Look But Don't Touch: Enemies to Lovers

by Hayle, Olivia

  But I wouldn’t sink that low just to sate my stupid curiosity.

  No, I did something far worse - I downloaded social media apps with the express purpose of looking her up. I was painfully thankful that she didn't have her Instagram profile set to private so I could lurk in blissful anonymity.

  But there were no new posts. The last had been from the Charity Auction ball, a photo of her and Sarah posing in front of the company’s logo. Clad in an achingly familiar shimmery dress, she stared at me from the screen, a genuine smile on her face. One of the perks of my job is getting to work together with this one, she had captioned it. Sarah had commented with two little heart-eyed emojis. There were no other photos of Hathaway's and nothing since.

  Why hadn’t she posted in over two months? Before there had been frequent updates, on and off, pictures of clubs and the park and one over the bleak Hudson river where the caption read I wish I could paint again. There were no comments. Had she painted once?

  Why didn’t I know that?

  I groaned. It had been weeks. I needed to move on - preferably yesterday. But the only thing I saw when I closed my eyes were her dancing eyes, teasing me and telling me to stop being so serious. Being with her had been like breathing, and now that she’d left, I felt as if I hadn’t drawn a proper breath in days.

  A tentative knock sounded at the door. “Mr. Wood?”

  “Come in.”

  A timid face poked in. Rob, the new intern. Linda had enjoyed having an intern so much that she declared the executive wing should always have one. I humored her for a trial period - if only because I knew she was nearing retirement. I didn’t think Rob would last.

  “Yes?”

  “I read something in a newspaper today that I think you should take a look at. I know you’re concerned with the brand.” He walked quickly across the room and handed me a glossy magazine, carefully folded back to reveal one page. I took one look at it.

  “Why did you think this was something I’d be interested in?”

  “I mentioned it to Linda,” he stammered. “She said I should give it to you. That it was a good idea.”

  I returned my gaze to the sunny blonde staring back at me. It was late April on the French Rivera, and she was already a little bit tan. I put it down on my desk as if burned.

  “In the future, bring this sort of thing to marketing.”

  “Yes, sir.” He hurried out and shut the door briskly. I ran a hand through my hair, thinking about Ada’s admonishments. You can be too intimidating to people. Not everyone handles criticism like you. I sighed. I’d have to make it up to him later. It wasn’t technically his fault that he wasn’t a bouncy beauty with a rapier-sharp wit.

  Hathaway heiress in St. Tropez, the headline stated. A blurry photograph was shown, unmistakably Ada, in a summer dress. Her hair was curly and natural, and she was talking to a young man in a tux. A waiter, perhaps? I hoped.

  The photo was clearly taken at a distance by paparazzi or by some Manhattanite who had recognized her from her earlier stints in the local tabloids.

  She looked radiant. I swallowed and put the newspaper away. So she had jetted off to the south of France. Not that I could blame her, really. Why would she stay? She had nothing to stay for. I had made sure of that.

  But there was so much more to her than partying. I had thought that that part of her life was over. The woman I had seen, when she had been with me, was someone so radically different than the one I’d seen at the hotel bar. The one Arthur had once been so concerned about.

  And she had been stellar as an intern. Why wasn't she working? Had I had something to do with that? I couldn't bear it if I had.

  The thought gnawed at me for days. Mistakes had been made, most of them mine. But there was no reason I couldn’t seek to rectify them somehow.

  So I sank lower.

  “Grant?”

  “Hey, Arthur. Am I bothering you?”

  “No, not at all. I always have time for you.” There was the faint sound of waves behind him.

  “Are you in the marina?”

  “Yeah, just put the boat in.” He cleared his throat. “What do you need?”

  Ah. I had understood early on that the sailing boat had been something he had with Max and Ada, and then increasingly only Max, who had taken up the sport with vigor. I had called at a bad time.

  “Do you know where Ada is? I’ve understood she’s out of the country.”

  “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  I sighed. “Some of us at the office were curious, and wondering when she would be likely to return. Together with HR, I was thinking of offering a more permanent position in the company, should she want it.”

  There was a stunned silence. “Truly?”

  “Yes. She has the education and drive for it, and we’re all very pleased with her performance.”

  “I think she’d be interested in that. Of course.”

  “Do you know when she will be back.”

  “No. There is no set timeline. I have to be honest with you, Grant, but she’s at a retreat in the south of France.”

  "At a retreat." There were only two sorts of places people like Arthur Hathaway might call a ‘retreat.' The first was a spa, and the second a rehab center. My stomach clenched in fear at the thought of it being the second. What had happened?

  “Yes. It’s run by a therapist she found. Has some really legitimate points, actually. Anyhow, Ada is working through some stuff now. And as much as I think she would be interested in the job offer, I know she's set on finishing what she's doing before she returns."

  I was briefly stunned into silence. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll make sure to have the conversation with her when she returns.”

  “But I know she’d love it if you gave her a call.”

  “She would?”

