"No, it's fine?"
"I, I've been trying to catch you at work. I wanted to explain. About the other night?"
His voice hardened a little. "What about it?"
"Well, that's my best friend's husband. I was just, helping him. I wasn't-"
"Hey, it's none of my business."
"But, it is! I mean, I don't want you to think that about me! I'm not doing anything," she said, trying to modulate her voice. "And I just wanted you to know."
"I...," he said and let out a little gasp of exasperation. "What does this have to do with me?"
"You," she said and paused. She forced herself to say it. "You were going to ask me out. And I want to."
There was a silence on the other end of the line. It stretched out so long that Chelsea started to open her mouth to fill it, but then he finally spoke.
"Listen, Chelsea. You're a nice girl, I'm sure. But I really don't need drama in my life right now. I've got enough going on. I just need things to be simple."
"But they are! They're simple!"
"That guy you were with? Things aren't simple there. It doesn't take a genius to figure that out. And I'm sure you know that. So, let's not play."
"I'm not playing. I'm totally serious. Nothing's going on."
"Really? I saw you holding hands with him when I went to the bathroom."
"He just...took them. I pulled away!"
He sighed and said, "I'm sorry. But I'm not interested. I don't need this. And to be honest, this call just confirms what I was afraid of: that when it came to you, as much as you were funny and cool and hot, there would just be way too much craziness - fights and accusations and emotional late-night phone calls. Like this. It's nearly ten-thirty and I've got an early flight tomorrow. I've got to go. Take care of yourself, Chelsea."
There was a click and the call was disconnected. Chelsea pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it in disbelief. She threw the phone on the floor of her car, heard it thump as it bounced against the carpeting, and covered her face with her hands, letting out a keening wail. What had she done? She shouldn't have called him. It had seemed so right, so necessary, only a few minutes before. But it had been a huge mistake. Emotional late-night phone calls, he'd said. And that's what she had just done: called him in the heat of emotion and ruined everything.
She let herself sob violently for a minute more and then gradually brought herself under control, breathing in long slow breaths. She reminded herself that there were other fish in the sea, that a few very eligible fish might be waiting for her at Bembe. Besides, she had to go back. She had to pretend she had simply retrieved a lipstick. She turned on the car's interior light and refreshed her makeup in her visor's lit vanity mirror, dabbing concealer on her reddened eyes and reapplying mascara.
As she turned out the light her phone rang and she scrambled for it, feeling around on the floor and hoping in spite of herself. Finally discovering it in time, she jabbed at the send button and lifted the phone to her ear, the mournful tones of Nina Simone's "Wild is the Wind" trembling through the darkness and through her. Her favorite song, a song of overwhelming desire.
"Hear that?" John said, his voice husky on the other end of the line. "That's my heart. I can't live without you."
She gasped and shook her head, wordless. God, she missed him. She loved him. Always would.
The memories came tumbling back of that long-ago spring together: the late nights and the conversations they couldn't bear to end, his crooning to her as they listened to this song together and then possessing her with his body, engulfing her with passion and terrible bottomless need until the sun started to rise again, leaving them both still craving more.
Corona
Kate stood on the outskirts of the dance floor watching Lucie and Sharon dancing together, twirling each other around endlessly like whirligigs and laughing. They weren't dancing in a serious way, were being silly instead.
It was just the three of them now, Chelsea having left to get something from her car and who had still not returned nearly thirty minutes later, and Bianca was gone for the night, poor Sebastian seriously ill and in an incompetent nanny's care. Kate wondered how she was going to get home, and then felt a pang of guilt for being so selfish, thinking about herself. Bianca had real problems and, even in the midst of her crisis, she'd thought of Kate.
"Are you going to be okay? I'm so sorry to leave you like this," Bianca had said, putting her hand on Kate's arm after she told them the whole story.
"Oh, no? Don't be sorry?" Kate said, lowering her brows and tightening her lips in sympathy. "You have to think of Sebastian. I hope you fire that nanny?"
"I shouldn't have insisted on driving tonight. I just wanted you to have a good time, not worry about driving. Tonight's supposed to be our celebration of your new career," Bianca said, her beautiful face sorrowful.
