All the Wrong Places

by Joy Fielding

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Just tell Mr. Sherman that Heather is here to see him.”

  “Heather…?”

  “Trust me. He’ll know who it is.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “No. It’s a surprise.”

  The receptionist smiled indulgently. “I’m afraid that Mr. Sherman is in a meeting.”

  “Then get him out.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Get. Him. Out.” Heather took a deep breath, her final word escaping on a sigh. “Now.”

  The receptionist’s face filled with worry. “Is something wrong? Is this an emergency?”

  “Yes, to both questions.”

  “I’m so sorry. Your name again?”

  “Heather,” Heather all but shrieked, attracting the attention of a silver-haired, older man thumbing through a recent issue of Vanity Fair in a nearby grouping of leather chairs.

  “Just a minute.” The receptionist lowered her voice as she spoke into her phone. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Whitman, but there’s a woman named Heather asking to see Mr. Sherman. She says it’s an emergency.” She hung up the phone. “Mr. Sherman will be right out. If you’d like to have a seat…”

  Heather glanced toward the small seating area in the corner of the room. The silver-haired gentleman was staring at her with obvious concern. Has he seen the video? she wondered. “No, thank you. I’ll stand.”

  “Can I get you anything?” the receptionist asked. “Some coffee or bottled water, perhaps?”

  “Just Mr. Sherman.”

  “He should be out in a second.”

  And then there he was, entering the reception area from the hallway behind the bank of elevators, looking all business in his blue suit and navy-and-gold striped tie, concern causing his eyes to squint. “Heather…what’s wrong? Has something happened? Your father…?”

  “My father’s fine, you son of a bitch!” Heather said.

  “Whoa. Hold on a sec—”

  “Don’t tell me to hold on a sec, you piece of shit—”

  “Okay, hey. Calm down,” he said, grabbing her roughly by the elbow, his fingers digging into her flesh. “You’re making a scene.”

  “I thought you liked scenes,” Heather snapped, yanking her arm away. “You piece of shit—”

  “Okay. Stop. That’s enough. I don’t know what’s going on here or why you’re so riled up, but this is hardly the time or the place—”

  “What? Not public enough for you?”

  “Is there a problem?” someone asked, and Heather turned to see Colin Whitman, one of the firm’s founding partners, watching from the hall.

  “No problem, sir,” Noah said, pale blue eyes radiating fury. “Just a slight misunderstanding.”

  “Perhaps you could take that misunderstanding into your office,” Colin Whitman said pointedly.

  “Not necessary, sir. Miss Hamilton was just leaving.”

  “Miss Hamilton isn’t going anywhere,” Heather said.

  “This is where I work,” Noah reminded her, his voice flat, like the dull side of a knife. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  “I’m embarrassing you?”

  “Should I call security?” the receptionist asked.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Noah said.

  “By all means, call security,” Heather instructed, spinning around. The waiting area was filling up with people, eager to see what the commotion was all about. “You want to know what’s going on here?” Heather asked them. “Don’t be shy. Come on in. I’ll tell you what’s happening. You should know about the kind of man you have working here.”

  “Heather, for God’s sake—”

  “He’s a lying scumbag. That’s what he is. I mean, you probably shouldn’t be too surprised. You’re lawyers, so you’re pretty much all a bunch of lying scumbags, but Noah’s special. He cheated on his live-in girlfriend with her cousin.” She heard a gasp. “And how do I know that, you may ask? Because that would be me! I’m the cousin! Oh, hello, Bryce,” she said, waving toward Bryce Palmer, whom she recognized from their recent dinner. “How are Brianne and the kids?”

  Bryce Palmer looked toward his shoes and said nothing.

  “Well, be sure to say hello,” Heather said, spinning back toward the others. “Anyway, it was my father’s eightieth birthday party on the weekend and my cousin, the one he cheated on, was at the party, and it seems that she and Noah reconnected in a rather big way.”

  “Heather—”

  “But you don’t have to take my word for it,” Heather continued over Noah’s objections. “Check out YouTube. The truth is there for all to see.” She shook her head. “Isn’t it awful? You can’t do anything nowadays without someone recording it. There’s just no such thing as privacy anymore. You’d think a cheating scumbag would know that.”

  The elevator door opened and a security guard appeared, his hand hovering over the gun in his holster, his eyes casting about nervously.

  “Oh, hi, there. Just finishing up. I’ll be right with you,” Heather told the guard. “The reason I’m so upset is that Noah, my boyfriend and your esteemed colleague, told me that my cousin was the one who came on to him. But the video clearly shows that wasn’t the case. And since all my colleagues have been laughing behind my back, I thought it only fair to return the favor. So, there you have it. The whole truth and nothing but.” She smiled, walking toward the security guard and putting her arm through his, relishing the stunned looks on everyone’s faces. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  They’d been texting for several days.

  Hey, Wildflower, his texts invariably began.

  Hey, yourself, Paige had taken to responding.

  So, I’ve been doing some research.

  On what?

