by Sally Koslow
Jake was speaking to Basil Worthington, one-on-one, my coat slung over his arm. The other board members had disappeared.
“Feeling better?” Mr. Worthington asked.
“Much,” I answered. I knew I was blushing. “We went out for Indian food before the meeting.”
“You get on home now,” he said to Jake. “The little lady needs some rest.” Again the twinkle.
Riding down in the elevator, Jake asked if I was okay, and nothing more. As we walked across the grand lobby, I took a good look at the rug. “Horton’s right. Hideous.”
“Just as well,” Jake said. “I wouldn’t get too attached to anything here.”
We walked a few more steps. “That bad, huh?”
“My date wouldn’t stop jabbering,” he said, “though I kept signaling for her to zip it.”
We should have worked out hand signals. “I bungled it, didn’t I?”
“Barfing makes a certain statement.”
“What went on when I was in the bathroom?”
“A line of questions about how we’d found the apartment listing. The implication seemed to be that someone had given us a sweetheart deal.”
“Which one brought that up?”
“The bitch,” Jake said as I followed him through the revolving door that led to the street.
“Quincy!” someone squawked, bumping me as I put one foot on the sidewalk. “How’d the meeting go?” Jules stood inches away, her large chest practically pressing against mine. I stared at her incredulously and, I suppose, stupidly. “This woman, Jennifer, who lives next to Arthur is on the committee,” she volunteered.
Something told me Jennifer wasn’t the woman with the crochet hook, a weapon that wouldn’t have been safe with me. A taxi pulled up to the building to dislodge its passengers. I yanked Jake’s hand.
“Gotta go,” I said, catapulting myself into the cab, followed by Jake. Neither of us spoke.
A few blocks away from our apartment, Horton called. “If you’re answering this call, I assume the conquering heroes can talk. Tell me everything.”
“On a scale of one to ten, I give it a two.” In my analysis, vomit didn’t make the cut.
“I assume you at least followed my directions.”
We Minnesotans have a hard time telling a lie. “I did dress well.”
He whistled. “Don’t worry. I’ve had clients turned down when they were positive everything went hunky-dory but also the reverse. That building is known for its stick-up-its-ass board, but it’s inscrutable. They could swing either way. Sometimes they vote right after the meeting. Do you think the committee hung around when you left?”
“Definitely not.” I felt even guiltier. If I hadn’t been holed up in the bathroom, maybe the board would have voted and we’d be delivered from our misery.
“It could be tomorrow—or two months from now. With these decisions, the only rule is there is no rule.”
CHAPTER 21
Talia
I walked to the second floor of a cast-iron building that 120 years ago might have been a sweatshop and pushed open the door for Bespoke Communications. The ceiling soared for thirty feet, but the waiting area was cramped, furnished with a couch draped in a fuzzy white throw, a cowhide rug, and mismatched wooden chairs not unlike those I’d found discarded on the curb and claimed for my dining room. Depending on your point of view, the ad agency’s aesthetic was shabby or chic.
Opinions might be mixed as well about the receptionist’s appearance, but for one day of my life I’d have loved to know what it was like to have this woman’s hair—platinum blond, razor-blade straight, cut in zigzags and spikes. A tight black sleeveless T-shirt showcased a Bugs Bunny tattoo on her slim but well-sculpted biceps. Her spindly heels were at least four inches tall. Next to her, I felt like Marie Osmond.
“I’m here to see Jonas Winters,” I said. “Talia Fisher-Wells.”
“It’s Winters Jonas,” she said in the accent of Liverpool.
“Of course,” I answered, positive the headhunter had reversed the guy’s name as I had.
“If you could fill out these forms?” She handed me a clipboard with a sheaf printed in an elegant, hard-to-read typeface. The paper was creamy and thick. Only question number three threw me: How did you hear about the position? I was tempted to says, I snatched it from a friend, but now that I look around, this doesn’t seem like her kind of place, so I’m feeling 10 percent less guilty.
