We slid out of the car, Matt took Pammy’s witty-bitty little hand in his, and a bouncer stepped aside and pulled opened the door to Night Fever. A blast of music hit me and almost propelled me back a few feet. Ah, now the name of the club made sense. A Bee Gee was wailing in what could’ve been misery but just as easily could’ve been ecstasy, a waitress with Farrah Fawcett hair and love beads passed by with steaming red-and-green-colored drinks on a tray, and even Mason was wearing bell-bottoms. Welcome to the seventies, because apparently we didn’t get enough of them the first time around.
“Matt, great to see you!” Mason shouted, detaching himself from a knot of people and walking over to us. “Lindsey, can I borrow you for a second?”
Without waiting for my answer, he pulled me past a giant TV screen that was suspended from the ceiling. It was airing our top commercials of the year in a continuous loop. Every two feet or so, a waiter wearing John Lennon glasses or platform shoes was passing around a fresh tray of drinks, which meant new and inventive combinations of colleagues would hook up tonight and spend the next year suffering violent coughing fits and looking at the floor whenever they bumped into each other in the office hallways. In the weeks after our holiday parties, it always sounded as though our office had been hit with a record number of cases of bronchitis.
Mason motioned toward a corner, where oversize beanbag chairs were clustered in a semicircle under a disco light.
“Any word from Fenstermaker?” I blurted, eyeing a chair and deciding that, if I sat down, I’d never be able to get enough traction to stand back up again.
“Not yet,” he said. “It may take him a few days to decide. Look, there’s nothing to be nervous about. I wanted to tell you that you’ve done a great job for us this year. A great job.”
Mason was slurring his words ever so slightly; those holiday-colored drinks must have been potent. I made a mental note to order a seltzer with lime that could masquerade as a gin and tonic.
“Thanks,” I said. “That means a lot.”
He leaned closer and whispered, “I shouldn’t tell you this, but we voted this afternoon.”
Time shuddered to a stop. I could feel each individual hair on my arms stand up.
“What?” I croaked.
“You’re the new VP creative director,” Mason said.
I closed my eyes as relief crashed over me, making my legs weak and unsteady. I’d done it; I was the youngest ever vice president creative director of Richards, Dunne & Krantz. All the vacations I never took, the movies I’d missed seeing, the weekend mornings when I got up to work while everyone else slept in or curled up with the Times or went hiking in the sunshine—they had all culminated in this glorious moment. Now I could buy my apartment. I could celebrate by splurging on any restaurant in the city, and even take a car service there instead of a cab. Maybe I’d make a grand gesture at Christmas and hand my parents plane tickets to Europe. I’d get a bigger office, one with an amazing view. I’d get my own monogrammed company stationery! I couldn’t wait to get to a phone and call my parents and Alex. Inside I was exploding in joy, but I kept my face calm and professional.
Mason grabbed a passing waiter. “Get this lady a glass of champagne.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” I started to say, but Mason interrupted me.
“You earned it,” he said simply, smiling at me. How could I ever have thought Mason was an alien? He was the warmest, kindest man alive. A beautiful, beautiful specimen of a man. He should be an exhibit in MoMA.
“I’ll announce it in about an hour,” he said. “I want you to say a few words, too.”
“Absolutely,” I said, a giddy grin spreading across my face.
I took a gulp of champagne to hide the fact that I was blinking back tears of joy. It was sweet and delicious against my parched throat. God, I loved champagne. Why didn’t I drink it more often? I should drink it every day. I should bathe in it.
“Enjoy,” Mason said. “I’ll signal you when it’s time.”
He walked away, and I hurried over to Matt and Pam, who were watching a copywriter attempt the hustle on the orange-and-avocado shag carpet.
“I’m declaring a new law for company holiday parties,” Matt announced. “No one should ever see their coworkers dance or wear bathing suits.”
“Oh, God, that’s funny!” I said, laughing hysterically.
Matt took a closer look at me as I wiped the giddy tears from the corners of my eyes. “Are you pregnant?” he asked.
