He nodded. “I’ve booked us a table. Probably six of us will go, and we’ll bring along a few big advertisers.”
He stood up and started to walk out of the office, then paused in the doorway and called, “Plan on staying overnight. Travel will set it up.”
Three or four staffers were in the hallway outside her office, and every single one of them turned at the sound of his loud voice. Jane, the art director who’d seen Cate and Nigel on that Saturday morning, was among them. Cate ducked her head to stare at her desk, which probably only made things look worse. She could feel her cheeks burning. She hadn’t done anything wrong; why was she acting guilty?
Other than Nigel’s proximity to her—which admittedly hadn’t even come near to crossing the line—the meeting had been perfectly businesslike. But something invaded the air, a pervasive heaviness that had the suffocating weight of humidity. He gave her the creeps.
Cate needed to escape her office; the musky smell of Nigel’s aftershave lingered in the room. She wandered down the hallway to the kitchen to grab a Diet Coke. The assistant food editor was there, mixing batter in a big silver bowl, while tins of bread cooled on a metal rack by the stove.
“Have some,” the woman said, nodding to the tins. “I’d love to hear what you think.”
“Is it banana bread?” Cate asked.
“With chocolate chips. Some healthy stuff, too, but we’re trying to tweak the recipe so you don’t taste the bran. It’s for a quick and healthy breakfast recipe spread.” She rolled her eyes. “Nigel is trying to make us title it ‘Haste, Not Waist.’”
“Sounds wonderful. The bread, I mean—not the headline.” Cate reached for a knife and cut off a slice, feeling it warm her hand through the napkin she used to cradle it. She needed the energy it provided; she’d lost two pounds in the past week from stress alone. She took a bite. “This is amazing. No one would ever believe it’s good for you.”
The assistant food editor smiled and went back to stirring.
It was almost lunchtime, so Cate put the bread down on the counter and headed to the refrigerator to grab a blueberry yogurt from the stash she kept there. It would make a meal along with the banana bread and she wouldn’t have to run out to pick up a salad.
As she bent down to reach the second shelf, she overheard a snippet of conversation from someone walking past.
“—totally sleeping together. Cate’s his type, and I’m sure he’s hers ever since he promoted her . . .”
Cate slowly straightened up and closed the refrigerator door. She stood there for a moment, then began to walk out of the room. A voice stopped her.
“Your banana bread,” the assistant food editor said. She was holding it out, still wrapped in the napkin. Her eyes were large and sympathetic. “Don’t you want it?”
Cate nodded woodenly. She’d recognized Jane’s voice, but she had no idea what to do. Should she confront her? Pretend like it never happened? She felt paralyzed.
“Hey, you.” Renee walked up behind her. “Ooh, you evil woman. What are you snacking on?”
The ice around her broke up a bit. “Banana bread.” Cate turned around. “Do you want it?”
“Be careful how you phrase that question.” Renee laughed. “Want? Yes. Am I going to have some? Tragically, no.”
They started walking together, and Cate reached out to touch Renee’s sleeve. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” Renee said.
“Maybe in my office would be better.”
Renee’s eyebrows tilted up, but she didn’t say anything. She followed Cate in and plopped down in the same spot Nigel had claimed just a few minutes earlier. With him, it had felt sinister, but with Renee, it was welcomely intimate. Renee was wearing the cherry-colored sweater today with a black skirt and a silvery scarf tied in an intricate knot around her neck. She looked wonderful.
“This is kind of . . . awkward,” Cate began.
Renee’s eyes turned serious, but her voice stayed light. “Are you asking me out on a date? Because if you throw in dinner and a movie, I might actually say yes.”
Cate laughed, then blurted, “Do people really think there’s something . . . between Nigel and me?”
“That’s crazy. Why would you ask that?”
“I just overheard someone. She . . . she said . . .” Cate began. She swallowed hard.
“Who? What did she say?”
“Jane,” Cate said. “I didn’t see who she was talking to, but I recognized her voice. She said that’s why I got the promotion.”
