Cocktail Hour

by McTiernan, Tara

  "Okay. Fine," Sharon said, feeling her body grow hot with panic. She had to try and run with the final and most important part, see if Molly bit on any of her bait. "At least let me take you out for a drink. Maybe we can figure something out that you're cool with. I just want to keep my job. I thought you still might want the help with Lucie, but, if not, there's got to be something I can do for you." Swallowing back the bile that was rising in her throat at the thought of what she was going to say next, she continued, "And you seem cool. We've never hung out. Maybe we should start."

  "Drinks? With you?" Molly said, chuckling, her faux-humor back.

  "Ah, it's no big deal. It's what everyone here does: the apres-work drink or two. I've got some good gossip?"

  Molly's smile became genuine. "Really?"

  "Aha. Now you're interested. What about tonight? What are you doing in a half-hour? Come on, one drink, on me."

  "Well," Molly said, tilting her head back and forth as she tried to decide and dragging out the moment.

  Sharon marveled at how much Molly enjoyed any power or control she was able to get, stretching it out for all it was worth. Molly had to live for it; her whole life revolving around the manipulations and maneuvers she felt necessary to get her favorite thing.

  Finally, Molly said, "Okay. Why not? On you? Where?"

  Sharon grinned and said, "What about Pylos, that little Greek place down the street? We can sit out on their terrace in back. It's a nice night." It was also usually a quiet place per Lucie, which was essential.

  "Yeah, I've been there. All right. But one drink, that's it?"

  "That's it. One. And a little hope I can talk you into helping me out."

  "We'll see about that," Molly sneered.

  Sharon wanted to smack the sneer off of Molly's face. Instead, she simply smiled, shrugged, and got up to leave. As she gave a wave to Courtney and headed back toward her office, she fought the urge to cheer and clap her hands together with delight. It might work! It just might work!

  Two hours later, a decimated platter of spanakopita sitting on the table between them that had only a few remaining shards of crackled golden phyllo on it, two rounds of drinks in their systems, and soft but jolly Greek bouzouki music playing in the background as they sat on Pylos' terrace, Molly had started to truly warm up. Of course, Sharon had to tell Molly a bunch of gossip about various people in the office that she'd rather have kept to herself, but she had to do what she had to do. Molly had gobbled it up.

  Then, Sharon had started in with the compliments, which Lucie had told her were a sure-shot way to make Molly love you: lavish her with praise. Whether it was genuine or not, no matter how completely transparent you were while doing it, it melted Molly into a gooey puddle of joy and brought every last guard the woman had down. Lucie said Anna, Molly's toady and henchman, did it constantly.

  Molly, fattened up on a feast of flattery, picked up her wine glass and tried to take a sip, but it was empty, and she kept lifting the glass higher and waiting for a drop to fall into her mouth for a full minute before she realized. Then she blinked and put it down. "Well, this was fun. More fun than I thought it would be. Sharon, you're not bad. Not bad...at...tall. Wow. I don't know if I should have had that second glass of wine."

  "Two? That's nothing," Sharon said, waving away Molly's concern with a screwed up face. "You should see how many drinks Kristine Booker put down when we all went to Mulligan's one time. Oh, my, God. That woman can drink!"

  "What? How many?"

  "I'm gonna say ten. Eleven?"

  "Holy crap! Seriously?"

  "I'm no bullshit."

  Molly leaned in, suddenly looking serious. "You know, that's what I like about you, Sharon. You are no bullshit. Aren't you?"

  "It's true. I hate all that crap. Fake stuff. Oh, I love everybody! Everyone loves everyone! Diversity, diversity!" Sharon said the last few sentences in a high mimicking voice and rolling her eyes around like a demented person. She wanted to draw attention in particular to those words that she now knew pushed Molly's buttons.

  "I know! Diversity! What a joke! Do you know that our office is almost eighty percent Jewish? How is that diverse?"

  Sharon leaned forward, hoping. "Really? But wait, I thought that's what you wanted? You're in charge of most of the hiring?"

  "In charge? What a laugh. No, upper management makes all the decisions. And they're Jewish," Molly said. "Can I be honest?"