  "Yeah! I know you two are friends now. She's not locked away, Grant," he said with a laugh. "I talk to her everyday."

  Everyday. Everyday? When had that ever been the case? They hadn’t been close.

  “Alright. Thanks for the info, Arthur.”

  “Sure thing. See you around, Grant.”

  “Bye.”

  So she wasn't jet-setting around in the countryside. She was working through her grief and had chosen to get licensed help in doing so. I'd always known Ada was clever, but now I saw just how brave she was, too. She'd faced her demons.

  Perhaps I could do, too.

  My concierge had a package for me that night, a solid weight wrapped in purple and pink gift paper. A small bright note was attached to it.

  “This was delivered to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Rodman, the concierge in his late sixties who ruled my apartment building like his own kingdom, drew himself up to his full height. “Yes, sir. I am certain.”

  "Thanks." I ripped off the card and read it, waiting for the elevator to arrive.

  For Grant Wood.

  I hope this will help you.

  Life’s too short for fear.

  - The friend of a friend.

  The i’s were dotted with hearts.

  I turned back to the reception, ignoring the open elevator.

  “Rodman, did you see who left this? Were you here?”

  “Yes. I never leave my post.”

  “What did she look like?”

  He considered. “Brown-haired, young. One of your admirers, I’m sure, sir.”

  “Okay. Alright. Thank you.”

  “Anytime.”

  I returned to the elevator with that description and his odd inflection on admirers. As soon as the doors closed and I was out of his view I ripped into the gift paper.

  A brand new copy of How to act with love.

  The subtitle read: The key to building loving, lasting relationships.

  I stared, and then I broke out into laughter, so loud that it echoed off the steel walls of the elevator.

  26

  Ada

  I painted. I laug
hed. I visited every damn museum in Provence.

  But more than that, I talked and cried and shouted inside of Dr. Willis’ office. There was never a set topic, and whatever I wanted to explore was allowed. It had been disconcerting, our first session.

  “I understood from your email that you haven’t been to a therapist for a couple of years.”

  “That’s right. I have a lot of things bottled up,” I said. “I think it’s going to take time, and I think there’s a very good chance that I’m going to want to stop at some point. But if I don’t process the past, I don’t think I’m going to be able to have a happy future.”

  “Good. Anything that’s easy isn’t worth doing.” She had leaned back in her office chair and looked at me with intelligent, appraising eyes. “If you’re willing to work then so am I.”

  And work we did.

  She was a caring, no-nonsense kind of therapist. There were always questions, proddings, ways of looking at things that I hadn’t tried before.

  The nights when I cried returned again, but there was no corner shop and no late night calls by Viv. And when I woke up, I felt lighter. It took time, but it worked, all this talking and diving into and sorting through my past. Finding ways of approaching issues actively, and not just from a defensive or reactionary viewpoint. It was on her recommendation that I began checking in with my dad every day. Pushing through the awkwardness, we found a new routine.

  “Hey Ada,” he’d say. “What have you been up to today?”

  As if I was still twelve and coming home from school. But I told him, and asked him in return, listening to him recount the few things he actually did in the Hamptons. For the first time, I realized just how lonely he was.

  “He’s grieving too,” Dr. Willis said one day. “And it takes work to see beyond that.” And like that, with daily ten-minute phone calls, we got used to one another again.

  Minna didn’t stay away, either. She’d taken to an odd hero-worship of Dr. Willis, evident in most of our text conversations.

  Minna: When I come to visit, can I meet her?

  Ada: Sure. I can probably bring you along for a session.

  Minna: OMG! I would love that.

  Ada: And then you HAVE to come with me to this amazing little museum I found.

  Minna: That’s all you want to talk about. Art, art, art.

  Ada: No. I also talk about art.

  Minna: Funny. Hey, I’ve been wanting to show you something that I saw today. I’m not sure how you’ll take it, but I think you should read it.

  She sent me photos of a four-page spread of Art Weekly.

  The elusive genius of Grant Wood, the title read. Re-introducing Hathaway’s.

  A beautiful, glossy image of Grant leaning against the goods down in the vaults - in the tomb, to be precise. The vaulted ceiling stretched on behind him, goods of all kinds mingled in the background. A dusty Ming vase stood on a crate beside him. Grant was clad in a tailored suit, hands in pockets, and looked at the camera without smiling. Everything about the image radiated power, and control, and a touch of the whimsical - just like we'd once said.

  I smiled, seeing it. He looked as if he was counting the seconds until this was done. I could imagine him having told the photographer to hurry up just before this photo was taken. There was no way the magazine could have known about the tomb - Grant would have suggested it. Warmth spread through my chest.

  But I stopped at the first sentence.

  “I’m seated at the W hotel bar, waiting for the elusive Grant Wood of Hathaway’s. Since becoming CEO four years ago, he has notoriously not given a single public interview, preferring instead to let the auctions and sales numbers talk. And talk they have.”

