“Hello to you, too, Ursula. I’m great, how are you?” I asked, enunciating every word as though I was speaking to a foreigner. Someone seriously needed to give the woman a lesson in proper phone etiquette.
“I’d be much better, Zoë, if you were standing in front of me right now, but… Oh, hmm. Nope. You’re not here.” Her voice was escalating in pitch and volume, and it had nothing to do with any of the noise going on around her. The woman was angry.
“Where. Are. You.”
Truly. Angry.
I took my phone away from my ear and looked at it, wondering if it would be excusable to simply snap it shut, turn it off, and change into my pajamas. Curling up on the sofa with a big bowl of oatmeal and a bad TV movie was sounding really good right now.
“Zoë,” she bellowed.
“I’m here,” I said, putting the phone back to my ear and rolling my eyes.
“Yes, but you need to be here,” she replied.
I could picture her, standing in the middle of all the busyness, the phone clenched in her right hand as she pointed one sharply manicured fingernail at the floor in front of her. And tapped the toe of one very pointy, very expensive designer shoe impatiently.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. A deep, cleansing, patience-seeking breath.
“Ursula, is he there already?” I asked, keeping my eyes closed and picturing a field full of pretty flowers.
“No, he’s not. But I don’t want him to get here before you do.”
The flowers burst into flames.
“So then what’s the big deal? Are you afraid that Gena’s going to get her hooks into him or something?” I asked jokingly.
The lack of response on the other end of the phone spoke volumes. She was not amused.
“Alright, alright,” I said through clenched teeth, reaching for the shoes I’d pulled from the closet. “I’m on my way.”
“Good. I’d hate to have to give you an unsatisfactory review this quarter,” she said in a clipped tone. And then the line went dead.
I closed my phone slowly, staring at it as though it might somehow tell me if she was kidding or not.
Better safe than sorry, I thought as I fastened the straps on my sandals.
She was fishing an olive out of her martini glass when I got there, her drink having long since been drained. One hip leaned against the bar, a stance more casual than I would have expected, given our earlier exchange.
“Well, Ursula, I’m here,” I said, sidling up next to her.
She turned to face me, all signs of ease giving way to obvious displeasure. Her eyes wandered up and down my frame, assessing my choice of attire and computing every last detail. I felt myself flushing under her critical eye, suddenly wondering what obscure rule I might have broken with anything I’d put on tonight.
After what felt like an eternity, she nodded her approval and turned her head ever-so-slightly back in the general direction of the bar to catch the bartender’s eye. She smiled coyly at him as he reached for a martini glass, never one to miss a chance to flirt.
“You look good, Zoë,” she said without taking her eyes off the bartender. I almost didn’t realize that she was talking to me, so it took me a moment to find a response.
“Oh, um, thanks. Ursula,” I said, looking around the bar and not seeing anyone that I recognized. “Where is everyone else?” I was almost whispering, despite all the noise going on around us. Honestly, I was getting a little bit worried that no one else from work was actually here, and that she might have devised the entire scheme just to trap me into meeting her cousin.
Who, it seemed, was still not here, either.
Damn. I was being stood up. By some guy I hadn’t really wanted to meet in the first place.
I wasn’t sure if that made the whole idea of rejection more or less humiliating.
She waved a hand at me dismissively and reached wordlessly for the martini being held out to her. She raised the glass almost imperceptibly at the bartender and then raised the drink to her lips, an unspoken toast acknowledged by the gleam in his eye as he turned his attention to someone else.
“They’re all in the banquet room in the back, Zoë,” she replied patiently, setting her glass down squarely in the center of the cocktail napkin on the slick, shiny mahogany bar in front of her. She smoothed out some nonexistent wrinkle from the napkin and cocked her head in my general direction. A strange smile played on her lips, and I wondered if maybe she was beginning to feel those martinis.