  "Haven't we already established that I'm no bullshit? Of course."

  Molly looked around and then ducked her head before saying in a low voice, "I never knew it before I worked at TMB, but I hate Jews. I mean, I hate them."

  "Really? What do you think it is about them?" Sharon said, lowering her head and voice as well, and watched the horrendous bigoted words pour out of Molly's mouth while in her purse, which Sharon had boldly set on the table and left slightly open, the small black tape recorder wound on, catching every last damning syllable.

  Strawberry Daiquiri

  When Chelsea saw the emerald and gold pendant necklace in the jewelry store's display case she felt a childish delight bloom in her heart. The emerald gleamed and winked at her, the exact shade of the silk dress she bought yesterday for Bianca's dinner party. It was perfect. Perfect!

  She put down her large collection of shopping bags on the floor and leaned over the glass. Then she saw it: the price. One thousand dollars? Really? It couldn't be that much. But it was so spectacular, of course it was.

  One of the store's salespeople, a slender dark-haired man in all black, glided over. "May I help you, madam?"

  "Oh," Chelsea said, flummoxed. Yes, John had told her she could have whatever she wanted, but a thousand dollar necklace? Especially for a party that he didn't want her to attend, a party that they had fought over, the argument still ongoing and repetitive like a long weary war?

  Her hands went out involuntarily toward the case. "I was just looking at the necklace, the emerald?"

  The man rolled his eyes and smiled at her wickedly. "Girlfriend, I love that necklace. If I could wear it, I would. My skin's all wrong, though. It makes me look like I've got jaundice of the liver. Now you, you would look amazing. That skin! Like cream! We've got to put it on you and see how you look."

  He didn't wait for her reply, but instead unlocked the case, pulled it out, and crossed to her side of the display. Chelsea, feeling both torn and aroused by the idea of it on her neck, let herself be dragged in front of a nearby mirror after he had secured the clasp. Even though she had to roll back the frills of her blouse's neckline to be able to get an idea of what it would look like with her dress, she could see it was as dream-come-true as the salesman said it would be, illuminating her skin and making her eyes look so blue they resembled the large sapphires glimmering in a nearby case. It was drop-dead gorgeous on her. But...

  Chelsea stuttered, "It is so beautiful, but-"

  "But what? Are you nuts? This was made for you. Look at you. Gorg-gee-us!"

  "It is! I just...I can't."

  "Is it money, honey? Let me tell you, the things I should have just gone ahead and done, paid the piper later. They say the only stuff you regret on your deathbed is the things you didn't do. Are you going to regret this?"

  Chelsea hesitated. Regrets: there were so many of them already, piling high, like all the shoeboxes in her closet, threatening to tumble down on her. She even regretted John lately, her supposed prince. To add another regret to the wobbling tower was too much to bear.

  She took a deep breath, a nervous thrill breezing through her, and said, "All right. Let's do it!"

  "That a girl! Now we're talking. And living...with zest! I imagine this will be credit?"

  He rang her up, packaged her necklace in a silk-padded leather box, and placed it, nestled in tissue paper, in a shiny black shopping bag with the jeweler's name emblazoned on it. Chelsea floated out of the store feeling like a princess. She had jewels and gold, a freshly acquired new perfume that smelled of chocolate
and exotic flowers, a hot new dress she'd found in a little boutique, and tiny lacy boy-short panties and matching demi-cup bras in all the colors of the rainbow which she knew John would love. Life was beyond good.

  Stepping out of the cool darkness of the store into the warm sunshine on the sidewalk in downtown New Canaan, Chelsea paused, looking both ways. Where should she go now? She should probably stop, go home. She turned in the direction of the lot where she had parked, and strolled between the patches of sun and dappled shade made by intermittent trees, enjoying the bubbles of excitement that continued to rise and pop within her.

  She had chosen New Canaan as it was ideal for her illicit shopping spree: no one knew her there and there were plenty of fabulous high-end stores to choose from. To ensure her safety, she was shopping in the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday. Everyone she knew was at work right now, slaving away. Well, not Bianca, who seemed to have tired of pharmaceutical sales already, complaining it was all studying and tests.