  So she had been a reporter. I remembered the notepad and groaned, hurrying to read through the article. His responses were articulate, short, the right amount of humor and self-awareness. This was a great piece. I could imagine Marc squealing as he read it.

  There were even questions about his background, his childhood. My hands shook as I read it. How had he allowed this?

  “Did you come from a background of art and culture?”

  “No. It was something that struck me in my late teens.”

  The two final questions stalled me, and I had to sit down, zooming in on the phone to absorb every last word.

  “You took over after Arthur Hathaway himself, becoming the first CEO not of the old Hathaway branch. Was that daunting to you?”

  "No. Arthur has been a great mentor, and I have nothing but the utmost respect for him. So when he offered me the reins, and the board agreed, I had complete confidence in their choice."

  “There’s talk that Ada Hathaway, the youngest Hathaway, recently interned at your office. Did she live up to the family name?”

  “It’s true that she was accepted to an executive intern position. Ada has a degree in art history and is an incredibly hard worker, shows initiative and discipline. She is a credit both to herself and to the company.”

  Me? He’d been asked about me?

  And he’d sung my praises. Even when he thought I had been using him, doing all of it for my trust fund, he’d said this. He had to have known it would be published and spread amongst all those in the art world in New York, not to mention the country.

  He’d basically given them all my CV.

  It was stupid for this to mean anything, but combined with the text message he'd sent me… I knew that he cared. I could feel that he cared, had seen it in his eyes the last time we'd spoken.

  It was a shame he hadn’t been able to act on it. I made a note to ask Dr. Willis about that the next time our conversations drifted to him, as they had done tentatively in the past.

  Sometimes you had to hurt in order to heal. It would undoubtedly be painful.

  But I had stopped being afraid of that.

  * * *

  It was nearly midnight a week later when my phone rang. I put down the book I was reading and dragged myself out of bed. Those who called me regularly all knew I was here - they adjusted to the time difference. If this was a salesman I'd have some strong words ready for them.

  But the name flashing across my screen made me pause. It was with shaking hands that I pressed answer.

  “Grant?”

  “Hi, Ada. I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “No. You’re not.”

  “In the spirit of our old midnight phone calls, I tried to time it when it was midnight in France.”

  “What time is it for you?”

  “Six in the afternoon.” He cleared his throat. “I’m walking home from work.”

  A silence stretched out between us, not awkward, but not particularly comfortable either.

  “I called-“

  “I read-“

  “Go ahead.”

  “Okay. Well, I read the article about Hathaway’s in Art Weekly.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. It was good.”

  “I made sure they took the promotional photos in the storage room, particularly the tomb,” he said. “You were right when you said it was the beating heart of the company.”

  And the first place we'd kissed. Not that I would say that, but I felt as if it hung in the silence between us. My heart was beating fast, adrenaline working its way through my body. I hated that his voice affected me like this, that I hung on to every word. I also loved that he’d called.

  “They looked good.”

  “Thanks.” He cleared his throat again and I heard the sound of a car horn.

  “Sounds like New York.”

  “Same old. I was unsure if you would answer if I called, Ada.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Because I made a lot of mistakes. But I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

  “I’m alright,” I whispered. “I’m actually great.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes. I’m in Provence, in this little town. Time moves so slowly here. Too slowly, at first. But now I’m learning to enjoy it.”
<
br />   “I’m glad,” he said, and his voice sounded like he was smiling.

  “How are you?”

  “Oh, you know. The same.”

  “So still miserable on the inside but stoic on the outside?”

  He barked out a laugh. “You never let me off the hook.”

  “No. I never did.”

  “Well. I didn’t mean to keep you up.”

  “No worries. Are you almost home?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Passing by your front door now actually.”

  “Wave to Billy for me.”

  “Will not.”

  I laughed, softly, into the phone. I felt as if he was just there, within reach, and not a thousand miles and one we don’t have a future away.

  “Thanks for the call.”

  “Sure. Sleep well.”

  “You too.”

  “I will. In a couple of hours.”

  “Bye, Grant.”

  “Bye, Ada.”

  It took me a long time to fall asleep that night, but it wasn’t from crying.

  27

  Grant

  The phone call played through my mind every step of the coming days. Despite my fear, she'd picked up. There hadn't been anger in her voice, only hesitance and caution. I knew I had so much to ask forgiveness for, and talking to her had made it so clear. You only get one shot at life. And I’d be damned if I didn’t give Ada my all, even if I was broken, undeserving mess. If she still wanted me I could man up and rise to the challenge.

  But some conversations you just don’t have over the phone - and some things are too important to be left to chance. So I called Adam into my office.

  “You’re doing what?” He’d asked, eyes bugging.

  “I’m going on a vacation.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Now. It’s important, and I’ll be gone for a few days. But I trust you can manage everything.”

  “Will you be available on the phone?”

  I considered that. “Maybe, a bit. But don’t rely on it.”

  “Alright. Okay. Well…”

  “I leave tomorrow morning. I’ll prepare briefs for you for what I have in the works the coming days.”