32AA

by Michelle Cunnah

Phone rings again.

  “It’s me.” Katy. “I just saw today’s paper. Is it true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, you poor, poor girl. What a cheap bastard, leading you on like that. It’s positively disgusting, the way he’s used you and all the time he was cheating on you with that woman—”

  Katy is so upset on my behalf. I appreciate her concern, but if she continues I will cry.

  “—it’s outrageous! Rachel told me all about him stealing ideas from you. You should sue him for professional misconduct, and for leading you on by dangling the matrimony carrot in front of you. Sylvester and David told me about your dinner with Adam last night—my God, what an exit.”

  “Yes,” I say, as William Cougan approaches my cubicle.

  Oh God, now he will catch me in the middle of a personal conversation when I am supposed to be working. He does not approve of personal calls at work, and I do not want him to think worse of me than he already does.

  “I’ll certainly tell Mr. Blakestock you called, ma’am,” I tell Katy, hoping she’ll get the hint.

  “Oh, you can’t talk?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Oh, you poor, poor girl. You can’t talk because you’re at work, and if you talk about it you’ll cry. I understand. I really do. You know, I saw a show about girlfriends and ex-wives whose partners had cheated on them, and what they did to get revenge—”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I tell her. Am I the only person who didn’t see this show? “Thank you again, ma’am,” I tell her, because William Cougan is now right in front of me.

  “Can I help you, Mr. Cougan?” I ask with a false smile, as I put down the receiver.

  “Everything all right, Emma?”

  “Yes, sir.” This is so embarrassing. “Did you want to speak to Mr. Blakestock?” God, I hope he hasn’t come here to speak to me.

  “Yes, I can see he’s free. No need to see me into his office. Emma?”

  “Sir?” Oh, no. Here it comes.

  “Keep up the good work.”

  “Of course.”

  Whew.

  10:40 A.M.

  My phone rings again. Thank goodness William Cougan has gone.

  “Emma, it’s me.” It’s Rachel. I’m surprised she didn’t call earlier because she eats the paper from cover to cover by the end of her morning coffee break. I’m also a little apprehensive, because I didn’t call her last night when I called Tish. I just couldn’t face her telling me that she knew all along what a jerk Adam is, and how right she is.

  “I know you can’t talk,” she says. “Hang up and call me from the restroom on your cell phone. Call me on my cell phone, not my office phone. Can you get away?”

  “Yes.”

  Five minutes later, after checking that the restroom is empty, I speed dial Rachel.

  “Christ,” she says. “That man is a fucking idiot! A complete, utter, bastard, fucking idiot!”

  It’s nice that she feels so strongly on my behalf.

  “You would not believe the crappy day I’m having,” she says.

  Her and me both.

  “Do you know what he did? Do you know?” she rants, and I realize that we are not talking about Adam, but about Hugh.

  “What did he do, sweetie?” I ask, pleased to be cast yet again in the role of wise confidante counselor friend. But I am a bit surprised, because I expected her opening gambit to be something along the lines of “I told you it would all end in tears but would you listen to me?”

  “Bastard. Fucking bastard!”

  She is so upset she can hardly speak. This must be really bad.

  “Sweetie, take deep breaths and then tell me what’s wrong,” I tell her.

  “After he cross-examines me about the list of supplies I’ve specified for the project—my God, what a cheap bastard—he tells me he wants me to compromise and order cheaper, generic materials. How cheapskate is that? So when I tell him exactly what I think of his despicable, stingy cutbacks, he asks me on a date,” she says, before dissolving into a longer string of curses. “Can you believe it? He actually asks me out to dinner.”

  Oh. I don’t know just what it was I expected, but it wasn’t this. Hugh must be either very brave or exceptionally stupid. But how nice is that? Because it is nice, isn’t it, when someone likes you enough to ask you for a date? But the way Rachel said it, you’d think Hugh had asked her to dance naked in a pit of scorpions. I mean, really…

  “What a bastard. He actually asked you on a date?” I say, and she is so mad that she doesn’t hear the irony in my question. “So what did you say?”

