by Cate Kendall
He locked his car and made his way to the front door. At least this time Gemma had booked a bloke. He would be more likely to see things from Stephen’s point of view.
The receptionist directed him down the corridor to the last door. What would he say? he pondered as he approached the door. How would he present himself, make himself heard? He was really, really sick of this relationship. He hated the nastiness, the bickering, the lack of love. He’d loved her once. But he honestly didn’t think he did anymore. But was that any reason to break up? Probably, he thought. Why else do people break up? He didn’t want to delve into all the whys and wherefores. He was a guy; he just wanted the quick fix, the solution. He sighed. The only foreseeable solution probably was divorce, but that just sounded like it was going to be a very difficult, long, drawn-out option and quite frankly, he couldn’t be bothered.
He knocked and entered when invited. Gemma was already sitting in the room flipping through her iPhone. She didn’t look up.
A very young, pink-cheeked man stood up from one of the trio of club chairs and extended his hand.
‘Ralph Piccolo,’ he said. His grip was soft and moist.
‘Stephen Bristol.’
‘Well, I should hope so,’ Ralph said with a chuckle, ‘or we’re all in the wrong place.’
Stephen sighed and sat next to Gemma. ‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ she said, pleasantly enough, turned off her phone and dropped it in her handbag.
‘Let’s begin, shall we?’ Ralph started and shuffled his notes.
Oh, God, Stephen thought, he’s nervous. How long has he been doing this for? Who in the hell has Gemma dug up this time?
‘I have a reasonably unorthodox take on marriage counselling,’ Ralph began. ‘I don’t find it’s helpful to rake over the coals of a relationship and dredge up old resentments.’
Good start, Stephen thought.
‘I think our only option is to develop coping mechanisms for who we are today. For where we want to go.’
Oh, no, he’s not going to talk ‘we’ the whole time, is he? As though there are three of us in this situation. Stephen wondered at what point he could pull the pin and get the hell out of here. This wasn’t going to work.
‘So, having said that, where are we right now, today? Stephen, do you mind if we honour the tradition of ladies first?’
The man was a Victorian dandy stuck in an eighteen-year-old’s body.
‘Not at all, by all means,’ Stephen said and turned to listen to what Gemma would say.
Gemma sighed and threw back her head as if pulling herself together. Stephen remembered when he couldn’t resist kissing that long neck of hers. He couldn’t imagine doing that ever again.
‘I think we’re at a crossroads, where a decision needs to be made. I don’t see this marriage continuing, but I don’t want to break up the family because our son Tyler is sixteen and going through a pretty rough time at school at the moment.’
‘Stephen?’ Ralph gestured towards him.
‘Well, that seems a bit ruthless really, to reduce our marriage to just a business decision or something. I don’t think Gemma’s really ever given her full self to this partnership; she’s always been so busy at work, and I think that’s why Tyler and I feel so unloved and unappreciated.’
Gemma bristled. ‘Stephen, can you please not bring Tyler into this? This is about us.’
‘Hey, you mentioned him first. You’re the one who brought him up.’
Ralph mediated, ‘Of course any children from the union are going to be a crucial element to this process, but let’s really aim for not allocating blame at this point. Just our feelings about the current position.’
‘As I was saying, Ralph,’ Stephen continued. He really needed to keep it together and not cause a scene. He didn’t want to look like the unstable one here. He’d let Gemma take on that role. ‘Gemma is never around. She’s always at work or at some work function and even when we are together she has little interest in me.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Stephen, grow up. Listen to yourself.’ Gemma’s voice was shrill.
Ralph patted his hand in Gemma’s direction. ‘Please go on, Stephen.’
‘I just sit at home waiting for Gemma to come in, wondering where she is, what she’s doing.’
Gemma’s mouth dropped open. ‘That’s rubbish, Stephen, and you know it. You have your sailing, your golf, not to mention all your so-called crucial client dinners. The only times you’re at home are when you’re slipping out of work early or sleeping off a midweek hangover.’
