And it all feels surreal, and certain details are becoming hazy and fuzzy around the edges. Like it was nothing more a dream, and what happened the day she left was just my waking up from it.
‘You sure? You seem a little… not yourself today.’
‘Really, it’s okay. I’m just…’
Eddie waits for me to say more, but I don’t.
‘You want to go again?’ he asks.
But before I can reply an assistant enters the control room and starts whispering to him, and then they’re both looking at me.
‘Uh, Jesse,’ he says. ‘There’s someone here to see you.’
For a second I think Cassie’s come back, and there’s a flicker of excitement, but then reality caves in on me again. She ended it and unfriended me, and even if she hadn’t done those things, she doesn’t know where I am today.
Eddie continues. ‘A Holly?’
‘Oh, Jesus. I am so sorry. Can you get rid of her?’
The assistant approaches the mixing desk. ‘I tried,’ she says. ‘I told her you were recording. But she said it’s, like, super important.’
‘Uuugghhhh,’ I tip my head back and groan.
‘You can’t bring your girlfriend to the studio, man,’ Eddie says, but he’s smirking.
‘She’s so not my girlfriend,’ I say. ‘She’s my sister-in-law. Look, do you mind if I take five to get rid of her?’
‘Nah, it’s cool,’ he says. ‘We could probably use a break anyway. We might get some pizza delivered.’
I yank off the headphones and shove my bass, roughly, back in the stand.
‘Sounds awesome,’ I say.
Holly’s in the reception area, perched on the edge of a couch. She stands up as I approach.
‘Jesse. I –’
‘You can’t just ambush me at work,’ I snap. ‘And you know this.’
‘I’m sorry but you didn’t answer your phone. Or your texts. I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’
‘And it didn’t occur to you that there might be a reason for that?’
‘I even stopped by your place.’
‘I was probably out running errands.’
I was not out running errands. I knew she’d been by. I’d heard the music in her car even before she pulled up, and then she’d knocked on the door. And then, a few minutes later, she walked around to the beach and tapped on the back doors. I’d sat on the upstairs landing, out of view, hiding in my own house, until I heard her drive away again.
The assistant is back behind the desk now, and she’s definitely listening. ‘Come on,’ I say, nodding towards the door. ‘Not in here.’
Out on the street, Holly fiddles with her purse and I crouch down against the wall and close my eyes. ‘How did you even know I was here today?’ I say. ‘Do you realize how inappropriate this is?’
‘Trav had it in his cell and we have a shared calendar. This was a last resort, Jesse. I messed up, okay. Is that what you want me to say?’
‘Not really, no, because it means shit coming from you.’
‘He yelled at me. On the beach, that day. He never yells at me. Said I shouldn’t have gotten involved.’
‘He’s right. You shouldn’t have. And look what you did, Holly. She left because of what you stirred up. And she’s not coming back.’
I’m expecting her to argue, to give me shit about how I should have been more honest, and she’d be right to, but she kicks the sidewalk with her shoe and squints up at the sky.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, eventually.
‘When did Nicole tell you she was pregnant?’
‘She didn’t. I found out via the medium of Instagram,’ she shrugs.
‘Wait, what? She hates social media. I have to tell you, Holly, I have questions about this now.’
‘She started an account after she moved. I don’t know, new life, new Nicole, or something. She showed up in a list of people I should follow. Anyway, she posted a cutesy scan picture. I thought you’d have seen it.’
‘Why would I have seen it? I don’t use Instagram.’
‘Well I didn’t know that. You’re so locked down on everything.’
‘Yeah. It’s this thing called privacy. It’s called keeping yourself to yourself, Holly. It’s called minding your own damn business. You should try it some day.’
‘Alright, I get it, you’re mad at me,’ she mutters. ‘You don’t have to keep on. I said I’m sorry.’
‘What else do you know?’ I say.
‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Just what I’ve already said.’
‘Show me this picture.’
