by Andrew Grant
“That’s ridiculous!”
“What do you see when you look at me, Carolyn? Tell me.”
“I see my husband. Same as always. Why?”
“I don’t think you do. I think you see a problem. Something to be handled. A potential banana skin on the path to your next big promotion.”
“That’s not fair,” she snapped, but the spattering of pink that began at her neck and spread to her cheeks said otherwise.
“Well, I’m sorry. But that’s how it seems to me.”
“Only because you always see everything in black and white, Marc. You don’t get the gray areas. Everything has to be either right or wrong in your little world. But real life? It’s more complex than that. I can be worried about you and my career, believe it or not. Two things. At the same time. Equally. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.”
“If they were equal, maybe you’d be right. But they’re not. You know what? I sometimes think you’d have been happier if you’d married AmeriTel instead of me.”
“What does that mean?” She added a sharper edge to her voice. “You think you don’t get enough attention? Because how could I give you more? You’re never here.”
“Neither are you. That’s my point. You need to get your priorities straightened out.”
“No, I don’t. There’s nothing to straighten out. I value my marriage. To you. And I value my job. At AmeriTel. I work extremely hard at both. I need both. I shouldn’t have to pick between them. It’s not a competition.”
“I’m not asking you to pick. I just think it says a lot about your priorities when you spend more evenings at the office than you do at home.”
“That’s temporary. We’re still a finance manager down, after Melanie Walker’s accident. Which is hardly my fault. And I never wanted to work at AmeriTel in the first place, remember. I only went there as a temp. Then I had to stay when you got fired—the first time—and needed someone to support you while you were busy becoming mayor of nerd-central. My dream job went out of the window. I sacrificed it, for you. It was too late for me, by the time you were back on your feet. Don’t blame me for making the most of what I was left with.”
“It was me getting back on my feet that got us this house. Your car. All your fancy clothes. Your—”
“So your work is more important than mine?”
Not this again …
“Not more important, no. Just different.”
“Don’t patronize me!”
“I’m not.”
“You are. You’ve never valued what I do. I thought, if we worked together for a while? If you saw firsthand what I did? But no. Minute one, what did you do? Found a corner to hide in. Locked yourself away with your computers. Started poking into people’s private lives. And let me tell you, when the computers are the only ones doing the networking, not the people, something’s very wrong.”
“I networked, plenty. And I wasn’t hiding in that damn office. I was working. Doing the job they hired me to do.”
“Maybe. But not anymore. And now they’re keeping me and letting you go. And you just can’t handle that.”
“That’s nonsense. I’ve—”
“You know what?” She erupted from her seat. “Forget it. Just stop talking. I’m sick of the sound of your voice.”
“Suits me.” Her footsteps thundered across the room and up the stairs. “I’m bored with listening to you, anyway.”
Monday. Early afternoon.
WHEN IN DOUBT, MAKE COFFEE. THAT PRINCIPLE’S ALWAYS PAID dividends for me. I’ve broken through more conceptual logjams standing in front of my old Cuisinart and watching the murky liquid drip hypnotically into the jug than through doing anything else. It’s a charmed activity for me, magically summoning the solution to my current problem out of thin air, and that day things seemed no different. The pot was no more than half full when I heard soft footsteps creeping up behind me.
“Let’s not fight about this, Marc.” Carolyn’s voice was quiet. Her face was very pale, and her eyes glistened with dampness. “Please. I’m sorry you lost the contract. I honestly am. I guess I was feeling a little embarrassed, still working there, and thinking about how it was me who pushed you into taking the job in the first place.”
“It’s no biggie, sweetheart. I’m over it already.”
“I honestly thought it would be good for us, to work together. In the same place, anyway.”
“It was. It was great.”
“Did you like it? Really?”
“Of course I did. And thanks for coming home early today. I know you were worried about me, sweetheart. I appreciate it. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you got back.”
“You’re really OK about it? Losing the job?”
“I was pissed at the time, I’m not going to lie. It was mainly the way LeBrock told me. He can be a pompous prick at times. Sending the security guard to summon me. Then trying to bury me in a bunch of management-school double-speak. You know the kind of thing? I’m so good and so valuable he’s got no choice but to go ahead and terminate me. The asshole.”
“Roger’s not an asshole.” The angry pink swept back into her cheeks. “It’s not his fault. The company—it’s a house of cards, waiting to fall. The whole industry is.”
“You’re on LeBrock’s side now? What happened to being sorry I got thrown under the bus?”
“I’m not on his side.” She clenched her fists, then slowly released them. “There are no sides, Marc. I’m just saying, things are complicated. There’s a lot going on.”
“I know exactly what’s going on. I’m probably the only one who does, after all the analysis I’ve done. And let’s be clear, the whole industry isn’t in trouble. AmeriTel is. And AmeriTel’s problems are LeBrock’s fault. His, and the spineless imbeciles he surrounds himself with. Like the new CFO he brought in. Michael Millan. Have you met him? He’s a complete cretin. If you ask me, you’re crazy, too, if you keep working there.”
