by Tessa Bailey
“What’s going on today?” I ask Carrie. My desk is covered with papers, fabric samples, magazines. I hate that.
“Big private party tonight,” she answers, sitting down across from me. “It was a last-minute booking, but we pulled it together. A divorce celebration. In fact, the woman throwing the party will be here in twenty minutes to finalize details. Catering is tearing their hair out.”
I nod, flipping through the piles on my desk. “Could you call security for me? There’s a junker car parked in my spot. It needs to be towed.”
Both hands fly to her mouth. “It’s my car! I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you were coming in, and your spot is so much closer to the door than mine!”
“All right, no problem, but could you move it before my meter expires?”
“I’ll do it right now.” She bolts out the door.
This is the first time I’ve been completely alone in weeks. And right on cue, I hear the faint sounds of an infant working up to fuss. The receptionist appears at the door, wheeling the stroller.
“Um, Chloe?”
“Thanks, Hayley.”
“And there’s a client here to see Carrie about her party? But Carrie just ran out. What should I tell her?”
“I’ll meet with her. You can send her in.”
I pick up the now-outraged Holly, and pull a bottle and a burp towel out of the bag. All sorts of interesting and unusual sounds can be heard in the halls of O, but a crying baby is completely new.
As I’m trying to settle in my chair for Holly’s feeding, Hayley reappears. Behind her is a slightly heavy woman in a white skirt and a red-and-hot-pink silk halter. She’s not tall, but her four-inch fuchsia heels add height. She is wearing so much heavy gold jewelry, I don’t know how she stands up under the weight. Her dark brown hair has clearly just been blown out.
“This is Ms. Silverman,” Hayley announces. “Ms. Silverman, this is Chloe…”
I attempt to stand up, but drop the bottle in my hand, which must not have been closed tightly, because the top pops off and formula makes a thick greyish puddle on the carpet. Holly cries louder.
Ms. Silverman takes an involuntary step back.
“Please come in,” I call over the noise. My hair has come loose and is hanging in my face as I try to mop up the mess with the burp towel. “This will just take a second, and then we can talk. Please sit down.”
She sits, carefully, looking at the chair seat first. I get out another bottle and sit back down with Holly. Mercifully, silence falls.
“I’m so sorry,” I start. “I’m a new mother, and this is the first time I’ve brought the baby to work. Just need to get into a routine here. Let’s talk about your party tonight.”
She looks at me doubtfully. “I have twenty-five friends coming,” she begins. “Starting at 5:00, for spa services, then drinks, dinner, and entertainment. I want everything to be perfect. You know, the fourth space? Rest, relax, indulge? You can handle this, right?”
At those words, my mind goes blank. Rest. Relax. Indulge.
“I’m getting a divorce,” she continues. “We’re celebrating my new life, my freedom. From that lying, cheating, egotistical, high-maintenance alcoholic I was married to.”
“I know the type,” I mutter.
“Seven years! Seven years of waiting for him to come home at night! Finding thongs in his pockets, scratches on his back, lipstick in places it should not be! And lately he always smells of lemon verbena perfume, when I wear Chanel No. 5! Never marry a lawyer, that’s my advice. They know how to hide the truth. For a while, anyway.” She makes a bitter sound. “But now I’m free.”
Lemon verbena perfume? Lawyers? I look at her closely. But I don’t know anyone named Silverman.
“So tonight has to be perfect. I don’t care what it costs. Now that I don’t have to pay for Joe’s expenses anymore, my money is my own. Can I see the menu, please?”
I just stare at her. I do not move. I do not breathe. If I had a paper bag, I would put it over my head.
Joe.
“Of course, Ms…Silverman? Let me see if Carrie is back at her desk. She’s been managing your event.”
“Silverman is my maiden name. I’m taking it back. I’m not really used to it yet.” She smiles, a bit shyly.
“Carrie?” I say into the phone. “Can you come in here, please, and bring Ms… Silverman’s… information.”
