And Bob—what a wimp he was. Instead of worrying about Abby’s feelings, he’d just kissed Joanna back so he wouldn’t rock the boat. Abby had always admired the way Bob acted like a magnet around tension, rushing toward it and trying to smooth it away. Once, just after she’d accepted the job, Bob had walked with Abby and Annabelle to the park to show her the route. A little kid had been crying because he didn’t like the snack his nanny had packed, and Bob had gone over, a little bag of Goldfish in his hand, to offer up a replacement. Even when a contractor had sliced through the wrong pipe while remodeling the upstairs bathroom, sending water cascading all over the second floor and dripping through a light fixture into the kitchen, Bob had seemed to worry more about whether the guy’s irate boss would fire him than about the mess.
“He’s a moron!” Joanna had shouted when she saw the mess.
“Joanna, he’s a kid. Give him a break,” Bob had said. “They’ll fix it and it will look as good as new.”
Abby had thought it just proved that Bob was a nice guy, but now she realized he was terrified of conflict. He’d told Abby that his parents’ acrimonious divorce had scarred him deeply. He hated to argue, he said, which was odd, because Joanna loved to. She thrived when she had to face off against a reporter or berate someone who’d tried to undercut the senator. They were a classic case of opposites attracting, or maybe, in Joanna, Bob was drawn to the chance to constantly tame tension, to enjoy brokering the kind of peace he couldn’t with his own parents.
Now the quality she’d once loved in Bob flip-flopped in Abby’s mind and became a weakness. He hadn’t stood up for her. He hadn’t stood up for them.
An idea began brewing in Abby’s mind. She reached for her cell phone and dialed Pete’s number.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” she said.
After a pause, he said, “I’ve been thinking about you, too.”
“Let’s go out for a late dinner tonight and talk. Can you pick me up around eight-thirty?” She felt a twinge of guilt for using Pete like this, but then she glanced at the coffee cup again and saw Joanna’s lipstick staining the rim in the shape of a kiss. A fresh wave of anger and jealousy roiled within her.
She knew Bob would be home tonight; if he and Joanna were going out, they would have asked her to babysit, as they always did. The rest of the day passed in a blur of preparations: She threw in her favorite jeans when she washed a load of Anna-belle’s clothes. While the baby took a nap, she squeezed in a quick shower and blew out her hair into long, shining sheaves, turning off the hair dryer every few minutes so she could listen for Annabelle waking up. She put on her jeans, with an off-the-shoulder, cream-colored peasant blouse and brown suede, knee-high boots, and spent a half hour on her makeup. When Bob came home, she handed off Annabelle and hurried downstairs, pretending she didn’t hear him call after her.
At eight-thirty exactly, she heard the doorbell ring. She smiled. She hadn’t told Pete to come around to the basement entrance, and she knew he wouldn’t think of it himself.
“Abby?” It was Bob, calling downstairs. Perfect. “Someone’s here for you.”
She came up quickly, slinging her purse over her shoulder.
“Pete,” she said, feeling breathless. She wanted to convey the impression that she was a bit flustered for Bob’s benefit, so he didn’t think she’d planned this. But the moment she saw Pete standing there in the living room, she didn’t have to act. It felt all wrong. She shouldn’t have called Pete; it was Bob she wanted to be with, cuddling against his chest while he stroked her hair. She could smell the dinner he’d cooked—cinnamon and coriander filled the air, which meant he’d probably made Indian. It would taste better than any restaurant meal. She felt an ache grow in the center of her chest.
“Hey, Abby.” Pete leaned forward and kissed her cheek, and she found herself fighting to keep from recoiling. She looked up in surprise as Joanna came bounding down the stairs; she hadn’t heard her car pull up. Joanna stuck out her hand in her usual straight-shooting way, not waiting to be introduced to Pete. She looked different tonight—prettier. Her hair was longer, and she was wearing old jeans that fit like a second skin. All her exercising paid off; Joanna had the body of a nineteen-year-old.