“Now you’re telling me where I should work?”
“No. I just think you’re wasting your talent. AmeriTel doesn’t deserve you.”
“Because of what happened to you?”
“Because of the state the company’s in. Plus, the bandwidth auction’s tomorrow, and AmeriTel’s going to lose.”
“It might not.”
“It will. And then it’s just a question of who the company gets sold to. And how long after that till your contract follows mine down the toilet. You’d do better jumping now, before the job market gets flooded with washed-up telecom people.”
“Funny you didn’t say this before.” She clamped her hands on her hips, tipped her head back slightly, and pretended to sniff the air. “What’s that smell? Oh? Could it be sour grapes?”
“No, it couldn’t.”
“No.” She released her hair from its ponytail, shook her head a couple of times, then tied it back up again. “You’re right. We’re not going to argue. We have a whole afternoon together for the first time in how long? Months? And a whole night to follow. We should put them to better use, don’t you think?”
“I guess …”
“The question is, where to start? How does a pitcher of milliondollar margaritas sound to you?”
I was torn. A pitcher of margaritas sounded extremely good to me. Not just because I’m a fan of Mexican cocktails, though. More because of the effect tequila has. On Carolyn. Tequila usually leads to a whole host of pleasurable possibilities. But on the other hand, there was my new project. My head was so full of ideas for it—colliding into one another, multiplying, racing away in a hundred different directions at once—I was literally feeling dizzy. I was on the verge of suggesting a rain check—at least till that evening, to give me time to get a few initial simulations up and running—when I saw the expression on her face. It brought back an echo of an old childhood saying. Something about living to fight another day …
“Great idea.” I was careful to keep the reluctance out of my voice. “How about
La Pasadita?”
La Pasadita is the closest Mexican restaurant to our house.
“I was thinking Zapatista’s. They use better tequila.”
And are much farther away …
“All right, Zapatista’s.” I paused to calculate the extra journey time. “Do you want to head over there right now? Or change first?”
“You change, if you don’t want to go in your work things. I’m going as I am. There’s something I need to drop off at the office on the way.”
“Oh? What?”
“Something you might have brought home by mistake?”
“What do you mean?”
“Something you brought home from AmeriTel. I need to take it back. To keep you out of trouble.”
“How can I be in trouble? They can’t fire me twice. And I didn’t bring anything back. I didn’t have the chance. They threw me out on my ass, remember? My office was sealed. They’re sending my stuff back by messenger, later today.”
“That’s not quite true, is it, Marc?”
I felt my temper start to flare at the implication, but then I remembered the memory sticks nestling in my pocket.
“What are you talking about? Of course it’s true.”
“I don’t mean anything physical.” Carolyn’s eyes stayed on my face, searching for the lie. “Or anything with any real value, even. But Simon found out you downloaded some data over the weekend. A lot of data.”
“So?”
“There was no sign of it in your office, Marc. It wasn’t in your database. There were no discs. No hard drives. No memory sticks. Nothing. So, whatever you copied the data onto, you must have it with you. You probably forgot, with all the drama this morning. I thought if I could jog your memory a little bit, you could just give it to me, and I could return it on the way to the restaurant. Draw a line under the whole thing. Save any unpleasantness further down the road.”
I slid my hand into my pocket and took hold of the key ring that the memory sticks were attached to, but I just couldn’t pull it out. I couldn’t move forward on my new project without data to work on, and I had no way of getting hold of more from anywhere else. Not the kind of authentic, real-world data I needed to prove my new concept. Not in large enough quantities. Not after AmeriTel had stabbed me in the back. And that realization gave birth to another nasty little thought.
“Was it your idea to ask me for the data back? Or did someone send you to get it? Simon Wakefield? Or was it LeBrock?”
“It was my idea, Marc. It’s a serious thing—stealing confidential data. I’m trying to keep your chestnuts out of the fire. A little gratitude wouldn’t be out of place.”
“How did you find out about this supposedly missing data?”
“Roger told me.”
“LeBrock told you I had it?”
“He figured you must, since there was no sign of it in your office.”
“When?”
“When what?”
“When did LeBrock tell you?”
“I don’t know. This morning. After Simon told him.”
“What time this morning?”
“I don’t know. Do you think I look at my watch every time I have a conversation?”
“Was it before the meeting you were in when I tried to call you?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Did LeBrock pull you out of the meeting to tell you?”
“No. It was later. I was back at my desk for an hour, but then Roger called me upstairs and I had to cancel …”
Her voice tailed off, and she started to trace a circle with a drop of water that had formed on the countertop.
“Cancel what, Carolyn?”
“A performance review with Mike Atherton. One of my direct reports.”
“What time was it scheduled for?”
“Eleven.”
I pulled out my phone and took another look at the records of the calls I’d missed that morning. The first one had been at 11:07. I held the phone out for her to see.
“You didn’t reply to my voicemail. You didn’t try to call me during the hour you were at your desk. But you did call seven minutes after LeBrock started whining to you that I’d taken some data. And then you called another eleven times.”
She didn’t reply.