Renee slid off the desk. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
“To find Jane, so I can tell her to fuck off.”
Cate looked at Renee, then, to her surprise, she burst into laughter. “Seriously?”
Renee paused at the door, then began laughing, too. “Yeah. Don’t you think she deserves it?”
Tears sprang into Cate’s eyes as suddenly as laughter had welled in her throat, and she ducked her head so Renee wouldn’t see her blink them away.
“There isn’t . . . anything . . . going on,” Cate began haltingly. For a moment, she flashed back to that awful time in college: classmates staring after her affair with Timothy became known; the sense of shame that everyone was gossiping about her. Judging her.
Renee walked back over to Cate’s side. “Hey, I never thought for a moment there was.” Renee put her hand over Cate’s, and Cate suddenly realized how warm Renee’s hand was—or maybe her own was freezing cold. “Listen, Jane’s probably jealous of you. She’s a nasty little gossip. No one is going to believe anything she says.”
Tension and worry drained out of Cate as she nodded. This was what it meant for someone to have your back, she realized. “Okay,” she said, exhaling a sigh that felt more like a shudder.
“Besides, if you actually liked Nigel, we’d have to have a serious talk about your taste in men,” Renee said. “I might need to lock you in the apartment until you got over it. I mean, I think the guy dyes his chest hair.”
“Really?”
“Haven’t you noticed it’s darker than the hair on his head? Plus there’s no gray in it.”
“Ick. I try not to get that close to him,” Cate said. She thought about the upcoming awards event. She wouldn’t have a choice then—she’d have to sit next to him during a three-course meal. She hoped their rooms would be on separate floors.
“Smart girl.” Renee glanced at her watch. “Hey, I’ve got to run to a press event. There’s breaking news in eye shadow. Are you okay now?”
Cate nodded. Trey was on his way back from Thailand, and Abby was about to leave the apartment. Cate found herself wishing Abby would stay. It wasn’t just that it was nice to see her becoming more animated. Abby had also been the catalyst for Renee and Cate’s friendship to take root. Without her, they wouldn’t have painted the room, split a bottle of wine, or gone out to lunch.
“Hey, Renee?”
She spun around in the doorway. “Yeah?”
“If you want to chat for inspiration for your blog or Facebook posts . . . just let me know, okay?” Cate offered. “I think you’ll be a really great beauty editor.”
Renee broke into a wide grin. “Thanks.”
Renee couldn’t stop thinking about Cate during the press conference. Luckily, she needed to engage only a tiny corner of her brain to follow the unveiling of a new eye shadow brush. Here was the big gimmick the cosmetic company was touting: The brush, which was developed in conjunction with “scientists and mechanical engineers,” was shaped exactly like a fingertip. Minuscule grooves were even indented in the brush’s fibers.
Renee figured raising her hand and asking if it wouldn’t just be easier to use an actual fingertip would be akin to detonating a bomb in the room. Publicists would topple over in shock, spectators would gasp, and security would probably tackle her to the floor.
Besides, no one was really here for the demonstration; almost everyone in the room was texting o
r reading e-mails on their BlackBerries. They were like greedy kids at a birthday party, biding their time until they could snatch up the goody bags. You never knew what would be in the swag bags; you could count on scoring makeup and perfume samples, but sometimes publicists tucked in gift certificates for massages, manicures, or gym memberships—once, a sunscreen manufacturer added iPod shuffles preloaded with summery songs.
“The blendability of this brush is unsurpassed,” a publicist was enthusing up onstage as a makeup artist applied navy blue eye shadow to a model who looked about fifteen—and probably was.
Blendability? That was so not a word. Renee hid a yawn with the back of her hand as she thought again about how vulnerable Cate had looked when she’d asked if people believed she’d gotten the editing job because she was sleeping with Nigel. For a woman who seemed to have it all—the looks, the brains, the job—she was almost . . . awkward. Others at the magazine thought she could be aloof, and Renee had thought so at first, too. It was one reason why she’d hesitated when she saw the ad Cate had put up on the magazine’s internal bulletin board seeking a roommate. Renee knew almost everyone at Gloss, but she didn’t have the slightest idea of what Cate was really like.