“Have fun, you two,” she said. She nudged Bob with her shoulder and laughed. “Remember when we used to go out without planning it a week in advance?”
Bob smiled down at her, and Abby’s stomach muscles clenched. Didn’t Bob care that she was with another man? He was just standing there, his hands in his pockets, looking like a guy with nothing more pressing on his mind than what movie to order from pay-per-view. Would he and Joanna curl up on the couch together, with her head on his chest?
“We better get going,” Abby said, feeling her shoulders slump. She should have talked to Bob and explained how she felt, but instead, she’d acted as immaturely as a junior high schooler. She deserved this punishment.
Then, as Pete opened the door for her and stood aside so she could pass, she made her mistake.
“Don’t wait up for me,” she called back over her shoulder. She meant it as a jab at Bob disguised as a joke, and it hit home, probably because there was an edge to her voice. She saw the smile disappear from Bob’s face at the exact same moment Joanna turned to look at him. Joanna stared at Bob, then at Abby, then she turned back to face Bob.
For the rest of the night, Abby replayed that moment in her mind, wondering what she had done.
On Monday morning Cate awoke at dawn, got in three fast miles, and walked into her office building before eight, waving hello to the security guard. She was the only one on the elevator, a testament to the earliness of the hour. She rode up to the twenty-seventh floor and unlocked the double-glass doors with her passkey.
She moved through the darkened hallways, passing the bank of cubicles where she’d once worked as an associate editor. She paused at her old desk, remembering other early mornings when she’d been the only one here, trying to get a jump start not just on the day but on her career. Her job was easier then; she had goals that were as clearly defined as the finish lines of her morning runs. If she came up with a great headline, or scrutinized celebrity trends and press releases and hit upon an inspired story idea, her day would be a success. But her leap to features editor meant a blurring of her responsibilities. It was so hard to gauge when a story was truly finished. If only there was a magic line that separated the good-enough articles from the great ones.
She walked into her office and reached for the light switch. It wasn’t a huge or fancy space, but she loved it. In one corner were two low-slung, armless chairs, angled to face each other—perfect for private meetings. Cate hadn’t brought in much in the way of prints or other wall decorations because the enormous window overlooking Fifty-Fourth Street provided an ever-changing cityscape. Bookshelves lining the opposite wall held stacks of old issues of Gloss and bound galleys of books that wouldn’t be published for several months. Piles of paper covered the perimeter of her desk—a few front-of-the-book pieces she needed to review for a final time, as well as some recent issues of competing magazines, and a never-ending selection of newspapers and journals.
Cate picked up The New York Times and began to scan its headlines as she sipped her steaming latte. Staying abreast of current events was a critical component of her job. Her big challenge as features editor was to find the topic everyone was talking about—then discover a unique twist. But the magazine’s long lead time meant her angle had to stay fresh for several months, without the threat of being picked up by multiple other media outlets before Gloss hit the newsstands. It was a delicate balancing act, but Cate enjoyed it. She liked scouring newspapers and websites and wondering how to slice and dice the headlines into possible features. Today’s paper, for example, was trumpeting the story of a politician who had cheated on his wife with a call girl. No shocker there—were there any politicians who didn’t have hookers on speed dial? she wondered—but the sheer volume of such stories mea
nt Cate should pay attention. There had to be a way to find an angle that would be relevant to her readers.
She reached for her yellow legal pad and pencil and began to jot notes. Daughters, she wrote, and underlined the word twice. Although Gloss boasted both male and female readers, the bulk of subscribers were women aged twenty-five to forty-nine. So most articles were tilted toward them.
When fathers were caught in such sex scandals, how did it affect their daughters? Cate tapped her pencil against her lower lip, wondering if there could be a story hiding within that question. Two hours later, a page of her yellow pad was full of possible ideas, and the office was beginning to stir to life. The smell of fresh coffee filled the hallways as co-workers filed through, chatting about their weekends. Cate raised her wrist and looked deliberately at her watch. Ten o’clock.
