by BJ Knapp
Chapter 25
I FINALLY LISTEN to my growling stomach. It’s been complaining for a while now, and I’ve ignored it. I put a sticky note over the bottom corner of my monitor so that I wouldn’t be focused on the time, and then I cranked on Baxter tasks. When I peel it away, I realize that it’s already two o’clock. I lean back in my chair, stretch my arms over my head, and groan a little like Vito does when he first wakes up. He’s on to something: the stretch and groan is pretty satisfying. For most of the day, Hydra and Tim have not crossed my mind, which is a good thing.
I grab my purse and keys and walk to the beach to get some air. I look over my shoulder as I leave. I don’t think I should go, seeing as how I am on the thirty-day warning. But honestly, I need to get outside for a bit. And this morning wanted to get out of the house as quickly as possible and avoid Keith, so I didn’t bother to pack a lunch.
Since I heard the song on Saturday, I’ve been steering clear of Keith. On Sunday, Vito and I spent most of the day driving around. We went to the dog park, and then to a dog-friendly beach. It was nice to have the day to myself, but I missed Tim horribly. Vito was a fun distraction; it was a blast to see him romp with the other dogs at the park. Still, Sunday dragged on as if it had no intention of ending. I never thought I’d so look forward to a Monday.
The beach is just a few blocks away from the office. The thing that’s great about this beach is that it’s not such a popular spot for tourists, which surprises me, because it’s adjacent to an idyllic New England waterfront area. The main drag, which extends along the beach front, is lined with funky little indie shops and a café that serves the best homemade croissants I’ve ever had. I could spend an entire afternoon sitting at one of the sidewalk tables and sampling every pastry in the case. Just over the rocks at the south end of the beach is a bustling dock where a fleet of fishing boats is tied up. The fish market at the docks is popular with chefs from as far away as Boston; they fill the small streets to buy the catch of the day at dawn. The food is fresh at the Red Canoe Crab Shack, and now that it’s past the lunch rush, there’s no line.
I grab an order of fried clams from the Portuguese couple who run the shack right on the beach. They taught me how to say “thank you” in Portuguese. “Obrigado!” I call through the take-out window before walking over to my favorite bench in the shade, set at the perfect angle to watch the waves crash onto the rocky sand.
I take my iPhone out of my purse and open up Facebook for a bit of distraction, sending Annie an instant message and hoping that she has a moment to chat. It’s been awhile, as I’ve been living on Planet Hydra. It’ll be nice to hear how she’s doing. She doesn’t write back right away, so I put my phone aside and dig into my fried clams platter. The Red Canoe’s fried clams are the best—I can’t quite place the spicy and sweet flavors in the breading, but it’s amazing. I close my eyes and focus on trying to guess what it is. Of course, I’ve asked about it, but the owners won’t tell me.
The Facebook messenger app on my phone chirps at me. It’s a message back from Annie.
Hey girl! What’s going on? We need to have a phone date. I met this guy at a bar in the Village.
I pick up the phone and write back.
Sorry I’ve been out of touch. So busy these days. I hate being too busy to get caught up with you.
I hear you. I feel like all you and I talk about anymore is work. How’s Tim?
Just seeing her ask about him makes me ache. How the heck am I supposed to answer that question? I don’t want to tell people. Yet at the same time I feel so alone. Annie’s my best friend. I should be able to tell her anything, right? I decide to take the chance. I’ve held this in way too long; I need to get someone else’s perspective on it.
Not so good, actually. I messed up. Bad.
What happened? Are you somewhere you can talk? It seems silly to type into a phone when I can just call you.
Yes, please.
I could definitely use a friend right now. Annie and I lived together all four years of college. We used to sit up all night, obsessing about boys, grades, and life in general. I miss having her nearby, as she’s in New York City now. Our lives are different, and it’s harder to stay connected.
My phone rings. I have no idea how to even begin. I jam a fistful of fried clams into my mouth, finish chewing, and answer on the third ring.
