by Jane Porter
“Working late,” I answer.
“After work?”
“Going to bed.”
“Sounds like fun.”
I shudder. I should know better than to use a word like “bed” or “night” around him. “Alone.”
“You’d like me in your bed. I’m a big cuddler. Love to spoon.”
I nearly hang up. The verb “spoon” has always turned me off. There’s something unsavory about two people calling themselves silverware. “Tom, I hate to be rude, but I’ve got to go; I’ve got another call holding.”
“Oh.” He pauses. “Who?”
“A reporter from the paper,” I fib, but it’s a good fib.
“Which paper?”
“The Chronicle.”
Tom’s quiet now, and I want to get off the phone before he asks me out for tomorrow night. “I’ll talk to you soon,” I say, trying to sound cheerful but not too encouraging.
But he jumps on it, like a dog on a stick. “When?”
Never. “Next week.”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
I’ve no doubt. I hang up. I still have Tom to deal with, but at least I’m off the hook for now.
Josh appears at my desk. He’s attractive in a nearly invisible sort of way. Slender frame, about six feet, lightish eyes, light brown hair. He probably was a very sweet child.
I can’t imagine him attending Beckett. Beckett has more than money. It’s been investigated twice in the past ten years for its “history of hazing.”
I don’t know if Josh is gay. He might be; he might not be. But I can’t imagine him wild in high school, pumped by testosterone surges.
“You’re leaving,” I say, seeing he’s got his brown leather barn coat on.
“Going to meet friends for drinks.”
“Sounds fun.” I sound wistful. I didn’t mean it to come out that way, either, but suddenly I dread going home, dread being alone again, dread the moment my front door closes, shutting me inside an empty apartment that reminds me far too much of my newly empty life.
Josh hesitates. “You want to come?”
I actually feel sorry for him now. I’m not much better than Lehman, am I? “No,” I answer brightly, far more brightly than I feel. “I’m good. But thanks for asking. That’s nice of you.”
He laughs uncomfortably. “It’s not a date, and I’m not making a pass—”
“No, I know.” I cut him off, mercifully short. I don’t think either one of us can handle this. I don’t know if Josh is gay or straight, but he’s the one person at work who hasn’t gone out of his way to make me feel like a complete idiot. “But thanks. Really.”
He just looks at me, his expression curious. Surprisingly thoughtful. His eyelashes are long and thick, and as they drop, he looks almost beautiful, in an androgynous David Bowie sort of way.
“The person you want at the Chronicle is Fadden,” he says after a moment. “Brian Fadden. I forget his exact title, but he’s a features editor and has a lot of seniority.”
“Thanks.”
“Fadden can bark, but he doesn’t bite.”
I nod, but on the inside I’ve hit the red panic button with both hands. Just what does Josh know? He’s been here three—four?—years and will probably be the next to be promoted to events director, if Tessa or Olivia should leave.
“She wouldn’t like you doing this, Hol. Be careful.”
I know who and what he’s talking about, and he’s giving me fair warning. I wasn’t sure if he knew what I was doing, all those calls I was quietly making, but now I do. I shouldn’t be surprised. Josh is quiet at work, often goes unnoticed, but he’s usually aware of everything.
And he also sits just two cubicles away.
My face feels hot, the skin prickly. “You won’t say anything?”
“It’s none of my business.”
It may be none of his business, and he doesn’t want to get caught in office politics, but he did give me Fadden’s name. Warned me to be careful. I’m touched. Grateful. And even more determined not to go home and sit in my apartment, lonely and alone. “So where are you going for drinks?”
“The Mission.”
The Mission district’s the in spot in recent years. Josh looks at me, thick lashes lifting, his brown eyes half-smiling. He dangles his car keys. “Don’t worry, you’re not my type. I don’t drink a lot. And I’m happy to drive.”
I’m hugely tempted. I really don’t want to be alone. “Your friends won’t mind?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I thought they would.”