A few more minutes passed, which gave me time to ruminate, rarely a good thing. I hadn’t been on a job interview in years and wasn’t at all sure if I could project even a drizzle of confidence. And I was itching to see if my lip gloss needed repair, but didn’t want to primp in front of the blonde. Instead, I decided to text Tom to say I’d arrived safely, a subliminal apology for cutting out early from Abigail’s birthday celebration. Tom didn’t answer, so I texted both Quincy and Jules. I’d been lost in self-absorption and hadn’t spoken to either of them for a week, maybe two. As I was reading Jules’ response—Crazy busy, miss you more—the receptionist looked up from under her shaggy fringe and announced, “Mr. Jonas will see you now.” She returned to her newspaper, and added, “In the corner down the hall.”
I gathered my portfolio and found his office, three times as large as the reception area. “Winters Jonas,” said a man who stood behind an ebony desk almost as bare as his egg-shaped shaved head. His accent was old-time Brooklyn. He, too, wore all black—a tieless shirt, jeans, and boots—though his eyes were the dark blue of my father’s prayer book.
“Talia Fisher-Wells, good to meet you. Very impressive submission.” He shook my hand. On a table behind his desk I spied the spiral-bound project I’d been asked to complete. It rested on the top of a stack of what I assumed were other candidates’ pitches, one in a hot pink box tied with a silk cord, a flourish I admired.
Jonas’ voice was friendly, which I appreciated, along with the fact that we weren’t wasting time on chitchat. “Thanks,” I said. “I enjoyed writing it.” This was almost true. If I weren’t under enormous time pressure, I’d like crafting campaigns for $3,000 ostrich messenger bags, long-wearing mineral eye shadow in seven shimmering shades, and porcelain dishware with fourteen-karat ducklings, ideal for trust fund toddlers—far more inspiring than my usual stain remover, cream cheese, and frozen diet dinners, even if they were packed with 23 grams of protein and rainbow-hued crisp but tender vegetables.
“Tell me, Talia,” he said, rolling my name around in his mouth as if it were a sucking candy, “what is it you love about writing ad copy?”
Besides being easy? Could I honestly say I was proud to use whatever talent had been given me to convince people to buy things they didn’t need? What a waste of ability, for which I never felt I should take more credit than for being five foot seven and left-handed. I realized the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob was in my head, rehearsing a sermon, and I tried to chase Him away.
“I love the challenge.” I aimed to sound determined yet relaxed as I repeated words I’d rehearsed. “Creating ads requires a deft use of language and psychology. I try to figure out how to leverage both to persuade people. It’s like Scrabble: having a decent vocabulary only matters a little. The winners are players who strategize, and that’s what I do well.” I thought I sounded coherent. Maybe I was in my element after all.
Winters Jonas had shifted positions, and a wide slice of afternoon sun made his chiseled features look almost handsome if you discounted the glints off his bald dome. He was peering at me, and I decided his eyes had brightened. They looked more like the Aegean lapping next to a Greek island. When I walked into the office it hadn’t occurred to me that he was even remotely attractive. I was beginning to change my mind. He seemed to be emanating power, the capital-P pheromone.
“Thinking of ads is like being at a fantasy camp for my brain,” I decided to add.
“Interesting,” he said. “Could you describe your management style?” As he spoke, he fondled a large shell,
his desk’s only adornment. Had he found it when he scuba-dived in some exotic locale? I pictured him wearing a black wet suit. I had always wanted to try scuba diving, but Tom’s idea of a beach vacation involved rickety old rowboats and worms.
This time I answered even more quickly. “I like to roll up my sleeves and lead by example.” I felt satisfied with the response, but the man behind the desk seemed to expect more. “And I always keep an open door. If someone has a problem, I listen, and I know which buttons to push to motivate my staff.”