Immediately there’s a quick knock on my door frame, but it’s Henry. Shockingly, he is dressed in street clothes, khaki pants, a button-down shirt, my god, even a belt. Behind him is Ryan. Henry half-pulls, half-pushes Ryan into the room. He is wearing a Captain America outfit.
Minus most of the costume.
Ryan is wearing a mask, a red, white and blue shoelace thong, and he is holding a shield.
Henry is beaming with pride. Ryan looks miserable and murderous at the same time.
“We’ve got the costumes,” Henry announces. “Carrie sent us in to show you. There wasn’t a lot of time, but I think we’ve nailed it.”
Our client rises to her feet and circles Ryan with obvious approval.
“This is fantastic!” she breathes.
Ryan perks up slightly. I swear the tattoos on one arm swell of their own accord.
Henry holds out a hand. “Henry Holliday,” he says smoothly. “O’s master masseur and costume designer.”
Oh please.
“Wait until you see Iron Man.” Henry winks.
I hold back my shudder.
So does poor Ryan.
The client puts her manicured hand in his, looking up. Way up. “I’m Marcy Silverman.”
And there you have it. Marcy. Confirmed.
On my first visit back to O, I am helping Joe’s wife arrange her divorce party. While feeding my baby. You can’t make this stuff up.
And I haven’t had my eyebrows threaded in weeks.
Holly has stopped taking her bottle, about halfway through. I raise her to my shoulder and rub her back while watching Henry and Marcy discuss what the servers will wear. Or not wear. Henry is sketching something on a pad. He uses an economy of strokes.
Holly, good girl that she is, produces an impressive belch. There’s a brief pause. And I feel something warm running down my shoulder and neck. And back.
Where the hell is Carrie?
The office intercom speaks: Chloe Browne, you have a call on Line Two.
Without thinking, I reach for the phone, but before I can pick it up Marcy turns around. She blinks, and then her eyes travel from me, to Holly, to the spit-up formula splashed all over my dress.
“You’re Chloe Browne?” she asks in obvious disbelief.
“Um,” I say definitively. “Well. Um, yes?”
“That is very strange,” Marcy says slowly. “Very coincidental.”
“Oh? Do you, ah, do you know someone by that name? Not an unusual name, really. Fairly common, in fact. Lots of Chloe Brownes out there.” I am babbling. “Someone even told me there’s a porn star with that name. Funny, right?”
I laugh. She doesn’t join in.
“My former husband’s girlfriend was named Chloe Browne.”
She takes a step toward me, and I turn in my chair, shielding Holly. But all Marcy does is inhale deeply.
“I thought I smelled lemon in here, but all I smell now is sour milk. It couldn’t be you.”
Henry has backed up to the wall. I imagine a hostage being held at gunpoint would look more comfortable.
“It was me, Marcy,” I hear myself say, my voice trembling. “But I ended it. I’m so sorry. I thought he was divorcing you, and he told me…”
“Oh you poor thing,” she interrupts. “You believed everything he said, didn’t you? That lying dog. He lied to both of us for years. And look at you now, an unwed mother, trying to hold down a paying job! That tiny-pricked, slobbering snake of a festering twatwaffle!”
“No, no no no!” I am horrified. “You have the wrong idea! This is my baby!” But I do like her
abundantly creative mastery of insults.
“Brave, brave girl.” Marcy is undeterred. She takes out her phone. “But don’t you worry, you’re not alone. I’m going to take care of all your expenses, nannies and private school and college. That slimy bastard whoreson of an asshat. My family foundation will take care of everything. Joe and I never had children. You and I will raise his child together. What’s your cell number?”
“Ms. Silverman, Marcy,” I start. “This is not Joe’s baby.”
She looks up from her phone. “Really.” Her eyes narrow. “There were others? You had a DNA test?”
“I adopted. She’s just mine. No paternity test needed.”
She processes this. “You really are a brave girl,” she says finally. “Come to my party tonight. Get a babysitter. We’re both free of him. A new life for both of us.”
“Thank you, Marcy,” I say with real gratitude. “I can’t, but thank you so much.”
I stand, still clutching Holly to my shoulder, and move to hug her. She leans in but suddenly pulls back, and I realize that only someone wearing a hazmat suit would hug me now.