They had all bid her good luck and watched Bianca hurry out of the bar. Then it was just the four of them. Kate, feeling awkward without her best friend guiding her, stood with the other women and forced herself to take an occasional sip of the strong drink Bianca had given her, trying to get used to the taste. She preferred light and bubbly drinks; her usual go-to drink was Corona with a twist of lime. But, no, Bianca had wanted her to have this special cocktail and Kate was going to drink it in her friend's honor. She was going to drink it even if it made her feel anxious, that morning's test result still broadcasting in the back of her mind and making her hope. What if the baby...Kate shook her head, forcing the thought away. Bianca was always right and was probably right again. Kate shouldn't rely on home pregnancy tests, shouldn't get her hopes up.
By the time the dance lesson started, she had only half-finished her drink, but Sharon, abruptly friendly again, had pried it out of her hand and put it on the bar. "Come on, Kate. Let's dance!" So she had. And it was surprisingly fun - not only the dancing, but the camaraderie between the four girls that sprung up on the dance floor, bumping into each other and laughing.
By the time the class ended, Kate was breathless and flushed, happier than she had been since they moved from Vermont. As soon as the realization of this emotion hit her while standing back and watching couples take the floor, an enormous wave of guilt poured over her. Bianca should be here, having fun with them, should be part of this wonderful feeling, this special evening. After everything she had done for Kate, Bianca was missing Kate's watershed moment of belonging.
It was incredible how selfless Bianca was. Even after everything else she had done, even after the new job she had just found for Kate out of the goodness of her heart, Bianca was still thinking of her, trying to help her. Just before she left to run home to her ailing child, Bianca had pulled Kate aside.
"I have to go, but I've been meaning to say something all night. I have to say it. I made a big mistake," Bianca said quietly.
"What?"
Bianca paused, her dark eyes sympathetic. "It's your hair. It's all my fault."
"My hair?"
"I thought that it would work, I was sure. I really was."
"What would work? What do you mean?"
"It's a mess. I don't know why I didn't see it earlier. We have to try something else. Don't worry; it's just not the right look for you. We'll find it, though, I promise," Bianca said, desperately apologetic, almost weeping.
Kate's hand went involuntarily to her head. She had thought it was just her and Grant's opinion, that everyone else liked it. That was how she walked out of the house every day: telling herself that. And now Bianca was saying it was as ugly as Kate feared. She felt as if a glaring spotlight had centered on her. She looked bad. Really bad.
Bianca was putting her hand up in a stop-gesture. "Now, promise me. Promise me you won't do anything rash."
"Rash? No?" Kate's voice squeaked. Oh, she wanted to go home and hide in bed, blankets covering her ridiculous hair. Instead she was in a loud and crowded bar without a ride and with Bianca's friends, who were less than friendly. Well, Lucie was
nice, but Chelsea generally ignored her and Sharon's evil eye hadn't abated.
Watching Lucie and Sharon continuing to twirl each other on the dance floor almost two hours later, Kate couldn't believe how much things had changed, how much better she felt. So good she felt guilty that Bianca had missed it! So, Kate looked terrible. What was new about that? Why had she gotten so upset about it? Hair grew and, besides, Bianca was going to help her. If this night told her anything, it was that everything was going to work out after all.
She chuckled and let herself wallow in memories of Sharon, the evil eye banished again, leaning on her in a spasm of laughter and Kate catching a whiff of her. Sharon even smelled like Mary! Like lemons and Tide detergent, all fresh and breezy, the smell of home and true friends. And then, when Chelsea had told them she needed to go get her lipstick, she had looked at Kate for the first time with genuine interest and friendliness. And then, when Kate went to the bar to get another drink after Chelsea left and Sharon went to the bathroom, Lucie had gone with Kate and insisted on buying her a Coke, saying that home pregnancy tests were often right and that one never knew.
"Better safe than sorry," Lucie said, nodding and smiling at her.
"Thanks so much?"
"My pleasure. Here, this is yours. And here's mine. Two glasses of wine is my absolute limit, so it's soda for me, too. Cheers," Lucie said, raising her glass.