This was what they didn’t tell you when you got a dream promotion; no one mentioned the ugly underside that accompanied it. She had no idea how to handle Sam. She sensed that she needed to take a stand; if she allowed his piece into the magazine now, she’d forever be marked as a pushover.
Ten-fifteen.
Of course, there were problems with that approach. Sam had allies at the magazine. He’d worked here for nearly a decade, and had major pieces running four or five times a year. Nigel clearly valued his work. Who were his closest friends? Renee would know that sort of thing, but Cate didn’t have time to ask right now.
She didn’t have time for this crap, either. She wanted to have this piece wrapped up before she headed to the National Magazine Awards. She had meetings stacked up all afternoon, and this morning was the only time she’d carved out for editing Sam’s piece. Sam knew that; Cate had made it very clear.
Ten-twenty-five.
She couldn’t believe Sam had actually blown off the third deadline Cate had given him. That was it. She’d use an evergreen to fill the space, and she’d avoid Sam as much as possible from here on out. She probably couldn’t get him fired based on this one incident; Sam’s track record was good. But she could avoid assigning him any cover stories. She couldn’t believe Sam had tested her in this way. Had he really thought Cate would cave?
Cate had just turned to her computer to write an e-mail to Christopher about her mother’s visit to Hong Kong when she heard a rustling sound coming toward her. She kept her eyes on the computer screen and kept typing.
“Sorry!” Sam burst into her office.
Cate finished writing her sentence before looking up. “Good morning,” she said.
“Here’s the piece.” Sam opened his briefcase, pulled out a stack of pages, and handed them to her. He smiled, and Cate noticed he had something stuck between his front teeth. “I’ll e-mail you a copy as well.”
Cate looked at her watch. Ten-fifty.
“It might be too late to get it in.” She shrugged and tossed the pages onto the closest pile on her desk. It slid off, to the floor, and she didn’t make a move to pick it up.
“Seriously?” Sam actually smirked. “Look, I did the rewrite you wanted. I’m less than an hour late, and it’s because the train broke down this morning and we sat on the tracks. You’re going to kill my story because of that?”
I know exactly what you’re doing, Cate wanted to scream, but she didn’t. Could it be that Sam’s train had broken down?
Of course not.
“Look, I’ve got a bunch of work to do,” Cate said. “I’m behind schedule now.” She let the words linger in the air for a moment. “I’ll get back to you on the story.”
Let Sam be the one to squirm—to wonder if he’d pushed too far. Cate waited until he’d left the office, then she stood up and walked around her desk and picked up the pages. She sat down with her blue editing pencil and took a deep breath. Secretly, she almost hoped the piece would be awful.
At least then she’d know what to do.
During her freshman year in college, Renee had had a roommate who slept only six hours a night. On weekends, the rest of the teenagers in their dorm stumbled out of bed at ten, eleven, or even noon, but Eloise was always up with the sun.
“Don’t you get tired?” Renee had asked once after she flopped over in bed and saw Eloise reading, a little book light attached to the top of her thick novel.
Eloise had shaken her head. “Nope. It’s just how my body works. My dad’s the same way.”
“I’m jealous,” Renee had said, her words half swallowed up by a huge yawn, before she’d turned over and fallen back asleep.
Imagine how much you could get done if you didn’t require so much sleep, Renee had thought at the time. Eloise never had to pull all-nighters for exams, never dozed through morning classes, never pulled on a baseball cap to camouflage the fact that she didn’t have time to shower.
Renee adored sleep. Even when she was at her most broke, she scoured the Internet for deals on high-thread-count sheets, and she added drops of lavender essential oil to the washing machine water when she laundered her bedding. She had three fluffy, soft pillows, and a down-filled comforter. Lying down on her bed felt like sinking into a cloud. She loved cocooning there on Sunday afternoons, with a romance novel and a cup of chamomile tea on her nightstand. If it was raining, that was even better, but Renee sometimes took to her bed on sunny weekend afternoons when everyone else was out jogging or tossing around Frisbees. It felt utterly decadent.