  “I couldn’t think of anything to say.”

  I can’t believe it. Rachel may be many things, but speechless is not a word that comes to mind when I think of her.

  “So I just walked out of his office and now I’m in the friggin’ restroom.”

  Well, that makes two of us.

  “I mean, it’s so fucking ridiculous! What do you think he wants? He must have an ulterior motive. Maybe he wants to lull me into a false sense of security, then trounce me with some bad news. Maybe my project’s been canceled. Maybe I’ve been replaced by some stupid putz who doesn’t argue back.”

  “And maybe, just maybe he wants to eat dinner with you,” I point out. “Maybe he feels you got off to a bad start and wants to get to know you—you know—to oil the wheels of your professional relationship.”

  I am just about to congratulate myself on my sensitive handling of the situation when Rachel decides to take my advice the wrong way.

  “So are you saying that he’s not asking me out as a woman? Do you mean that he can’t possibly find me attractive and want dinner with me for the sheer pleasure of my company?”

  “No, you weren’t listening to me. Don’t put words in my mouth. Rachel, will you stop obsessing. I never said that. I’m sure he finds you completely fuckable.”

  “Oh, so I’m obsessing now, am I?”

  “Just a little, yes.”

  “So it’s not like you obsess about Adam all the time? God, you’d think he was the second coming the way you talk.”

  “I do not.” Do I?

  “You do so. Anyway, what if I do decide to have dinner with Hugh?”

  “You are not serious.”

  “Well, I’m thinking about it…”

  “But you hate him. You can’t stand him. He’s a baboon.”

  “Well, y-e-s…”

  “And when I first started dating Adam, you told me not to date my boss because that’s the oldest cliché in the world, and that he’d screw me in more ways than just in the bedroom, didn’t you?”

  “Well, y-e-s. I suppose I did. But this is different.”

  “How different?” I bristle.

  I just can’t wait to hear this one.

  “Well, I’m not his secretary. We’re both professionals, with doctorates. And he isn’t exactly my boss—more the project administrator. So you see, it’s completely different.”

  I’m so not in the mood to take double-standard-type crap today, and I find myself getting even more angry with her for her hypocrisy.

  “Oh, so just because I’m a mere secretary, and you’re some high-up doctor of science, it makes it okay?”

  “Well, yes. Yes I do mean that, now you ask. Because, as I said, Hugh is not the boss of me.”

  This is so unfair. I know that it is anger transference, because Adam is the bad guy, but Rachel can be totally obnoxious at times.

  “I think I will have dinner with him. Yes, I definitely will. Just to see what he wants. So how did the revenge dinner go with the Adam last night?”

  Her tone is more than just a little sarcastic and I bristle before answering. She obviously hasn’t heard the details from Sylvester or David, which is strange.

  “For your information, I was marvelous last night. I told him what for, tipped the food into his lap, then marched out. Then I moved out of his apartment.”

  “Oh. So that was last night?”

&nbs
p; “Yes.”

  “What happened to the ‘he deserves to suffer, I’m not moving out of his apartment under any circumstances’ speech you gave us on Sunday?”

  “I changed my mind. Tish came and helped me pack my stuff.”

  “Oh.”

  Then there is silence at the end of the line.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yes, I friggin’ well am here. I just can’t believe you’d do this to me, Emma.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve been friends for years longer, but you called her and not me. I suppose I’m the last to find out.”

  “I would have called you, but I was in such a state—”

  “Sure. I understand. You couldn’t even be bothered to pick up the telephone to tell your oldest friend.”

  She is furious, and I am not going to back down because she is being completely unreasonable.

  “Well, you’ve got to admit that you’re not exactly the most sympathetic of people, are you? I couldn’t face any ‘I told you sos’ last night. I was going to call you later—”

  “Oh, so I’m a cold, unfeeling bitch, am I?”

  “I didn’t say that. But you could make an effort to be more understanding. We’re not all as perfect as you.”