  "If I wanted to go back to college, I would've," Bianca had said over the phone when she'd called Chelsea. Her calling Chelsea just to talk was so strange that Chelsea didn't know what to say, so she said almost nothing. Luckily, Bianca had been chatty. Unluckily, it was mostly about John and her suspicions, which she continued to pursue relentlessly, prodding Chelsea for ideas.

  Chelsea shivered a little and turned her mind quickly away from the thought of her betrayed friend, instead inspecting the stores she was passing. Ann Taylor was the next store and easy to pass, Chelsea already having raided their summer collection when she was at the mall last week. The next was Lamb's Moon, a baby boutique. She paused and gazed covetously at the little outfits that were displayed in the window along with many soft white lambs made of wool that cavorted on the green-painted floor.

  Would she and John end up married with children of their own? And what about little Sebastian? How would he fit in to their new family? She couldn't imagine it anymore, her bright dreams clouded by guilt and the ever-present terror of Bianca finding out about her and John. Could she do this, what they were planning on? Would she even need to decide? John was more and more standoffish about future plans in the last few weeks. He said, in spite of bugging the house and searching through Bianca's things, that he hadn't been able to find out one bad thing about his wife. As well, the nanny told him Bianca's attitude had abruptly changed and she was insisting now on knowing if anything went wrong with the baby, going so far as to require a daily written report of his general health, behavior, temperament, eating habits, and even bowel movements.

  "It's as if she knows I'm trying to find something," John said, lying in bed on his back and staring at the ceiling. He hadn't wanted to make love that night, yet another night when he'd seemingly lost interest as soon as they were in bed together.

  Curling up on her side and stroking his exposed arm and hand that lay on top of the sheet, Chelsea said, "No, it can't be. She doesn't know. She suspects though. Not us, but still."

  "I wonder if she found one of the bugs."

  "She didn't, she would have told me. Did I tell you she even called me the other day? Just to talk! She never does that."

  "Maybe she's changed."

  "You said she was made of ice. How could that change?"

  "People change all the time. Maybe she did," he said in a wondering voice.

  She didn't say anything, didn't know what to say. If Bianca had changed, where did that leave Chelsea?

  Then he'd rolled over and gotten out of bed, said he had to get home, that Bianca was expecting him. Chelsea would have felt more frightened by John's lowered interest in sex and his new attitude about Bianca if he wasn't so demanding now, so jealous and suspicious of anything Chelsea did. It was as if it wasn't enough to have her at his beck and call, he had to own every part of her, know her every movement and thought.

  At that moment Chelsea's phone rang, John's ring, Nina Simone's "Wild is the Wind". Chelsea put down her bags again and pulled her phone out of her purse. "Hi sweetheart!"

  "Where are you?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, where are you?"

  "Shopping?"

  John groaned. "Again? I thought you were going to be here. I wanted to see you. I'm here now, at your apartment. Are you really shopping?"

  "Yes, I'm really shopping. I'm in New Canaan. No one knows me here so it's safe."

  "You're not out with somebody? Maybe enjoying a little afternoon delight with some guy you met in one of those bars you go to?"

  "I never go out anymore, you won't let me. How am I supposed to meet this guy you're talking about?"

  "Well, get back here. Right now. I want to see what you bought on this little shopping spree you claim you're on."

  "John...fine! I'll be there in about twenty minutes. You'll get to see it all. Okay?"

  "Good. Hurry," John said and hung up.

  Chelsea put her phone back in her purse sadly. Where was the romance? Where was the passion they'd had, wild and raw and exquisite? Did she even want this anymore?

  She picked her shopping bags back up and gazed at the baby clothing boutique's window with heightened longing. What she wanted was what Kate had. Or would have once she got pregnant again. Poor Kate! And Lucie, too! That night had been a horror show. When she and Sharon and Bianca went to the hospital afterwards, they met Grant, a handsome rugged-looked man who'd arrived still wearing his pajama top, though he'd been thinking enough to pull on jeans and shoes, the laces of his shoes poorly tied.