‘Okay,’ Ralph said, ‘let’s try a different tack. Let’s remember a time when we really loved being with each other. How we felt then.’
‘It’s not we!’ both Gemma and Stephen said in unison to Ralph then looked with surprise at each other. Stephen grinned. The man’s speaking style was obviously giving his wife the shits too.
‘Oh, right, sorry,’ Ralph stuttered, reddening slightly. ‘Gemma, your happy times with Stephen, if you please?’
She seemed resigned. Stephen sat forward, interested in what she was going to say. ‘Well, there was a Mother’s Day when Stephen took us up in a helicopter. Tyler loved it. He must have been eight or nine.’
Stephen looked at her in surprise; that’s exactly what he had been thinking about last night.
‘Good, and you, Stephen?’
‘For me, it was when we were both at uni and making love like demons all the time. But it wasn’t about the sex; it was about this adoration between the two of us. I would have done anything for her, and I knew without a doubt that I was the priority in her life.’ He stared at his hands while Gemma shifted uncomfortably in her seat and avoided looking at him.
‘So how do we, er, I mean you, think you can rekindle those moments? Stephen, do you think you could organise a helicopter again? And, Gemma, what about a little bit more sex?’ Ralph rubbed his hands together as if he’d just had a mind-blowing epiphany. ‘I really think this is the ticket: to turn back the clock and rekindle your passion for each other by repeating past successes.’
Stephen and Gemma both looked at the counsellor open-mouthed then looked at each other. Gemma raised her eyebrows. From a psychic connection that can only develop after years of living together the couple stood as one. They each looked at their own watches, began muttering excuses about client meetings and conference calls.
Ralph looked up at them beseechingly. ‘Wait, don’t go. We’ve still got most of the session left and I think we’re on the verge of a breakthrough here.’
The couple ignored him as they left the room. They walked in silence to the car park where they looked at each other again and burst out laughing. When they eventually stopped, they stood smiling at one another. ‘Oh dear, poor Ralph,’ Gemma said. ‘I am so sorry, the guy I’d booked cancelled at the last minute and this yo-yo was forced to step in. I should have just said no.’
‘What a doofus,’ Stephen said, shaking his head. He looked at his wife. He knew she didn’t like him very much. But it didn’t bother him. There was simply no emotion between them except for a little kernel of hatred that he was worried might blossom further and destroy what friendship they had left. The kind of friendship that lay in the moment they had just shared with the hapless Ralph. Can friends be married?
‘Can friends be married, do you think?’ Gemma asked him.
He looked only half-surprised that she’d read his mind.
‘I don’t know, Gem. I honestly don’t know.’
They stood together in silence for a little longer, leaning on his car, and looked at the tops of the conifer hedge over the back fence of the car park. ‘Okay, well, I’ve got to be . . .’ she started.
‘Yeah, same here,’ he said. And they got into their separate cars and drove off in different directions.
The car service limo sent by the IQPR New York office inched its way down West 39th Street. It seemed an age since they’d passed through the Long Island Expressway tunnel. E
ven arriving late Sunday, Manhattan traffic never ceased to amaze Gemma. The early summer had forced New Yorkers into tank tops and short skirts prematurely. Flip-flops replaced trainers. She reminded herself not to call them thongs while she was here. She’d done that once in a meeting, much to her embarrassment.
The New Yorker lay unopened on her lap as she gazed from the rear window. The sheer cliff-like faces of the buildings rose on either side of the narrow street. The ever-present sirens, random bellows from outraged pedestrians and constant honking penetrated the Mercedes Benz’s thick doors and yet soon became a mere backdrop to the busy landscape. Buses, delivery vans, piles of cardboard boxes and mini-skips lined the street.
The adrenaline and excitement of the city got her pulse racing and reminded her of what she loved about her job: the challenge, the drama, the deadlines. Her work made her feel dynamic and capable, and for all the drawbacks of the position she’d also had moments when she’d revelled in her temporary role as the CEO of IQPR Melbourne. She knew the CEO position was demanding as all hell, and didn’t fit well with family life, but she’d still lobbied Peter for the permanent CEO role as Chantelle had suggested. But Peter had told her that their boss, Dirk Ciepielewski, had said the board would consider her too inexperienced for the position. Personally she felt she was butting her head against the PR industry glass ceiling.