But Cate had turned out to be the ideal roommate in many ways. She was neat, quiet, and considerate. Almost too quiet; she worked late, went running, and devoured books and newspapers. All solitary pursuits, come to think of it. Renee had wondered if it was deliberate; if, since they worked together, perhaps Cate didn’t want to get too close. The few times she’d accepted Renee’s invitations to go out, she’d sipped a single glass of Chardonnay and smiled a lot, but, to tell the truth, she didn’t add much to the conversation. They’d been living together for almost six months, and Cate was still a mystery.
And yet, Cate was changing. Or maybe she was the kind of person who needed to be really comfortable with you before she revealed herself. Unlike Renee, who once had asked the woman in the seat next to her on the subway if she could borrow a tampon.
Cate was shy, Renee realized with a sense of wonder. It explained so much; it was the center piece of a puzzle clicking in to reveal the hidden picture.
There was one more thing tugging at the corner of Renee’s mind, something strange that had happened during the encounter with Cate. Renee finally figured out what it was: the banana bread.
She’d turned down the bread when Cate offered it, and then something impossible had happened: Renee had forgotten about it. She didn’t cave and break off a corner to nibble on. She didn’t head to the kitchen to cut herself a tiny slice, telling herself that was all she’d eat but knowing she’d come right back ten minutes later for another sliver, then a third. Maybe Renee was coming down with something; a cold always quashed her appetite for a few days. But there could be another reason. She’d been taking the diet pills every morning for the past few days.
Let it be the diet pills, Renee thought, closing her eyes in a brief prayer. It would verge on a miracle if the answer to her weight struggle could be this simple. She couldn’t get too excited about it yet, since she’d had her hopes dashed so many times before. The Grapefruit Diet had peeled ten pounds from her frame in a week, but the weight came rushing back the second Renee swallowed a bagel. She’d tried an alphabet’s worth of diets—Atkins, Dukan, Shangri-la, Zone—but nothing seemed to work for the long term.
Renee tuned back in to the press conference and made a vow: She’d never wear dark blue eye shadow, even if its blendability factor was off the charts. The poor model looked like she’d gone a few rounds in a boxing ring with Hilary Swank.
The woman sitting next to Renee shifted in her seat and sighed.
“You don’t find this riveting?” Renee whispered.
The woman laughed. “I’m telling you, those goody bags better live up to their name. If we get nothing but samples after sitting through this, I’ll be so mad.”
“Well, I just hope that poor eye shadow brush doesn’t get framed someday,” Renee said. “What if someone leaves its fingerprint all over a murder scene?”
The woman laughed again, loudly this time, and a publicist glared in their direction. Renee smiled innocently and gave her a little wave. At least the cosmetics people had moved on to talk about the brush’s handle. This had to wrap up soon.
A gentle sound caught Renee’s attention. She glanced at the row ahead of her as the noise repeated itself. Was someone actually snoring? Magazine staffers always used press conferences as handy excuses to explain their absences from the office—all you needed to do was put a Post-it on your computer with a note reading, At a press event! and you could escape to get a haircut, take a long lunch, or hit the gym. But using them to cover for nap time was a new one to Renee. Her eyes drifted along the snorer’s row, and she noticed one person was actually paying attention. Her dark hair was cut into a sleek, chin-length style, just like Diane’s, and she was taking notes on an iPad. An iPad with a pink case.
It was Diane.
How had she gotten in? Renee wondered as she felt her back stiffen. The invitation had gone to Bonnie, who still had a week left at Gloss before she headed to Vogue. Bonnie had handed the invite directly to Renee. Renee was planning to write a funny blog about the event, giving people a behind-the-scenes look at the unveiling of a new product—but could Diane be planning that, too? Maybe Diane was calling around, letting all the cosmetics companies know she was eager to attend press conferences that she could publicize online. She could be compiling a list of contacts, working events, positioning herself to take over the job . . .
