Cocktail Hour

by McTiernan, Tara

  Chelsea looked at Lucie with gratitude before nodding and turning back to Bianca. "Me, too. Early day tomorrow."

  "Really?" Sharon said. "I thought you wanted to stay out late tonight?"

  Chelsea narrowed her eyes at Sharon. Maybe she didn't want to hang out with Sharon after all. First she wanted to leave. Then she brought up what Bianca had said about Lucie. Now this cross-examination. "I think you're remembering another time I invited you out. Not tonight."

  “Well,” Bianca said lightly, looking happy again while gazing at her protégé. “Looks like it will just be you and me, Kate. Maybe we’ll just get two glasses, then?”

  “Okay?” Kate said and giggled.

  "No, I'll join you for a little while,” Sharon piped up.

  Bianca’s head snapped around, eyes widening and smile fading away. “Oh…okay. Three glasses, then.”

  Chelsea couldn't help it. "I thought you were tired. You were dying to go home earlier." She couldn’t help the bitterness in her voice either.

  "I got a second wind," Sharon said and shrugged, her face a mask of nonchalance.

  Bianca’s smile returned and she raised one eyebrow wickedly. “Oh, you’re not putting one over on us, Sharon. We know all about that second wind of yours. He’s still sitting at the end of the bar over there.”

  “No,” Sharon said.

  “Yes?” Bianca sang out. “Well, your secret’s safe with us. Oh, waitress? Can we get three glasses of champagne and the check? Kate, let’s pay and go over and stand next to a particularly handsome man at the end of the bar. See if he wants to talk to Sharon.”

  Sharon, pink in the face, said, “Will you stop that? You’re reminding me of junior high.”

  Bianca laughed, a rolling rich sound. “I’m just teasing you because you’re so much fun to tease. I’ll stop now. Promise. Forgive me?”

  Sharon, seeing Bianca’s sense of humor about the whole thing, grudgingly laughed too. “Oh, sure.”

  “Good. Let’s pay and go hang out where the action is. This table seems to be intimidating the prey in this bar,” Bianca said, still laughing a little as she spoke, making her words tremble.

  Sharon laughed more genuinely then and said, “Yes, your subjects await, Queen Bianca.”

  Bianca waved a queen’s circular wave, two fingers raised, and wiggled her head. Sharon guffawed.

  In that moment, Chelsea didn’t want to leave anymore. They were having fun. It was a fun night at the hottest bar in town and she had to leave. And what she was leaving for felt all wrong. No, she belonged here. Where the action was. She clenched her hands into fists in her lap.

  They paid their check, splitting it except for the champagne that Bianca paid for, and Chelsea reluctantly followed Lucie out of the bar while the other three women continued their night of revelry, glasses of champagne in hand. Lucie gave Chelsea a hug outside the door and they parted, Lucie promising to come out on another night soon when they could all stay out late.

  Feeling the warm imprint of Lucie’s arms on her, Chelsea reapplied her lipstick under a streetlamp, checking her reflection in a raised compact, before walking down the street toward the Bedford Grill. No matter what Lucie’s problems once were, Chelsea decided that her friend had been cured. She shook her head, promised herself she’d forget all about it, and looked at her cell for the time. It was quarter-of. Too early. But where else was she going to go? No, she’d just go and sit at the bar until John got there. Actually, it would be better that way, not squirreled away at some cozy little table or booth. Instead they’d keep it impersonal and public and sit at the bar. She was only meeting him because he needed her help and she would do what she could. She would not let her feelings overcome her. They were just friends, that’s all.

  Chelsea pulled open the door to the dark old pub and stepped inside, the warmth and musty beer-funk hitting her after the cool freshness of the air outside. Unlike Ibiza, the place was sparsely populated and quiet. Three men were sitting watching the game on the television on one end of the bar and one lone man sat with his back to her at the end near the door. She walked to one of the unoccupied stools between the two ends and started to put her purse down.

  “Chelsea?”

  She looked up and then blinked rapidly, her mouth dropping slightly open. The object of her office fantasies was sitting right here, in this old dump. Travis! Here? “Travis. Oh, my God? What are you doing here?”