“Mattie!” Pammy chastised him. But she cast a discreet glance at my stomach as I instinctively sucked in. “You should never ask a woman that!”
“Either you’re pregnant or you just got named VP,” Matt said. “Because you’re glowing brighter than those Lava lamps.”
I couldn’t help the huge grin from spreading across my face.
“You did it, didn’t you?” Matt said, tapping his glass against mine. “Like it’s a surprise.”
“Congratulations!” Pammy squealed. “You’re a vice president?”
“Keep it a secret,” I begged them both. “Mason’s not going to announce it for another hour.”
“You look really happy,” Matt said. “Good for you.”
“It’s kind of overwhelming,” I said. “But I am happy. Really happy.”
“Happy about what?” Someone stuck his face so close to mine that I could smell his lime-scented aftershave. I twisted to the right and found myself staring at Doug, one of the copywriters on my team.
Doug’s gorgeous, if you like your men big, rawboned, and as subtle as sledgehammers. Every woman in the office has a secret crush on him, and he seems intent on fulfilling all of their fantasies, one at a time. Or two at a time, if you believe the stories of what went on after last year’s holiday party.
“And who’s this?” Doug asked, turning to Pammy with a smile. Matt put an arm around her and pulled her closer.
“Pammy,” Matt said tightly. “My girlfriend.”
Doug held up his hands as if to say: No harm, no foul, man—plenty more where that one came from.
“Why so happy?” Doug asked me. “Are you the new VP yet?”
Matt saved me: “No, we were just talking about Lava lamps. Lindsey loves them.”
“Seriously?” Doug said. “That’s cool. So can I get you a drink, Lindsey? Pammy?”
“I’m good,” Pammy said.
“Why not?” I said. Forget the seltzer; what harm could there be in downing a couple of glasses of champagne on the best night of my life?
“Hey now,” Doug said, his head whiplashing toward the front door. Cheryl was making her grand entrance. She was still wearing the nonshirt she’d had on at her pitch for Gloss. The shirt hadn’t gotten any bigger; if anything, it had caught the flu and lost a few pounds.
Doug was off like a shot to greet her.
“You may have to wait awhile for that drink,” Matt told me.
“You think?” I said sarcastically. By now three other guys were vying for airtime with Cheryl.
“I should go on over and wish her luck on the Gloss account,” I said. It was customary for competing creative teams to wish each other the best, much like boxers tapping mitts before beating each other to a pulp.
“I’ll get the drinks,” Matt said, and he waved down a waiter as I headed toward Cheryl. God, this was turning out to be an amazing day. My exhaustion was gone. Now I felt like I could stay up all night.
I was only a few steps away from Cheryl when my BlackBerry vibrated in my jacket pocket. I pulled it out and looked at the message:
You’ll never believe where I am and who I’m with. Call me.
I smiled. The message was from my old buddy Bradley Church. I hadn’t talked to Bradley in weeks, maybe even a couple of months. I’d call him later tonight, I promised myself. Getting his message made me realize how much I’d missed him. Bradley and I had officially become friends in the second grade when the class bully tripped Megan Scully in our school lunchroom, making
her fall splat on top of her tray of mystery loaf. As she sat there groping for her glasses and crying, Bradley had quietly uncapped the bottle of ketchup on our table and dumped some into the bully’s glass of orange juice. The bully went to swig his juice and ended up spitting it all over his white shirt.
When the bully started clenching his fists and looking around for the culprit, I tiptoed over and slid into the seat next to Bradley’s and pretended we’d been chatting the whole time. We’d stayed pals ever since that moment, even going to our senior prom together as friends, but we didn’t see each other much these days. Bradley still lived in our old neighborhood and worked as a photographer for The Washington Post. His portrait of a nine-year-old girl sleeping on her living room floor with the fireplace lit up for warmth while her mother stared at a stack of unpaid bills had just won an award.
Bradley was still sticking up for the underdog, I thought, smiling fondly as I visualized his face.
