by fallensea
“So you’re just going to abandon us?” Gerty accused vehemently, breaking her silence. “We’ve planned this trip for months, and you’re just going to leave us after one day?”
“Gerty…” Marietta began, but she wisely held her tongue. Once Gerty was lit, there was no diffusing her.
It made no sense. The whole point of us choosing Montreal over Paris was to be near work in case we got the call. I could see through Gerty. She wasn’t hurt that I was leaving—she was furious that she didn’t get the call first, but I didn’t have time to argue.
“I can tell you’re upset, but I really have to go. Can we talk about this later?”
“No,” Gerty huffed.
“Too bad,” I snapped back, unable to deal with her mood. “If you’re pissed off, tell it to your margarita.”
***
The firm I worked for dominated the upper floor of one of Toronto’s oldest skyscrapers. As the morning brought the day to life, I stood in the courtyard outside next to the skyscraper’s compère—a fountain of Eos, the goddess of dawn, sister to sun and moon. Mr. Tremblay, my boss, had unveiled the fountain two years prior, after weeks of reconstruction to the courtyard. With a feminine grace, Eos wore a traditional Greek robe, loose and elegant. On her back were rose-colored wings. As the goddess of dawn, she marked a new beginning for those who came to the firm for help. I’d always admired the fountain, but today the light hit Eos in a way that made her come alive, as if she were speaking to me.
I wanted to stay longer and hear what she had to say, but I had a meeting to get to. I carried on through the courtyard and stepped into the grand marble lobby, my heels clicking against the marble as I rushed through security to the elevators. I wasn’t late. I was never late. Conversely, I liked to be the first to arrive to a meeting. There was no strategy for my promptness. It was more of a quirk.
The morning was young, but there was plenty of movement in the firm. Some had come early, some had slept over. It was rare to find the corridors completely abandoned. Compared to the lobby, the corridors were cramped and meandering. Or intimate, as Mr. Tremblay liked to say. Walking them was like steering a rat maze and constantly finding new rats hidden within the corners, no matter the hour, no matter the day.
“Morning, Hayley,” Doug, an accountant, called as I passed his office.
“Go to hell,” I called back. Doug was popular around the firm because of his quick humor and charisma, but he was a creep. He had a fiancé at home but tried it on with any skirt who walked by.
I left my coat and satchel in my office, which was decorated in drab paints I had no control over, and I went to the conference room the team would be meeting in. I brought my tablet with me, but my notes were empty. It made me nervous. Being fresh blood on the team, all I knew was who the client was. I wasn’t supposed to know more, the client required discretion, even within the firm, but I hated being unprepared. Arriving first was the only control I had, except that when I walked into the conference room, there was already a woman sitting at the table. She was petite and blonde with a pretty face she hid behind large hipster glasses.
“There’s a meeting starting here soon,” I told her, aware that employees at the firm often found conference rooms to escape the noise of the crowded corridors. I had done so many times myself.
“Oh, yes. I know—the meeting for the new client. I’m here for it.” She spoke in a soft voice, but I detected a strength in her.
I set my tablet down a few chairs from her and sat. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Hayley.”
“Olivia,” she introduced. “It’s my first day.”
“Mine too,” I admitted, glad I wasn’t the only newbie on the team. “I’ve never seen you before. What department are you from?”
Olivia blushed. “I’m sorry. I should have specified—it’s my first day at the firm.”
I was surprised. “You were hired specifically for this team?”
“Yep.” She looked embarrassed to admit it.
Gerty and Edna are not going to like this.
I decided I wouldn’t be the one to tell them. They could find out on their own. I wasn’t going to give them any chance to shoot the messenger.
No, Gerty wouldn’t shoot me. She’d knock me down and stomp me to death with her stilettos. I could handle death by stilettos, but only if they were vintage.
“Do you know what to expect?” Olivia asked.
“I would say the usual, but I don’t think anything about this client is usual.”
“I heard his business began to sink because he was caught at one of those indecent billionaire bachelor parties in Europe.”
“It’s not our place to speculate,” I said, coming off sharper than I meant to. Before she could take offense, I added, “But I do think we’ll be allowed a lot of room for contribution. This won’t be the bulldogs handing us a to-do list. They expect us to speak up.”
“Sounds perfect,” Olivia said. “It’s why I left my old job to come here. I want to be heard.”
She had a subtle sort of audacity. I respected it. “Since you’re new, we should head out together sometime. I’ll invite my friends Gerty and Edna. They also work here.”
Olivia was genuinely happy. “I’ll take you up on that. Thanks. It’s always nice to have friends at work.”
“I think it’s because of work that we are friends,” I admitted. “We have such long hours here, those around you kind of become your family.”
“Is that how you think of them—as family?”
“We fight like sisters, laugh like friends, and drink like strangers, so yeah, we’re family,” I answered, using that moment to forgive Gerty and her petty jealousy. There was history between us—good history.
“Then I can’t wait to meet them,” Olivia professed.
