All the Wrong Places

by Joy Fielding

  Oh, well, she thought, pushing her purchases farther under her desk with her left foot.

  “I hear your stomach has been giving you problems,” Marsha said.

  “I’m feeling much better now, thank you.”

  “Yes, I understand the medical staff at Nordstrom’s is top-notch.”

  Heather sighed, hearing giggles from across the aisle. “I’m sorry I was a little late getting back from lunch,” she began. “I must have eaten something that disagreed with me…”

  “Save it. I’m just checking to make sure you got that presentation off to the client.”

  What presentation? Heather thought. “What client?” she asked, the words out of her mouth before she could stop them.

  The look of mild irritation on Marsha’s face morphed into outright anger. “Seriously?”

  “You mean Johnson and Johnson?”

  “No, I mean Johnson and Applebaum. Of course I mean Johnson and Johnson. You were at the meeting yesterday. Dick Westlake asked us to send over the presentation electronically, which I assured him would be taken care of immediately.”

  “I’m sorry,” Heather said. “I’ll get right to it.”

  “You were supposed to get right to it yesterday.”

  “I know, but my computer was acting up. I couldn’t get it to do anything.”

  “Really? Did you report the problem to IT?”

  “I was going to, but—”

  “Save it,” Marsha said again. “Just do it. Now.”

  Damn it. She’d forgotten all about that stupid presentation the minute she’d left the meeting. Truth be told, she hadn’t been paying that much attention to anything that was going on in that boardroom. All that endless, essentially meaningless chatter about consumer package goods. They should call it “the bored room,” she thought, smiling at her own cleverness.

  “Something funny?” Marsha asked.

  Heather jumped at the sound of her voice. Why was Marsha still here? Was she going to stand there watching her until she was certain the job was done? Was that really the responsibility of a supervisor? Did she have nothing better to do? “Was there something else you needed?”

  “Just get it done.” Marsha Buchanan swiveled around on her flat heels and marched down the corridor.

  “Jealous bitch,” Heather whispered, bringing up the appropriate file on her computer.

  “Have you ever considered another line of work?” Kendall asked.

  Heather tossed the question aside with a wave of her hand, although she was thinking that maybe Kendall was right. She’d never really enjoyed advertising, having gone into it only because her cousin, Paige, had made it look so easy. She would have much preferred working in retail, perhaps managing a high-end boutique, like Paige’s friend Chloe used to do. But her father had made his displeasure with this idea clear, so she’d followed her cousin into advertising instead, toiling for several years as an account coordinator before finally being promoted to her current position.

  (“Congratulations!” her mother said. “It’s about time,” said her father.)

  He was right, of course. Over the years, Heather had watched a succession of young women move on and up, including Marsha Buchanan, who’d started working for McCann Advertising at roughly the same time she had. And now Marsha, who’d had it in for her from day one—probably because she was dumpy and frumpy while Heather was beautiful and slender—was her boss.

  People always talked about fairness in advertising. But how fair was that?

  The only thing that gave Heather any satisfaction was that Paige had lost her job around the same time that Heather received her promotion.

  She looked across the large, open-concept space, with its wall of windows overlooking the Charles River, bleached hardwood floors, and exposed ceiling pipes. McCann Advertising was made up of three distinct divisions, each occupying its own floor: strategy, the creative department, and the account people. Account people consisted of account coordinators, managers, supervisors, directors, and finally, group account directors, all of whom worked in cubicles, side by side. This lack of individual offices suggested an equality that didn’t exist. In practice, there was a definite hierarchy.

  The job of account manager was considered a relatively junior position. As the name suggested, account managers were responsible for the day-to-day managing of an account. Among other responsibilities, these included getting estimates to the client of work to be done and getting the client to sign off, getting production “workback” schedules ready and delivered to the client, and arranging for and managing the day-to-day meetings.

  It sounded simple enough, but Heather was always screwing up. One time, she forgot to respond to an email from a client who had a question requiring an immediate answer. Another time she neglected to include a small but essential item in an estimate, which resulted in extra costs, for which there’d been no contingency. Yet another time, she’d set up a meeting but failed to include some key people and prepare everything that was needed for it. Each incident had resulted in a reprimand. Still, Heather remained convinced that it was the jealousy of others, and not her own laziness and incompetence, that was the source of her problems.

  They were envious of her looks, her wardrobe, her family’s wealth and stature, as well as her handsome and successful lawyer boyfriend, the boyfriend she’d stolen from her cousin. Humble, perfect Paige, who always made a point of playing down her constant string of promotions when everyone—everyone but Heather’s father—could see how full of herself she really was. Paige, who “sure knows her stuff,” as her father was fond of saying. Paige, who would never forget to respond to a client’s email or be caught unprepared.

  Except, of course, she had been. Caught very unprepared indeed.