I’d call him right after I phoned my parents and Alex, I decided as I approached Cheryl and fought my way through the crowd of guys jockeying for position around her.
“Cheryl? Just wanted to wish you luck,” I said, putting out my hand.
She looked down at it for a long moment before shaking it.
“Thanks,” she said. She dimpled up as one of the account executives handed her a red drink that exactly matched her lip color.
“I doubt we’ll hear anything for a few days, so I guess we can relax,” I said. Now that I was going to be VP, I’d have to try to make peace with Cheryl. She’d be working for me, after all.
“Oh, I think we’ll hear a lot sooner than that,” she said, taking a sip of her drink and holding our eye contact above the rim of her glass.
Something about the gleam in her eyes sent a shiver down my spine.
“Really?” I asked, trying to affect a careless giggle that somehow came out like a Woody Woodpecker laugh (men love this, I’m told—it probably accounts for my runaway success in dating).
“What makes you say that?” I asked Cheryl. “Mason said Fenstermaker hadn’t decided yet.”
Cheryl stared at me for another beat and licked her shiny red lips as I forced myself to hold her gaze. It was a power play; that’s all it was, I told myself. She was trying to throw me. Even that predatory lip-licking thing was probably a move she’d seen on Animal Planet and rehearsed in front of the mirror.
“Oh, just call it a feeling,” she said and turned away from me.
I stared after her, trying to shake the sense of unease creeping over me. I felt like a deer in the woods who has just caught the scent of a hunter. Something was wrong.
Cheryl knew I had the promotion lined up; she was just playing her usual games, I told myself. I had nothing to worry about.
But . . . why the hell did she look so confident? She should be kissing up to me.
I started to walk slowly back across the bar to Matt and Pammy. Trust Cheryl to try to put a damper on the best day of my life. She was just jealous. I needed to forget about her and start planning my speech. I glanced at my watch for the umpteenth time: Mason should be making his announcement soon. I’d keep my comments short and sweet, I decided.
“Here’s your drink,” Matt said when I reached him.
He handed me a fresh glass of champagne, and I took a gulp. It didn’t taste quite as good as it had a few minutes ago. When I looked up at Matt, he was frowning. He wasn’t looking at me, though; something across the room had caught his eye. I followed his gaze.
He was staring at Mason.
“What’s up?” I asked.
Matt didn’t answer.
I turned to get a better look at Mason. He was pacing in a corner, jabbing buttons on his cell phone. He ran his free hand over and over his bald head, like he was trying to soothe a jittery dog by stroking it. Gone was his happy, tipsy vibe. He looked like a man in a panic. His big eyes were roaming the room, but when they met mine, they dropped to the floor.
As if he couldn’t bear to look at me.
“Matt?” I said, feeling the floor shift under my feet. My voice came out kind of strangled.
Now Mason was shouting something into the phone, but the music was so loud I didn’t have a chance of hearing him.
“Everything’s fine,” Matt said, putting a warm hand on my shoulder. I hadn’t realized how cold I was. “He’s probably just talking to an insane client.”
“Ooh, looks like the food is ready,” Pammy said. “Yummy, pigs in a blanket. Should we go get a plate?”
“Let’s hang out another second,” Matt said, his eyes never leaving Mason. Now one of our agency’s founders, Mr. Dunne, was hurrying across the room to Mason’s side. The two of them huddled together, gesturing frantically, and at the exact same moment, they both turned to look at me.
“What’s going on?” I whispered. Nausea rose in my throat.
“It’s going to be okay,” Matt said in a low voice, and I tried desperately to believe him. I felt like I was watching a horror movie and the heroine was about to descend a rickety staircase into an unlit basement. Cheryl was being too cocky. Mason looked too upset. Now Mason was passing the cell phone to Mr. Dunne, and he was talking into it. Something bad was going to happen; the killer was in the basement.
Oh, God, why were they walking over to Cheryl?
Mr. Dunne was shaking Cheryl’s hand, and she was smiling. Something about her smile . . .