  Leaning with his elbows on the bar wearing only his slightly rumpled white shirt from the office, his jacket and tie slung over the back of his barstool and the top of his shirt unbuttoned, Travis looked more handsome than ever. A half-empty beer sat in front of him. “What? No, this is my stomping ground. Love this place. What are you doing here?” His smile was open and friendly. He reached over and patted the empty stool next to him and said, not waiting for her reply. “Come and sit and let me fill your ears with my woes. Well, you probably have a few woes yourself.”

  She looked at the seat he was patting. That’s exactly what she wanted to do. Sit with him, talk, gaze into his eyes, breathe in that wonderful cologne he always wore. But- “I’m meeting someone actually.”

  Travis’s eyebrows went up. “Oh. Okay. Well, do you want to sit with me while you wait? Or…” he said, and paused, looking thoughtful. “Is it a-“

  “No, I’ll sit with you!” Chelsea said, cutting him off before he continued with that line of thought. She wasn’t going on a date with John. He was a married man. She’d been reminding herself of these facts all night. And here was Travis, her Travis. Please God, let John be late.

  She walked over and sat down on the stool Travis had been patting. "Hi," she said, realizing how unnecessary the greeting was after it was already out of her mouth and hanging foolishly between them.

  Travis didn't seem to notice. "So, you like the Bedford too? It's the place," he said, nodding. "When I need to chill, I come straight here. And look. The same as ever." He gestured at the bar and looked around with visible appreciation.

  "Ah, yeah! It's cool," Chelsea said, following his gaze. Cool. Or not. But she wanted to agree with him. Wanted to see it through his eyes. Looking around she saw the same sad worn-out bar she'd walked into. "What do you like best about it, do you think?"

  "You know...it's real. That bar around the corner, new one?"

  "Ibiza?" she asked, brightening.

  "Hate that place. Snob city. No, the Bedford's where it's at. And I couldn't face going home after today, not until I had a couple beers in me. Plus, Pat?" Travis said, gesturing at the older gentleman leaning against the opposite inside corner of the bar with an apron tied around his large belly and watching the game with the other men. "He's my man. Always a good word from Pat. He reminded me of something essential, something that completely escaped me."

  "What?"

  "It's just a matter of time. They'll reorg again. Maybe in less than a year. So I just have to hang in there."

  Chelsea remembered then. Travis had been switched over to handle a new group of account executives, away from the winning team he'd been heading up for two years. And the new big account he'd been switched to wasn't the handy Conti Foods based in White Plains he'd been working on. It was Sensei Global, based in Japan with operations all around the Asia Pacific. Which meant almost constant travel.

  "Yes, that's true," Chelsea said, reaching out and putting her hand on his shoulder. Oh, it was so warm and muscular. She patted his shoulder a little to make it appear simply a friendly gesture. What she really wanted to do was run her hands down over his chest, all over him. "They'll definitely reorg again soon. Guaranteed." Please let them reorg right away. She didn't want him always on the road. She'd never see him in the office anymore.

  "Thanks. I hope so. And my team. We were the stuff. Now I've got to start over, and these new guys are not going to be easy. You should have heard the stupid green shit they were saying today after the announcement,” Travis said, shaking his head a little and taking a sip from his beer.


  “Green?” Chelsea wanted to take her hand off his shoulder, knowing it was lingering there too long, but couldn't bring herself to do it.

  He swallowed and turned to her, his eyes far away for a moment before focusing on her face. He blinked, glanced at her hand, and said, “Whoa. Where are my manners? Can I get you something to drink?”

  He glanced again at her hand and she pulled it away, feeling as if it was magnetized to his shoulder, invisible currents pulling at her fingers. She pushed her left hand down on her lap with her right one. “Oh, thanks. That would be nice. Do they make strawberry daiquiris here?”

  “Strawberry daiquiris? I doubt it. But let’s find out. Hey, Pat?”

  Pat turned his head, raised his chin in a nod, and pushed away from the other end of the bar to walk toward them.

  “Chelsea? This is Pat, the best bartender ever. Pat, this is Chelsea. She works with me at TMB. Wait, what was it you said today? TMB stands for…”

  Chelsea smiled, still feeling contrite after being called out for passing off Sharon’s joke as her own, and said, “Too Much Bullshit.”

