Truth Be Told

by Holly Ryan

  When the door slams closed behind me, it’s dead quiet. The sounds of the street and citizens outside are immediately hushed, and all I can hear now are the rustling of papers and the clicking of a few select keyboards and mice. The interior of the building is just as impressive, and as I look around I’m reminded of Cohen’s home. Everything’s in its place, the same way that it was there, and just as similarly there isn’t a speck of dust or dirt to be found. A few female employees flutter around, clutching manila folders to their chests, their heels clicking as they walk across the polished marble floor.

  I approach the wide, round desk that stands directly in front of me. A man is behind the counter, sitting at a computer. The front of the desk reads THATCHER INDUSTRIES in crisp, bold letters.

  “Good morning,” he sings. “Can I help you?”

  “Um, yes, I’m here to see Cohen.”

  The man regards me carefully, and I’m reminded of my similar dumb encounter with the security guard at Cohen’s front gate. I guess I’m still not good at this whole rich person thing. Stop calling the rich guy by his first name, Stella. No one will take you seriously. I roll my eyes at my own foolishness. Obviously.

  I clear my throat and straighten my back. “Mr. Thatcher. I’m here to see Cohen Thatcher.”

  As the man sets to work at his computer, no doubt checking Cohen’s schedule, I notice that he is dressed better than I am. He’s wearing a form-fitting gray suit, with a white undershirt and a purple tie. The cuffs on his wrists are crisp and pristine as he types away on the white, standalone keyboard in front of him. I try not to show my embarrassment.

  Under my coat, I’m wearing little more than an old black dress shirt, my favorite pair of skinny jeans, and a comfy pair of ankle boots, which, these days, I still consider to be my work shoes. I used to work in heels all night at Sapphire, I remember as I crinkle my toes in the roominess of my boots. Damned if my feet can afford to work in heels during the day, too.

  “I’m sorry,” the man says, “what’s your name?”

  “Stella Montgomery. But I’m not–”

  “No, I’m sorry, but we don’t have you down for anything in here.” He continues to scan the computer, his finger flicking at the mouse.

  “You wouldn’t. I don’t have an appointment.”

  Before I can explain, he continues, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’re going to have to make an appointment if we don’t already have you scheduled. That’s how we work around here.”

  “I really don’t need an appointment. I just need to see him. We have a lunch date for…” I check the time once more, “ten minutes from now. Can’t I just head up?”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “Then can you at least let him know that I’m here?” I gesture to the phone that rests no more than a couple of inches away from him.

  He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t do that either. It’s showing here that Mr. Thatcher has a meeting that just ended at ten forty-five. There’s a fifteen minute window in which we don’t disturb him. He makes that very clear.”

  I realize that Cohen, being Cohen, is super important to everything that has to do with Thatcher Industries. Hell, Cohen is Thatcher Industries. But couldn’t this guy at least help me out?

  “Okay,” I say. “Is there at least somewhere I can wait then?”

  His demeanor suddenly changes. “Of course.” He stands and leaves the safety of the desk, coming around to my side. “Would you like anything to drink?”

  “No, thank you.” I follow him to an open waiting room not far away from the main doors. At least when Cohen comes down, he’ll be able to see me here. And waiting in here is a lot better than waiting out in the cold.

  He shows me to a seat. “Here you are, Ms. Montgomery.” With that, he walks away and I take the seat.

  “Stella Montgomery?” a voice calls, echoing through the front of the building.

  I turn. The voice came from somewhere to my right, off to the side of the front desk. As I look, I see the man who just helped me pass by a female figure. She’s tall and blonde, and she too is dressed to perfection. She’s holding some papers in the crook of her arm and she’s standing still, looking at me. I stand up as she walks over.

  “Are you Stella Montgomery?” she asks.

  I nod and cross my arms in front of me, holding my elbows. “Yes.”

  She smiles, her straight white teeth glowing. Her smile is perfect. She shifts the papers to the front of her, wrapping her arms around them. “You know Cohen, don’t you?” Her tone has suddenly switched to conversational.

  “I do. Um, I’m sorry… how do you? I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her long hair. “No, we haven’t.” She puts a hand to the top of her chest, one of her rings clashing with her necklace. “I’m Scarlet. I’m Cohen’s assistant. One of his assistants.” She brings her hand down and holds it out to me. “He’s mentioned you before. I knew I remembered your name.”

  I hesitantly take it. “What has he said?” I don’t like this, and I can only hope that I’m not some kind of water cooler talk around the office. But I know Cohen wouldn’t do that to me.

  “Well, he’s only mentioned you once,” she explains.

  I smirk. I can’t tell if that was supposed to sting. I can’t read this woman.

  “But I have this thing with names, and I remember what he said about you.”

  I brace for the impact, expecting to hear something about how I spent the night at his place. Maybe no one has ever spent the night at Cohen’s mansion, so it’s rare news, and that’s why it caught her attention. No. Again – he wouldn’t do that. And I’m not that naïve either.

  “He said you’re having lunch today.”

  I let my breath escape through my parted lips. Okay. That’s perfectly normal.

