She was inspired by the dream on the plane from a couple of months ago. She had seen this in the window of a shop downtown, a formal boutique. What had possessed her to buy it outright was the act of trying it on.
Be indulgent. Celebrate a little. Her column was successful, her paper’s company had merged with a major media outlet, her book was weeks from its debut. Why not enjoy the moment to the fullest? Everyone else at the gala would, basking in the glory of TriCom and Haldon Media’s spotlight.
The dress fit her like a glove. She wound her hair into a French twist centered perfectly behind her head. She lifted the double strand of pearls from its box, and the pink handbag with the silver clasp from the modest row of purses and clutches in her closet.
The cab came at eight and transported her to Norlend Towers. She caught a glimpse of herself in the cab’s mirror as she emerged: an elegant figure in a fitted black dress coat, with subtle shades of makeup on lips and cheek.
Usually, the glass penthouse on the top floor of Norlend was unoccupied. A zone forbidden to the public visitors, one where TriCom’s company executives held parties or entertained important clients on occasion. Parties which included the staff of subsidiary companies like the Pittsburgh Herald or others were generally held at less-exclusive locations. But this was a milestone worthy of exception, it seemed.
The elevator rode to the topmost floor, where it opened to a glass lobby just outside the penthouse’s main room, where coats could be checked and a view of the party’s first scenes could be glimpsed through the glass panels. Eleanor and other guests disembarked here.
Before her, a panorama of light and crystal. Waiters had begun circulating with trays of champagne and the catered creations. There was a reflective glint from the horns of the jazz trio now performing on the temporary stage. Bodies milled about, the first wave of a crowd of regional and out-of-town associates of TriCom’s present-day existence, all dressed in black tie apparel and formal gowns.
She moved towards the scenes, the double glass doors which would open to this world. Ahead of her, within it, the only familiar face was that of her assistant Lucy in a black cocktail gown designed on a threshold just above her elegant velvet office dress, her fingers cradling a glass of champagne as she laughed at someone’s story.
A man approached her from behind. She turned and embraced him, enthusiastically and tightly, her face obscured by the back of his head as she kissed him momentarily. Her fiancé-to-be, the one Lucy had mentioned in the office before.
Eleanor knew the shape of that head. She knew before he turned to the side with his arm in Lucy’s, that it was Edward Ferris.
Chapter Nineteen
For a moment, Eleanor could not move. She could not speak if she had wished it, something which made the noise of the guests entering ahead of her a relief. Lucy had caught sight of her now – as had Edward, Eleanor noticed briefly – and her assistant was waving to her.
One foot forwards, then another. Eleanor crossed the carpet and entered the room. Lucy was waiting with her party, her hands wrapped protectively, almost possessively, around Edward’s arm.
“There you are,” she said. “Eleanor, I want you to meet my fiancé. Edward Ferris, this is Eleanor Darbish. The advice columnist. The one who inspired me to pursue a media career in the first place.”
‘The’ advice columnist. So Lucy had spoken about her to him. Had told him everything about her, perhaps – her career, her appearance, maybe even where her apartment stood in the city.
“How do you do?” Edward held out his hand.
She looked at his face now. Something she had endeavored not to do since entering this room. Not since the smile and familiar countenance she had glimpsed through the wide panes of glass in the penthouse lobby, as if she had peered through a two-way mirror and seen someone’s alternate existence.
But now she was looking at him. She held out her hand and, after a moment, found her voice and managed to steady it before it emerged. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“And you.” His voice trembled faintly. His eyes – she glanced aside after a moment’s time. They had held her gaze, but not with pleading. With something more painful, like a cornered animal.
An alternate world, a view of reality. That was what their kiss had been to this moment of truth.
“You’ve heard me mention Edward, Eleanor – he’s been so sweet and thoughtful about this whole move. So excited about my career. Which I’m glad about, because so many men aren’t supportive. But not Edward.” She squeezed his arm again.
“She has ... mentioned you,” ventured Eleanor. “Several times in fact. And I’m sure she’s told you about me.” She was careful to keep any emotion from entering her voice.
The kiss. The airport. The walk home. Oh, why did it have to be Edward? Edward at the airport, Edward who loved Lucy Deane.
“A little.” Edward’s tone was hollow.
Lucy swatted his arm. “A little?” she repeated, incredulously. “Honestly, I talk about work all the time.” She looked at Eleanor. “I’ve told him all about you, trust me.”
“Lucy does talk about work a great deal.” Edward attempted a laugh. “All of these stories – names, people, news – I never remember them all. Too much information, I’m afraid.”
“It would be.” Eleanor’s vision was blurring along its lower edges. A rim of tears which she held back with all the power she possessed.
“How long have you been in Pittsburgh?” Eleanor managed to ask.
“About two months now.” He was no longer attempting to smile, she noticed. “Since not long after ... after Lucy landed the internship.”
“Are you all right, Edward?” Lucy asked. “Your face is flushed. Do you have a fever?” With concern, she pressed her hand against Edward’s face as he withdrew slightly from reach.