  Pat squinted and let out a bark of a laugh.

  Chelsea continued, “Actually it’s someone else’s idea, not mine. Sharon? Wozniak?”

  “Oh,” Travis said, nodding. “I don’t know. I kind of like when you say it. You look too sweet to say things like that…so it’s funny. Hey, Pat. Any chance you can whip up a strawberry daiquiri for my friend?”

  Pat shook his head. “Sorry. No blender. But I make a mean Alabama Slammer,” he said, looking at Chelsea. “If you like sweet-n-fruity drinks, you’ll love it.”

  “Okay. Sounds nice,” Chelsea said, a warm tingling still zipping up and down her arms and neck from when Travis said she looked sweet. He liked her! Now if only she could switch the “friend” to “girlfriend”.

  Pat mixed up a reddish-orange concoction over ice in tall drinking glass, plopped a maraschino cherry on top, and placed it in front of her. She picked it up and sipped it. It was sweet and fruity - and had a little punch, too. “Yum!” Chelsea said, smacking her lips a little.

  “I knew you’d like it,” Pat said, raised his chin at them again and walked back to the other end of the bar.

  “Soooo,” Travis said, turning his chair to face her. “How come I’ve never seen you in here before? I’m not a real regular, but I come here enough to have noticed you if you were here.”

  His smile was the wolfish one he’d worn in the conference room earlier, making Chelsea’s heart leap. Though, at the same moment it leapt, it started to plummet. She couldn’t lie to him even though she wished she could, knowing he’d like her better if she frequented "the Bedford" as he called it instead of fancy snob-cities like Ibiza. “Well, I really haven’t been here before.”

  “Oh, for some reason-“

  “I let you believe it. You know snob-city? That’s where I was tonight. With some girlfriends. Are you disgusted with me?”

  His mouth twisted in a sad smile and he shook his head. “Nah. Disappointed, I guess. You seem really cool. Why would you go to a place like that?”

  Chelsea looked at him. To meet men like you. And you’re here, at a nearby dive bar instead. She managed a shrug.

  “You didn’t know any better, huh? Well…,” he said, leaning closer to her.

  She smelled his cologne – a wonderful lime scent with a hint of something deeper – and looked up into his eyes. Oh, wow. He looked...like he was going to ask her out! Oh. My. God!

  He leaned even closer, close enough to kiss her. “I was wondering. Do you want to go-“

  A man cleared his throat loudly right next to Chelsea, making her jerk with surprise. Travis stopped mid-sentence and looked behind her before straightening on his bar stool. Chelsea turned around.

  John stood there wearing a suit and tie under a dark cloth coat, his face cool and composed. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, his eyes sweeping over Travis before he looked at Chelsea. “But I’ve got a date with Chelsea here. Do you want to get a table, sweetheart?”

  Chelsea was having that magnet-feeling again, though now it was like two halves of her were being pulled in opposite directions. She could still practically taste Travis’s nearly uttered invitation. And here was John, looking at her with desire in his eyes, desire she had yearned for and thought forever gone. Date? Sweetheart? What was going on? “Uh, sure. Oh, John. This is Travis. From work?”

  John nodded at Travis. “Hi, nice to meet you,” he said before refocusing on Chelsea. “Where do you want to sit? In a booth?”

  Chelsea turned to Travis, whose open expression had hardened into stone. He was looking at John’s left hand, at the gold wedding band on his finger. “Uh, huh. Nice to meet you, too. Well, Chelsea. Have fun.” The last words were said with bitter sarcasm as he turned back to his beer.

  Chelsea started to reach for her drink and then stopped, looking longingly at Travis. How had everything gone so wrong so fast? Travis didn’t understand. Nothing was going on. This was her friend’s husband.

  John was also her ex-lover, her one-true swept-away lover, the man who still only had to wiggle a finger at her to make her come running.

  “Leave it,” John said. “I’ll get us some champagne. We should celebrate tonight.”

  “Celebrate?” Chelsea echoed, her voice faint. She slowly turned her head to look at John.

  “Yes. I have so much to tell you.” He put his arm around her as she numbly leaned down and picked up her purse, and then he guided her in toward the restaurant area of the pub and back to the last booth in the corner, the most hidden of them all.