The streetscape widened as they turned right into Sixth Avenue and drove a little faster past the rear of the New York Public Library.
She could have quit in a tantrum, but what would that have achieved? The bottom line was that she loved her company, she loved her job and creating waves wasn’t going to help anyone. Her time would come. She just needed to sit tight.
Gemma had opted for the historic Algonquin Hotel this time. She’d had enough of the sleek grandness of the company’s preferred Four Seasons Hotel, which, although closer to head office, wasn’t as intimate and cosy as New York’s oldest operating hotel. She was trying to follow her doctor’s advice and take care of herself a bit more. She’d been back for her second appointment and Kerryn had been satisfied that depression wasn’t the problem. Gemma’s anxiety had calmed once she’d cut back on her caffeine intake, so hopefully she wouldn’t have any repeat panic attacks.
She sighed to herself. She should focus on the first session of the conference tomorrow and her meeting with the board, but she was distracted by the chaos of the city outside her taxi window. The driver cursed in a rich Brooklyn accent as a bike courier whipped into their lane then out again to overtake a rubbish truck.
Gemma alighted from the car. A bellhop whisked her bag from the driver who was holding the rear door open as the doorman opened the ornate front door with a smile while Gemma handed US banknotes out left, right and centre. This was, after all, America.
While Gemma waited a brief moment for her turn at check-in, she gazed around at the elegant lobby, drinking in the historic surroundings. This place was the heart of the literary world. Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe had penned My Fair Lady here; Noel Coward and Dorothy Parker had exchanged witty jibes with like-minded scribes in the dining room; famous pithy quotes had been coined on this very floor, her best loved being Robert Benchley’s, ‘Let’s get out of these wet clothes and into a dry martini.’ But the main reason that Gemma had always wanted to stay here was that the publication she most enjoyed, The New Yorker, had been spawned within these walls.
That night Gemma forced herself to stay in her room with her meeting papers and the stunning floral arrangement on the coffee table as her only company. Even though The Round Table restaurant with its ghosts of jovial past guests beckoned, she had to read up on tomorrow’s session.
It was a three-day conference with all the heads of IQPR meeting to discuss a confidential merger with another large American PR firm, as well as giving each branch the opportunity to present its current position. After the passing of Chantelle’s husband, Ed Portsmouth, Wally Robinson had been hired as head of the Australian branch. He’d lasted several years in the position, but Gemma knew he was no trailblazer and that the US head office was underwhelmed with his performance. After Wally had, thankfully, floated off into early retirement late last year, Gemma had been appointed temporary CEO until a replacement could be found. She had been able to handle the position with its increased responsibilities but she needed to let head office know that the position had to be filled and soon. She couldn’t go on for much longer with the added workload.
She finally finished the meeting papers at one am, snapped off the light and, lying back, luxuriated in the softness of the famous Algonquin bed, the fragrant scent of tiger lilies filling her dreams.
Despite the burden of jet lag and the noises of the city that punctuated her dreams, Gemma awoke refreshed and leaped from bed excited about the day ahead.
She dressed in a charcoal Herve Leger bandage skirt and white pussycat-bow blouse teamed with a black lightweight Willow cropped jacket.
Scooping her papers, laptop and iPhone into her briefcase, she left the hotel and headed down West 44th Street and on towards Madison Avenue. Although it could easily have been a taxi ride, Gemma preferred walking in the warm summer morning and witnessing the start of a new day in the Big Apple.
By the time she’d arrived at East 53rd, Gemma was regretting her charcoal pumps and wished she’d done the New York thing and worn her trainers. But that was one Manhattan tradition she just couldn’t get her head around. It always looked so unusual to see well-groomed women pounding the pavement in haute couture and high-tops.