I said this though I had no right to consider myself a manager, least of all one with a style. I’d managed a move to New York, a pregnancy, and a meager bank account, but never an employee, discounting an intern. Yet my interviewer grinned, as if to say, Yes, the answer to the question was B, and you nailed it. His teeth were straight and unusually white, and his smile created crinkles around those blue, blue eyes. My bosses had all been women or males with C-minus looks. Would it be distracting to work for a good-looking guy or simply a terrific perk, like free cappuccino?
“Talia,” Winters said—we were on a first-name basis now—“there would be travel with this job. When we pitch business or meet with clients, we often do it on their turf. Is this a problem?”
Flying to Europe on someone else’s euro, staying at an exquisite hotel with no child panting for apple juice at five-thirty in the morning, sipping a glass of vino when we took a break? I answered him with what I hoped was my own dazzling smile.
“My schedule is extremely flexible,” I said, although it wasn’t. Tom knew I was going on a job interview, but we had never discussed business trips, which weren’t required where I currently worked, not counting the occasional jaunt to a suburban industrial park. Having me gone for days at a time would not be easy without a nanny as backup. It occurred to me that with Jamyang on the payroll this position made far more sense for Chloe, and after she met Winters, she might be able to get over the foyer’s décor and the receptionist’s wardrobe. I tried to concentrate on the conversation, but the guilt I’d eradicated had returned in full force.
A black dog bounded in and ran to Winters’ side. I watched him pet the animal’s sleek fur. No wedding ring. “Meet Axel,” he said. “You do like dogs, don’t you?”
“He looks like my Pontoon. Any border collie in him?”
“Haven’t a clue,” he said. “He’s a rescue dog.”
Not only was Winters an ace ad man with a droll downtown office and high-end clients, he was a humanitarian. “I adore dogs,” I said, immediately regretting my toady enthusiasm.
He smiled again. “Talia, do you have any questions?”
Are you married? Straight? And why do I care? “How quickly are you moving on this position?”
“Assuming we land an account we’re very close to getting, I’ll move fast. I’ve narrowed our search to you and two others.” I wondered which of the pitches I’d noticed hadn’t made the cut. I hoped it was the pink one. “What’s your availability?”
Married! Taken! Monogamous! “I’d like to give three weeks’ notice.”
“Fair enough. What compensation are you looking for?”
The forms I’d been asked to complete had a space for my current salary, which I’d left blank. I’d hoped he’d name a figure first, but two could play this game. “Something in line with my ability.”
“Okay, then. What are you earning now?”
Cornered, I doubled my salary to make it full-time, inflated it by 30 percent, and quoted a number. He shook his head. Bad shake or good shake, I couldn’t tell. “Aha” was all he said, getting up.
“May I show you my portfolio?” I asked, not that it was my strongest selling point. I could hear my own hesitation.
“Of course.” He opened it with his strong hands and flipped through it slowly, questioning me on every spread. After a good ten minutes he looked up and smiled.
The interview, I realized, was over. When I’d had a chance, should I have volunteered how much I’d like going on sales calls, bragged about what an asset I’d be? Too late now, Talia Rose Fisher. Mrs. Fisher-Wells. “Thank you for your time,” I said.
“A pleasure,” Winters Jonas said. “You have a lot of energy.”
Did I come off like the kind of woman who can’t stop dancing in the aisles at a rock concert?
We shook hands. “We’ll be in touch,” he said. He smiled and turned toward a sleek laptop on the shelf behind him. That’s when I remembered one of Jules’ Rules: Always ask for the business.
“I’d like this job. I think I’d be an asset to Bespoke Communications.”
“Really?” he said, regarding me with amusement.
“If you don’t hire me, you’ll have made a grave error,” I added, standing tall, seeing myself with blond, straight hair, sitting in first class, jetting to Barcelona and Berlin, cities I’d yet to visit.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Talia,” Winters Jonas said, chuckling.
I walked out the door, down the dim hall, past Blondie. When I reached the sidewalk, a circle of people had gathered two abreast. I got closer and saw the attraction, a man wearing a cross and a broad black hat, shuckling like a rabbi while he read from the Talmud.
