All the Wrong Places

by Joy Fielding

  “My God,” she whispered, her eyes taking in the unexpectedly high number of people in the crowded waiting area, lining up to have their belongings go through the X-ray machines. What had she expected? That she would be the only person in need of the court’s services? But this many? At barely nine o’clock? What were all these people doing here?

  Please don’t let there be anyone here I know, she prayed, getting in line behind an elderly black woman and a pink-haired teenage girl with a small silver hoop between the nostrils of her upturned nose.

  “What’s the holdup?” the pink-haired girl whined to no one in particular. “How long can it take to put your things through an X-ray machine?”

  The elderly black woman smiled. “You might as well get used to it, hon. Nobody moves too fast around here.”

  “Great.” The girl tugged at the side of her spiky pink hair and twisted her skinny torso toward Chloe. She was wearing a cropped white T-shirt that exposed her belly button, her belly button sporting a bigger variation of the hoop that pierced her nose. “This is such bullshit,” she said, extricating a piece of paper from the back pocket of her low-rise jeans and using it to scratch the side of her cheek. “I shouldn’t even be here. I got a ticket because this Nazi cop claims I went through a stop sign, which is total bullshit.”

  “You didn’t go through the stop sign?” Chloe asked, relieved for the distraction the girl provided.

  “I didn’t even see the stupid thing. There was this big tree right in front of it. It’s not my fault the city’s too cheap to trim its stupid branches. Anyway,” she said, continuing her indignant rant, “that’s not even the problem.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No. I tried explaining all this to the cop, that it was the city’s responsibility to trim the stupid tree so people could see the stupid stop sign, and there was no way I could afford a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar ticket, and he said he sympathized but the ticket was already written and there was nothing he could do. He said that people were being caught by that stop sign all the time and I could fight it if I wanted. I asked him, how do I do that? And he said to wait for a second summons. But I swear I never got one. And then I get a notice telling me I’ve been fined an additional hundred dollars, and I’m gonna lose my license if I don’t pay up. So that’s why I’m here. To talk to somebody who can help me. Because it’s not fair. None of this is my fault.”

  Chloe smiled. A girl with spiky pink hair and piercings through her nose and navel expected life to be fair. Somehow she found that both sweet and reassuring. “Well, I wish you luck.”

  “Thanks,” the girl said. “Why are you here?”

  The smile faded from Chloe’s face as she tried to think of a suitable response.

  “We’re moving,” the woman in front of the pink-haired girl informed them.

  “Thank God.” The girl turned away from Chloe, getting her large, fringed handbag ready for the X-ray machine. “Have fun,” she called as she waved from the other side, disappearing down the long hall.

  “Excuse me,” Chloe said to a security guard, “but where do I go for—”

  “File clerk. Upstairs,” the guard told her with a jerk of his thumb.

  Chloe pushed her body toward the stairs, thinking it wasn’t too late to turn around and forget the whole thing. Except it was too late. Matt had a gun.

  She had to wait another ten minutes in line at the file clerk’s desk. The file clerk was a middle-aged woman with short brown hair and deep bags under watery gray eyes that said she was already exhausted and the day had barely begun. “Yes?” she said as Chloe approached.

  “I need a restraining order,” Chloe whispered.

  “Sorry. Can’t hear you. You’ll have to speak up.”

  Chloe lowered her head and glanced surreptitiously from side to side, leaning against the high desk and hoping no one in line behind her could hear. “I need a restraining order.”

  “Family Court,” the file clerk announced loudly. “Down the hall to your left.”

  Chloe stepped away from the counter, not lifting her gaze from the floor, sure that all eyes were following her down the hall. Still not too late to turn around and go home, she was thinking.

  “Can I help you?” another middle-aged woman asked when she reached the appropriate room. The woman had dark skin, dark eyes, and dark, curly hair, all of which emphasized the white of her teeth when she smiled. Chloe was grateful for the smile. It almost made up for the stale smell of cheap perfume and perspiration pulsating from the beige walls.

  “I need to take out a restraining order.”

  The clerk bent toward a drawer and pulled out a bunch of forms, handing them across the reception desk to Chloe. “You need to fill these out in as much detail as you can, but don’t sign them before you’re in front of a notary public or a clerk of the court.”

  Chloe took a cursory glance through the multitude of pages. “It’s so much,” she mumbled, the beginnings of panic stirring in her chest. Damn it, she thought. Paige’s mother was right. She should have written everything down.

  The clerk’s muted smile signaled her compassion. “You can take them home, if that would be easier for you. Unless, of course, it’s an emergency. Is it?”

  “No,” Chloe told her. “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you in immediate physical danger?”

  “My husband has a gun. Does that count?”

  “Has he threatened you with it?”

  “No.”

  “Lots of people have guns,” the clerk said with a sigh. “How exactly has he been harassing you?”