  How Heather loved to relive the night her cousin had come home early to discover her in bed with Noah! The look on her face had been priceless. Whenever Heather was bored during one of those endless meetings with clients, she conjured up the expression of shock and betrayal on Paige’s face. It never failed to make her smile.

  And now Paige had a new boyfriend. At least, according to her mother, who’d spilled the news as soon as her aunt Joan was out of earshot.

  “She has a new boyfriend?” Heather had repeated.

  “She’s bringing him to the party.”

  “She’s bringing him to the party?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “What do you mean, what do I mean, I don’t know?”

  “What?”

  Heather squirmed in her seat, recalling the futility of that conversation. The only thing that was clear was that her mother didn’t know anything: not the mystery man’s name or occupation, not how long he and Paige had been seeing each other, not how serious their relationship was, not even if he was as good-looking as Noah. “Shit,” she said aloud.

  “Problems?” Kendall asked.

  “Nothing I can’t deal with.”

  There was one person who could give her the information she craved. Heather reached for the phone, punched in the number, and waited while it rang twice before being picked up.

  “Hello,” the voice said.

  “Chloe. It’s Heather. How are you?”

  “Heather,” Chloe repeated, surprise infiltrating the coolness in her voice. “This is a shock. What can I do for you?”

  “I have to be in Cambridge for a meeting tomorrow,” Heather lied. “And I was thinking that it’s been way too long since we’ve seen each other. I thought maybe we could have lunch.”

  “You want to have lunch?”

  “My treat,” Heather said, hoping to sweeten the pot. While she and Chloe had never been close—they were more “friends-in-law,” as oh-so-clev
er Paige had once quipped—that relationship had pretty much ended when Paige moved out of Noah’s apartment.

  “I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Chloe said.

  “Please,” Heather said, understanding such groveling was necessary for her to obtain the information she craved. God, she could use a joint. “It’s important. Really.”

  “Really?” Chloe repeated, turning the statement into a question. A second’s silence. Then, “Okay, you have my curiosity.”

  That’s what I was counting on, Heather thought with relief. “Great. I’ll pick you up at one. You still on Binney Street?”

  “Still here.”

  “See you tomorrow.” Sensing the other woman’s continued ambivalence, Heather hung up the phone before Chloe could change her mind. She wondered if Chloe suspected she’d been the anonymous caller informing her of Matt’s extracurricular activities.

  “What meeting do you have tomorrow in Cambridge?” Kendall asked.

  “Do you always listen in on other people’s conversations?”

  Kendall shrugged, then brought her hand to her mouth, pointing with both her index finger and her eyes toward the approaching figure of Marsha Buchanan. “Have you emailed that presentation to the client yet?” Kendall asked under her breath.

  “Shit,” said Heather, as Marsha sidled up beside her. “Shit.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “So, what do you think?” Heather asked Noah, holding her new dress up against the gray tube dress she’d been wearing all day.

  “Nice,” Noah said, barely glancing in her direction.

  Heather immediately positioned herself between Noah and the large-screen TV he was watching.

  “Hey,” he said. “You make a better door than a window.”

  Heather rolled her eyes toward the low ceiling. Had he always spoken in such tired clichés? “You didn’t even look.”

  “I looked,” he said. “I said it’s nice. Now could you please move? The bases are loaded.”

  “I’m not moving until you take a good look.”

  Noah’s exasperated sigh all but shook the room. He swiveled toward her, his hands dropping into his lap, his thick, dark hair falling across his forehead, his pale blue eyes opening wide. “Okay. I’m looking.”

  “And?”

  “It’s lovely. Now could you move?”

  “You don’t like it,” Heather said.

  “I do like it.”

  “It looks better on. With the right shoes.” She glanced toward her bare feet.

  “I’m sure it does.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “What does what mean?”

  God, Heather thought, refusing to budge. He was as bad as her mother.

  A great roar suddenly shot from the TV.

  “Shit!” Noah said, almost as loud.

  “What happened?”

  “Martinez hit a homer. They just hit a grand slam. And I missed it.”

  “And that’s my fault?”

  “You’re the one standing in front of the TV.”

  “Only because you won’t take two minutes to give me your honest opinion.”

  “You want my honest opinion?” Noah said angrily. “Fine. I’ll give you my honest opinion. You’re right—I’m not crazy about it.”

  “What do you mean, you’re not crazy about it?” Heather’s voice veered dangerously close to a wail. “What don’t you like?”

  “I don’t know. It’s kind of gaudy, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?”

  He shrugged, leaning on his left elbow, straining to see around her. “It just looks a little…cheap.”

  “Cheap? It cost over a thousand dollars!”

  “That’s not what I…You spent over a thousand dollars for that?”

  “My mother bought it for me,” Heather said. “What do you mean, it looks cheap?”

  “It’s a little short, that’s all. And skimpy-looking,” he added.

  “It’s not skimpy-looking, and it’s supposed to be short.”

  “Well, good, then. It is what it’s supposed to be. Can I watch the game now?”