  On what a director of strategic planning actually does.

  And?

  I’m impressed.

  So was Paige, although she hadn’t let on.

  What impressed you? she’d ventured.

  The whole scope of what you do: the brand planning, the account planning, the media planning, etc. etc., the way you connect all the dots, figure out what the consumer wants and how best to reach them, what emotional buttons you need to push.

  Sounds a little cynical.

  On the contrary. Sounds like a good plan for how to be successful in life.

  Except I’m currently unemployed.

  But not for much longer.

  I hope you’re right.

  You’ll get the job. I have faith.

  Nice to know somebody does, Paige thought. What about you? she’d asked. What do you do?

  Stockbroker. Speaking of which, duty calls. Text later.

  And then, the next day:

  Hey, Wildflower.

  Hey, yourself.

  Sorry about yesterday. Things got a little hectic.

  How so?

  Client was getting panicky. Had to calm him down, convince him to hang in there.

  How did you do that?

  By reminding him that these are volatile times and the time to sell is not when the market goes down.

  And were you successful?

  I can be pretty persuasive.

  I bet you can, Paige thought now, putting down the not-so-thrilling thriller she was reading and checking her phone for messages, finding none. Almost twenty-four hours had passed since Mr. Right Now’s last text. Was he really that busy or was he just playing games? Why hadn’t he made another suggestion to meet up in person? Maybe he was testing her interest, waiting to see if she would break established protocol and make the first move. Would she? she wondered, as the phone rang in her hand. “Chloe, hi,” she said, answering immediately. “How are you?”

  “
I’m great,” Chloe said, sounding as if she meant it. “I have big news.”

  Uh-oh, Paige thought, looking at the storm clouds gathering outside her living room window. Had Chloe done another about-face, agreed to forgive Matt, taken him back yet again? Would she never learn? How many times did she have to be betrayed?

  “Matt’s agreed to everything,” Chloe said, interrupting Paige’s silent litany.

  “What?”

  “He got served with divorce papers this morning, and I was bracing myself for this big explosion. But he just called and, believe it or not, he said he’s not going to fight me. On anything. As far as the house goes, he says that when we sell, well, he naturally wants his half and, of course, he wants the listing.” She laughed, babbling on before Paige could interrupt. “But he says there’s no rush, that he’s caused me enough grief, that the kids and I can stay here as long as we want. And he’s not going to fight me on support. He says I’m being more than reasonable with what I’m asking for. And best of all, he’s not going after custody. He’s not even asking for joint custody, says he’s given it a lot of thought, and because the kids are so young, they’ll be better off with me, and that as long as he has generous access, he’s happy, which, of course, I’m thrilled with. He says that just because he was a jerk when we were married doesn’t mean he has to be one when we get divorced. Can you believe it?”

  No, thought Paige. I can’t. “That’s so great,” she said.

  “Isn’t it? I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to start laughing, tell me it was all a big joke, that he’d rot in hell before he paid me a dime, but he just kept apologizing for everything. He actually said that he hoped that when this is all over, we might be friends.”

  “Wow,” Paige said. “That’s quite a turnaround.” Maybe Matt already had a replacement waiting in the wings, she thought. Or maybe he was hoping that such tactics would convince Chloe he wasn’t such a bad guy after all, persuade her to withdraw her divorce petition and come back to him.

  Would she?

  “I’m not going to change my mind about the divorce,” Chloe said, as if Paige had spoken her thoughts out loud. “I know you’re worried, but…”

  “Hey,” Paige said. “You have to do what’s right for you. It doesn’t matter what I think or what anybody else thinks. You have my support, no matter what you do.”

  “I know. Thank you. You’re a great friend, and I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “I have other news,” Chloe announced.

  Paige held her breath.

  “I got a job.”

  “What?”

  “Well, it’s just part-time. Three days a week, from ten to two, so it doesn’t interfere with the kids’ schedule. At this little pastry shop in Harvard Square. I saw their sign in the window when I met Matt for dinner, and I called and asked if the job was still available and they said it was, so I went in to see them, and…well, I start Monday.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “It’s no big deal. Minimum wage and everything, but I’m kind of excited.”

  “You should be. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. What about you? When’s your next interview?”

  “Not till the end of next week.”

  “What about that guy you’ve been texting?”

  “Things seem to have stalled.”

  “They’ll pick up again. I have faith.”

  That’s what he said, Paige thought, as her phone pinged to indicate an incoming message. “Oh, my God. That’s him,” she said. “I can’t believe it. He’s texting right now.”

  “There you go. See what a little faith will do?”

  “I’ll call you later.”

  “Wait a few hours before you text him back,” Chloe advised before hanging up.

  Probably a good idea, Paige thought, opening the text.

  Hey, Wildflower.

  Hey, yourself, she texted back immediately. She’d kept him waiting long enough.

  Sorry about taking so long to get back to you. Family emergency.

  Is everything okay?

  My mother hasn’t been feeling well. Looks like I might have to head down to Florida for a few days.