We sit down and lean against the wall and she opens up the app. We look like a couple of bums with an iPhone. She leans in and we scroll through the pictures. There aren’t many, and mostly they’re just shots of skyscrapers, and her apartment, and the occasional selfie. And then, posted on the fourth of July, a photo of her with quite a pronounced bump, holding a grainy sonogram image. I can’t tell what I’m looking at. A black and white image of a face in profile. Surprise! reads the caption. Late to the party, but I wanted to wait for a special day to share the news! Happy #fourthofjuly #babymeijer #pregnant #momtobe #mommyinthemaking
There’s another picture, too. Of Nicole’s bump with a giant blue bow tied around it. And another, of her surrounded by cake and gifts.
‘Cute babyshower, no?’ Holly says, but I’m not focusing on that. I’m looking for anything at all that pulls me out of the running. But there’s nothing, and we’re back to pictures of the Chrysler building and stacks of pancakes.
‘Holly,’ I say, ‘none of this tells me anything.’
‘It tells you she is pregnant,’ she replies. ‘Duh.’
‘What about if you contact her?’
‘Uh, no can do,’ she says, shaking her head.
‘Uh, yes can do, I think it’s the very least you can do.’
‘No. I don’t follow her.’
‘Huh? But you said –’
‘Look. Nic and I didn’t part on amazingly good terms,’ she says, shiftily. ‘Just because she showed up on a list of people to follow, doesn’t mean I actually did, you know?’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Let’s just say she was not intending to stay in touch with anyone out here. And I might have called her out on it.’
‘Oh. I thought you guys were friends? Why have you been mad at me for months?’
‘Yeah,’ she snaps. ‘So did I. But I guess she felt like she wanted a clean break, which I didn’t think was entirely fair. I never did anything to upset her. Anyway, the point is, if she knows I look at her photos, she might lock this shit down and that doesn’t help you right now, does it?’
‘But you took her to the airport?’
‘Ugh, it was the shortest drop off ever. She couldn’t get out of the car fast enough.’
‘Holly, you’ve never mentioned this.’
‘Can you stop fixating on shit that isn’t important right now. The fact is, if you’d tried harder with her, I’d still have my friend.’
And this is Holly to a tee. No understanding at all that her actions have consequences of their own.
‘Do you realize how stupid you sound when you say that? For the last time, she broke up with me. Your friendship with Nicole was yours to keep. And maybe she didn’t want to stay in touch with you because you’re an asshole who doesn’t know when to keep her mouth shut?’
She gapes at me and snatches her phone back.
‘Fuck you,’ she says, standing up. ‘I was trying to help you.’
‘You’ve done more than enough,’ I say. ‘Really.’ She narrows her eyes at me and then stares around her, but for once, she doesn’t say anything. ‘I have to go, they’re waiting for me. Don’t come to my work again.’ And I push the mirrored doors open and leave her there, standing on Sunset Boulevard, clutching her purse, and her phone, with her mouth hanging slightly open.
Chapter Forty
Cassie
I
t’s two weeks since I left California now and the day of the sign-off meeting. There’s no hiding behind my computer screen today. Mimi hovers over me as I make final amendments to the spreadsheets and graphs I’ll be presenting. We all feel a little on edge.
All except Sam, who isn’t as flustered as I’d expect him to be. He has all his samples ready to show, and if he’s worried, he’s hiding it. I really think he needn’t be; he’s taken the brief and run with it. There are melamine pieces in bright vibrant mix-and-match colours; a mustard yellow, jade green, bright, pillar-box red and a rich brown, and Picardie-style Pyrex bowls and vintage-looking serving dishes, some with patterns, some with serving suggestions printed on them. There are tins and jars and plates, both branded and own label. He’s sourced some cast iron dishes in a gorgeous mid blue, that the creative team got entirely too excited over. Together, we load everything onto a trolley and take it up to the meeting room.
