by Anne Connor
“Hey, babe. It’s not really the best time. Can we talk later?”
I pay the cab driver with my company AmEx, slam the door shut behind me, and chuck the newspaper into a nearby trash can on the corner. There’s a broken, inside-out skeleton of an umbrella on the ground next to it.
I guess I’m not the only one having a bad day.
“I was really hoping to talk to you now, Drew.”
“How about lunch? I’ll come and get you. We can go to lunch at The Regis. Okay? I have to go.”
“Okay, but I need you to really be with me. I can’t just be talking to the top of your head. Please. It’s important. Leave your cell phone at the office.”
“We’ll talk later. I’ll get you at noon.”
I hang up and make my way through the revolving glass doors and into the lobby of my office building.
We don’t need a space as nice as we have, but Eric and I splurged a little bit.
It’s a far cry from the office we worked from when we first started. In fact, after a little windfall we made flipping a commercial building downtown, we were able to buy the building we now work out of.
Eric insisted that when he and I broke off from our father’s firm, if we wanted to look legitimate and attract serious investors, we make sure to look the part. And he was right - it worked.
It’s not a high-rise or a tower or a skyscraper. It’s a relatively modest midtown building. Twenty floors. Nothing like the towers uptown owned by the more established firms. But we’ll get there someday.
Without me having to look over at him, the front desk attendant quickly buzzes me through and I stride through the turnstiles, making my way to the elevator bank.
It’s a nice building. Modern, glass, and cool, with geometric lines made out of luxurious materials and finishes.
It’s more Eric’s style than mine. I like the style of the buildings more uptown, near the park. Gothic arches framing the interiors of the windows, old wood and brass. But he thought the newer, younger, hipper style would attract the kind of investors he wants. And more importantly, the kind of women who are attracted to style and money, and don’t care if their proximity to it might be temporary.
I get out of the elevator on my floor and make my way past the reception desk, through two sets of double glass doors, and down the hall and into my office. It looks like the sun is starting to peek out from behind the clouds through the full floor-to-ceiling Eastern exposure windows.
The receptionist and most of the associates aren’t in the office yet. My engineer and architect are just taking off their coats, and I duck into each of their offices to say hi to them quickly.
My assistant, Sarah, is already outside my office with my Starbucks.
“Here. You’re going to need this,” she says, handing me the cardboard cup. “There was a reporter here from the Post, but I got rid of him. You’re welcome.”
“Do I detect some concern in your voice? Nothing to be worried about. Close the door behind you.”
I enter my office and Sarah follows me in with a portfolio of what I assume to be architectural plans for the new lobby we are building out in one of our residential sites, a stack of legal-sized folders, other bits and pieces I know I don’t want to look at, and a small cardboard box.
“I know there’s nothing to be worried about.”
She puts everything down on my desk and sinks into one of the white leather and chrome chairs facing me. She has a look of defeat on her face, but I try to be optimistic for her and get to the other pressing business I have looming over me.
“Would you please do me a huge favor and make a reservation for me and Clarissa at The Regis for lunch today?” I bury my face in my hands and ask Sarah through parted fingers.
Sarah is my right-hand. She does so much for me around the office, and she even takes care of some of my personal life, too.
Like corralling Clarissa at the firm’s five-year anniversary party six months ago when my blushing fiancee had too many glasses of champagne.
Or hailing a cab for Clarissa when she insisted on coming to my office to wait for me while I finished up my work one Friday night but then changed her mind, threw a tantrum, and ran out.
“Hot date?” Sarah scribbles something on her yellow legal pad.
“Something like that.”
I lean forward, placing my arms of the desk, and look out the window. The sun is starting to shine, and it actually makes me feel a bit better. But I still have to get down to business. It’s too bad no one is in the office yet, and I’m a little surprised that my phone has stopped blowing up.
“Got it. What else?”
“God, I need a vacation.”
“Can I please remind you that you and Clarissa went to Turks and Caicos a couple of months ago?
“That wasn’t a vacation. I was answering my e-mails non-stop. And trust me, having to dote on Clarissa constantly does not a vacation make.”
“I see. Well, maybe I can go to Turks and Caicos instead of you, next time. If you’d pay for my plane ticket and hotel. And food.”
“And while we’re at it, why don’t we throw in unlimited pina coladas, too.”
“Sign me up!”
A little bit of levity to brighten my morning. I know I can always count on Sarah for that.
“Anything else you need right now, boss? If not, I’ll get to work typing those contracts.”
“Nothing else. Let me go through all this stuff.”
“Alright. Oh!”
Sarah walks back to my desk and parts the stacks of papers to reveal the cardboard box she’d plunked down.
“I almost forgot. This came for you.”
“Did you open it?”
I examine the box. The tape doesn’t appear to have been tampered with. I’m not expecting anything in the mail. Everything is usually couriered to my office, or emailed. I can’t think of any reason I’d be getting an actual package in the mail at the office.
“No, didn’t open it. I thought it looked personal.”
