “Stop that. I apologized, didn’t I? I just want what’s best for my sisters.”
I sigh. “You’re still going to pursue this whole Steffi thing, aren’t you? Even though I’m begging you to let it go?”
“Yes.”
I nod. “I figured.”
Knowing there’s nothing I could do or say to stop her, I give Izzie a quick hug and leave the deli. As I walk back to the office, all I can think about is Steffi home alone knitting a sweater for her unborn child, totally unaware that her older sister is scheming against her. And the fact that I know about the scheming and I’m not going to do anything about it makes me an accessory to the crime.
The rest of the day goes by pretty quickly. Ethan calls to remind me that we’re having dinner at his parent’s house, and for a fraction of a second I consider making up an excuse to skip the torture. But I don’t want to disappoint him or start an argument I know I’m going to lose. Greta calls about twenty times to remind me that the press releases have to be ready by the end of the day. And I’m so upset about what happened at lunch with Izzie that I eat my brie and ham baguette from the Pocheville Bakery about an hour after coming back from my meeting with her. Barry from Accounts should have eaten it after all. He could have saved me from a ton of calories, a pang of guilt and painful heartburn.