‘You’re looking sharp today,’ he says, checking out my outfit whilst we wait for the lift. A knee-length electric blue pencil skirt, a cream blouse with a Peter Pan collar, and high heel brogues. I feel like I’ve been appraised. He’s right though; I do, indeed, look sharp.
‘Thanks,’ I tell him. ‘I wish I felt sharp.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ he says. ‘You know it all. We’ve got this. Dream team!’
The meeting room is already set up. There’s a hot water urn heating up in the corner and neatly stacked coffee cups, sugar lumps and packets of sweeteners. Platters of mini croissants and Danish pastries sit under tightly pulled cling film. Sunlight floods in through the windows, unobstructed, as the meeting rooms are on the top floor of the building. The only thing above us up here is the sky. At one end of the room is an interactive white board with a laptop connected to it. In less than an hour I’ll be presenting the figures from it, and just looking at it makes my stomach flip. Carefully, we unpack the trolley and place the samples in the middle of the table.
When we’re done, he pulls out a chair and sits down.
‘Might as well wait up here now,’ he shrugs, looking at his watch. ‘They’ll all be coming up in a minute.’
I pace over to the window and look out over Oxford Street. It’s busy. People move down the pavement, in and out of shops. Rushing along. Taking their time. There’s a busker playing an accordion with a few coins in his hat. He’s there a lot, always in the same place. Always playing the same tunes. A crowd of teenagers monopolise a bench close to a bus stop, laughing loudly and smoking cigarettes whilst sitting on the back rest, their feet on the seat. An elderly gentleman hovers nearby. People run across the road, ignoring crossings and dodging cabs and buses.
‘You nervous, babes?’ Sam asks. I turn and look at him.
‘A little,’ I say. ‘Actually, a lot. Got stuff on my mind and I’m worried I’ll forget something important.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Oh, it’s not work stuff.’
‘I gathered that. You haven’t been yourself since you got back from your hols.’
‘You wouldn’t be either, I imagine.’
‘I don’t follow,’ he says.
‘You mean you don’t know why I unceremoniously came back from Los Angeles early?’ I ask, shaking my head. Sam sits next to me on our desk of four. He was there on my first day back in the office. And I was sure he’d seen some of my angry message to Jesse on Facebook, but he shakes his head. ‘I went to California to visit someone I thought I had a shot of being with. Turns out I probably don’t. Things got messy. I came home.’
‘Long distance almost never works out well,’ he says. ‘Too tricky.’
‘It wasn’t intended to be long distance forever. I might have gone there, one day.’
‘And leave me here on my own? You can’t do that. They’d give Pol your job, and I can’t stand her. I’d have snuck out of here in your suitcase.’
‘You’d have tried to nick him off me,’ I tease.
‘Oooh, reckon I could have done?’
‘Not a chance. You’re not his type.’
‘There’s always a chance,’ he says, winking at me. I look back out of the window. The teens on the bench have moved on. The elderly chap has his seat. Victory, I think.
‘So have you got a picture then?’ Sam asks, and it pulls my attention back.
‘Of Jesse?’
‘If that’s his name,’ he says, nonchalantly. As if he doesn’t know.
I do have a photo. In fact I have lots. I have photos of us on the beach, taken on my phone with my arm outstretched in front of us, and we’re kissing in some of them. There are a couple of him that I took just before sunset. He’s catching the sun like it’s a ball. It took heaps of tries to get right. He looked ridiculous, with his arms in the air catching nothing and I felt like a knob, yelling across the sand to move a little, this way and that, just a fraction, until it was perfect.
I have sneaky photos he didn’t know I took, and now he never will. Of him driving the car. Of him sitting on the deck. Of him walking slightly ahead of me in Venice. They’re all there on my phone. I didn’t delete them after I got back because that meant looking at them, and I couldn’t bear to do that. So there they have stayed.
‘On my phone,’ I say. ‘Knock yourself out.’ Sam blinks at me, and then pulls my phone out of my handbag. I watch his fingers brush over the screen as he finds the photo album and flicks through. I watch his face for a reaction, but he has a good poker face.