I grab the letter opener from my desk drawer.
“You ever use that thing before?” Sarah arches an eyebrow and crosses her arms in front of her chest.
“Very funny.”
I slide the thin metal across the edges of the box, slicing the packing tape open.
Inside the box is yet another box. This one is made out of wood, and has a beautiful finish and grain to the material.
I recognize it instantly, because I made it.
“Dear Drew,” I read aloud from a notecard slipped into the box. “I found this when I was cleaning out the attic. I’m getting ready to sell it and move into something smaller, maybe something in the Everglades. I thought you should have it. Love, Mom.”
“What is that?” Sarah uncrosses her arms and leans over the desk, peering at the box, her curious green eyes flashing.
“It’s a little box I made in woodworking. In high school.”
“Wow, that’s really cool.”
“I guess my mom is really serious about moving to Florida.”
“She’s been talking about it for a while now. You think she’s really going to go through with it?”
“I’m not sure. She always has some plan to get out of New York, but she never does it.”
“Well, I’m glad she sent this to you. It’s really nice of her. And it’s cute. Want me to put it on your bookshelf?”
“That’s okay. Let’s just get back to work.”
“Alright. Let me know if you need anything.”
Sarah leaves the office and closes the door behind her. I close the blinds on the glass walls of my office. I need some privacy.
I tuck the box inside the bottom drawer of my desk and opened my email on my computer. It’s time to do damage control.
Drew
As promised, I pick Clarissa up at her apartment in the West Village at noon. I check my new leather strap Longines watch. It’s actually 11:54 a.m. I know she’d be pissed off if I was eve
n a second late.
Her parents bought her the apartment for her 18th birthday. She was always the uptown girl, the Park Avenue princess, but after high school she wanted to be on her own and be independent, and have the freedom to explore the city she never got to see during her sheltered childhood.
A four-point-five million dollar apartment paid for in cash by mommy and daddy wasn’t quite the jumping off point to a young woman’s independence, but that’s just my personal opinion.
I get out of the cab to greet her. She’s done up in her usual style - a cute Marc Jacobs mini dress with chunky Mary Janes with a little heel, a cardigan, natural and messy hair, and no makeup except for mascara and a little lip gloss.
It’s not like I sought out the ability to be able to identify the pieces in her wardrobe. It’s just that spending time with her has lead me to pick up on these things through osmosis.
“Hey, babe,” she says, stepping past me to get into the cab without so much as a hug.
Oh, God. What’d I do this time?
“What’s going on? How was your morning?”
“It wasn’t so good.”
“I’m sorry. What happened?”
I try to take her hand in mine to console her, but she pulls it away.
“It was horrible. I tried to go to yoga, but because of the rain, I couldn’t get a cab. And then I said screw it, and I went to the coffee shop, because I decided I needed a break from this stupid diet. And they didn’t have vanilla coffee. I was so annoyed. And then I really wanted to go to pilates, you know, because I missed yoga, and I couldn’t get a cab then, either. And on top of everything, I got up early because I wanted to talk to you before you got to work, and you wouldn’t even talk to me.”
She folds her arms across her chest and looks out the window with as much sadness and longing as if I had told her that we needed to put down the family pet.
“How was your morning?” she shoots at me, as if out of obligation.
“It wasn’t so good. Thanks for asking.”
“Oh, I’m sorry Drew.” She slides across the bench seat and puts her arms around my neck. “I am sorry. I heard what happened. Can’t you just have your dad talk to someone?”
She’s not the first person to suggest it - just have my father call in a favor, make the other firm come to a compromise with me and Eric. Maybe we’d have to pay them off, but it would at least make this whole headache go away.
But I don’t want that. Eric wants it even less. No compromises. And no more help from the old man.
“No. I’m not taking any more help from my father. It would make us look like pussies if we asked for his help.”
“Drew! Don’t talk like that. And I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
“Oh, he would love it. But no. No more favors. We can work this out on our own. Eric and I already had enough of his help.”
“Whatever.” She waves her hands in the air in front of her like she’s acquiescing to me turning down the old man’s offer to pick up a brunch check.
“So, what did you want to talk to me about? What was so important?”
“Let’s wait until we are sitting down.”
“We’re sitting now, aren’t we?”
“You know what I mean. I want to be able to talk to you. Really talk to you. Without any distractions.”
I slip my phone into my pocket, even though it’s blowing up.
“I’m not distracted.”
“We’re almost there. Let’s just wait until we can sit down to talk.”
“Can I just get the green salad, please?”
“And I’ll have the sea bass. Thank you. And a bottle of the Aubert. Thanks.”
Clarissa removes her sunglasses and pushes her hair behind her shoulders, and slowly crosses her arms on the table in front of her chest. She’s gorgeous and comes from the right family. I love her, and my father loves her, which is probably more important.
Her hair looks like money. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it looks like a little girl’s hair. Untouched by the grime and dirt of the city, soft and strong, with highlights that make it look like she has a deity for a hairdresser.