She’d made a mistake, Renee realized. She’d underestimated Diane.
Twelve
“TELL ME ABOUT YOUR relationship with your mother,” the counselor instructed, crossing one leg over the other.
“My mother?” Abby hesitated.
“What was she like, Abby?”
After a second course of raw panic had careened through her body yesterday when she’d tried to put Annabelle in the car, causing her to rush back into the house and spend the day playing with blocks and books instead of taking Annabelle to music class, Abby had phoned the counseling service at the university and made an appointment.
Could it be another premonition? She was terrified that something was going to happen to Annabelle—that she would be badly hurt. She’d even had a vague dream about someone—Abby couldn’t see the person, just the shadow—running directly into the path of a car. When Abby tried to yell a warning, she couldn’t speak. It was as if she was enclosed in glass, able to see everything but powerless to move. She heard the squeal of brakes, then a scream. She’d woken up at 4:00 A.M. covered in a layer of sweat, and she hadn’t been able to sleep again.
Yet, once again, when she entered her own Honda without Annabelle, she felt fine.
Was this all a twisted form of guilt? she wondered. Nothing had happened between her and Bob, yet everything had changed. She’d joined him and Annabelle for another dinner, and Bob had described his childhood as they shared roasted chicken breasts and wild rice studded with almond slivers and plump, sour-sweet cranberries. His parents had split when he was eight, which meant Bob and his younger sister were stretched back and forth between their two homes. He was a high school football player, just as Abby had guessed, and the vice president of the student government association. The divorce had created a jagged break in what had been a happy childhood; it had scarred him deeply. He’d learned to cook because his dad never had anything in the house but frozen pizza, and, after a few culinary disasters, Bob had told Abby, he discovered he liked it.
Abby had talked more about Stevie, describing how Trey had said that their little brother adored cows and made a mooing sound every time he saw a picture of one. Stevie had never learned to crawl, so he simply rolled from one end of the room to another until he began to walk.
“I just wish I had one memory of him,” Abby had said while Bob nodded in understanding. “Just one thing.”
She couldn’t help c
ontrasting their conversations to the ones she shared with Pete. Pete knew Stevie had died of a sudden illness, but he’d never asked anything about him, or tried to draw out Abby’s feelings. Their relationship was pinned on activities, not conversation, and being with Bob made her realize how superficial it felt.
She and Bob were peeling back one another’s layers, shedding their old roles and seeing each other in new ways, and the air between them always felt electric. She felt his eyes lingering on her before he left in the mornings, and when he came home at night, she stayed to chat with him instead of heading downstairs. She found herself waiting for the sound of his old Saab convertible turning up the driveway so she could rush to the bathroom to brush her hair before his heavy tread sounded on the steps. She grew to love the gentle creak the mailbox lid made as Bob flipped it open to take out the envelopes and magazines, because that meant, in another few seconds, he’d fit his key into the front door.
Was she worried her feelings for Bob—feelings he seemed to return—would destroy Annabelle’s family? Or maybe something murkier was going on in her subconscious.
“My mom and I aren’t close,” Abby finally said to the counselor. She gave a half laugh. “That’s an understatement, I guess. We don’t talk all that much.”
The counselor nodded and waited. She was a heavyset woman with clear blue eyes and a round face that projected calm compassion. She was one of the only people Abby had ever met who didn’t fidget; her pen stayed still in her hand, her feet were planted on the carpeted floor, and her eyes remained fixed on Abby. She reminded Abby of a chameleon, one who appeared motionless but didn’t miss anything. A sympathetic-looking chameleon; the woman’s mouth was turned up just slightly at the corners, and the expression in her eyes was encouraging.
“We look alike, everyone says,” Abby said. She racked her brains to come up with something else to say about her mother. “She’s, um, a human resources administrator at a small company in Silver Spring. My dad’s a government lawyer.”
These Girls Page 13