  “I’m hanging up now. See you.”

  I stare at the cell phone and curse at myself. I think I’ve just lost my oldest, best friend.

  I burst into tears and comfort myself by having a chat with Daphne the silk ivy.

  My day does not get appreciably better.

  When I go to the coffee cubicle to get a caffeine fix, I overhear one of the twentysomething secretaries twittering brainlessly to another twentysomething secretary.

  “No. That’s completely, like, outrageous. How did you, like, find out?”

  “Tracey in Human Resources told me.”

  “My God, like, how embarrassing is that?”

  “If that happened to me I could never come back to work again. You gotta give it to her, she’s got some balls.”

  And when they see me, they stop talking so I know that it is about me and Adam. I wonder how Tracey found out about this, but then I wonder how she finds out about anything. So now my humiliation is complete, because the people at work know I have slept with the boss. This does not make me feel good, but I smile frigidly at the gossips, and help myself to some coffee.

  “How are you?” Barbie, Zoe, or Christie asks me.

  “You’re so brave,” says the other Barbie, Zoe, or Christie.

  I escape back to my cubicle to sulk. Only an hour to go, then I can leave. I hate Bastard Ionic Bonder Adam for doing this to me.

  4:30 P.M.

  I am extremely petty, yes I am.

  But it feels great!

  You see, Stella called about five minutes ago, and although she is the least likely person on the face of the planet with whom I want to hold a conversation, on account of her getting my engagement ring, this is what happened.

  “Emily, it’s Stella Burgoyne. How are you, dear?”

  Bitch. She still can’t get my name right.

  “Stella, I’m great,” I tell her with false enthusiasm. “Such lovely news—the engagement. Congratu-lay-shens.”

  “Thank you so much,” she says. “Adam is such a dear man—what a beautiful, beautiful ring.”

  Don’t go on about it, I think, but obviously do not say.

  “How can I help you?” I say instead.

  “Is he there?”

  “Well, actually, he’s—” talking to William Cougan. But before I can say this, she rudely interrupts.

  “Put him on, will you, dear? It’s urgent. So many details to work through for the wedding, you know.”

  And then I know what I’m going to do. Call me spiteful, if you like, but surely I deserve a little bit of revenge?

  “Of course,” I tell her. “Just hold the line a moment.”

  Now I could just use the telephone to tell Adam that Stella is on the line, but I don’t. Adam is deep in conversation with William Cougan as I knock and walk straight in.

  “So sorry to disturb you,” I say to Adam. “Miss Burgoyne is on the line and insists that she speak to you about the wedding.”

  “Tell her I’ll call her back.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Blakestock, but she’s really insistent.”

  Adam glares at me, and if looks could kill then I’d be fried to a crisp.

  “Put her through.”

  Y-e-s!

  Before I leave for the day, I take Adam the spreadsheets I have prepared for him, plus my leave sheet.

  “Here are the projected costs for the McAdams account,” I tell him. “I need some time off,” I add. “To hunt for an apartment.”

  “I need you here next week. I expect you to help Lou Russo to find his feet.”

  Lou bloody Russo. Lou friggin’ Russo…

  “Tomorrow and Friday,” I tell him. “Everything’s up to date. Angie can cover any typing you need between now and next week.”

  “She knows where all your files are?” Adam asks, his face brightening. “And your computer files?”

  “Yes,” I say, and I mentally thank Rachel for telling me to remove my personal files from the computer. If Adam thinks he’s going to find any more great ideas to steal, he’s got another think coming. And then I remember that I’ve fallen out with Rachel.

  “Okay.” Adam signs my leave sheet. “And Emma?”

  I notice that he hasn’t called me Emmeline.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t embarrass me in front of William again.”

  “Adam,” I say, dropping his apartment keys on his desk, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  9

  Serially Single

  TO DO

  Buy more goats! Buy an ass and have it delivered to Adam. Because he is one.

  “Here, hon, drink this.” David hands me a large glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. “And I guarantee you’ll feel better. Got more customers coming in—back in a minute.”