***
After the meeting, I intended to inhale an espresso from the machine in the breakroom, but through the window, I saw Jean-François—my ex-husband—talking to Doug. Jean-François wore a smart suit that emphasized the clean lines of his tanned, French-inherited body. He never went pale, not even during the winter. Nor did his dark hair lighten in the sun. He resisted the seasons, impervious to change. I saw Jean-François most days at the firm. We worked together, but more so, we were friends. Our adoration of each other had survived the divorce.
When I turned away from the breakroom, it was because of Doug. I couldn’t handle the creep, not without having serious words with him. Shriveling without my caffeine, I opted for the stand outside instead.
“What, you too good to talk to me now?” someone called as I clapped down the corridor, my coffee calling to me like a flytrap snaring its prey.
“Edna!” Glad to see her, I detoured into her office, where Gerty stood next to Edna’s desk. Coffee was necessary, but making amends with my girlfriends prevailed. I didn’t have to ask why they had trailed me home from Montreal. They wanted to show Mr. Tremblay they were committed. I would have done the same if it had been one of them instead of me who got the call.
“Hey,” Gerty said. She kept her distance, but I didn’t feel the heat off of her that I had before.
Edna reached down to a bag on the floor and pulled out a pair of patterned gym leggings. “I bought these on our way to the train station this morning. I own about a hundred of them, but I don’t think any have actually seen the gym.”
Gerty looked disgusted. “She got them at a gift shop. Can you believe it?”
“They’re lovely,” I said, sharing a knowing smile with Gerty. A gift shop might as well be the Salvation Army.
Remembering my coffee and the short time I had before my next meeting, I excused myself. “Gotta go, but remind me there’s someone I want to introduce you to. Her name is Olivia.”
“And remind me to tell you about last night,” Gerty said. “We had so much fun.”
“Will do,” I promised.
Chapter Eighteen
Good Friends
Embracing the quietude of Sunday—my on
ly day off work—I drove through the suburbs of Toronto to my family home. I had scared my father for no reason on the phone last week. The pain in my stomach had subsided since leaving Montreal. It had probably been a symptom of the stress and anticipation of waiting to see if I would be put on the super team. I was fine now, but he wouldn’t believe me until he saw me.
That’s what I assumed, until I walked through the door. “You’ve lost weight,” he alleged, meeting me in the foyer of our stately home. That was the problem of having a father who was a lawyer—he was overly observant.
“It’s all the hours I’ve been putting in at work,” I said, and I followed him across the hardwood floors towards the conservatory at the back of the house. “Stop worrying.”
“You’re supposed to be paid for your overtime. I know they don’t pay you. If you want, I can put in—”
“I’m paid very well for my time,” I told him, cutting him off before he started talking lawsuits. “If I burn the midnight oil, it’s my choice.”
“Your oil never stops burning. That’s what worries me. Come to church next Sunday. You’ll meet a nice Christian man.”
“I already tried the marriage thing. It didn’t work out, remember? I’m twenty-eight and divorced.”
“That’s because he wasn’t Christian,” my father insisted as we entered the conservatory. “He wasn’t Christian, but you are. The sacrament of marriage is only holy if both people worship our Lord Jesus Christ. That’s why you need to marry a good Christian man.”
The supporting wall and floor of the conservatory were made of real stone. The sunlight that shined through the glass of the remaining walls decoded the stone, brought out its individual tones and flaws. It also emphasized the lines of burden around my father’s eyes and the grey in his hair as he took a seat in a wicker chair. He was growing old. It was disturbing. Christopher Leighton was such a strong, sturdy man. I liked to think of him as unbreakable.
“Jean-François may not be Christian, but he is a good man,” I argued, taking the seat across from him. “You know that, Daddy. Our problem wasn’t God. Our problem was rushing into it before we realized both of us were more committed to our careers than we were each other. Whirlwind romances don’t last.”
“In romances as fast as yours was, there are no whirlwinds, only tornadoes. How you see that boy at work every day baffles me.”
“We’re still good friends.”
He folded his arms. “If you’re such good friends, he’ll tell you the same thing I am. Go see Dr. Bach. You’re my baby girl. Ever since your momma died, it’s just been you and me. If something happened to you, I don’t know what I’d do.”
I tensed. Mentions of my mother were always difficult for me to hear, no matter how long it had been since she passed. She had been a great mother. As an environmental lawyer who often worked international cases, she traveled a lot, but when she was home, she was magical. She used to sneak snacks my father wouldn’t allow into my school lunches, and she’d read superhero comics to me at night. She liked the comics for their stories of bravery. I liked them for the pictures. It was our thing. But then she was summoned to Antarctica regarding a case, and when her plane landed, it didn’t land well.
“Are those real gold?” I asked my father, changing the subject.
He pressed his hand against the cufflinks of his dress shirt. “Of course they are. You gave them to me.”
I looked at them closer. “That’s right. I bought them for you when you won that case for Mr. Sylvester.”
“That case paid for your education,” he said, and he launched into the details of the case, a story I had heard a million times before.
