Doris sighed and wiped a hand across her perspiring face, glancing at her watch. Five minutes to go. Maybe she should just...
As though punctuating Doris’s thoughts, Jackie burst through the front door, cheeks colored a bright pink. “And I thought Champs-Élysées was cold,” she complained, shaking sparkling snowflakes from her mink. The scent of Angel perfume immediately filled the living room. “Why on earth is it snowing in October?”
Doris cut the power on the steamer, holding the vibrating handle as it sputtered to a stop. She blushed, watching Jackie survey the living room and take in the spotless silver picture frames and perfectly laid out flower arrangements.
“Darling Dori,” Jackie said. “I simply do not know where you get your energy.”
“Caffeine,” Doris answered immediately. She wasn’t trying to be funny but Jackie giggled anyway.
“Toss me your cell, love,” Jackie said. “Let’s call Cheryl for a little lunch on TurnKey.”
“She might not pick up. She’ll think it’s me . . .” Doris hesitated but handed over the phone, hoping Cheryl wouldn’t be mean enough to screen the call.
“Hi, Cheryl,” Jackie said almost immediately, making a face at Doris. Doris felt relieved. Maybe their fight was finally over. Maybe she and Cheryl were . . . “Wait. Cheryl—are you crying?”
“She’s crying?” Doris said, dread settling into her chest. Cheryl had no problem making other people cry, but Cheryl never cried.
“Where are you? Okay, we’ll be right there,” Jackie said. She clicked the phone shut and looked at Doris in surprise.
“What happened?” Doris said. “Is it her head? Is she back in the hospital?”
“I never thought I’d say something like this,” Jackie puzzled, moving toward the couch and sitting down for a brief moment. “Cheryl . . . she . . .”
Doris broke into a sweat and put her hand over her mouth. “What?”
Jackie looked up, blue eyes wide. “She got fired.”
Chapter Ten
SECURITY HAD ESCORTED CHERYL OUT OF THE BUILDING—HER building. Cheryl was screaming at Stan at the top of her lungs and he was blaming it on her head injury. That bastard!
“You violated my privacy!” she screamed. “You read my BlackBerry. I’ll sue the shit out of you, you sneaky motherfucker!”
Stan stood against the background of TurnKey like some figure guarding a fortress on the cover of a war novel. Those dark eyes were hooded and Cheryl could not believe she had ever considered him an attractive, stable family man. He was a goon.
“I need you to leave immediately,” Stan said, voice ringing out across the parking lot. “Or I will have you arrested.”
“I gave you fifteen years,” Cheryl told him, sucking in icy air and stomping her feet. “I made this company. I . . .” Cheryl lowered her eyes to the ground and called on every ounce of womanly theatrics she could find within her. “Come on, Stan . . .” she tried. “We’ve been friends forever. I don’t want to lose you. Let’s work this out.”
In her heart, Cheryl wanted to bash his head in with a hammer, but this might just work. Stan could be a big old teddy bear—that was part of his problem. The fact that he had an online poker habit and had skimmed money off the corporate accounts was the rest of his problem. But just as she’d feared, he’d found the files she had on him and deleted the evidence.
“Stan, I wasn’t going to say anything,” Cheryl promised, inching forward. “I just wanted to protect myself. In case anyone blamed me.”
Eduardo, the building’s security, scuttled in front of her like a sand crab. He barked, “Stay back!”
Cheryl ignored him. “Besides, it’s illegal to fire me without cause.”
“Cheryl, I’m firing you for incompetence.” Stan shrugged. “Period.”
The parking lot was empty except for the three of them. Even in the wide open space with its big gray sky, Cheryl could barely find enough oxygen to fight the red wall of rage that threatened to overtake her. “Excuse me?”
“Cheryl, the presentation you lost for Fitzgibbon Ale could have cost us the client.” Stan’s bushy eyebrows were practically doing the rumba as he recited a script designed for Eduardo to hear and remember, just in case she tried to sue. “I think we both know that.”
Cheryl shook her head in disbelief. On Stan’s watch, she could see it was eight thirty-two a.m., less than forty-five minutes after she had gotten to work. She couldn’t believe this had happened so fast.
When Cheryl had gotten to the office, everyone was watching her. She assumed it was because of the racquetball game so she made some joke that no one laughed at. Once seated at her desk, Stan came in and slammed down her BlackBerry. “So you bothered to come in,” he said, glaring at her. “I need to see your presentation for Bob Turner. Now.”
“Absolutely,” Cheryl had said. Her voice was smooth but immediately, she started to sweat. Had he seen the information she kept on the BlackBerry? Those screenshots of the financial comparison charts, her records versus the ones submitted to the board . . . Carefully, she searched his face.
Stan stared back, expressionless. After a tense moment, Cheryl convinced herself she was just being paranoid. Stan was probably just irritated that she’d shown up for the presentation with Bob. Stan had been trying to get in with Bob for years. He had probably thought this would be his big chance.