“No, no, I’m fine,” he answered. “It’s the lights. They change the colors of things.” His gaze flickered towards Eleanor briefly. Guiltily, she thought, although she didn’t meet his eyes long enough to be sure.
“I think I’ll have some champagne,” said Eleanor. “If you’ll excuse me.” She forced a pleasant smile to her lips with these words, then turned away from the sight of the two of them. Making her way towards a waiter bearing a tray full of glasses, careful to keep her pace normal, her shoulders upright. Her tears burned her eyes as she blinked them back forcefully.
Lifting a glass from a tray, she downed most of its contents in a single swallow. Ahead, the tables and chairs provided for the party’s guests: white tablecloths and elegant, curving backs on the chairs. The little centerpieces were metal or glass sculptures of TriCom’s logo, surrounded by flickering white votives.
Several of the tables were already full, but she wanted one with a single seat left – not an empty table, where Lucy might be tempted to join her. A seat was open next to Jeanine, who was busy telling her date a story about something that happened at work.
“– and I told Bitterman, ‘this won’t stand. They’ll beg a retraction of the paper in a day.’ Of course, he didn’t believe me and – bam, next day, they’re calling his office, on their high horses...”
She glanced briefly in Eleanor’s direction, a smile of recognition or greeting equally brief before she returned to her story. Eleanor’s empty glass was before her on the table. Through momentary gaps in the ever-growing crowd in the room, she could see part of Lucy’s dress and shoulder. Not black satin, but something a velvety purple color. Part of Edward’s hand was visible. Eleanor turned away.
“ – you were there that day, Eleanor. Brandon was barking about something to do with a hockey referee’s road rage incident, like any of that matters –” She gestured towards the next table, where Eleanor saw Brandon sitting with several people. Most of them unknown to her, probably sports writers from one of the company’s magazines, or members of the publishing house’s staff. One of the women at the table looked familiar, a chef from one of the food journals, Eleanor thought.
The jazz trio was now playing something lively, the pianist singing lyrics from a classic jazz number as couples began rising to dance. Eleanor saw Edward come into view momentarily in the movement. The brown hair falling forwards, the well-fitted suit jacket, the perfectly-knotted tie.
Lucy was leaning against him, her arm wrapped around his neck, her fingers interlaced with his own where their hands were joined. She was gazing up into his face; he was looking into hers, then raising his eyes to the room beyond her. There was no emotion in his face which Eleanor could recognize and define. Nothing that she wanted to see, whatever form those feelings might take.
His eyes looked in her direction. The urge to shrink away crept over her, as if she was drawing away from a physical touch. A desire to hide from his view, a relief for the appearance of a writer from Food & Home who was leaning over their table to speak to an associate editor, blocking her view of the dance floor momentarily.
A waiter circulated past their table with another tray of champagne glasses. Eleanor lifted one and took a sip from it.
“– we heard from some of Haldon Media’s people about a possible television franchise for Mary Margaret over there.” The Food & Home editor gestured towards the woman seated at Brandon’s table.
“A franchise?” repeated Jeanine. “That is something.” Emphasis on these words. “That’s good money. Not to be blunt or anything –”
“Not at all. And the promotional value of that is amazing –”
Eleanor looked towards the table again. The woman in question, the first lucky beneficiary of the company’s merger whom she had heard of, was now sampling some of the cocktail shrimp from an iced tray. In a vague way, something about her features reminded Eleanor of Lucy Deane.
“–you heard about Josephine Gary, of course. Doesn’t look good for her knitting magazine –”
More trays of champagne circulated. Trays of shrimp and radish daikon, of sushi samples and dipped strawberries. The noise grew steadily louder as the full force of guests were now packed into the room.
Lucy and Edward disappeared from her sight. Eleanor assumed an attitude of listening when Jeanine touched her arm and began telling her about something amusing that had happened on the elevator earlier this week. She felt a pressure on her shoulders, Bitterman’s hands on her skin.
“Great party, huh?” he said. “Try the oysters, they are great. Jimmy, Eleanor, all of you, stop by my table. See it over there? I want to introduce you to a few people. Magneito has promised that Fueller will be leading off in a big way with the paper ...”
He had released his hold on Eleanor, his conversation continuing beyond her capacity of listening. His voice rose as he addressed someone at Brandon’s table, one of the magazine writers. Everyone was smiling over his remark, the bubble of champagne now influencing the conversation heavily.
Brandon had caught her eye again and was frowning. In her numbness, she did not realize at first what he was seeing in her face. Something painful, she realized, for his expression was that of puzzlement, then dismay as he watched her. She tried to smile and could not; she looked away only because Jeanine was speaking to her again, drawing her closer to ask her something about Bitterman’s comments.
The jazz trio stepped down at the hour. A small orchestra began playing, the background noise until the ten-thirty onscreen video presentation would begin. Mark Fueller would be stopping by with his famous smile and a few words of congratulations for his latest acquisition’s past glories.
On the plate before Eleanor, the remains of a half-eaten strawberry and an untouched stuffed mushroom. She had not drunk the champagne in the final half of her glass. To her ears, the sound of Jeanine’s conversation was grating, wearing her down with each passing minute of misery since she had come here.