Chapter Seven
I had no idea that Josh was so interesting.
And I don’t just mean interesting because Josh gave me the name at the paper or promised not to say anything to Olivia, but interesting as in intriguing. The guy’s a poet. He’s had a collection of his poems published—he claims no one read it, but his friends say Josh is too modest.
His friends are all artsy types—there are three novelists (one Spanish, one American, and the other is Middle Eastern), a short story writer, a playwright, a sculptor, a photographer, a graphic artist, painters, and so on. They’re men and women. Diverse, international, and heavy smokers.
And I like the idea of them, the idea that I’m part of something intellectual, weighty, of substance, particularly because Jean-Marc used to say after we’d been married a couple months, Why don’t you read a real novel? Why don’t you do something with your mind? Or, if I was leafing through a magazine at night, You should read a real newspaper. A European paper. Your American newspapers are all so biased.
We’re at a Greek restaurant for drinks—we’re supposed to be going elsewhere for dinner later—and everyone’s loose, enjoying their beer and wine and taking turns going outside for a quick cigarette, cursing San Francisco’s ridiculous antismoking laws as they come and go.
Even though I’m sitting next to Josh, I spend most of the evening talking to an intense novelist named Paul Petersen, who could be any age between twenty-five and thirty-five. Paul doesn’t actually have a book published yet, but he gave up his day job two years ago and takes his work very seriously. He doesn’t write genre stuff, only “good fiction.”
I’ve nursed the same beer for over an hour because I want to keep my wits about me—I am starting to watch my weight a little more—and Paul is fiercely argumentative about what constitutes great writing. I think he thinks he’s an authority on great writing, and apparently he’s crafting something that’s very dark, serious, and relevant.
Although I’m not sure what that means.
I do know that critics and reviewers love novels filled with unhappy people searching for meaning. The search for meaning speaks of human nature. And suffering. But my problem is, I’ve lived suffering, and I’m just about suffered out.
I think it’s time to order another beer.
By the time I head home, I’ve had shish kebab and dolmades, fried cheese and pita bread. I grew up on Greek and Armenian food in Central California, and the kebabs and pita bread remind me of home. As I unlock the door to my apartment, the city feels a little smaller, a little friendlier, and I’ve even agreed to have dinner sometime with Paul so we can continue our discussion on the great American novel.
It’s probably not the smartest thing I’ve done, but surely it can’t be as bad as going out with Tom Lehman.
Speaking of Tom, he calls over the weekend. Twice on Saturday. Once on Sunday. And then when he fails to reach me on the phone, he drops by in person late Sunday afternoon.
Thank God I’m actually out when he stops by, and he’s forced to leave a note on the back of his business card, which he slid under the door.
I return from the Laundromat (Cindy has a washing machine and drier in the garage, but it’s hers, not her tenant’s) and find the business card, feel as if I’ve escaped the death penalty, and am about to close the door when Cindy’s footsteps echo on the stairs above me.
“Holly.”
It’s a command. I’m t
o wait. And shifting the laundry basket onto my other hip, I do.
She’s in khakis, a tight black top, and casual khaki Skechers, and her dark hair is in a trim, immaculate ponytail. “Your friend—I don’t know his name—stopped by.” She sounds disgusted.
He must have parked in the driveway.
“I told him you weren’t here, and Drew was trying to move his car.”
I was right. It is about the driveway.
“Drew had to wait for your friend to leave.”
Just how long did it take for Tom to write his note? It was only a business card, for Christ’s sake.
“You know the garage and driveway are reserved.”
For your use only. Yes, I know that. But I don’t say it. I don’t say anything. I’ve had a great day at the Laundromat, sorting my whites and folding my underwear while being watched by a group of freaks.
For a moment I wish the freaks had followed me home. I wish they’d come up the stairs, entered Cindy’s pristine hall, and I wish Cindy had seen them here, about to enter my apartment.
She would really love my friends then.