Henry grabs Ryan’s arm and they sidle out of the room. As they exit, Carrie enters. She has folders in one hand and a small tray of dessert samples in the other. She walks by Ryan, then spins on one heel in a classic double take. She bursts into incredulous laughter, then catches my eye and tries to swallow it.
Ryan raises his shield to hide his face.
“Carrie! Why don’t you take Ms. Silverman to the conference room to finish your meeting? I think everything is in really good shape.”
I smile at Marcy, and she smiles right back.
O, the fourth space.
* * *
I’m going back to work full time in one week. One week. And everyone from our pediatrician to the supermarket checkout clerk says I need to get this baby on a schedule.
Actually, I’m not sure what this means. And I have no clue at all how one would accomplish it. How do you motivate an infant? Threaten to take away her cell phone? Or maybe the reward system is better—if you finish your cereal I’ll let you binge-watch Sesame Street?
Anyway, in an effort to establish predictable nap times, on this sunny afternoon, I am taking Holly on a snooze cruise of Back Bay while my mother recovers from her massage at my place. Holly is tucked warmly into her stroller with her binky and stuffed bunny. I am able to study the display windows of all the chic Newbury Street shops, heading for the Public Gardens. There I plan to sit on a bench in a warm place and read a novel while she sleeps.
Like a Beacon Hill nanny, but older.
Except she doesn’t sleep.
She scowls, she spits out her binky, she wrestles with her blankets. She is dissatisfied. She makes threatening sounds.
Determined, I keep walking. Through the Gardens, past the Skating Pond, over to Charles Street. Past the antiques dealers and the cafes. I’m about to give up and head toward the Red Line stop when I realize I’m about two blocks from Nick’s.
Is dropping in cool?
At his house, I could change her diaper, refill my water bottle, warm up for ten minutes.
Okay, let’s be honest. I can do all those things in a coffee shop. I just want to see him.
This is so high school.
I turn onto his street, which climbs steeply uphill. The sidewalks here are antique brick, charming but so uneven that I can barely push the stroller forward. Holly is being rocked wildly from side to side. Finally I resort to walking backwards and dragging the stroller up after me. Here’s a plus: I definitely do not need to work out after this.
Finally the street levels off a bit. I check Holly.
Sound asleep. Go figure.
Well, I’m here now, in front of Nick’s townhouse. After the trip up the hill, I don’t really need to warm up anymore—in fact, I am sweating profusely—but at least I can see Nick. I pull the elastic out of my ponytail and re-tie it as best I can without a brush. Before Holly, I never would have left the house without lipstick. I feel in my jacket pocket, and yes! I find a tube. I pull it out. ChapStick.
And yet, tucked into the pockets of the stroller are diapers, wipes, Balmex, bottles of formula, an extra binky, pajamas, a sweater, sun lotion, and a bottle of baby ibuprofen drops. Enough baby supplies to last a week.
I ring the doorbell, and keep jiggling the stroller. My nose starts to run from the chilly air, and I am wiping it with a tissue when I hear the clicking and scraping of locks being turned from the inside. My heart beats a little faster.
The door swings in, and there stands a woman so perfect in every respect, I wonder if it might be Siri. She is wearing an ivory tweed suit and lots of pearls, and if that sounds boring, trust me, it isn’t. Looks like Chanel. Her dark brown hair is pinned up in a smooth twist.
She’s not smiling.
“Oui?” French Siri says.
“Uh,” I reply.
“Is it the recycle, or the whales?” she asks impatiently. “Where must I sign?”
“Um. Is, um, is Nick here?”
She looks at me closely now. Her glance falls on the stroller and her eyes narrow.
“And you are?”
I hesitate. “Chloe?” Even I’m not sure anymore.
“I will see if my husband can come to the door,” she says coldly. Or maybe it’s just the French accent. I really can’t tell. “He is busy with our children. Un moment.”
The door slams shut. As I regard the brass knocker, I hear her muffled voice, “Nicolas!” and then an angry flood of French words, from which I can make out only a bit, but did she just ask him if he was properly dressed?