“Greg isn’t here yet,” she trilled, reaching up to finger the tiny diamond horseshoe that fell at the hollow of her throat. “He’s on his way, though. He got caught in traffic on his way over the bridge.” Ursula started to reach for her drink again, then stopped suddenly. “Do you like my dress?” she asked, turning so that I could get the maximum view of her.
She was wearing a little black dress with delicate satin spaghetti straps, the square neckline cut low enough to be alluring, high enough to avoid impropriety. It was simple, it was designer, and I would have laid odds on the fact that I wouldn’t have been able to afford it without dropping at least a month’s salary. And then there were the shoes. Sexy little satin straps on four-inch stiletto heels that would have paid my car loan for three months.
“You look stunning, Ursula. As always,” I said, wondering what had brought about this sudden bout of self -from someone usually so self-assured.
“You’re right. I do,” she crooned with a crooked smile, reaching again for her martini.
Yup, the alcohol was definitely going to her head.
“How many of those have you had?” I asked, nodding at her drink.
She drained the glass and set it down with a satisfied clink on the bar, missing the napkin by about a foot.
“Not enough,” Ursula replied, turning on her heel to search the faces at the bar for her bartender friend.
I laid a hand lightly on her arm, hoping it would be enough to get her attention. She whipped her head around to face me again, a look of curiosity on her perfect face. Her eyes were wide, her skin flushed, and she looked as though she might burst into a fit of giggles at any moment.
“Why don’t we go see the others,” I suggested, resting my other hand on her back so that maybe I could direct her movement toward the back room and away from the bar. And the alcohol.
“They’re probably all wondering where you are,” I continued, taking a few steps as I increased pressure on our points of contact.
She didn’t budge an inch.
Now, I may not be the world’s most practiced drinker, but when I’ve had too much to drink, I can be knocked off my feet with a feather. Ursula was drunk in four-inch stilettos and still as stable on her feet as though she was stone-cold sober and barefoot.
What the hell?
I turned back to her with a questioning look, only to find her scowling at me and shaking her head petulantly.
“No,” she protested. “They don’t give a rat’s ass where I am. They might be wondering where you are, but I don’t matter. Not anymore.” She jerked free from my grasp and crossed her arms over her chest.
Either drinking made her moody and petulant, or something had gone on before I’d arrived. Which might have been why she’d been so long in residence at the bar without someone taking issue with it.
I arched an inquisitive eyebrow at her, hoping that it would cue her to elaborate, but she seemed oblivious to the hint. She continued to stare silently at me, her mouth set firmly in a scowl.
“What do you mean, Ursula?” I asked finally, wondering if this was going to be like pulling teeth. She was normally so free with words.
She started shaking her head again, but the head-shaking was accompanied by talking.
“Not anymore,” she repeated, louder this time and still shaking her head. “They canned me,” she continued. “In the most PC of ways, of course,” she said, deepening her voice and taking on a mock-serious tone. “I don’t quite fit, now that the company is
being ‘realigned.’” Exaggerated air quotes framed the word realigned.
I was standing there, staring at her, too shocked to speak. My mouth might have been hanging open in there somewhere, too, but I’m not sure she noticed. She was busy flagging down the bartender again.
“So no, Zoë. They. Aren’t. Looking. For. Me.” She cocked her head sideways at me and plastered a huge smile on her face, her white teeth almost glowing in the dim light of the bar. “But. Greg is on his way, and then we can all get out of here and go somewhere else.”
Maybe I was missing something, but I was pretty sure I was still employed. And, therefore, most likely required to at least make a perfunctory appearance at the banquet that was going on in the back room of the restaurant. Not that I was planning to work there much longer anyway, but no one really needed to know that right now.
Especially not Ursula, especially not in her current state.
“Ursula, I think I should—” I started to say, but she held up her hand to shut me up.
