His eyes drift over my left shoulder as he tries to put the pieces together. “You were upset about the proposal and got drunk.”
“I was upset about the ultimatum, but that’s only part of it.” I nudge his cup toward him. “Drink your coffee, it’s getting cold.”
Ignoring me, he stares into space, continuing to calculate. Eventually it starts to add up. “Was the launch party for a new project you’re taking?”
I nod, slumping in my chair.
“And it’s out of town?” he asks.
“Ottawa,” I say. “Reuben stuck me with the post office project.”
“Partners don’t lead projects.” Noah pauses. “Ah. He broke his promise.”
I nod again. “Baxter told Reuben we were getting married and he mommy-tracked me.”
“Asshole,” Noah says. “After all you’ve done.”
My hopes rise. Maybe sympathy will win out. “It’s never enough.” I give Noah’s coffee cup another nudge. “Drink.”
“You’re taking Ottawa?”
“I fought hard, but it’s an important client and Reuben only trusts me.” Noah starts to speak and I interrupt. “I know that sounds absurd, when he doesn’t trust me enough to make me partner.
“Walk away,” Noah says.
“Walk away? After 13 years?”
“You’d get another job in a second.”
“It’s probably no better anywhere else in my line of work. Anyway, it’s only Ottawa, Noah. I’ll be home every weekend.”
“I don’t want a weekend girlfriend. I want a wife. I want a family.”
“I’ll come home mid-week, too. I can swing that.”
“And that’s when we’d have the baby? Mid-week?”
“We’ll start as soon as the project is done.”
It’s the match that lights the bomb. “That’s your answer for everything: when the project is done, when the project is done. But nothing ever changes. You know what? If you can’t make us a priority now, you never will. So forget it.”
I push the coffee toward him one more time. “Forget what?”
He pushes the coffee back. “Forget me. Forget us. I can’t do this anymore.”
“Calm down,” I say. “Drink your coffee and let’s discuss this rationally.”
“Discuss it with your new guy. You’ll have plenty of time together in Ottawa.”
“That’s not fair. You can’t really believe anything’s going on.”
Shoving the chair back with a scraping noise, he stands. “Ellie, it’s over.”
“Noah, no.” I stand, too, and my plastic chair tips over with a clatter. “I love you. Let me figure this out. Please? I can fix it.”
The cafeteria staff are staring and I don’t even care.
He turns to walk away and I catch his sleeve. “I’m done,” he says, jerking his arm away.
“You’re really breaking up with me?” My voice is breaking now. “But it’s Valentine’s Day.”
“You’ve never been romantic. It’s just another Tuesday, right?”
I follow him into the foyer, still pleading. “You can’t throw away six years just like that.”
He turns at the bank of glass doors and shakes off my hand. “I didn’t, you did. And I hope you and NTA will be very happy together.”
I press my forehead against the cool marble wall of the restroom stall, one hand on either side. At least I’m standing. I spent the past 20 minutes kneeling beside the throne, waiting to throw up. But when someone noticed me under the door and threatened to call for help, I managed to get to my feet and assure her I’m fine.
Eventually, I settle on the toilet and reach into my pocket for my phone. My hand hits the vial of Wonder Glass, and I consider taking a swig myself, simply to forget what just happened. But that won’t make it un-happen. And no matter what, I don’t want to forget Noah.
Still, I’d rewind our relationship about 18 months, if I could, to the point where the first sign of trouble appeared.
It was a sticky summer night, and Noah and I went out for a walk after dinner. He wanted to stop for ice cream and I resisted. I’d budgeted exactly 45 minutes for the walk. Stopping would have set me back 20 minutes, and I needed that 20 minutes for a romantic interlude with Noah before getting back to work. Not because I was feeling particularly amorous, but because I felt guilty that I hadn’t been investing much energy into our relationship. One thing led to another, and when Noah realized I’d slotted him into a 20 minute “appointment,” he flipped. He accused me of being profoundly uptight and I accused him of being profoundly insensitive.