“What’s going on, Carolyn? Why are you doing LeBrock’s dirty work for him?”
“I’m not. I didn’t call you in that hour I had at my desk because I was mad at you. That’s the truth.”
“You were mad at me? What for? I’m the victim here!”
“Marc, have you taken a single moment to think about how this makes me look? I didn’t just encourage you to take that job. I went to Roger and I begged him to give it to you. I vouched for you. I put myself on the line for you. And what happened? You skulked around the office like a vampire, afraid to be seen in daylight. Upset the few people you bothered to come in contact with. And got terminated less than halfway through your contract. At least you get to walk away. I’m the one left with egg on her face.”
“It’s not egg, Carolyn. It’s horseshit. A ton of it got dumped on my head. And all you can worry about is whether any splashed on you? Gee, thanks for the sympathy.”
“That’s not all I’m worried about. I’ve told you, I don’t live in a single-track universe, like you do. But it’s one of the things I’m worried about. Of course it is. Don’t you understand me at all?”
“No. I clearly don’t. And after what LeBrock did to me, I don’t understand why you’re backing his plays, either. You should be standing up for me, not running that bastard’s errands.”
“You’ve got this whole thing ass-backward, you idiot.” She threw up her hands in frustration. “I’m trying to help you. Not Roger. Not AmeriTel. You.”
“You’re lying. You’re just trying to squirm back into favor with LeBrock. What happened? What was the deal? You come home and get the data from me, and he makes sure your halo doesn’t get tarnished?”
“No.” She smoothed her skirt over her hips then clasped her hands in front of her, as if she was about to pray. “Getting the data back was my idea, I swear. You don’t know what’s at stake here.”
“Then why don’t you tell me what’s at stake, Carolyn? Because from where I’m standing, this whole thing stinks. You seem pretty damn desperate to keep LeBrock happy, and I’d like to know why.”
“Roger’s furious. He’s talking about calling the police. Think what that would do to your reputation, Marc. You’d never get another contract, ever again.”
“And you’re so worried about my employment status you’re prepared to entice me with an afternoon in the sack to get LeBrock’s data back for him? What a dutiful employee you are, Carolyn.”
“You make it sound … dirty.” She moved in close, a loose strand of her hair tickled my cheek, and a delicate wave of Chanel No. 5 wafted over me. Then she placed a hand on my chest and slowly worked a finger in between the buttons of my shirt. “What’s wrong with an afternoon in the sack with your wife? Most husbands would welcome it!”
“Maybe. If they felt like it was their wife’s own idea. But if she was being pimped out by the guy who just fired them? Not so much. No, thank you. Count me out.”
Carolyn stepped back, eyes ablaze, body rigid with anger, and for a moment I thought she was going to punch me. Then I thought she was going to burst into tears, which would have been worse. But in the end she just turned on her heel and stormed away, leaving me frustrated and alone in a lingering cloud of her perfume.
Monday. Afternoon.
SHE WAS BLOND. SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL. AND SHE WAS DOOMED.
The tragedy was etched into her face as she slipped from her lover’s grasp and plunged backward into the abyss, their fingertips an agonizing inch apart, a single tear escaping her piercing blue eyes, the drama of their entire lifetimes captured in that single pivotal moment.
I didn’t know her name. Her age. Where she lived. If she had a job. Whether she survived the fall. But I did know w
hat she was thinking: I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN I’D NEVER HANG ON TO A GUY AS GOOD AS JEFF. Lichtenstein had written it in a speech bubble when he created her, back in 1964. That was all the information he’d given us, apart from the title. The Break-up. And I knew that because Troye had written it on the appraisal, back when I bought her.
“Is that how you picture us?” Carolyn took me by surprise. I hadn’t heard her come into the study behind me. “Are you Jeff? And is she me? I always wondered.”
“No, I’m not Jeff.” I turned to face her, and struggled to keep the dismay from showing when I saw she was still wearing her office clothes. “You’re not her. And I resent the implication.”
“But that’s where you were, right? This morning. When I couldn’t reach you? I was frantic, and you were at the gallery.”
“Right. I like it there.”
“You lose your job, and instead of talking to your wife, you go look at stupid overpriced cartoons. Don’t you think that’s just a little bit messed up, Marc?”
“You’re jealous of a painting? Is that what this is about? Because that’s ridiculous, Carolyn.”
“I’m not jealous.” Her tone turned icy. “And I wouldn’t call it a painting, either. I just think you’d relate to me better if I covered myself with dots and stood motionless against the wall.”
“You don’t think we relate well enough? Seriously? What does that even mean?”
“I get that this is difficult for you, seeing as you only understand things that don’t have a pulse. I realize it must be hard, not having any friends, to grasp the concept of listening to another person. And I know it might not get the needles spinning on your precious geek-ometer. But I really, really need you to stop. Take a moment. Open your ears. And hear what I’m telling you.”
“If you have something to say, say it. No need to insult me first.”
“For goodness’ sake, do you not understand? Do you need me to send an email?”
“What? I don’t know what you want.”