“Should nothing. They’re all a bunch of morons. They waited until tonight—tonight—to tell me that they were canning my ass. Can you believe that? Let me think I was going to be getting some kind of commendation for all the hard work I’ve done for them, then pulled me aside to tell me before everyone else got here.” She raised an eyebrow. “Shitbirds thought it would keep me from being able to make a scene, I think.” She reached for the martini that had been placed in front of her and tossed it back as though it was a shot of tequila.
“That was definitely not the way to handle the situation, but I think I still have to go in there…” I didn’t finish the thought. I didn’t think it would be kind to rub salt in the wound by saying, “since I still work for them,” but I knew she knew I was thinking it. Ursula popped her olive in her mouth and flashed a wide smile at me.
“I know, I know. I almost feel sorry for you, Zoë. You’re stuck working for those conniving little—Greg! Hi, honey!” she squealed, waving her arms in the air like she was flagging down a cab. I turned around to see whose attention she was so desperately trying to catch and came face to face with a very handsome, very tall man in an expensively cut suit.
Greg, I presumed.
He looked to be about 6’4” and somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty-five. His hair was the color of honey, cut a little on the longish side and slightly tousled. He smiled broadly at Ursula, revealing perfect teeth and dimples that would melt most women faster than a stick of butter over an open flame.
“Hello, ladies,” he said, shifting his emerald green gaze to me. “You must be Zoë.” His voice was a deep baritone, rich and smooth. If voices were food, his would have been dark chocolate.
“Greg, I’m so glad you made it,” Ursula gushed, reaching past me to grasp his hand and pull him in for a double-cheek air-kiss.
“I do apologize for the delay,” he replied, straightening back up to his full height and flashing both of us another high-wattage smile. He was a walking toothpaste ad and very well-cultured.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Greg. I’ve heard a lot about you from Ursula,” I managed, more than slightly flustered. It was a lie, of course, since the only details I’d gotten were that he was single and quite the catch. Why he would need to be set up by his cousin was completely beyond me. He could have had any woman in the room just by snapping his fingers.
“Hopefully nothing too unflattering,” he returned, the smile never wavering from his lips.
The man was too perfect. There was no way in hell this was going to be more than just one of those meetings that ends with a pleasant, “nice to meet you, we should really get together sometime,” and sometime never materializes. I may have been out of the dating scene for quite a long time, but even I still recognized that one.
“Gregory,” Ursula sighed, having coerced every last drop from her glass. “Let’s get out of here. This place is wearing on me.”
Greg shot me a confused look.
I chewed my lower lip and gave him a slight shrug in response. I didn’t want to be the one to spill information, especially since I’d only just met the man. I had no idea how close the two of them were; and it was Ursula’s news, not mine.
The mystery was short-lived.
“I’ve been given the boot,” Ursula whooped, clapping her hands together loudly. “Right here, tonight, before the banquet that is now in progress. All those fatuous idiots back there who wouldn’t even know their own names if they weren’t on the letterhead. They want to get rid of me, then fine. Fine,” her voice rose, and she threw her hands up. “They’re shooting themselves in the foot. Feet. Whatever.” She waved the air in front of her face, her smile going lopsided and her eyes looking a little on the droopy side.
I gave Greg a sideways glance, hoping he was taking note of the very obvious fact that his cousin was very drunk and needed very much to go home. He was watching her with what seemed to be more amusement than concern, but he put a hand gently on her back and made soft shushing noises with his mouth.
“Ursula, sweetie, why don’t I take you home?” he murmured.
“Home?” she roared. “Home? Why would I want to go home? It’s still so early! And you’ve only just gotten here! And we have so very, very much to talk about,” she smirked, swirling her hands in a circle to include me in the we. “Home is boring.”
Greg and I looked at each other. I raised an eyebrow at him, and he nodded in agreement.
“We can talk about it all some other time, when we’re all feeling a little bit better,” Greg replied, applying a little more pressure and reaching into his pants pocket to pull out his car keys. “Right now, I think it would be wise of us to go home and get some rest.” He smiled charmingly at his cousin, but the firmness in his voice left no room for argument.