‘Pretty,’ he says, eventually. ‘What does he do?’
‘He’s a musician,’ I tell him. ‘Bassist.’
‘I knew it,’ he says. ‘He looks like he should be in a band or something.’
I laugh. Sam looks up. ‘What?’
‘He was, once upon a time. That’s how this all started.’
‘So why didn’t it work out? With you and him.’
I don’t feel like going over it. Not before the meeting.
‘Oh, it’s too long to explain now,’ I say.
‘Lunchtime then,’ he says.
Our conversation is cut short by the door opening. Sam throws my phone back in my bag and stands up. I leave my spot by the window and move over to the chair next to him. In walks the creative director Hattie, Mimi’s boss Paula, the buying and brand director Simon, and Robert, the head of business development.
Drinks are made, the platter of pastries is brought over to the meeting table, and everyone sits down. When all is quiet, and I’ve distributed my booklets of figures, Sam begins.
‘So, we’re here to discuss the Autumn-Winter lines for twenty thirteen–fourteen,’ he says. Everyone nods. He refers back to the colour palette we’ve been given by Hattie’s team, and briefly goes through his samples. He’s enthusiastic and engaging, talking about the products he’s picked, answering every question he’s asked, about the materials, their durability, the supplier. Sam is really good at his job.
‘Now,’ he says, ‘Cassie’s going to present the numbers.’ This is it. I flip up the laptop and it buzzes into life. I wish Mimi was here for extra support. With shaky fingers, I click open my spreadsheets and watch them open up on screen.
‘If I can ask you all to look at the whiteboard,’ I say. My mouth is dry. I reach for my water and take a sip. Four heads swivel to the back of the room. I glance over at Sam and he smiles at me. He thinks I’ve got this. Like he said, dream team. Columns of numbers fill the screen.
‘I'll go in the same order as Sam, starting with the melamine range,’ I say. ‘This column represents the sales figures for last year.’ I hover over a column and highlight it. ‘As you can see, it matched up to the forecast pretty accurately. We didn’t have too much to mark down at the end of the season.’ I leave the figures on screen for a few more seconds and no one speaks. ‘And so, running with that, if you look at page two of your handouts, you’ll see the stock required for each store.’ Everyone opens the booklets I have prepared and turns to the table. Next to it is a photo of the melamine bow
ls.
‘Does this include the Christmas stock uplift?’ asks Paula. She taps her pen against the tip of her nose.
‘No, uplift figures are in the next column along. Based on last year, there will need to be a six point nine percent uplift to cover Christmas sales. And that brings the figures to this many units across the board.’ I highlight a row of numbers at the bottom of the first spreadsheet and all eyes are on the whiteboard again. Robert nods. I look once more at Sam and behind his handout he gives me a discreet thumbs-up. I take another a sip of my water and continue.
‘Moving on to the Picardie bowls.’ I click through to the next spreadsheet.
* * *
It’s a long meeting. We break for lunch at twelve thirty but have more to go through. The senior management team seem to like the vast majority of what Sam has put together. Simon isn’t convinced about the dishes with the printed serving suggestions, but Sam isn’t fazed.
‘They were my wildcard line,’ he tells me as we head out of the office towards Pret. ‘I always throw something in there I am not sure the powers that be will like. If they don’t go for it, then fine. If they do, I’ll feel like I’ve helped to push the brand, creatively.’
I pick up a crayfish sandwich. Put it down. Pick up chicken and avocado. Eventually decide on soup and a roll.
‘Someone is indecisive today,’ Sam says. We walk back towards the offices but veer off to the square and sit on a bench. ‘So, if you don't mind me asking, how did you meet that pretty fella?’
‘In a bar,’ I say. ‘He was who I had that platonic date with, that wasn’t at all platonic, back in July.’
Call Me, Maybe Page 25