  I’m so sorry. Is it serious?

  Hard to say. She’s had a heart condition for years. Every so often it acts up. I’ll know more once I talk to her doctors.

  You’re a good son.

  No choice. I’m all she’s got.

  Your father?

  Died last year. And I’m an only child. You?

  I have a brother. He’s a cardiologist in New Jersey. Maybe once you know what’s happening with your mother, we could ask his opinion.

  No response.

  Damn it, Paige thought, as five minutes dragged into ten. She’d done it again. Gotten too personal. Appeared too eager. It was the “we” that had scared him off. She should never have said “we.”

  “Damn it,” she said, closing her phone and tossing it next to her book on the cushion beside her.

  “Problem?” her mother asked, coming into the living room, adjusting the diamond stud in her left ear.

  “No. Just can’t seem to get past chapter three of this damn book. You look nice. Is that a new blouse?”

  “Yes. I bought it yesterday.” She patted the ornate buttons at the front of her white silk shirt. “Do you like it?”

  “It’s lovely. Are you going somewhere?”

  “I have a bridge lesson.”

  “Since when do you play bridge?”

  “Since about an hour from now. It’s my first lesson. I’m a little nervous. Harry says bridge players can be quite cutthroat. But he loves the game, so I thought I’d give it a go.”

  Harry, Paige repeated silently. Of course. She should have known. Her mother had been spending almost every waking minute with the man since their date last weekend, and if she wasn’t with him, she was talking about him. As much as Paige wanted to be happy for her, she couldn’t help being a little resentful. Not that she begrudged her mother her happiness, but she’d gotten used to being the center of her mother’s universe, to having her all to herself.

  “Sweetheart? Are you okay?”

  “What time will you be home? I was thinking maybe we could go to a movie…”

  “Oh, darling. I’m so sorry. Harry is picking me up after my lesson and taking me somewhere nice for dinner. I might not be back until quite late. Are you all right with that?”

  No, Paige thought. I want you to stay here with me. “Of course.” She pushed herself off the sofa and walked toward her mother, folding her body into her mother’s waiting arms and relishing the comfort of her embrace. Don’t leave me, she thought. “Go,” she said. “Enjoy your lesson.”

  “I will,” her mother said, heading for the door. “Don’t wait up,” she called as the door closed behind her.

  Which meant her mother would be having sex. Again. “Great,” Paige said, returning to the sofa and picking up her book, hoping to lose herself in someone else’s misery, but giving up when she realized she’d read almost another ten chapters and still had no idea what the damn novel was about. She closed the book and glanced at her watch. It had been more than two hours since Mr. Right Now’s last text. She glared at her phone, trying to will another message into existence. But none appeared. “You’re worse than Chloe,” she told herself. At least Chloe was mourning the loss of something real, whereas she was pining for a relationship that hadn’t even begun, with a man she hadn’t even met. What was the matter with her? She was a strong, independent woman. The last thing she needed was a man who could be scared off by the word “we.”

  And then there it was, as if he’d sensed her growing impatience and was testing her newfound resolve: a message from Mr. Right Now.

  Hey, Wildflower.


  Paige debated whether to respond. Two can play this game, she thought, her fingers hovering over the phone’s tiny keyboard, her mind ping-ponging between texting him back immediately or making him wait.

  Sorry for yet another long delay in getting back to you, the text continued before she could make up her mind. I’m not trying to be coy, I swear. I was able to book a flight to Florida last minute. I’m actually in a limo now, heading for the airport. Hoping to be away only a few days, and really hoping we’ve passed the texting phase and can give this another try, meet up in person one day next week. Anyway, here’s my phone number. Feel free to call me anytime so we can get something definite in the books. Can’t wait to finally meet you.

  Paige didn’t hesitate. Have a safe trip, she texted back. Hope all goes well with your mom.

  Then, throwing caution to the proverbial wind: Can’t wait to meet you, too.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  “Bridge isn’t like any other card game,” the instructor was saying from the front of the small, windowless room, one of several meeting rooms on the second floor of the historic Lenox Hotel. The instructor, whose name, Joy Boothe, was scribbled across the white chalkboard beside her in elaborately swirling green cursive, was about fifty, tall and heavyset, with gold-streaked auburn hair that hung in loose ringlets to her broad shoulders, false eyelashes that were in constant flutter, and pink lipstick that was outlined in bright red.

  Harry had warned her that most bridge teachers were somewhat eccentric, Joan recalled, trying to concentrate on the woman’s introductory remarks. But whether it was Joy Boothe’s disconcertingly girlish voice or the strange feeling that had been twisting through Joan’s groin ever since she sat down, she was having trouble focusing. She glanced around the room at the other five tables, each table consisting of four students, the women outnumbering the men by a ratio of four to one. Only two of the other students could kindly be described as middle-aged. The others had waved goodbye to sixty long ago.

  “Most card games can be learned pretty quickly,” Joy Boothe continued. “Bridge isn’t one of them.”