“Hey” I say.
“So, what’s going on? Are you okay?” Annie sounds breathless. I think she’s doing her lunchtime power walk.
“Yes,” I begin, out of habit. Then, “No, actually. Things aren’t so great right now.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s kind of a long story. Do you have time? And more importantly, can you keep a secret?” I don’t even wait for her to respond. This is my oldest friend; of course she can keep a secret. I don’t have to worry about voices carrying over chintzy thin office walls.
She listens while I violate the non-disclosure agreement. It feels good to tell someone about everything that’s going on—and besides, at this point, what could Erik do to me that hasn’t already been done? My job and my marriage are falling apart. At least I can confide in an old friend and try to get some perspective on it. I tell her the whole story about how Keith came over the day after the dinner, and then how Hydra ended up living in my house.
“What do you mean, ‘they’re living in your house’?” she asks. “Like, you’re all under the same roof? How’s that working out?”
“We have these tents in the back yard. Not like camping ones, but like ones you’d see in a movie about Bedouins living in the desert. They have a housekeeper who comes in and takes care of the cooking and the cleaning, and Jeff Gilchrist’s drum set is in the garage.” I leave out the part about Tim leaving me for the moment. At least I got the rest of it off of my chest and feel much better after having told someone.
“So, what does Tim think about all of this?” It feels like we’re back in the dorm, talking about a boy. I feel comfortably warm inside, like I’ve just had a hot bowl of soup on a cold winter day.
“Well, it’s gotten old for him, as you can imagine.” I pause, not sure how to continue. “I kissed Keith,” I say quietly.
“Wow. Um. Just, wow.” She pauses, and I can tell she’s not sure how to continue, either. “Okay, so not only is the band now living in your house, but you kissed Keith Kutter.” She gasps. “So, what was it like?”
“What?”
“Kissing Keith! What was it like? I really hope he isn’t some sloppy, drooly kisser. Is he?”
“No, definitely not sloppy or drooly.” I allow myself to reflect on the kiss for a moment and notice that I am suddenly feeling more than warm inside. “Let’s just say he knows what he’s doing.” Is it wrong to tell her that kissing a man other than my husband was amazing? Probably.
“So, when’s he coming back?”
“Keith?” I snap back from my daydream.
“No, Tim. When is he coming back?” she asks.
“Honestly, I don’t know. The band has no idea how long it’ll take to record the album, and Tim won’t come back until they’re moved out.”
“Are you serious? That could take months, I imagine.”
“I know. Annie, I am so lost. I don’t know what to do. I thought I wanted to start a family with Tim. But he is always saying it isn’t the right time. And now I am so confused. Living with the band has made me see that there is so much more to life than being married, living in the burbs, and my career.” I pause. “I feel like Tim and I will never have kids. He’s waiting for some perfect moment, and meanwhile, a million moments have passed us by. Have I wasted all these years being married to him? I feel like every year that goes by that we don’t finally decide to start our family puts a wedge between is. And the wedge, I feel, is getting thicker and thicker. I hate that I have to wait for him to make a decision that will make my life change.”
“I’m sure that sucks, Bren,” she says.
“It�
�s just hard right now. And it was hard enough with him working so much on the election. Now we have Hydra living with us, which he was so cool about because he knew it would make me happy, but I kind of wonder if he agreed to it just to shut me up about a baby. And now they won’t fucking leave, and he’s gone. I just don’t know what to do.”
“There’s only one answer, Bren. They need to go. What’s more important, Tim or Keith?” That’s the thing about Annie. She has this knack for stripping away all the bullshit of a problem and getting right to the point of it. And she’s right. “Well, I hate to cut this short, but I have to get back for a staff meeting. Are you going to be okay? Want to talk later tonight?”
“I’m okay.” I take a deep breath, like a sigh, and notice that I don’t feel that ache in my gut when I do. “I think talking about it helped. I’ve been walking around with all of this in my head, and it’s nice to just get it out.” Tears fill my eyes; I don’t want to hang up. I feel lighter inside after talking to her. Maybe I should hop a train to New York this weekend and get out of the house. I could use a girlfriend right now.