“I’ll apologize to Drew,” I say, and smile, a kind smile, the one I’d give Drew if he were here, and Cindy’s mouth tightens.
“I don’t want to be a jerk,” Cindy says.
“I know.” I smile more kindly. “It’s so not you.” And hitching my basket higher on my hip, I go into my apartment and gently, firmly close the door.
Monday morning, new week, which means the Leather & Lace Ball is now only five weeks away.
In our loft office, Tessa looks calm, and her staff is working intently while we have a loose, loud team meeting in Olivia’s office—with her door open.
Olivia has brought in a tray of raspberry and lemon sugar scones, along with our favorite Starbucks coffee drinks. “To thank my team for their excellence and dedication,” she says, passing out the coffees and lifting her chai in a friendly little toast.
I feel a prick of guilt, and it’s all I can do not to look at Josh. What’s he thinking right now? Does he feel any of my disloyalty? But my guilt is cut short by Olivia’s shift to the morning’s agenda.
The Schlessenger wedding’s back on track.
The Beckett School anniversary is moving ahead.
Olivia’s been asked to put together a proposal for a big shindig to thank Oracle’s major investors.
We all have tasks, plenty to do, and we return to our desks with a sense of renewed purpose.
Fifteen minutes later, Olivia stops by my desk and stands there for a moment without saying a word. I was just grouping my files on my desk, and so I organize a second longer, waiting for her to start.
As the silence grows, I feel her disappointment. I’ve let her down. Something’s happened. I can’t help my reaction, but my stomach knots, and I feel terrible. Olivia’s been really good to me, extremely supportive. I don’t want to upset her.
I look up at her, battling dread.
She meets my gaze, holds it. “You never did use the guest membership at my gym.”
Is that it? My legs feel weak. “It’s been hectic.”
“It’ll always be hectic. You have to make time for yourself.” She extends a hand, points to my Day-Timer. “Open your calendar; schedule gym time now.”
“I will.”
“Do it now.” And she waits, giving me no alternative but to reach for my Day-Timer, and as I do so, I uncover my notepad.
Olivia’s eyes narrow; her gaze settles on the chunky notepad with the City Events logo on top.
She’s reading what I’ve written. “You’ve talked with Brian?”
“Trying to reach him,” I answer, as she can see the name Brian Fadden, “Features Editor,” written in big block letters, followed by a phone number.
“That’s not his direct line,” she says. “That’s the main switchboard number.”
“I’m hoping the switchboard will put me through.”
“They won’t. Not to Brian. They’ll send you to voice mail, or another journalist who will just screen you.” Olivia curves her finger, gestures for me to follow. “Come, I’ve got his direct line. He hates calls from us, but once he’s on the phone, he won’t hang up. At least not immediately.”
In her office she scribbles down a number and hands the sheet of paper to me. “You know, he’s single again.”
“That’s nice.”
“He’s attractive.”
“You said the same thing about Lehman.”
“I didn’t. That was Aimee, and she was drunk off her ass.”
“Still not interested.”
“You might change your mind if you actually met him.”
“I doubt it.” I glance at the paper, see the number, feel like a traitor. She doesn’t even know why I want to call Brian Fadden in the first place. “But thanks.”
“Now do me a favor.”
I look at her, and she’s serious. “Get yourself to the gym. Do twenty, thirty minutes solid cardio. Try the weights”—and she lifts a finger when it appears I’ll interrupt. “It’s not just good for the bod, girl. It’s good for the head.”
“Got it.”
She smiles, and I leave. But instead of returning immediately to my desk, I walk on shaky legs to the little kitchen we have at the back of the loft, make myself a cup of inoffensive herbal tea, and lean against a counter, still trembling, staring out at nothing.
Things are starting to get complicated. My personal life has always been confusing, but at least work was simple. Straightforward. Show up, do a good job, go home. But it’s not just about doing a good job anymore. It’s about putting myself out there, committing myself to something I shouldn’t have.