I felt like he didn’t recognize the effort I was making to balance a very demanding job and our relationship. Later, I tried harder than ever to spend what little time we had together on activities he valued, but it seemed like it was never enough. He didn’t complain much, but for someone with my personality, getting a failing grade in anything is hugely stressful. Still, I never stopped loving Noah, or hoping our relationship would take off again. Only today has it hit me that we may be permanently grounded.
I dial the number for Jiffi Auto Glass by memory, and Vera picks up instantly. “Hi hon. I guess it’s not going so good over there.”
“How’d you know?”
“Jimmy’s having a helluva time with your windshield. It looked good for a couple of hours. Then a new crack showed up—a deep one.”
I start to cry. “My boyfriend. My fiancé. He just broke up with me. The photo I mentioned? He saw it before it was pulled back.”
“You doused him with Wonder Glass?”
I wipe the tears away with the sleeve of the coat I’m still wearing. “He wouldn’t drink it. And now he’s gone.”
“Oh, Ellie, I’m sorry,” she says. “We really needed to get on this one early.”
“I know. I messed up.” I’m sobbing openly now. “Is there any hope? He’s the love of my life.”
“The formula’s good for 12 hours, 13 at most. If this guy really is the love of your life, you’d better follow him and force the stuff down his throat if you have to.”
I stand up and unlock the restroom stall. “Okay, I’ll go after him.”
“Don’t get sidetracked,” she says. “And whatever you do, don’t use the serum where you don’t need it.”
“Can’t you make more?”
“One batch per problem, hon. Make this one count.”
Sherri flags me as I creep out of my office with my purse.
“Reuben’s looking for you,” she whispers.
I mouth “thanks,” and hurry toward the exit.
Not fast enough.
“Hudson. In my office. Stat.”
Freezing in my tracks, I say, “Gotta run, Reuben. Talk tomorrow?”
“Oh, right, it’s Valentine’s Day, and someone else is calling the shots now.”
I turn and walk back, stopping right in front of him. I don’t say anything but there must be a wild glint in my eye, because Reuben takes a step backwards. Then I walk around him and into his office.
“We can talk tomorrow, Hudson,” Reuben says. “You’re right.”
I drop my purse on the floor and collapse into his guest chair with a thud. “No, let’s talk now.” This conversation isn’t going to end well and I’d rather get it over with, even if it costs me a few minutes.
Reuben hesitates in the doorway, but I stare straight ahead at his chair, until he circles the desk and lowers himself into it, watching me warily.
“What’s on your mind?” I ask, my voice eerily calm.
Regaining his composure, Reuben gestures to his laptop. “The photo. Of you and that kid.”
Somehow Reuben managed to get through the day without a sip of water or a treat from Starbucks. Normally, he’s as bad as the juniors when it comes to free snacks.
“The kid was drunk and he kissed me,” I say. “That’s it. You know crazy things happen at launch parties sometimes.”
Reuben’s had at two affairs that I know of with young consu
ltants. The most recent started at a launch party for the Australia project. He actually took that horrendously long flight four times to hook up with her. And when the project was over, and we were all under one roof again, he dumped her—but only after promoting her to another division. She’s leading a project in Utah now.
NTA doesn’t object to employees dating among the rank and file. On the contrary, it’s tacitly encouraged, perhaps because inbreeding among followers is the strength of any cult. However, there’s one type of relationship the company doesn’t encourage, and that’s between boss and subordinate. It still happens, but it’s kept on the down low.
“This guy’s a direct report,” he says.
“He made a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
“True, because we’re sending him to Calgary. Poor guy can’t even remember it happened. And that’s before EC got to him.” Reuben chuckles. “It’s for the best, considering you’re engaged.”
“Actually, Noah dumped me. Because of the Ottawa gig.”
Reuben leans back in his chair. “I don’t believe you.”