But for the moment, I have to get back to work, too. Getting things off my chest has definitely helped. I race-walk back to the office with a renewed sense of purpose. Now I need to get my job back, and next I’ll get my husband back. I just need to come up with a plan. How hard can it be to kick a squatting rock band out of my house?
Chapter 26
“OH GOOD, YOU’RE BACK,” Joy says as I walk past the reception desk. “Amanda wants everyone in the conference room. Baxter status meeting.”
I grab a fresh cup of tea, a new notepad, and a few different-colored pens before heading into the conference room. I perch myself on the edge of a seat at the end of the table, where I can have an unobstructed view of everyone. I am ready to rock this campaign and get at least part of my life back on track. Let’s do this.
Amanda is already at the head of the table, talking to several of my co-workers about the pitch she did in New York last week. I can tell by the tone of her voice that she doesn’t think it went well; she was probably distracted by the impending disaster that is Baxter.
“Amanda, you say that all the time, though,” I remind her. “You said that after you pitched Baxter, too.”
“Yeah, and look where we are now. They’re probably shopping for a new agency right now.” She sighs heavily. “Well, let’s keep that from happening, guys.” She looks at me. “What do you have for me?”
“Here are the changes I made on the media plan,” I say. “The publicity for the Factory Tour show is getting some traction. We have interviews lined up with local TV stations in every town that will have a store.”
“Nice. I like it. Great work.” She throws me a look that says, “And this is why I haven’t fired you.” I am thankful that she acknowledges my work. My confidence is boosted, and I feel as though riding the thirty-day warning will be a breeze. “But remember, they don’t need a product campaign—they’ve got to do some damage control before they go national. Their quality has declined over the last few years, and people bitch about them on Twitter. They need to improve their image, and we need to make it happen fast. We need some opinion leaders talking them up out there.”
“What if we could get Antonio Diego on board?” I ask her.
“Are you kidding me? That would be a huge win. How on earth would you do that?” Good question. Maybe I can ask Portia to put me in direct contact with him. After all, he’s going to redecorate my house—whether I like it or not.
“Okay,” I say, scratching a note on my pad, “let me see if I can get Antonio Diego. That’ll definitely help boost Baxter’s quality image.”
Amanda continues talking, but I tune her out for a bit. It occurs to me that Baxter’s image problems sound all too familiar: the perception of their product doesn’t have the allure it once had. Who else do I know that has the same problem? For the first time today, I allow my mind wander to Hydra. I try to fight it, but I feel like I am on to something. Maybe if I just allow myself to think about it for a minute or two, I’ll get it out of my system, and then I can focus on Baxter again.
Hydra’s product also doesn’t have the allure it once had either, so they’ve decided to counteract their declining popularity with this “Meet the American fans” campaign. Their publicist was looking for opinion leaders, as well: longtime fans who could vouch for the coolness of Hydra. How can I help them with that? Maybe I can work out a deal with Erik.
I feel the gears in my brain start to turn, and I zone out in the meeting. I make a few notes to myself in the margin of my notepad and will myself to stay in the present. Then I start fidgeting in my seat, because I’ve just now stumbled upon a brilliant solution to my Hydra problem. I pinch myself on the thigh to keep myself sitting upright and giving the impression that I am even remotely interested in the Baxter Corporation problem. I contribute a few meager ideas so I can keep my job, but my brain is definitely spiraling in another direction.
Once the meeting is over, I bolt from the conference room, back into my cubicle. I log into my computer and launch the campaign manager software. I check over my shoulder to make sure the coast is clear, and then I start my own brainstorming session. I draft tweets, press releases, and media alerts. If I can find a way to improve Hydra’s image in the U.S., then maybe I can bribe them into moving out of my house. After all, I already have a lot of the media contacts in the U.S. that they need.