“I need to—” I couldn’t get out the rest of the words. My stomach was bucking. I raced to the bathroom and flung open the stall door just in time. I hadn’t eaten much of anything all day, so the only thing that splashed into the toilet was champagne.
“Lindsey?” Pammy had followed me in. “Oh, no. You’re not really pregnant, are you?”
“I think I just ate some bad sushi for lunch,” I lied, flushing the toilet and closing the lid. I sat down on top of it. My legs were shaking so bad I didn’t trust them to hold me up.
“Can I get you some water?” she asked. “Maybe a few crackers?”
“That would be great,” I said hoarsely. I couldn’t imagine eating a thing, but it would get Pammy out of here and let me be alone so I could fight through my panic. I needed to stay calm; I was good at staying calm. I was good at fixing things, too. I could fix this, whatever it was.
What was happening?
Logically I knew there could be a million explanations. Maybe Matt was right; maybe a big client was being difficult. Maybe Mason and Dunne had turned to look at me because they were thinking of handing him off to me but decided to give him to Cheryl. It was probably that. I was sure it had to be that.
It wasn’t that.
I knew it with a staggering, rock-solid certainty. Something big was about to happen, something awful. What had Cheryl done? My mind raced as I considered the possibilities. She couldn’t have messed with the agency vote; Mason had already told me I’d won the VP title. I had the job locked up.
Didn’t I?
“Lindsey, here’s your water,” Pammy said, entering the bathroom again. “That bald guy was looking for you, but I told him you were in the ladies’ room. I didn’t tell him you were throwing up, though. He’s making some speech right now, so he said he’ll talk to you afterward.”
I unlocked the stall door and stepped out, a giddy, hysterical hope rising inside me like a balloon. Could I have been wrong? Could the champagne have made me paranoid? Mason was giving his announcement; everything was proceeding on schedule. And he was looking for me. That had to be a good sign, right? I rinsed out my mouth and smoothed my hair.
“Thanks, Pammy,” I said, accepting the water and crackers she handed me.
I could hear Mason talking, but the bathroom walls distorted his words.
“Should we go out?” she asked.
“Give me one more second,” I said. I reached into my purse and put on a layer of Cherrybomb. I took a deep breath and stared at my reflection for a moment, marshaling my strength until I was ready.
>
“Hey!” Matt was standing just outside the door. He motioned us over. Mason was up in the DJ’s booth, speaking into a microphone while everyone crowded together on the floor beneath him. Cheryl was near the front of the pack, a broad smile stretched across her face. Matt was standing a few feet to the side of everyone, so he had a view of both Mason and the crowd.
“What did I miss?” I whispered.
“Nothing yet,” Matt said.
Mason continued talking. “. . . really a tough decision for us, one of the toughest we’ve ever had to make . . .”
God, just get to it, I silently begged him.
“. . . exceptional work this year and every year since she joined our agency . . .”
“Did Mason say why he was looking for me?” I asked Matt.
He shook his head.
“How did he look?” I whispered.
Matt inhaled slowly and met my eyes. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Something seems . . . off.”
I shut my eyes and prayed a simple, fervent prayer: Please. The tension was unbearable. My stomach started to roil again.
“. . . she put the cherry on top today. Not only did Cheryl win the Gloss account, but she so impressed Stuart Fenstermaker that he phoned a little while ago and announced he is entrusting all of his advertising to Richards, Dunne, and Krantz. Not just for Gloss but for all seven of his companies. Cheryl brought in a fifty-million-dollar account this morning while everyone else was getting a latte. Not bad for a day’s work.”
No.
“. . . pleased to announce Cheryl Davis is our new vice president. Cheryl, will you come up here . . .”
Matt was standing beside me. His hand was back on my shoulder: “Deep breath,” he whispered into my ear. “Inhale slowly.”
I followed his directions like a robot. This was a bad dream. In a minute I’d wake up and I’d lift my head from my desk and see Donna’s note.
Heads were swiveling around. Were they looking for me, to see how I’d react? I instinctively took a step back, behind Matt.
The Opposite of Me Page 5