  She evaluates me for a moment longer before saying, “Why don’t you come on up with me? I’m sure he’d love to see you.”

  “Oh. Are you sure that’s okay?”

  “Of course. Come on, this way.”

  I follow her past the front desk, locking eyes only briefly with the man who just helped me. She walks quickly, even despite her tall heels, and I have to rush my steps in order to keep up with her.

  We step into an oversized elevator, plated with mirrored walls. Scarlet presses the topmost button, the one which reads the number twenty, and it lights up with a warm white glow. She stands back, falling into place next to me.

  “Have you known Cohen for very long?” she asks, briefly turning.

  What happened to Mr. Thatcher? I just got done scolding myself for that very mistake, and here she is, one of his secretaries, calling him by his first name. I guess I should give myself a little more credit.

  “Not long at all.”

  “How did you meet then?” She’s trying to be kind in her own sort of way, lilting her voice and smiling extra wide just for my benefit. I’m sure she’s glad we have this elevator all to ourselves for the twenty-story ride up. She has plenty of time to get all this information out of me.

  I sigh, trying to keep my smile. “It’s a long story.” I think back on a few nights ago, on everything that went down at Sapphire. “A really long story.”

  “Well,” she says as the elevator tings and comes to a stop, “I suppose those are always the best kind, aren’t they?”

  The doors pan open, exposing a dim corridor that veers off in several different directions, each hallway carpeted in plush navy blue. Greeting us in the center is a mirrored console table with a vase of white flowers sitting perfectly atop it.

  As soon as I take my first step off the elevator, the overhead lights flash on, illuminating everything around us.

  “That gets everyone,” says Scarlet. “Not many people come all the way up here, so motion-sensing lights save some energy.”

  Apart from energy savings, I think, it adds an air of sophistication and high-tech attitude to the floor. “That’s sma
rt of Cohen.” See? I want to say to her. Despite the formalities when it comes to addressing his staff, I can call him by his first name, too.

  “It was.” She flips her hair over her shoulder as we start to walk, me following her lead as we choose the path only she knows. “But that’s nothing new. He’s always thinking about things like that. How to save more energy, how the company can recycle more, how things can be more efficient and cost-effective at the same time. Last year he even brought in a group of professionals to check out the building, to see if it could be fitted with solar power.”

  As she talks, her long blonde hair bobs up and down behind her, bouncing against her expensive-looking blazer.

  She turns her head back to me. “But I’m sure you already knew all that.”

  I pretend to brush off the fact that I didn’t know all that, pretend that it doesn’t hurt a little. What is this? Scarlet is obviously trying to do something here. Cohen and I like each other – that much is certain. But what else is set in stone? Nothing. For all I know, maybe Cohen and Scarlet used to be in a relationship, and this is her way of sticking it to me, of letting me know she still holds some kind of place in his life. Although where she got the idea that we are in a relationship beats me.

  There are other maybes though. Maybe she just wants his money. Or maybe, and I log this one away as most likely, she flat out thinks he’s hot. Whichever it is, Scarlet is obviously invested in him.

  We reach the end of the hall before having to continue on after a sharp turn to the right. She stops, so I stop too.

  She holds out her arm and points down the hall, then smiles at me. “Just a little further that way. The sixth door on the right. You’ll be able to see him inside his office.” She smiles at me, then drops her arm and walks away, leaving me alone.

  I look around. I certainly am completely alone. I don’t remember passing one other person while following Scarlet, and this long, carpeted hall is wide open.

  It’s quiet too. No longer are there any sounds of typing or general work, or even the sound of anyone walking. Those were left behind when we ascended in the elevator.

  Back where we came from, the elevator makes another sound as it opens on the landing. Scarlet will be gone now, and if I can’t find Cohen for whatever reason, I might be in trouble.

  Despite the halls being empty, there are a few people here and there, still at work in their offices even through the lunch hour. I can see their shadows behind their closed doors, hunched over their desks, but they’re all hard at work and totally quiet. I try to be quiet, too, so I don’t disturb them.

  When I reach the sixth door, I stop. This is Cohen’s. The outside of the office, like all the others, is covered in a long pane of wall-to-ceiling frosted glass. There’s no name or number anywhere on the front, but then again, those things aren’t listed on any of the doors. This seems to be the kind of place where if you’re this far up here, you don’t need the convenience of labeled offices. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t know where you were going.

  I take a quick listen but I don’t hear anything, so I raise my knuckles to knock. Before I can do that, I stop. Something catches my attention. There’s still no sound, but now there’s movement from behind the frosted glass, and it doesn’t look like Cohen. Well, it does – but not Cohen alone.

  I step closer. There are two figures inside; one obviously male, the other female. I can see their blurred outlines through the glass, but from where I’m standing, peeking around the corner of the empty office before theirs, they can’t see me.