They clinked them together and drank greedily, their thirst strong from dancing and laughing. When they both came up for air, Lucie asked, "So, I'm glad you'll be able to try my food. I'm kind of looking forward to showing off."
Kate searched her memory, but came up blank. "What? I'm sorry? When?"
"At Bianca's dinner party. She said you and Grant were definitely coming."
"She's having a dinner party? I guess I forgot. But I'll have to ask Grant? Did she say when?"
"That's weird. I could swear she said she talked to your husband about it. Well, it's not a set date, so maybe you won't be able to make it. She was thinking either late May or early June. Oh, I hope you can make it."
"I'll check? She talked to Grant? That's weird? Oh!" Kate gasped, her eyes widening. Maybe it was a surprise! For her!
Kate's mouth snapped shut. She didn't want to know. She loved surprises and Lucie probably didn't know it was a surprise. It felt odd, though, thinking of Bianca and Grant conspiring like that. Grant, who seemed not to like Bianca, going to Bianca behind her back? It was too strange. And what if more was going on between them? No. It couldn't be. Kate wouldn't let herself think such unkind unfair thoughts. She should be ashamed of herself.
Just then, Sharon appeared and dragged Lucie out on the dance floor, forcing Lucie to guzzle the rest of her soda and the conversation ended there. Kate, left by herself, had to force herself not to think about what had just been said, but her imagination, once kick-started, didn't seem to want to stop spinning out all sorts of scenarios where Grant and Bianca would have colluded about the dinner party, each worse than the other, intimate whispers and meaningful glances exchanged. Kate shook her head again and again, trying to clear it, trying to laugh at the other two women as they spun themselves silly nearby. Just as another idea occurred to her, one where Grant was the instigator, Sharon and Lucie stumbled over to where Kate stood, still giggling.
"Okay!" Sharon announced. "I've worn Lucie out. Your turn, Kate!"
"My hip!" Lucie wailed and then laughed again.
Sharon was holding out her hand in an elegant fanning gesture. "Come on, sunshine. Let's show off our massive twirling skills for all the wanna-be dancers in this place. We'll show 'em how it's done."
Kate took Sharon's hand, let herself be twirled away, and found herself laughing again in spite of her fears, relishing the heady yet familiar sensation of being enveloped by the warmth and kindness of friends.
Chardonnay
Lucie was exhausted from hilarity and pain. The hilarity was almost completely Sharon's doing. If Lucie loved dry wit, she loved silliness even more. And Sharon's zany clowning on the dance floor made her laugh so hard she felt as if she was suffocating, gasping for air between guffaws.
The pain, of course, was her hip. It was on fire. The dancing had been both wonderful fun and a very bad idea. Turning away from the dance floor where Sharon and Kate twirled, she hobbled over to an empty table near the dance floor and groaned as she sat down on one of its red leather upholstered stools, leaning heavily against its back. Then she groaned again for good measure. So much pain! She didn't think it was possible for her to feel as much pain as she felt that first year after the accident, but this serious case of hurt was a close runner-up.
She looked hopefully toward the entrance to the bar. Please Chelsea. Come back so I don't have to worry about you anymore. Then I can go home and take some Tylenol and crawl into bed.
As if answering her prayers, Chelsea appeared in the doorway, showing her stamped hand to the little woman still propped up on a stool there and then walking into the bar. It should have been a welcome sight to Lucie, but there was something strange about the way that Chelsea was moving: slow, zombie-like. No, this vision wasn't making her worries go away. It was making them worse.
Over their shared appetizers at Cafe Luna, Chelsea had acted more and more strangely. It was obvious that Chelsea felt guilty about John. But why? Chelsea hadn't done anything wrong. It was John who was behaving badly. But no matter what Lucie thought, Chelsea's anxiety was palpable and, worse, Bianca had noticed. Lucie had hoped to have a moment alone with Chelsea, but then she'd been distracted by the appearance of Molly, and forgotten all about her plan to pull her friend aside and have a talk with her.