Now she’d discovered Eloise’s secret. The extra hours Renee had suddenly unlocked meant she got a good chunk of work done every morning even before heading into the office. She changed clothes three or four times, flat-ironed her hair, and she still had time to walk to work! It was a miracle. She sensed that her body was growing tired, that a bone-deep weariness was forming beneath the surface, but Renee knew she only had to push through a little longer. By now she’d shed an entire size. She was becoming the person she’d always wanted to be—someone organized and energetic and disciplined.
This morning at 5:00, Renee’s eyes had flown open, as if an alarm had suddenly shrilled by her ear. For a moment, she felt nostalgic for the days when she’d lazily roll over in bed, pulling her covers up to her ears and curling into a ball. She used to love drifting in that hazy place between sleep and wakefulness, letting her mind wander through half dreams. But that urge had been erased completely; Renee couldn’t bear to stay in bed for another moment.
Now it was lunchtime, and she’d already whipped through more work than she usually accomplished in a full day. She’d even created a solid lineup memo for the “Getting Warmer” page. Every month, the magazine awarded mercury ratings to six products, fashion trends, and entertainment options, and Renee had to come up with candidates. Some were no-brainers—a still shot of a star from the month’s anticipated blockbuster movie, or a photo of Beyoncé gyrating onstage to pair with the release of her new album—but it took a bit of work to remember seeing, say, pictures of two actresses wearing long scarves with cut-off jean shorts so she could legitimately finger it as a trend. Nigel liked having fifteen candidates for the page so he could draw big, vaguely sadistic Xs over his rejects. This month, Renee was offering him twenty-two.
She stood up and stretched, glancing out the window as she did so. It was a chilly, gray day, but she changed into the flat shoes she kept tucked under her desk and headed downstairs. Renee stepped through the glass doors and began walking around the block, checking her watch as she turned down Fifty-Fourth Street and up Sixth Avenue. The air felt swollen with the threat of rain, but all Renee could think about was beating her record of fourteen laps in an hour. After years of forcing herself to exercise, she’d been transformed into the type of woman she used to envy; she was addicted to those walks. On rare days when she had a lunchtime meeting, she pushed a salad around her plate while her feet beat a quiet, frantic tattoo on the floor under the restaurant table, as if they were rehearsing for the moment when they could propel her forward again.
She wove through the crowds, faces blurring as they passed her. Thirteen laps down. Re
nee glanced at her watch and quickened her step. She had eight minutes left. She could do this! Her heart thudded against her rib cage, and her breath came in quick gasps. The wind picked up, and she ducked her head into it, pumping her arms for momentum.
The first raindrop splattered on her hair as she rounded the corner to start her fifteenth lap. By the time she’d taken a dozen steps, it was coming down steadily. All around her, people covered their heads with newspapers or popped open umbrellas. Renee bent her head lower and kept going. She couldn’t turn back now; she was so close. She churned her arms faster and gulped in air. As she passed a hot dog vendor, steam wafted toward her and she inhaled the smell of cooking meat. She thought of the hot dogs she used to love eating for lunch, the pink, rubbery meat covered with a thick layer of spicy mustard and relish, and she almost gagged. She pushed on. Her cheeks were slick with rain and her hair was getting ruined, but she focused only on the sweep of the second hand of her watch and the gray sidewalk before her.
Then the sidewalk rose up in front of her. She blinked a few times and realized she was lying down, her right arm bent awkwardly beneath her.
“Are you okay?” a woman asked, her voice seeming far away. Renee could see shoes gathering around her—black heels and colorful sneakers and shiny wingtips.
A man squatted next to her. She felt his hand on her arm. “Do you have epilepsy? Or are you pregnant?”
Renee shook her head, then immediately regretted it. She began to push herself up, but her palms screamed a protest. She rolled over onto her back and came up to a seated position.
“Don’t try to stand yet,” the man said. “I saw you go down. I don’t think you hit your head, but you should still get checked out.” She blinked again, and his face came into focus: gray hair and a matching beard, dark-rimmed glasses. He was covering both of them with his red umbrella. The rest of the crowd was already moving on, sensing the crisis had passed.
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