I pull together a list of entertainment website and news magazine editors and draft an email to Annie at MTV News. Next, I come up with a media release schedule, and then I print everything out on letterhead and tuck it into a folder.
In the time it takes me to work on my new campaign, two hours of billable time goes by. I have to put it away now and swear to myself that I will focus my attention on the Baxter campaign for the rest of the day. I am back into the throes of Baxter when Joy knocks on my cubicle doorway.
“Hi, Brenda,” she says, and tosses a newspaper on my desk. “Just thought you’d want to see the Tattle Tale page.” She lingers for a bit and looks at my computer screen. Joy is notoriously nosy, and I’m relieved that I’ve already put away my work on my Hydra idea and appear to be hard at work on Baxter.
I thank her, and then thumb through the Tattle Tale, just to make sure none of our clients have embarrassing pictures in there. But mostly, I think it’s funny to see the indiscreet pictures that this rag publishes. It normally includes high-profile people getting caught in seedy-looking situations with other people who are not their spouse, and the like. I am about to set the paper down again when I see a familiar face on page six.
The picture was taken at a fundraiser last week. I squint at the picture, trying to remember where I’ve seen her lately. She looks like a teenager at the prom. Her hair is pulled back into a French twist, and she’s wearing an understated peach strapless gown with a corsage pinned above her breast. Clearly bored, she’s gazing off into the distance, not even remotely interested in whatever cause du jour she’s supporting. A clean-cut-looking college boy is on her arm and shaking hands with someone off camera—probably trying to make connections for his already-budding political career.
I let my mind wander while I doodle on the newspaper; I know that if I stop thinking so hard about where I’ve seen her, it will come to me. While I’m doodling, I end up drawing heavy eyeliner on her face and darken her lips; I do that sometimes to magazine pictures. For a while there, I was obsessed with making everyone look like Robert Smith from The Cure. But I don’t do that with her. I just give her a ballpoint makeover.
Then it dawns on me. I look at her face with the inked-in makeup and realize that I saw her the night Keith and Ben brought the hookers home. She was the young one who looked so familiar to me at the time. I start to laugh. It hadn’t occurred to me to use my public relations powers for evil when I started creating my Hydra campaign. This little revelation changes everything.
“I knew it!” I
pound my fist on the table. “Joy! Do you have another copy of the Tattle Tale?” I call out through the office.
“What did you do with the one I gave you?” she asks.
“I, um, defiled it,” I say, holding up the picture.
She hands me a clean copy, and I tuck both pictures into my folder. The butterflies in my stomach are alive and well. My mind is reeling, but I need to get back to work.
I pound away at my to-do list from the Baxter meeting until five o’clock rolls around, but my heart’s not in it at all. I cannot wait to get home. Erik has no idea what he’s in for; I can’t focus on anything else other than taking Hydra down. At the end of the day, I drop the drafts on Amanda’s desk. Thankfully, she’s not in her office, so I sneak out and make it to my car undetected, before she can ask me to do anything else. I feel like I’ll explode if I don’t get my Hydra campaign out of my brain.
When I get home, the house is empty and Tent City is a ghost town. I assume everyone is at Del’s, which is great, because I can take advantage of the quiet and formulate my plan. I take out the folder I brought home from work and arrange the contents on the dining room table. I pull out my laptop and re-write some of the work I’ve done—this time to accommodate my discovery of the photo. I print them out on some extra letterhead.
When I go into the kitchen to get a snack, I get another idea. I grab the whiteboard eraser and mutter a quiet “Fuck you... fuck you... fuck you...” with each swipe over the once-highly-debated shower schedule. Then I write my own schedule in place of the band’s daily schedule. “It’s my house now, bitches,” I say out loud to the empty room. “Nobody tells me what time to shower.” I was so screwed on that day I overslept: I couldn’t take a shower before work because I’d missed my “scheduled” time. At least I managed to wash my face and brush my teeth in between others getting their showers.