Molly hadn't done anything, of course. That wasn't Molly's style: outright attack. No, she was slippery, slithering through the tall grass, beady eyes on Lucie, plotting. Molly had simply sat in her chair across the alfresco dining area and gazed at Lucie. It had been incredibly unnerving. Lucie felt like a deer in headlights, frozen and unable to tear her eyes away. Then Sharon said something, breaking the spell.
"Oh. My. God," Sharon said, her voice flat and disgusted-sounding. "It's my very favorite person from Inhuman Resources, Molly Knowles. What a joy. Why is she staring at us? Doesn't she know it's rude to stare? You'd think that someone so heavily invested in being politically correct would know better."
Lucie looked at Sharon, grateful that Sharon, at least, seemed to understand. She muttered under her breath, "If you only knew."
Sharon turned to her, "What did you say?"
"Please," Lucie said, keeping her voice low. "Let's just get out of here."
"You poor thing," Sharon said, shaking her head. "She really messed with your head, didn't she? Don't let her get to you. You're free from TMB now. Oh, there's Chelsea. Chelsea! Come on, we're blowing this Popsicle stand."
Lucie only shook her head, feeling as if she was being choked, her throat constricting. Of course Sharon could say that. She didn't know the whole story.
When Lucie started working for Molly, they had been on friendly terms. Molly took her out for lunch on Lucie's first day and said in a confidential voice, "Now, listen. I may be all about saying the right things at the office, but I'm no bullshit. And I don't tolerate it on my team. We'll be honest with each other, right?"
Lucie, startled, nodded a little. What did Molly mean "no bullshit"? Working in the corporate world was all about putting on an act. How are you? Just great, thanks! Make it a great day. You rock. How much of her career had been spent listening to people spew crap? The only people she ever trusted were other administrative assistants, and only the ones fully sussed out for ambitious dreams. The more ambitious they were, the more likely you were to find a knife in your back.
Molly continued, apparently satisfied with Lucie's lukewarm response, "Good. You're our most important team member, the heart of HR, what keeps us going, and for us to thrive we've got to be on the same page. That means anything you hear, any rumor, any story, any negative spin on one of
our projects, you come and tell me. We watch each other's backs in this department. I'll watch yours, you can count on it."
Lucie never went to Molly with anything during the six months she'd worked at TMB, knew better than to get involved with that mud fight, and it became a point of contention between them. Molly would frequently pull Lucie into her office, gesturing at the guest chair and sitting down with a look of concern on her face.
"I'm worried about you, Lucie," Molly would begin each time. "What's going on?"
"I'm sorry? How do you mean?"
"Well, you don't talk to me. I have no idea what's going on with you. Incommunicado. Is there something wrong?"
Lucie would sit up straight and try to do her best good-girl impression. "No, nothing's wrong! There's just...nothing to tell you. Everything's great!"
Molly would tilt her head, smiling patiently. "Come on. I wasn't born yesterday. You can tell me."
And from there, it would be a volley of insinuations and denials between them until Molly, clearly miffed, would give up. It was stressful, but it became such a regular part of Lucie's job that she started to see it as "their routine". Lucie had been working at TMB for three months when Molly stopped inviting Lucie into her office.
It took a few weeks before Lucie noticed and realized that she was in trouble. The fake-friendly banter was gone, too. Molly started acting impatient around Lucie, as if she was a bumbling fool, particularly in front of people, barking at her and shaking her head, huffing. Rolling her eyes elaborately after she made any request. Demanding that all communication between them be in person, that "email was too impersonal". But email was the record of their interactions that protected Lucie and Molly knew it.
The onslaught of negativity started to get to Lucie, causing her to stay out late with Chelsea drinking, or up late at home with Ryan talking. With only a few hours of sleep, she would arrive bleary-eyed and found herself accidentally sending the prohibited emails to Molly. It was hard not to: Molly continued to send Lucie emails, ignoring her own rule, and they were usually full of false accusations that Lucie had to then respond to in person, knocking on Molly's door and enduring the eye-rolling irritable-huffing response. Replying via email was so much easier and created that essential record of her innocence.
Cocktail Hour Page 19