  Sylvester is overseeing the preparation of something complicated which involves shiitake mushrooms and double cream. It also involves quite a lot of cursing. The kitchen is steaming with his bad language, the July heat (no air conditioning), and cooking, as he and his sous-chefs prepare the evening menu.

  Beneath the silk of my dress, rivulets of perspiration are trickling down my spine. I feel crumpled, and hot, and miserable.

  “Non, crétin,” Sylvester says, which means something very rude in French, I think. “Non, non, non! Not like zat. Like zis.” He wrestles the wooden spoon from the poor chef. “You don’t want to curdle the cream. You see? Now you do it.”

  “Sylvester, I need two orders of spinach soufflé for table two,” David calls from the door, then heads back to the restaurant.

  “Chérie, I’m so sorry.” Sylvester sits down next to me at the large wooden table. “We have the early dinner crowd to feed, what can I say?”

  “It’s fine, don’t worry,” I say, taking a large swallow of the excellent wine.

  “Oh, but you are so brave to go into work and face zat pig. I couldn’t believe it when I saw his picture in ze paper—I mean, quel bâtard! So brave…” He shakes his head at me. “Was it really terrible?”

  “Worse than that,” I say, and I glumly give him the recap of my day, but don’t tell him about falling out with Rachel.

  I’m feeling very bad about Rachel. I should have been more understanding. But I do think that she was out of order for speaking to me the way she did. This time she’s gone too far and I am not making the first move.

  “Zat was very naughty, putting ze call from la femme terrible through to him while he is speaking wiz his boss. Naughty for you, Emma, because you are too sweet. If it were me, I would make him suffer like you wouldn’t believe! I would cut up his designer suits and splash paint on his car…But he doesn’t have a car, n’est-ce pas? Non. Then I would splash paint on the walls of his antiseptic apartment—”


  “And smash his wine collection.” I prompt him, because, of course, I’ve heard this before. I really am the only person who didn’t see that show. I wonder if it will be rerun soon.

  “Sacré bleu, not ze wine,” Sylvester tells me, shocked at the mere thought. “Zat would be sacrilege, to destroy such—such gastronomic art! No, I wouldn’t smash ze wine. I would drink it,” he says, as he takes a large gulp of my wine.

  “Don’t worry. Tish stole six bottles of his best stuff.”

  “Très bien! She should have stolen all of it. Here, drink.” Sylvester refills my glass, then leans closer to me in a very conspiratorial manner. “He did it again today. David. He disappeared for two hours after we’d finished ze lunchtime rush. What am I supposed to zink? Pierre,” he yells across the kitchen. “Beat ze eggs. Beat zem like you mean it. You are not afraid of zem. Zey are just eggs.” He shakes his head with a mournful sigh. “I can’t turn my head for a moment—you see what I have to put up with?”

  “Yes. About David,” I remind him. “Did he say where he was going?”

  “Would I be worried if he had? No, I’m sure he’s seeing someone else. I’m getting too old and he’s found a younger chicken.”

  Frankly, the idea that David has found someone else is ridiculous. Sylvester, a well-preserved thirty-nine, is a complete Adonis. He is also a lovely human being, despite his volatile Gallic temper. David is thirty-two, and although I love him dearly, I would not describe him as gorgeous. He’s attractive in a small, dark, skinny way.

  “You must speak wiz him for me, Emma.” Sylvester grabs my arm.

  “And say what? I can’t blurt it out, can I? ‘David, are you having an affair?’ just isn’t subtle.”

  “You will zink of somezing,” Sylvester tells me with complete confidence, and I feel my heart sink. I can’t even manage my own relationship. I am the last person in the world to help save someone else’s.

  “Sylvester, darling, what are you doing? Table two are still waiting for their hors d’oeuvres,” David says. “Come on, dear, chop chop.”

  “Zut alors, the spinach soufflés.”

  “I don’t know what’s got into him,” David tells me as he sits down and takes a gulp of my wine. At this rate, I will be lucky to get another sip of it.