She entered the IQPR New York building, which also housed the international head office, and zipped up to the fourteenth floor in the super-fast elevator. Entering the glistening foyer of the company took her breath away, as always.
Young chic executives bustled by, deep in conversation with other well-dressed colleagues or studying their smart phones intently. A stunning receptionist reigned over a curved stainless-steel desk in the centre of the space. Each time Gemma had been here a different young woman sat at the desk, but each looked as if she should be on America’s Next Top Model.
‘Peter Blakely, please,’ Gemma asked the beautiful girl.
‘Of course, please have a seat and I shall call him for you,’ the receptionist said, indicating the lush seating area with the sweep of one elegant hand.
‘Hey there, Aussie girl!’ Peter was there in less than a minute.
Gemma stood and put out her hand in greeting. ‘Peter, so great to see you again. Wow, you look so well!’
Peter Blakely was a legend in the industry. He’d become the head of IQPR New York after having left the broadcast industry completely burned out. The unforgiving demands of network television had cost him his marriage, his health and, according to him, very nearly his sanity. Yet he’d bounced back and taken on the role of head here in NYC on the insistence of an old college buddy who worked at international head office.
Peter was a tall man, and up until recently, his largeness had been in both girth and height. But thanks to a regime with a personal trainer and a new-found love of tai chi and holistic life choices, he’d trimmed down considerably since Gemma had last seen him at the IQPR Down Under conference. He seemed even taller in his new svelte frame, Gemma thought as she smiled into his brown eyes.
‘Yep, living the pure life,’ Peter said.
‘Not too pure, I hope,’ Gemma teased.
‘Well, I must admit, my body’s more of a church-on-Sundays than a temple,’ he joked.
They walked towards conference room number one on the east side of the building. ‘So, are you all prepared?’ he asked.
‘Yes, a bit nervous. Although I’ve been acting head for about six months, I haven’t met with the other CEOs in this capacity. I know most of them of course, from when we hosted this conference last year.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Peter guffawed at the memory. ‘The big Down-Under-Three-Dayer. Man, is that ever a long flight.’
‘It sure i
s.’ Gemma walked into the room ahead of Peter. Another attractive young woman was directing a male junior in the finishing touches of the set-up. They were fiddling with the projector.
‘But what a glorious country. Every time I go I can’t believe how good you guys have it.’
A large mahogany table loomed in the centre of the room and was surrounded by black leather chairs. Gemma placed her briefcase on the table at her assigned seat. ‘It was a pretty intense time. Those southern states of yours know how to party,’ she said.
‘Sure, but how about that Mr Morioka? He’d been so staid during the day but when he suggested we all hit that karaoke bar, he sure came out of his shell.’ Peter grinned at the memory.
‘Oh, yes, he’s a sweetie. We deal with Tokyo office a lot because of the Samsung account.’
‘Now today’s session runs until three pm, as you know. Are you still okay to meet with me directly afterwards prior to meeting with the board?’ Peter looked at her quizzically.
‘Yes, of course. I still don’t quite know why I have to meet with the directors of the board, though. Surely the replacement can’t be that far away.’ Gemma unpacked her laptop and phone and laid them on the table.
‘Well, it’s just that they need to know who’s been responsible for IQPR Down Under having had such a successful past quarter.’ Peter winked at her. ‘They like to put a face to the name.’
‘Who are the applicants?’ Gemma asked.
‘There are three contenders. One guy, Mark Meriton from San Diego, an English guy who is 2IC from the Taiwan office and of course your arch-nemesis, Ronald Banks.’
‘What?’ Gemma said in surprise, looking up into Peter’s tanned face. ‘I knew about the other two but when did Ron come to the party?’
‘When he heard you were still second-in-command.’ He grinned.
Ronald Banks was a try-hard Texan who delighted in rubbing Gemma up the wrong way whenever they met.
She glared at Peter as he continued to chuckle. ‘Oh, stop looking so offended. Where’s that good old Aussie laid-back attitude? He’s applied for the position. He hasn’t got a hope in hell. We want the Melbourne office to keep doing well, not for them to kill their boss within a week.’