  “It fits perfectly.”

  “Okay. Then, clearly, I’m wrong. It’s perfect.”

  “You think it’s too low-cut?” Heather asked, watching Noah’s hands grip the sides of the sofa.

  “I think it’s perfect,” he repeated, his eyes darting back toward the TV, the edges of his voice radiating fury.

  “You’re not just saying that?” Heather pressed.

  Which was when Noah snapped. “Of course I’m just saying that! I’ll say anything to get you to move your ass out of the way so I can watch the game. I’ve had a long, shitty day and I’ve been looking forward to this game all afternoon. So, if you would kindly shut up about that stupid dress and get the hell out of my way, it would be greatly appreciated. In fact, it would be fucking perfect!”

  Heather burst into tears and fled the room.

  “Thank you,” Noah called as she slammed the bedroom door behind her.

  She threw the dress onto the bed, then plopped down on top of it, feeling its heavy layer of beads digging into her backside. “Damn you, Noah Sherman!” She stood up, sat back down, then stood up again, fighting the urge to throw a full-scale, Real Housewives–like tantrum. Instead she pulled her tube dress up over her head and tossed it to the dark blue broadloom at her feet, stomping on it until it resembled a big, gray puddle.

  She grabbed the new dress off the bed and slithered into it, then studied herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. “You look fantastic,” she said to her reflection. Admittedly, the dress was a little short and more than a little tight. And yes, it was scooped perhaps an inch or two too low. But wasn’t that the point? She looked great. She pushed her shoulder-length hair away from her pale face and wiped the remaining tears from her eyes. “You look great.”

  What was the matter with Noah, anyway? Just because he’d had a shitty day at work didn’t give him the right to take it out on her. It didn’t give him the right to be sarcastic and rude.

  Heather knew he didn’t mean the things he’d said. What bothered her more were the things he hadn’t said. And what he hadn’t said was that her cousin would never be caught dead in a dress like that. No, not precious, perfect Paige.

  She knew he still thought about her. Sometimes he’d be expounding on some issue—Noah rarely talked when he could expound—and she’d dare to offer an opinion, and he’d give her that look, the look that said she was way out of her depth, that she didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. And maybe she didn’t. She’d never been very interested in politics or issues that didn’t directly concern her. Talk about history bored her every bit as much as talk about movie stars bored him. In truth, she and Noah had very little in common except sex. And even that wasn’t as intense as when Paige had been the unwitting third side of the triangle. Every so often, Heather would catch Noah staring off into space, and she knew he was thinking about Paige, wondering if he’d made a mistake.

  Just like her father, she thought. The way he used to joke that the hospital had made a mistake, sent him and his wife home with the wrong infant, that Paige, born two days later and released the same day as Heather, who’d been jaundiced as an infant and kept in the hospital an extra couple of days, was really his child.

  Heather was the youngest of her parents’ three children, and the only girl. Her brothers, Vic and Jordan, were both brilliant students and held master’s degrees in business. Heather had been a mediocre student at best—“my dumb one,” her father used to tease—and she’d quickly learned to take refuge in her brothers’ shadows, afraid of her own opinions, adopting and repeating theirs instead, latching onto the end of their sentences as if to make them hers, ultimately relying on her burgeoning beauty
to speak for her.

  And it worked—for a while. She had her father’s eye, if not his ear. Or his respect. And then Paige, her virtual twin, had started speaking up at family gatherings, challenging the assertions of the others, putting forth reasoned arguments of her own, effortlessly stealing the spotlight. “That girl sure knows her stuff,” became Ted Hamilton’s all-too-familiar, go-to refrain. Followed by a wink and the inevitable corollary, “I think the hospital must have made a mistake.”

  Heather hadn’t set out to hate her cousin, just as she hadn’t purposely set out to steal her boyfriend. Both things had just kind of happened, and one didn’t have to have a master’s degree in psychology to understand why. She might be “the dumb one,” but she wasn’t stupid.

  She’d spent years in silent competition with Paige, only to come up short. And she’d finally won. She had her cousin’s apartment, her career, and her man. She was pretty much living her cousin’s life. And yet she was unhappier than she’d ever been. She was no good at her job, she wasn’t sure she even liked the man she was supposed to love, and the really strange thing was that she probably missed Paige more than Noah did.

  Heather stared at her reflection in the mirror, watching a new set of tears fill her eyes and fall down her cheeks. Noah was right—the dress was skimpy. It was too short, too tight, and way too low-cut.

  And damn it—she liked it!

  Of course, Paige would never be caught dead in anything so obvious. She would show up to her uncle’s birthday party wearing something both understated and sophisticated. “And boring,” Heather said aloud.

  Just as Noah was boring.

  “You’re boring!” she shouted at the closed door. “Do you hear me? Bor-r-ing! You have bored me to actual tears.” She approached the mirror, laying her forehead against the glass and swiping the tears away with the back of her hand.