Olivia will be so angry...
Tessa won’t keep it a secret...
My stomach flip-flops, and I hate this feeling, hate the nerves and dread. I don’t know how to handle tension or confrontations. I do anything to avoid conflict, going so far as to stay married for a year to a man who doesn’t want me, won’t kiss or touch me, just to put off admitting failure publicly and filing for divorce.
Tessa, apparently in a Celtic Goth mood, enters the kitchen in her all-black ensemble consisting of leggings, long skirt, black knit top, and massive silver Celtic cross. She opens the mini fridge, pulls out her second can of Dr Pepper this morning even though it’s not even eleven. Tessa is one of those unfortunates who need caffeine but don’t like coffee. Actually, she likes hardly anything, but that’s neither here nor there.
“How is your intrepid leader?” she asks now, popping open the tab.
“Fine.” I don’t understand the bad blood between Tessa and Olivia. These are two smart, creative, ambitious women. They should be on the same team. They’d be so much stronger that way.
“Any progress on the publicity side of things?”
It’s been a week, and I’ve achieved next to nothing. “I’m hoping to meet Brian Fadden for coffee later.”
“Brian Fadden?”
She sounds dubious, and I take a sip of my tea, nod nonchalantly. “Why so surprised?” I ask, wanting more information and yet not wanting to sound as if I’m digging.
“No reason. Except he hates City Events, thanks to Olivia.”
“What did Olivia do?”
“What does she always do?”
I don’t know the answer to this. I haven’t been around long enough to see a pattern of behavior. My silence irritates Tessa, and she gives her head a short, impatient shake. “Forget it. You’re still in the naive, I-just-want-everybody-to-like-me stage.”
“I do want Olivia to like me.”
“Why?” The freckles on Tessa’s narrow nose stand out. She’s a lucky redhead; her freckles are few and pert and rather pretty, but she has a sharp temper and an even sharper tongue. You can hear the Long Island accent if you listen for it. “Why does it matter what anyone thinks of you? All that really matters is what you think of yourself.”
Again I don’t have an answer, and Te
ssa swears, something with an expletive and “stupid women,” before walking out.
Feeling sick, I return to my cubicle. As I fumble with paperwork, I become conscious of Tessa in her office at her desk and conscious of Olivia in her office at her desk, and I think it’s just a matter of time before I ruin everything.
Thankfully, both Olivia and Tessa have afternoon appointments, and the minute Olivia steps out, I reach for the phone.
I’m terrified of calling Brian Fadden, since it’s obvious that everyone at City Events knows him (and it sounds as if there’s history of sorts between him and Olivia), but I’m more terrified of failing, and I battle terrors. If I were someone else... someone like my brother, Jamie, I’d be fearless. If I were Jamie with his string of social and athletic successes, I could pick up the phone with impunity, dial Brian Fadden’s number, tell him what I want, why I’m calling, without suffering this enormity of fear.
But I’m not Jamie, and I only like calling people when I’m in a position of granting favors. I like to be in control, not dependent on others, and clearly, in this case I am dependent on others. I’m very dependent on the kindness—or at least civility—of strangers.
Think about David. Tony. All the people like them who’ve been helped by the Hospice Foundation.
I punch in the number before courage, and opportunity, fade.
“Fadden.”
My God. He answered, himself. First ring.
For a moment my jaw works, and I see him at his desk. I know the inner workings of newspapers (okay, the Fresno Bee, but a paper is a paper is a paper), and I realize that these guys’ desks are crammed together and they all have more work than money and, frankly, everyone calls in, bugging them. Wanting something. And I’m the one who wants something this time.
“My name’s Holly Bishop. I’m with City Events,” I plunge in, going for it before he can stop me. “We organize the Leather and Lace Ball—”
“Oh, that.”
Not an auspicious beginning. “Have you been?”
Snide sound. “No.”
“You should. It’s a great event—”
“Have you been?”