  He'd looked devastated. He'd barely spoken to them, only barely greeting them. He sounded as if he was trying to hold back tears when he talked to the nurse in reception. "I need to see my wife," he'd said, and there was something in the way he said it, the real need, the way he said "my wife" that floored Chelsea. Grant loved Kate more than anyone in the world. Chelsea wanted that, more than money, more than excitement and unicorns and rainbows. Because true love was all those things and then some. You didn't need to decorate it. She wished she had known that earlier.

  Chelsea sighed and then turned and walked up the street to her car. Her bags piled in her Honda's small trunk, she was driving out of the parking lot and turning onto the street when her phone rang again, the default ring. She checked the display. It was a local number. She contemplated not answering it, but curiosity got the better of her.

  "Hello?"

  "Chelsea, hey! It's Sharon."

  "Sharon? Hi?"

  "I know, I never call, I don't want to bother you, but this time I had to."

  "What's up? Is everything okay?" Chelsea crossed her fingers as she turned the wheel of the car, taking a curve and heading toward the Merritt Parkway. Did Sharon know about John? Did Lucie tell her? She saw how chummy the two were the last few nights they went out and couldn't help feeling faintly envious of their instant chemistry and shared wacky sense of humor. When she tried to imagine Lucie telling Sharon about John, though, it didn't work. Lucie was as discreet as a person could be, an ideal friend to entrust with secrets.

  "I wanted us to get together, the girls. I have something I want to talk to you guys about."

  "Really, what?"

  "Well, I'd rather talk about it in person. It's kind of delicate."

  "Is it Dean? Is he back now?"

  "No, it's not Dean. You've got to let that go. No, this is something else. So, are you in?"

  Chelsea hesitated. John didn't want her going out with her friends to bars anymore. He said it was too risky, that she might slip and say something after she'd had a few drinks. He'd promised her it wasn't forever, but it still felt like it. Day in and day out in her small basement apartment, the same walls staring back at her, no one to talk to. She was lonely. She'd just go this once, make something up so John wouldn't know. Her mother! She would say she was going to see her mother and have dinner with her. Chelsea felt a pang, knowing she owed a real visit to her mother at her tiny apartment in Bridgeport, a place so sad and hopeless and gray that C
helsea avoided it.

  "Okay? When? Wait," Chelsea said, realizing she didn't want to go after all. Bianca would be there, waiting, watching. "Well, maybe not, actually. I think I might have plans. I don't have my calendar with me. So it would just be the five of us?"

  "Boy, that jobless depression is really getting to you. I've never heard you be so wishy-washy about going out, your very favorite thing in the whole wide world. You know what? You need to go out. I hope you can make it. It won't be your usual chichi scene though. We're going to O'Malley's. It's a little pub in Darien. It's also proudly one of the last dive bars in Fairfield County, thereby a historical landmark and the ultimate drunkards' hangout. You might hate it, but I still really want you to come."

  Chelsea shook her head as she pulled onto the southbound ramp of the Merritt, heading towards Stamford. Actually, it sounded perfect. Get out and have some fun without anyone she knew seeing her. And, as an extra-special benefit, Bianca wouldn't set foot in a place like O'Malley's. Chelsea said, "Bianca is the one who will really hate it, not me. Honestly, it sounds pretty fun. I'd love to come."

  "Well...," Sharon said. "I wasn't going to invite Bianca. I know she's a good friend of yours, I hope you don't mind."

  "Oh? You're not going to invite her? Why not?" The hairs on Chelsea's arms stood up. They knew about her and John. And they were going to confront her at O'Malley's.

  "Um...I just, let's just say I'd like to talk about Bianca with you guys. Just some things I've been thinking. Now, don't get all worried. It may be nothing, but I thought I saw something the other night. Anyway, like I said, it's better if we talk in person. I was thinking this Thursday at around six-ish?"

  Chelsea, reeling from the revelation that Sharon had something to say about Bianca, did a quick calculation in her head regarding John and her phantom visit to her mother's. Yes, it could work; she would say her mother wasn't feeling well. "Yeah, that works for me. So, you won't tell me anything now, what you're thinking about Bianca?"