“Have you ever known me to lie to you? For you, yes. To you, no.” I pause before adding, “I even lied to your wife about the girl in Australia.”
Reuben’s florid face blooms. “Let’s not bring up ancient history. Anyway, that girl reported to you, not me. This Dylan kid was your direct report and it showed poor judgment. I’m surprised at you, Hudson.”
Looking down, I find my hands clenched into fists. What he’s saying is that my credibility is shot. I will never win back enough support to be named partner, no matter how well I do my job.
I briefly consider trying to dose Reuben with Wonder Glass, but decide against it. If he’s told EC and the other partners, the spider web is simply too big for the amount of serum I have left. Besides, I need those drops for Noah.
It’s suddenly become as clear as glass what my priorities are, and NTA is no longer on the list.
Reaching for my purse, I get to my feet so that I can look down at him. “Reuben, I quit.”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t quit.”
“I’ll write the letter in the morning. I’m in a hurry, now.”
Warning lights start flashing in his eyes: we’re losing one!
“Sit,” he says, picking up the phone and pressing a few numbers. EC, no doubt. He knows the deprogramming sequence has begun. “You’ve been working flat out for ages and the stress is getting to you. What you need is a break. An easier project.”
In short, a demotion. “Don’t bother with EC,” I say. “I’m of sound mind and body and I quit the cult. I’ll get my things and go.”
Reuben drops the phone and tries a different tack. “Look, is everything okay? I’ve barely known you to take a misstep in all the years you’ve worked for me. I’m worried about you.”
Unstable: Not stable; easily upset; unreliable; emotionally unsettled.
I glance at the door and see Baxter hovering just outside, while Sherri tries to herd him away. I’ll give him something worth the trouble of eavesdropping.
“Hey Reuben, do you know what people call NTA? No Tits Allowed Consulting.”
Reuben gasps, although it can’t be the first time he’s heard it. “Hudson, there really is something wrong with you.”
“I’m just commenting on the double standard that allows you to paw at women and make sexist jokes, and deny me partnership because I might want the kind of life-balance you have. My opportunities are limited here. It’s constructive dismissal.”
Beads of sweat form on his forehead. He may be smooth with clients, but he doesn’t have a clue how to handle this discussion. “Obviously your birthday set you off,” he says. “It must be a mid-life crisis. Can’t you just buy yourself a sports car, like I did?”
“Expect a call from my lawyer,” I say. Reaching for a notepad and pen, I write: “I, Ellis Hudson, hereby resign from NTA Consulting.”
I sign and date the page, tear it off and slide it across his desk.
Back in my office, I throw my things into a cardboard box. It’s wasting precious minutes, but I don’t want to come back, ever. After taping the box shut, I write TRASH on the side with a marker. Then I spray the desk with cleanser and wipe it down, trying to erase every sign of my existence.
Finally, I grab the only two things that have meaning anymore—the silver model planes—and slip them into my pocket, alongside the Wonder Glass.
On my way out, I stop in Backstabber’s doorway. “Goodbye and good luck,” I say.
“What happened?” he asks, still oblivious to the damage he caused. I stare at his perfect tie, and remind myself he’s at just as much of a disadvantage as me. The only difference is his complete lack of integrity.
“Change companies, Baxter,” I say. “You’re good at your job, and you’re losing your way from fighting against the current.”
He looks at me as if I’m crazy, and says, “I’m not leaving.”
“Then pack up your wooly neckties, because Ottawa’s cold this time of year.”
The gentle swirl of snowflakes that began around noon has turned into a massive, traffic-stalling blizzard. Darkness has fallen, and aside from snow-covered hats and mittens, it’s like all the color has gone out of the world.
I call Noah as I walk to the subway and get his voicemail. “Hey, it’s me,” I say. “Remember the flowers in Fiji—the purple beach morning glories, the red hibiscus, and the yellow orchids? I just want to say that without you, my life is black and white, and shades of gray. I really hope you’ll give me another chance. Just leaving the office now, so please let me know where to find you.”