  Vodka Martini

  "Hey, Wozniak!"

  Sharon, walking down the hall away from the team meeting in the small conference room that she was deeply grateful was finally over, stopped and tried to not cringe. Arranging her face into a semblance of calm, she turned to face her new boss, Bob Crandall, who was jogging to catch up with her.

  "Hey," he said, reaching her side. "Just wanted to say. No hard feelings. Right? We just have to do the best job possible - don't want to get sidetracked."

  She couldn't control herself. "So the flavor of the EdenBurger isn't important? Just the packaging, the way the product looks? No one cares what it tastes like?"

  He made a horizontal slicing motion with both hands. "I'm not saying that. I'm saying that the client isn't asking for that."

  The people at NatFoods had been clear in their RFP and even clearer in the meetings that followed after TMB had won the project. They were trying to boost sales of their frozen veggie burgers and wanted full consumer feedback. There was no reference to the product's flavor or texture not being altered if necessary. Some study requests specifically outlined that the product itself not be tested, only the packaging or marketing. Not so with the EdenBurger. "I'm sorry, but-"

  "Don't be. We all make mistakes," he said, looking at her sympathetically, hands sliding into his front pants pockets.

  Her mouth fell open. Mistake? She hadn't made a mistake! He was blantantly-

  "Let's let it go," he continued. "I recommend, though, that you start making a priority of thoroughly reading all the RFPs. They're our bread and butter."

  She wanted to smack that earnest look off his supercilious face. How dare he instruct her? He had just a little over a year of experience, his ears still wet and pink from his mommy scrubbing behind them. She had almost eleven - knew the business inside and out, breathed it so deeply it was in every cell of her body. The whole situation would be funny if it wasn't so horrible.

  "I know," she said, just barely succeeding at keeping the irony out of her tone.

  "Good. Thanks," he said. Then he gave a final nod at her and turned away, his hands still firmly rooted in his pockets, a habit not of nonchalance but of insecurity. She had noticed. Her new boss had to do something with his hands at all times. It was even worse than her pencil fetish, which was mostly evident when she was tired and the graphite and soft giving w
ood in her mouth made her feel both comforted and energized.

  She watched him walk away, his large round buttocks straining at the fabric of his pants more than ever due to his fists in his front pockets. That ass...in every way!

  Laughter bubbled up from within her and she stifled it, swallowing hard, while turning away and heading toward her office again. It was in moments like these when she wished she could veer off course, head over to Alan's office, and fall into a hysterical heap on his couch, Alan's ratcheting laughter prodding her own to greater heights.

  But, of course, that office was empty and dark now. It would soon be occupied by Bob, who had demanded it in place of his current interior office. The phone technician was scheduled to come in the next day to switch the lines. Bob would soon be sitting only steps away from her and they would come face to face frequently every day. Just the thought of it made her want to scream. She let her mind linger again on the idea of working in Manhattan before she saw herself in her mind's eye, gray-faced in a shuddering train with the rest of the chain gang. She pushed the idea away.

  At her desk again, she sat and dialed Alan's home number while glancing at the time display on her monitor. It was nearly five. He had to be home now. She'd been trying to reach him for over a week, hoping to finally make those plans to meet at Frannie's for dinner, and he never answered his phone. Where was he? Had he made good on his threat to join the local country club? Was he out on the golf course now, miserably swinging at a little pitted white ball?

  The phone rang and rang. She waited for his old-school tape answering machine to pick up, for his recorded voice to tell her to leave a message, but the trilling ring simply continued in her ear. She put the receiver back down, silencing the eerie echoing sound. What if he was back on the bottle? She hated the images that rose from the buried place she'd put them: his poisoned face, his breakdown on the kitchen floor, the fug of the house with everything rotting simultaneously including her friend.

  She shook her head. No, that was after Margie. This was retirement, not the loss of a spouse. Retirement was supposed to be fun - a dream come true! It was something you scrimped and saved your whole life for: the last and longest vacation. And although she loved her work, found it intrinsically enjoyable and fascinating, she had to admit she also loved the idea of never having to see Bob's face again...