As he spoke, my mind drifted to Gerty and Edna. I hadn’t heard from them in a while. Worried, I looked down at my phone, hoping there was a text message waiting for me, but there wasn’t.
“You got somewhere else to be?”
“No. I’m just...” God, it was so juvenile. My father would likely tell me I was being foolish. Or it could be a rare occasion when having a father who was a lawyer was useful. His insight was precise. “I’ve been very busy this week, so I haven’t been able to take lunch with Gerty like I normally do. We usually go shopping, but I haven’t had the time. She and Edna must think I’m avoiding them on purpose, because they’re not answering my calls.”
“And what do they say when you see them at work?”
“That’s the weird thing. I haven’t seen much of them this week, but when I have, they seem fine. I don’t feel like there’s any animosity. I don’t understand why they’re not answering my calls.”
“I know why. They’re jealous, but they won’t admit it. Don’t let them run you down just because you’re friends.”
“It’s not like that, Daddy. I mean, I know they’re upset about not being on the team, but they’re not holding it against me. We’ve been through too much together. They were by my side during my divorce last year. They’ve always been by my side.”
“Don’t be naïve, baby girl. People are more likely to stand by your side when you’re struggling than they are if you surpass them on your way to the top. Is there any way they’ll still be put on the team?”
“No. I don’t think so. I think the team is complete. If so, the only chance they have of getting on is if someone else falls off.”
“Well, remember I taught you to be strong. You’ve never had a problem standing up for yourself. Don’t let that go just because the people you may be standing up to are your friends. I know you’re all grown women, but sometimes even adults need reminding of what’s right.”
“I’m sure we’ll sort it out tomorrow morning. We have tennis practice together.”
My father looked pleased, which was hard to achieve. “I’m glad you’re still playing. Exercise is good for you. I know you and Jean-François are friends, but the divorce was hard on you.”
He was right. My divorce hadn’t been as upsetting as others I’d witnessed, but it was distressing, filled with highs and lows. I started a tennis club during my divorce as an outlet. It gave me some stability throughout the lows.
My marriage had been the consequence of a passionate decision, one of few I’d ever made. I’d met Jean-François at work after he’d been transferred from the Montreal office. Our relationship started with secret coffee dates, and then he was staying over at mine. Within four months, we were wedded, bonded in a polyamorous affair with work as our mistress, seducing us both until we realized we were too involved in our careers to succeed at marriage. Jean-François was my husband for about as long as he was my suitor. Within a year, we had met and divorced, but we continued to see each other. A day didn’t go by that I didn’t meet him for a coffee. We were confidantes and would remain so. No amount of paperwork signed and unsigned could change that.
Knowing so didn’t make the divorce less painful, so I turned to tennis. When I started the tennis club, Gerty and Edna had been very supportive. The night I told them of my intentions, we’d gone back to the office with a bottle of wine to share between us, and we’d knocked it back as we made fliers with the copy machine, which we plastered all over the place, advertising the first meeting of the club for the following Monday.
“You taught me tennis,” I reminisced. “It was right after we lost Momma. You thought it would help me release the anger of my grief. I never made that connection until now.”
My father nodded, resigning to the tragedies of the past. “Yes, I did, but I don’t know how you can play with that hair in your face,” he chastised, meaning my chunk of bangs, which were heavy and stylishly layered. “You’re not walking down a red carpet.”
“The whole world is a red carpet,” I responded, and I stood. “I better get going. I have an early start in the morning. Love you, Daddy.”
“I love you too. Drive safely.”
I made my way back through the suburbs, the lights of Toronto my spotlight. When I stopped for traffic, I looked down at my phone. My father was a lawyer. It was in
his nature to find fault in the smallest reactions. I really didn’t believe jealousy was the cause of Gerty and Edna’s silence. They were disappointed. They probably just needed some space to deal with that disappointment. I could understand that.
But as I looked at my phone again, I prayed I was not fooling myself.
***
The tennis courts were empty, but they wouldn’t be for long. I stretched near the top net with my racket in hand, waiting for members of the club to arrive, joining me on a morning that had yet to rise. I’d secured the nets at a park close to the firm. It’d been hard to do, despite the early hour. Tennis was a fashion that had swept Toronto long ago. Most of the courts in the city center were booked out well in advance.
My father had taught me to play, but Gerty had taught me to play well. Some billionaire had been her instructor when she was based in Milan doing her pyrotechnic act. Men liked her more than they did models. She was dangerous, unpredictable. She was the game the billionaires liked to play, until they got bored. Gerty never minded. Playing was easy when you always won.
I didn’t know what that felt like—to always win. When I had pledged for a sorority at my university, I’d been denied. It’d taken numerous rejections before I’d landed my job at the firm. I was twenty-eight, and I still had a research masters to complete. It’d been hanging in limbo for the last six years. I would probably never finish it. Work took up too much of my mental reserves. I didn’t mind a little failure. There was challenge in failure. If I always won, I wasn’t playing the right game.
I felt a pull in my leg and stood straight to shake it loose. I’d overstretched, waiting for the courts to fill.
Where is everyone?