Oh, god. I’ve been so stupid.
Again.
I turn away from the door, and as I do, my jacket catches on the railing post. There’s a tearing sound, but I can’t stop. I untangle my jacket, kick off the stroller’s brake pedals, and go back in the direction from which I came.
Downhill is easier.
At the bottom of the street, I turn right towards the T station.
Really there’s not a thought in my head. There is a huge, heavy pain in my chest, but not a single thought in my head. The sidewalks are crowded with shoppers, all the urbanites who have been cooped up in their apartments and are now out for air. They are slowing me down considerably. Holly sleeps on, oblivious. Every once in a while her binky quivers as she sucks automatically, dreaming of milk and clouds and happy mommies.
There are noises behind me, a disturbance. A fight, or someone hurt? I glance over my shoulder nervously, and try to pick up speed. Everyplace seems more dangerous these days. I just want to get us home now. Where we can be safe.
Suddenly the disturbance is right behind me, and I hear “Chloe!” as someone grabs my arm. I pull away, hard, terrified, but it’s Nick yelling “Chloe! Stop!”
Then I pull away harder.
He has no coat on, and he’s panting. Wouldn’t you think someone, anyone, would ask if I need help? A woman with a baby being accosted by a frantic man? But no, the crowds just step around us. We get one or two looks of annoyance for blocking the way.
“What?”
“I heard what happened. I’m so sorry. Simone is playing some kind of game. You don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand all too well, Nick.” My voice is an iceberg. “Go back to your wife.”
“Ex-wife!” he roars. “Simone is here for Amelie’s concert and she wanted to stay with the kids. It’s the first time she’s ever done this. It’s not what you think!”
“That’s what you all say,” I hiss, with a bitterness I didn’t know was in me. “Go home to your wife, Nick. Go home to your family.”
I look down at my little angel.
“I’ve already got mine.”
And with that, I walk away.
* * *
Nick
“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?” I roar as I enter my own home, winded from running back, destroyed by the look on Chloe’s face and her final
words to me.
That’s what you all say.
Jesus. She just lumped me in with that bastard ex of hers. My god.
I do not care that Simone’s recoiling, physically terrified, her impassive face now expressing nothing but sheer horror at…me.
At who I am right now. Right here.
The man she made me become.
“You told her I’m your husband!” I bellow at Simone, who gives me a look of pleading. “That’s a role you kicked me out of years ago. Get out. Get out of my house now.”
“Nick, you misunderstand.”
Funny. I just said that to Chloe. Deep rage makes me feel the need to apologize again. How anemic are those words. I let her go because there was nothing I could do in the moment.
Nothing I could say to make Chloe stay.
But I could come back here and right a wrong.
Simone puts together all the puzzle pieces of her face and suddenly, she’s back to being Simone, pulling on a pearl earring with impatience, as if I’m the one who has transgressed. “I told your little lover that—”
“I heard every word. I was right behind you. Don’t lie.”
“How dare you call me a—”
“Don’t dare me to do anything right now, Simone.”
Her face goes pale as fresh cream.
“You will leave. Get a hotel. We’ll tell the kids you needed some space. They won’t question it, because you’ve always needed space.” My temples pound with fury, my breathing still ragged around the edges from sprinting after Chloe, then racing back to get Simone before she could slip out and avoid the confrontation.
I need this.
I’ve needed this for years.
“You do not get to make this my fault, Nick!”
“I’m not making it your fault, Simone. You did that nicely all on your own.”
“Chloe – is that her name?—is worth all this?” She titters. “Good for you. Finally acting like a man.” She sniffs. “Nice to see you have it in you.”
That’s it.
Gloves off.
“You do not get to define my maleness, Simone. Not now, not ever. Damn it, you made me feel like less of a man for wanting to be more of a father!”
She blinks, hard, her elbow covering one breast as she twists her earring, a sure sign of stress in her. She did that exact movement the day she told me she was leaving. Perfect sleeveless dress, perfect lipstick, hair pulled back in a tight knot at the base of her neck, her skin flawless.