  “Well, we’re separated, and I’ve been getting these horrible, obscene phone calls. My husband swears it wasn’t him, but he’s made vague threats before…”

  “Sorry, honey, but you’re going to need more than vague threats to prove to a judge that you need a restraining order. He’ll be looking for specific facts, details of actual threats and abuse. The defendant, in this case your estranged husband, has to have either caused you physical harm, attempted to cause you physical harm, placed you in fear of physical harm, or forced you to have sex,” she recited, as if by rote. “The judge can deny issuing an order if he finds there’s no basis.”

  “So, what do I do? I’m not sure…”

  “My advice would be to get a lawyer involved.”

  “Lawyers are expensive,” Chloe said. It was important she keep her legal fees to a minimum. “So, say I go ahead and fill this out…What happens next?”

  “You’ll receive a court hearing where you can present your case, and then you’ll wait for the judge’s decision. I assume it’s an ex parte order you’re after.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An ex parte order means that your husband doesn’t have to be notified of your intentions and that the hearing will be held right away, either in person or over the phone.”

  “Over the phone?”

  “Only if no judge is available. But you’re in luck. Judge Lewis is here today. You’ll be asking him to issue a no-contact order that would limit or prevent your husband from contacting you and your children. This order can last up to ten business days, after which your husband will have the right to attend a hearing and present a defense.”

  “Oh, God. He’ll be furious.”

  The clerk nodded, signaling she was well acquainted with Chloe’s predicament. “What you do is up to you, of course,” she said. “But again, you should probably consult a lawyer, see if there’s a real basis for an order of this kind. It’s going to cost you either way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The fee is three hundred and fifty-five dollars to file a civil harassment restraining order unless physical harm or the threat of physical harm is present, which, in this case, you tell me isn’t there. And there’s no guarantee you’ll be successful. So…”
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  “So, I should probably talk to my lawyer,” Chloe said, conceding the inevitable.

  “That would be my recommendation. But, as I said, it’s entirely up to you.”

  Chloe stuffed the forms inside her purse. How could anything be up to her when her life was careening out of control? “Thank you,” she told the clerk.

  “Nice dress, by the way.”

  “Thank you,” Chloe said again, fleeing the office before the woman could see her burst into tears.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  She was wearing pink, which was still her favorite color; it had been ever since she was a child. I probably should have outgrown it by now, Paige thought, swiveling around in the buttery beige leather tub chair, casually absorbing the spacious, modern reception area of JFI Advertising, located on the fifteenth floor of the John Hancock Tower in downtown Boston. Black-and-white photographs covered the few walls that weren’t windows; the ultramodern furniture sat low to the dark hardwood floor. Paige noted that the young woman with geometrically cut white-blond hair sitting ramrod straight behind the emerald-green marble desk in the middle of the room was wearing all black. I should have worn black, she thought, tugging at the pearl buttons of her blush-pink cotton blouse and smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles from her gray A-line skirt. At the very least, she should have selected an outfit that was bolder, less conservative, more fashion-forward. This was a cutting-edge agency after all, and she was a grown woman, not a little girl.

  Except she’d never felt more childlike, more vulnerable, in her entire life. Over six months of rejection had taken their toll, dug deep into the core of her self-esteem. Having been let go, through no fault of her own, from a job she loved was bad enough, but what followed had proved even worse. While she’d approached her first post-firing interviews full of confidence and optimism, by the third rejection that optimism had started to wane, and her confidence had fallen on decidedly shaky ground. It hadn’t helped that Noah had picked that time to reject her as well.

  Paige felt a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. That slap on Saturday night had gone a long way toward making her feel better. Not that she would normally condone such violence, she thought, picturing Chloe, and hearing the fear in her friend’s voice as she’d recounted the events of her own Saturday night. Damn Matt anyway. What was the matter with him? Hadn’t he caused Chloe enough pain? Did he have to terrorize her now as well?

  She’d urged Chloe to take out a restraining order against him, but Chloe had texted an hour ago informing her that the clerk at the courthouse had advised first speaking to her lawyer, and her lawyer had confirmed that a judge was unlikely to issue such an order based on the scant evidence she had. Looks like I’ll have to wait till he shoots me, had come Chloe’s follow-up text.

  A horrifying thought.

  So, no, violence in any form should never be considered acceptable. Still, goddamn it, there was just no getting around it—slapping Noah had felt great.

  Paige had spent a good part of Sunday morning imagining the scene that might have taken place later that night between Noah and Heather. How she’d love to have been a fly on the wall of the bedroom they’d once shared! Still, knowing Noah, he’d probably managed to come up with some plausible excuse for his behavior. He was a lawyer, after all, skilled at creating reasonable doubt. He and Heather had likely ended the evening having wild, crazy sex, which was the last thing Paige wanted to picture.

  Then there was Sam.

  Another scene she tried not to imagine. Except, of course, she didn’t have to imagine it. She had only to remember all but dragging the poor man into his bedroom, shedding her clothes along the way, and virtually attacking him. What had gotten into her?

  Not Sam, she thought, and almost laughed.

  Another rejection. She sighed audibly.