I pursed my lips and waited for Ursula to respond. She was argumentative on a good day; I could only imagine how she would be under the influence of all those martinis. How many had she had? I wondered idly as I stared at her.
She pouted, pushing her lower lip out far enough to do a swan dive off of.
Greg nodded at her and dangled the keys. “Home,” he said resolutely.
Apparently, an un-tallied amount of alcohol had a somewhat mellowing effect on Ursula’s argumentative skills. She gathered her clutch from the bar and turned on her heel without comment, breezing toward the door and leaving Greg and me to stare after her in mystification. The woman was impossible to figure out.
He smiled apologetically and reached into his breast pocket to pull out a business card. “I’m sorry the evening was cut short,” he said, breaking his gaze to look down at the card in his hand. “But maybe we—and by we, I mean the two of us—could try and get together sometime.” He took my hand and slipped the card into it, giving me a confident smile and then turning to follow after his cousin.
I watched as he caught up to Ursula and slid an arm around her waist, ensuring that she would have no chance of straying back to the bar. I smiled slightly to myself as the door to the restaurant closed behind them, content in the knowledge that I would most likely never put Greg’s card to use, yet happily wrapped in the glow of being given the option.
It’s strange, sometimes, the satisfaction and invaluable reassurance that a stranger can give you.
Chapter 14
“Hi, honey, I’m home,” I sang out into the darkened house three hours later.
Three very long hours later.
I’d done the dutiful team player thing and gone back to the banquet to make what I’d planned to be a cameo appearance. Just a quick, Hi, I’m here, look at me long enough to register my presence and let me get on with my life. Things didn’t exactly work out the way I’d hoped, though. Not that the first half of the evening had really gone according to plan.
After silently slipping through the French doors to the banquet room in hopes that I was being oh-so-stealthy and that no one would really question where I had been all evening, I found myse
lf somehow chained to the CEO’s wife. Apparently, she was making it her mission in life to see that I was happily matched with someone who would make me forget Paul. Because, after all, the “best way to get over someone is to fall in love with someone else.” Or something to that effect—maybe a little less PG-rated. I had to remind myself that this sage advice was coming from a woman who was currently working through weekly marriage counseling sessions with husband number four.
I wasn’t quite sure if it registered with her that Paul had died as opposed to leaving me voluntarily, or vice versa; but she seemed to lump all of them in the same category. I also wasn’t sure of how to extract myself from her benevolence, which was why I spent the next three hours being dragged from pillar to post and introduced to every breathing man in the room without a wedding band. And on some occasions, to men whose marriages were supposedly “on the skids.” Not that she was one to gossip, but…
I bent down to unbuckle the straps of my shoes and stepped happily down onto the plush carpet, wiggling my toes over the pile. Cute shoes invariably come with a high price, and these were starting to give me blisters on the little toes of both feet.
“Can you rub my feet?” I grumbled, trudging over to the couch. “They’re absolutely killing me.” I flopped down, not bothering to turn on any lights. It somehow made the illusion more believable, speaking my absurdities out into the dark. Talking to someone who wasn’t there. I smiled sadly in the grayness of the room and closed my eyes.
“What am I doing?” I asked the emptiness.
It seemed like a reasonable question to ask.
What was I doing?
I was living in the house of a man I’d never met, writing him letters as though we were long-lost friends. Oh, and then there was the fact that I was talking to the walls. Even to me, the whole thing sounded insane, and I was the one doing all of it.
So was I going crazy?
I needed a second opinion on that, probably.
Unfortunately, though, the late hour meant I would have to wait for that second opinion. Tomorrow, I decided, I was going to pay Ray and Kate a visit, since they’d be back by then. And maybe then I would have answers to all sorts of questions that had been swirling around in my head unanswered for the past few months.
Coming Home to You Page 11