She did not know if Lucy and Edward were still on the dance floor or seated at one of the tables in this room. Lucy would be somewhere close to the stage for the sake of Fueller and the footage reel of TriCom’s holdings and their respective achievements.
There was nothing to say. Nothing to say but what had already been said to Lucy and to Edward. There was nothing else she could do except what she was doing right now.
The lights dimmed momentarily, a signal for the upcoming video presentation and speech. The elevator opened on the penthouse floor, Mark Fueller and his entourage emerging to enter the room, where sounds of applause and greeting could be heard, fanning towards the heart of the party. Collecting her bag from the table, Eleanor murmured something to Jeanine – unintelligible to her own mind, much less to her friend’s ear – then made her way through the back of the crowd, towards the doors.
She pushed them open and stepped into the glass lobby. The reflection of herself in the windows black with night, only the faintest city lights in the distance like winking stars. Fumbling with the latch on her handbag, she found her coat check ticket.
“Here,” she said, handing it over. She shrugged herself into her coat a moment later, buttoning it as she pressed the button for the elevator.
In the copper panels of the door, she saw her reflection obscured as a shiny haze. A figure which seemed a blur of tears, although no tears had fallen yet. It was better not to think about it, to think about anything which had happened tonight or in the last few months of her life.
When the elevator opened, she was in the lobby again. She crossed to the front doors and exited, her hand raised to attract the attention of the first passing cab, opening the passenger door as it parked before the curb.
“Eleanor.” It was Brandon’s voice. She half turned towards him as she climbed inside, seeing him emerge from the doors of Norlend’s lobby.
He grasped the passenger door, his other hand resting on the car’s frame. “Where are you going?”
“Home,” she answered. Her voice was developing a slightly choked sound with this word, but it was still calm, at least in part, to her ears.
Brandon climbed inside and closed the door.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Why are you leaving? It’s only ten-thirty, for heaven’s sake. You’ve been at this party for what, an hour?”
“Because I want to go home,” she answered. “I’m tired, and I had a very long day, and I don’t see why I have to explain this to anyone.”
“Can I have a destination, please?” said the cabbie.
“Hold on a minute,” answered Brandon.
“We are running a meter here,” said the cabbie.
“Fine. Just hold on.” Brandon turned to Eleanor again. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong.” She was desperately near tears now. If he would only go away and let her leave before everything came apart.
“Don’t lie to me, Eleanor.” Brandon’s voice was stern. “I know the truth when I hear it.”
His face was out of focus; the first tears came, try as she might to withhold them, until Brandon’s features were a blur to her eyes.
“I’m so ashamed of myself,” she said. Her voice dissolving beneath the strain of tears. “I’ve been an idiot – I let my guard down and this is what happened.” Her fingers fumbled to open her handbag, pulling a tissue from inside. Tears were cascading freely, no doubt melting away her makeup.
“What are you talking about?” Brandon’s voice was still stern, although it had softened somewhat.
“Nothing.” The thought of telling him about Edward made her feel ill at this moment. “Nothing at all, Brandon. Don’t listen to me.”
“You haven’t done anything foolish that I know of,” he said. “Unless this is something more personal. Romantic in nature or something.” Although he avoided her eyes momentarily, his voice had become gentler with this suggestion. Words fumbling, hands grippi
ng something unseen as his fingers closed, then opened and tapped his knee, restlessly.
“You could say that.” She daubed at her eyes. The flow of tears would not stop. The desire to sob was strong, even as she drew a deeper breath.
“You could tell me.” He glanced into her face, concern softening his own features from their sternness. “I would listen, you know.”
“There isn’t anything to say,” she answered. What could she say? To tell anyone about her feelings until now, the crushing moment of seeing Edward with Lucy, was wrong. There would be no release, no relief.
His face grew slightly stony. “Then you don’t have to tell me, if it won’t help.”
She didn’t say anything in reply. The tissue in her fingers was damp, disintegrating in her grasp. Eleanor looked forwards, not looking at him, avoiding even the cab driver’s eyes in the mirror.
She felt ashamed. Unhappy and self-pitying, with a desire to hide somewhere away from human view or contact until the pain subsided.
“Fine.” Brandon’s voice was stiff. “I’ll go.” He climbed out of the cab and closed the door, then leaned through the window closest to the driver’s side.
“Bridgewater and Fifth,” he said, pulling out his wallet and handing the driver a bill. “Keep the change.” He glanced once towards Eleanor, then retreated from sight, disappearing in the direction of Norlend’s lobby doors again.
Now she was alone. The tissue in her hand was no good any longer; she needed a handkerchief, she realized. The cab was rolling forwards as she leaned back against the seat, letting the sobs in her chest stifle without emerging. To her vision, the night streets passed by in an unrecognizable haze through the window glass as she rested her face against the door. Trying very hard to forget the fantasy that it would be her dancing with Edward tonight.
Ask Eleanor (Special Edition With Alternate Ending) Page 19