  “Ms. Lyons shouldn’t be much longer,” the receptionist said, misinterpreting Paige’s sigh for one of impatience.

  Paige nodded, hearing her cellphone ping in her purse. She quickly checked her messages. Well, what do you know? she thought, finding a text from Mr. Right Now. She’d texted him yesterday morning, apologizing for having had to cut short their contact the night before—how many apologies did that make?—and he’d been very gracious, telling her no apologies were necessary. Just glad you’re here now. Looking forward to getting to know you.

  Looking forward to getting to know you too, she’d texted back.

  And then nothing. No suggestion that they should meet up. No trying to schedule another rendezvous. A case of once bitten, twice shy?

  She’d checked her phone repeatedly throughout the day, but there were no further messages. She’d considered sending him another text, then decided against it. She was through throwing herself at men. If Mr. Right Now was really looking forward to getting to know her, he knew exactly what he had to do.

  And now suddenly, he was doing it: Hey, there, Wildflower, his text read. My turn to apologize. Unexpected visitors. What’s going on?

  Waiting for a job interview, she messaged back.

  What kind of job?

  In advertising. Strategic planning.

  Sounds impressive. Good luck.

  Fingers crossed.

  That was it. Their longest exchange so far. Making progress, she thought, returning the phone to her purse when it became obvious there’d be no more texts. She wondered if he’d check in later, inquire how her interview had gone. She shrugged, deciding that she wasn’t going to waste time worrying about it. If he messaged her again, fine. If he didn’t, also fine. She had more important things to worry about at the moment. Like her interview with Molly Lyons, senior vice president of JFI Advertising.

  Not that there was anything to worry about, Paige told herself. Her previous interview with the head of HR had gone well, and she was well prepared for this one. She’d done her homework, going over the critical aspects of the job she was seeking, and what she could say about the skills and capabilities she possessed that made her the ideal candidate to fill that job. She’d visited the agency’s website multiple times and checked out assorted industry publications to familiarize herself with key information about the company. She’d looked up Molly Lyons’s profile on LinkedIn to get a sense of her background and any connections they might have in common.

  She’d also brushed up on her own CV, recapping her career history and reminding herself of all she’d accomplished, her various wins and achievements. Details were important. In discussing her achievements, she had to take care to properly set up each situation, discuss how she’d handled it, and explain the results.

  There were bound to be questions about past challenges she’d overcome or times in her previous position when she’d gone above and beyond. Perhaps there was a current advertising campaign she found particularly exciting or innovative.

  Paige also had a few interesting questions of her own prepared. Employers liked that.

  But ultimately, she knew that chemistry was the key. It mattered less how good she’d been at her previous job, or how deeply she understood the business, than how well she connected with Molly Lyons. She had to banish negative thoughts of past rejections. She had to appear upbeat and positive. It was as important to listen as to talk. She had to be seen as both an individual standout and a team player.

  In the end, of course, she could only be herself.

  Would that be enough?

  “Paige Hamilton?”

  An attractive woman was walking toward her, hand extended in greeting. She looked exactly like her picture on the agency’s website: younger than her forty years, with sleek, chin-length brown hair, a wide face, and an engaging smile. She was wearing cropped gray pants and a pink, short-sleeved sweater. “Wonderful to see that there’s someone else who likes pink,” Molly Lyons said, shaking Paige’s hand. “Very nice to meet you.”

  Paige felt her body
instantly relax. “Very nice to meet you.”

  * * *

  —

  She called her mother from a bench in Copley Square within minutes of leaving Molly’s office. The morning showers had given way to a beautiful, warm, sunny afternoon.

  “So?” Joan Hamilton asked.

  Paige heard the hope in her mother’s voice. “It was fantastic. Great. Better than I could have dreamed.”

  “Oh, darling. I’m so glad.”

  Paige checked her watch. It was almost five o’clock. Her interview had lasted more than two hours. She and Molly had fit together like the proverbial hand and glove. Milk and cookies. Rod and reel. Pick a cliché. It fit. They fit.

  “I mean, it’s not a done deal,” Paige qualified, not wanting to risk disappointment by getting too far ahead of herself. “I still have to meet with the head of the agency and a few other key people…”

  “When will that be?”

  “Probably next week. The president is out of town till next Monday, and the creative director is on holiday till Wednesday, so…”

  “Next week,” her mother said. “Well, we’ll keep our fingers crossed.”

  Fingers crossed.

  “So, I was thinking, maybe we could go out to dinner,” Paige said. “My treat. A kind of mini-celebration for having had such a good interview and making it to the next level.”

  “Oh, darling. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  “You can’t?”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you feel well?”

  “No, sweetheart. I feel fine. It’s just…”

  “What?”

  An uncomfortable pause. “I have a date.”

  “What?”

  “I have a date.”

  “You have a date?” Paige repeated. “With whom? Someone you met online?”

  “No. I don’t think that’s going to be my scene. It’s with this man a woman in the building fixed me up with. Harry something.”