“Is he a Bob Dylan impersonator?” the woman beside me asked.
“A Jew for Jesus,” her boyfriend responded.
I walked away as fast as I could and didn’t look back. Mean Maxine and I knew the evil eye when it showed up on Broadway and Prince.
CHAPTER 22
Jules
In that lobby, could Quincy have ditched me any faster? I didn’t get a good long look at her, except to notice she was wearing the same raincoat she’d had when we were roommates. I’d have loved to see if someone pregnant with three babies was triple my size. I might have liked to have a real chat, though even under ideal circumstances I’d never ask her opinion about what the fuck I should do next in my life, and not only because, officially, I’m not supposed to know she’s pregnant. Neither Talia nor Chloe had mentioned Quincy’s delicate condition, so either the little mama hadn’t told them yet or—ouch!—those two biddies had been sworn not to talk about the blessed event to the likes of me, the woman robbing Quincy’s triplets of a home.
“Good evening, Miss de Marco. Can we help you?”
Oh, that you could. “I’m fine, Esteban, but thanks,” I said. All the doormen had learned my name. It’s highly civilized to be greeted whenever I enter this lobby, but as I walked across a rug so plug-ugly it would go begging on Craigslist, it occurred to me that the snoots here must think simply that because this was their address, they had style. I’d have bet my ass that was the crew that had picked the rug. I wondered how many owners are like Arthur, who bought here when the neighborhood was a gulag.
As I got off the elevator, I heard the howling. That meant one thing: Arthur had been paid a visit by his neighbor. Her horselaugh rang through the hall.
Jennifer is one of those women aroused by competition. Until I erupted on the scene, I doubt she’d have grunted hello to my Artie when they bumped into each other tossing garbage down the chute. Now, with me across the hall several nights a week, she pops up like spam. I’ve suggested that he install a firewall—shouting “I have a girlfriend” would be a start—but he loves the pig-in-shit attention.
Turning my key in the lock, I could hear her say, “The wife got so rattled she had to make a bathroom run.” When I walked through the door, tears were running down Jennifer’s cheeks, streaking gullies in her makeup. Should I hand her a rag? Offer to hose her down?
“Holy crap!” Arthur said, apparently unaware of my presence. “What else went on?” He poured wine into his guest’s half-empty glass. It was from a bottle I’d brought two days ago.
“The woman could not stop talking. Diarrhea of the mouth and—whatever!” Jennifer whooped again and took a big swallow, which brought on a coughing spell.
“Hello!” I shouted as I put down a bouquet of yellow roses and a bag containing H
ostess Twinkies and bacon. I’d been craving both, along with the obscenely expensive red beet sorbet at Rosa Mexicano. I hoped Sheila had been correct when she announced there was a baby inside me, because I’d already gained seven pounds. The buttons on my shirts were popping. “Could you give me a hand here?” I yelled over the hilarity.
“Jules, doll,” Arthur said, walking toward me. He gave me a showy tongue kiss and let his hand linger on my ass. I leaned against him and joined my arms around his waist. Jennifer, eat your jealous little heart out.
“I was filling Arthur in on tonight,” she said with her usual stuck-on-herself air.
“The ‘confidential’ meeting?” I asked.
Her beady eyes darted to Arthur as if to ask, Whose team is she on, anyway? “Arthur’s a close friend whose interest I support,” she sniffed. “I thought he deserved to know.” To her credit, she kept her tone light, despite the defensive position.
I’ll admit I was curious about the Blues’ interview, but my interest was trumped by a far more dominant need to prevent Jennifer from enjoying the luxury of feeling essential. Last I checked, I don’t suffer from adult-onset idiocy.
“Cut to the chase,” Arthur said. “When’s the vote?”
“Basil’s call.” Jennifer shrugged. “He’ll schedule a second meeting to chew up the buyers whenever he feels like it, and we’ll vote at the end. Secret ballot.”
“It’s a democracy?” I asked. These days, so little is.