  I squint, moving my face closer still. I wish I could cup my hand to the glass to get a better look by blocking out the light, but that would probably give me away. When I’m closer, the figures suddenly come together. Cohen takes the woman by the shoulders and presses his face against hers… his mouth against hers. Even more to my horror, the woman doesn’t resist. She holds the back of his head as they move in synch. Then Cohen stops. He backs up until he reaches the chair that rests in front of his desk. Barely looking, he sits, and then holds his hand out for her. She takes it, one hand reaching out to his and the other hesitant to leave the desk she was just pressed against. It doesn’t take long for her to envelop him completely though, and before I know it she’s wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing both of her exposed knees onto the chair.

  Cohen’s hands explore her, reaching under her skirt, exposing her backside.

  I’ve seen enough. My stomach is already in knots and now threatens to bring up that bagel. I immediately regret the decision to eat anything as the nausea rises in the back of my throat. But how could I have seen this coming?

  I turn my back to them and clutch the glass of the empty office I’d been hiding next to.

  My mind swirls, a rush of heat filling and warming my face. I don’t want to imagine what I must look like right now. No doubt my face is flushed, giving the impression that I’m blushing with shame or embarrassment. And for anyone to think that I’m so innocent as to be embarrassed over a man’s infidelity – can I even call it that, at this point? – enrages me. I’m not embarrassed. I don’t want anyone to think I’m embarrassed. I rush out of there, breaking into a run, hoping Cohen and whoever the hell he’s with don’t hear me.

  I fly through the hall, my coattail trailing behind me, desperate to get out of here, wanting nothing more than to feel that rush of winter air from people passing through the front doors. That would signal freedom. When I make it to the elevator, I move against the wall and cover my mouth with my hand.

  My breath is heaving, more so out of panic and hurt than the short little sprint I just made. It feels really hot in here all of a sudden. I fan at my face.

  So this is why Scarlet was being so smart with me. Giving me those condescending looks and acting like she knew something that I didn’t. She was counting on me catching him in the act, and she knew that when I did it would destroy us. She did this on purpose. She set me up. Set us up.

  I’m glad, I think as I take a long, calming deep breath in through my nose. I hate the way she did it, but I’m glad that I know the truth. Although I highly doubt I’ll ever be able to get that disturbing picture out of my mind.

  I press the elevator’s down arrow over and over as if it will make the thing work faster.

  Come on. I need to get out of here. Out of this hall, out of this building, out of this whole damn town. I need to get as far away from his as possible.

  Of course, the elevator is taking its sweet time, and just as that fact is registering in my already foggy mind, overcome by shock, a step of footsteps echo from the direction I just fled. They’re heavy footsteps – a man’s – and they’re coming closer. I say a silent prayer that they’re not Cohen’s. I can’t face him. Not like this.

  “Stella?” Cohen’s strong voice booms behind me.

  Oh no. I blink back tears. “Don’t touch me, Cohen.”

  “What are you doing up here?” His voice is confused but light, and he stops a few feet away from me and when he sees my face his tone transforms into something serious. “What’s wrong?”

  “You know exactly what’s wrong. Please leave me alone.” Immediately, I want to kick myself for saying please to him after what I just saw him do.

  “Stella…” He tries to come closer, but I step back.

  “I’m not letting you get near me, Cohen. Actually, that right there was probably the last time I’ll ever say your name again.”

  “Stella,” he booms again, verging on anger now, “I have no idea what’s going on. You’ve got to fill me in here.”

  I block him out, trying to concentrate on the numbers above the elevator doors, willing them to continue to climb. They don’t. They stop on number twelve.

  “Did you hear what I said?” he says.

  “I said leave me alone.”

  “No, stop. I’m not going to leave you alone until you tell me what’s going on.”

  I break my eyes away from the elevator’s numbers, my mind r
egistering the last of his words. “What do you mean you don’t know what’s going on?” I keep my distance. “Are you lying to me?”

  He shakes his head. “I would never.”

  The alternative possibility is almost unthinkable. That can’t be it though. He has to know what I’m talking about. He doesn’t know I saw him, but he has to at least have a feeling that I did. I peer around him, looking for any sign of the woman he was with. There’s no one there.

  Cohen looks behind himself too.

  Slowly, I say to him, “You aren’t in office six?”

  “Office six?”

  “The sixth office from the end, I mean.”

  He thinks quickly, no doubt picturing the hallway in his head. It’s probably not often that someone refers to his office by number. “No, I’m not. I’m the fourth from the end.”

  “The fourth?” My voice shakes in response to the realization of the mistake I’ve just made.

  “Yes, the fourth.” His impatience is growing; not at me, but at the fact that I’m accusing him of something terrible and leaving him no way to defend himself. “You’re not making any sense, Stella. Were you trying to find me up here?”

  “Yes. And I thought…”

  “You thought what?”

  Feeling bolder now, my eyes dare to meet his. The emotions those eyes bring back only amplify the hurt. I fight through it to examine him; he’s solid as a rock, his eyes unwavering in their connection to mine. He hasn’t been hesitating with his words, or otherwise giving me the impression that he has anything to hide. He’s either telling the truth, or he’s a closet psychopath.

  He’s telling the truth. Shit.

  “Oh no,” I say. If any of this had been my fault, I’d go on about how ashamed I was, how much of an ass I’d been to Cohen just now. But, I think as I start to connect the dots, that is not the case.