Of course, I know she spends a ton of money to make herself look so effortlessly beautiful.
“So. We are sitting down now. What was so urgent that you needed to talk about?”
My brother is texting me. He finally just arrived at the office, which is perfect timing for him to interrupt my important meeting with Clarissa.
“I was just thinking.”
“Thinking about what? The flowers? The cake? I’ll go cake tasting with you, if it’s really that important. I’ll do it.”
I know it has something to do with the wedding, and at this point, I just want to placate her. It’s already costing me enough money, and all I’m paying for is the fucking rehearsal dinner.
That’s something they don’t tell you: how expensive flowers for some stupid dinner are.
Imagine that: one dinner, and I’m on the verge of landing in the poorhouse.
Well, maybe not exactly. I can easily afford it. But it is still a shitload of money.
“I can’t do it,” Clarissa says, absently rolling and unrolling the corner of her napkin.
“Can’t do what? You don’t want to try the cake? I said I’d go with you. Or take Liz with you. Isn’t that what the maid of honor is for?”
I know she is trying to slim down for the wedding, but I didn’t think she’d take it this far.
“It’s not that.”
Our food arrives, placed before us by a young, fresh-faced man with a bright expression, blue eyes, and black hair slicked back into a low ponytail. Probably a Broadway hopeful earning his way by waitering and doing bartending on the nights he doesn’t have auditions. He’s probably gunning for a role as a prince.
“Then what is it, sweetie?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“It’s the whole thing. The whole entire thing.”
“What?”
I feel like the air has been knocked out of my lungs.
“The wedding, Drew. I can’t do it.”
Is she fucking kidding me?
“You can’t do the wedding?”
The words roll around in my mouth like something rotten. Something I need to spit out.
“I’m so sorry, Drew.”
“What do you mean by this, though? What do you mean, you can’t do the wedding.”
I raise my fingers into air-quotes to emphasize her words.
“I just can’t.”
“You’re not really answering my question, though. If what you mean is that you don’t want to get married, just say it.”
She shrugs her shoulders a little and then looks at me squarely in the eyes, her sparkling green irises surrounded by a slick red start of tears.
“I don’t want to get married. I’m sorry.”
Fuck. After all the time I invested in the relationship. Four years - four fucking years down the drain with Clarissa Bloom-Van March.
And the ring!
The four karat platinum Cartier engagement ring I gave to her six months ago. It still shines and sparkles on her ring finger, her hands busily working her fork and knife through her salad.
It’s like the ring doesn’t know it’s on the finger of a woman who isn’t engaged anymore. Now it’s just on the finger of a stuck-up brat.
“Would you deign to tell me why?”
“I just don’t think I’m ready to be married. I need my freedom. Some independence. I’ve never really been single. I want to be on my own.”
“What’s his name?”
She shifts in her chair and sits up straight, at attention. Her face twists into a puzzled look, but she knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“Excuse me?”
“What’s the name of the other guy? The guy you’re fucking.”
“I will not be spoken to like that. You’re vulgar, you know?”
She lets out a little chuckle as she puts down her silverwar
e and grabs her bag from the back of her chair.
“I’m leaving. I don’t need to be talked to like that. So disrespectful.”
Her ring comes off faster than and I thought she would, and she leaves it next to my untouched salad fork. I guess it really isn’t her ring anymore. It looks curious, sitting there on the pristine white table: so full of hope, like it’s waiting to be slipped onto the perfectly-manicured finger of some other rich trust fund baby.
“Disrespectful? Me? Look at what you’re doing. Leaving me in the lurch like this.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage.”
She walks away in a huff, squeezing past our waiter as he brings over a pitcher of ice water.
“Is everything okay?”
He tops off my glass and looks at the chair Clarissa had been sitting in - pushed away from the table, askew.
She’s clearly not returning.
“Everything’s fine. Just the check, and the world’s smallest violin for the insane lady who just ran out the door.”
“Certainly,” the waiter chuckles.
He pushes the chair in and strides away. Someone else cleaning up after Clarissa, taking care of her - even this small gesture on the part of our kind, unknowing waiter speaks volumes about my precious Clarissa.
Formerly my precious Clarissa.
I finish my sea bass slowly. The fatty fish is delicious. The cauliflower puree that it’s served with is divine. A hint of butter feels smooth and delicate on my tongue.
Should I have run out of there and begged her to take me back? Part of me assumes she’s expecting just that. For me to walk out of the restaurant with confidence, plead with her to reconsider, express my love for her and tell her I’d do anything she wants as long as we could work it out.
But I don’t do it. I feel a wash of calm spread over me. It’s like a huge burden has been lifted off my shoulders.
I’m not about to beg her to take me back just because I invested so much time and effort into the relationship. No, I would cut my losses here, resolve to not dwell on the past, and move on. It wouldn’t make sense for me to try to work it out with her just because we have history together. Just because we were engaged up until ten minutes ago.