I follow that up with a shorter, less corny text message, before trying to head down the stairs to the subway. The crowd surging back up the stairs warns me that the subway is out of order, and a long delay predicted.
Standing on the sidewalk, I compete with the other commuters to flag down the few cabs skidding along two deep ruts in the middle of this normally busy street. After several futile attempts, I give up and start walking. It’s after 5, now, and I have to reach Noah with the Wonder Glass before it loses its power. To complicate matters, I have no idea if he’s at home, the office, or drinking away his sorrows in a bar. I just have to keep moving and hope that he’ll eventually let me know where to find him.
I slip and fall for the first time at Bay and Wellington. It’s amazing I made it this far, because the pumps I’m wearing have no treads and the snow is over my ankles. I didn’t check the weather report this morning, and expected to have the car back by now anyway.
Clambering to my feet, I trudge a few yards before stopping to text my brothers with icy fingers: “Help! Find Noah now.”
I make it a full block before the next tumble. This time, I stay down for a couple of minutes, refusing help from passersby. Flat on my back, I stare up at snow so thick you can’t see past the second floor of the skyscrapers.
It’s tempting to just lie here until the snow covers me. There’s no reason to get up. I’ve lost my boyfriend, my career, and my integrity. What’s the point in plodding on?
The buzz in my purse stirs me to life. I struggle to get up, my thrashing arms creating an involuntary snow angel on the sidewalk. Finally I roll over on my side and manage to hoist myself to my feet. My shoes and legs are soaked, my tights have a hole in the knee and there’s mud tracking up my black coat from the spray of slush at the curb. I’ve lost my hat and one glove.
I dig out my phone and see the text is from Scott: “We’re on it, Number 1.”
Glancing around to get my bearings, I notice something surprising. Every restaurant, café and bistro is lit up and crowded. It takes me a second to remember it’s Valentine’s Day. Heavy snow hasn’t prevented couples from coming out in droves. In fact, the fun’s started early.
I keep walking till I get to Cecile’s, an intimate bistro Noah and I have visited often. There are strings of lights around the front window and red paper h
earts laced together with pink streamers. Every table is occupied by happy couples, clasping hands and gazing at each other over tea candles. As I watch, a man plucks an oyster from its shell with a fork and feeds it to his giggling girlfriend. At the next table, a woman is running her bare foot up her date’s leg, something only I can see. Meanwhile, to her right, a man reaches across the table to cradle the chin of a pretty blond woman.
There’s a pause and then the blond knocks his hand away. Words I can’t hear stream out of her mouth, and she waves her finger accusingly at the man. He tries to catch her hand and she pulls it out of reach. Then she gets to her feet and charges toward the door. People at other tables glance up briefly, only to go back to their courting just as fast.
The door to Cecile’s bangs open, ringing a bell. The blonde skitters across the snow in black stilettos and stops, trying to figure out what to do next. The snow falls on her bare shoulders, and speckles her dress until it soaks into the deep red velvet.
Her boyfriend comes after her, carrying her coat and purse. “Tori, wait!”
“Stay away from me, Gavin,” Tori says. “I hate you.”
She starts to cry, covering her face with red lacquered nails.
Gavin tries to ease her coat over her shoulders and she moves away. This time she almost slips and he holds her steady. “Baby, I don’t know why you’re so upset,” he says. “It’s just six months.”
“Just six months, just six months,” she repeats. “That’s what you say every time. My life is getting chipped away six months at a time.”
“I’ll come home every weekend.”
She drops her hands to glare at him. “From London.”
“Well, as often as I can.”
“Thanks so much. Well, I’ll either be here as often as I can, or I won’t.”
“Tori...” he’s using the placating tone I’ve used so often on Noah. “It’ll be fine. You can visit me, too. We’ll check out Buckingham Palace, catch some shows. You’ve never been to the UK.”
“But you have. You’ve worked there twice already. You’ve paid your dues.”
Shatterproof Page 6