“It’s a good presentation,” Cheryl said. “I think we’ll get him to agree to the Miami market and beach communities with this.”
It was hard to keep the excitement out of her voice, in spite of Stan’s mood. The bikini promotion and commercial campaign she had conceptualized was top dollar. It was a huge step away from what Bob was used to, but it was time to sex up his campaign. Cheryl had at least two hundred hours of work behind the charts and figures. She had no doubt that it would make her case and they’d finally convince Bob to expand. That would mean huge money and, surely, a bonus for her.
“I’ll pull it up,” Cheryl told Stan. Manicured fingers clicked in her computer password. “It’s right . . .” she started to say, but stopped.
The PowerPoint presentation was blank. Granted, she was not a computer genius, but . . .
“Problem?” Stan said. He was leaning back on his heels, arms crossed.
“Of course not,” Cheryl said, clicking the mouse. Nothing. Staring at her computer in confusion, she said, “You know what? There’s plenty of time. Bob’s not even here until eleven. I’ll show it to you in a few.”
“You’ve got five minutes.” Stan turned on his heel and stalked out of her office.
The second he left, Cheryl called tech support, eyeing her BlackBerry with trepidation. She wanted to believe Stan had just woken up on the wrong side of bed but when tech sent up Blake to paw through her computer, her worst fears were confirmed—the presentation for Fitzgibbon Ale was history. Stan had wiped her memory, she was certain now. Her computer records showed the file deleted yesterday, while she was still in the office. But that was impossible, of course. It had been the last thing Cheryl had looked at before grabbing her coat and heading to racquetball at six.
Cheryl bit her lip and turned to the computer tech. “Blake, is there any way to prove the file could have been deleted at a different time or . . . ?”
“Your dates would have to be off on your computer.” Blake glanced at something on her screen. “No, everything’s current.” Blake pushed back her desk chair and stood up. He was one of those computer guys with stooped shoulders and an appreciation for kindness.
“You’re the expert here,” she persisted, touching his hand. “Tell me this. Could someone have changed it?”
Blake blushed. “That’s real tricky to do. You couldn’t have done that by mistake.”
Cheryl nodded. “That’s what worries me.”
Stan was at her desk the second Blake left. “So?”
“Stan, it’s gone,” Cheryl said. She settled back in her chair and waited for the storm to break. “But
I think you already know that.”
“You mean to tell me you do not have the report for our top client that will be here . . .” At this point, Stan already sounded as though he were reciting from a script. The way he looked at his watch confirmed the setup. “In three hours? If you can’t produce it, we might have a serious problem.”
Cheryl leaped to her feet, got in his face. “And what’s that gonna be?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jack, Chad, Sam . . . all of them, heads poked out of their offices.
“You’ll be fired.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she hissed. “You have no grounds.”
“Wanna bet?” Stan pulled two warning slips from his pocket. They were in reference to Cheryl’s other snaggles with the computer—always presented to her as a joke. Cheryl grabbed one and really looked. They were on official company letterhead.
“You’re not the only one who was playing chess,” Stan said quietly, tapping her BlackBerry. “I need to see that presentation, Cheryl. Or you’re out.”
“Nice work, Stan,” Cheryl said. “Nice work.”
He nodded. And that’s when she went ballistic.
Now, Stan and his rent-a-cop stood watching her. TurnKey loomed over her lowly position on the steps and the two men stood ready to cut her off at the knees if she tried to take back what was rightfully hers. Cheryl drew her thin wool coat close around her, looking up at the impressive building.
Its windows were tinted a sleek black, an elegant contrast to the light tan of the brick. All of its surrounding hedges were uniformly planted with trees placed here and there, creating a touch of friendly accessibility. Cheryl had been the one to find this building, when the client she landed made the company so big that an office upgrade was required.
“I am going to fuck you up, Stan,” she finally said. “I will put you out of business. I don’t care how long it takes.”
“Good luck with that.” Stan gave her a scornful look, then clapped Eduardo on the back, like they were poker buddies at a game. Stan walked up the steps and used his key card to get back into her building. Eduardo trotted faithfully behind him.
Cheryl climbed into her vehicle. She could hear the rhythm of her heart pounding in the back of her head, right next to the part of her brain that had been bruised by the misguided hit. Cheryl pulled the car door shut behind her, slamming it with a loud bang. She sat in silence for a long moment. Taking a deep breath, she dropped her head to the steering wheel and started to cry.
“I SEE HER,” Doris proclaimed, spotting the hunched-over form of their friend. Cheryl was facedown against her steering wheel, highlighted hair sticking up in all directions.
“I’ll drive her car,” Jackie said, hopping out of the passenger’s side. “Follow us to your house.”
Doris watched as Jackie rapped on the car window. Cheryl’s freckled face lifted slowly, etched with grief.
“It’ll be okay, Cheryl,” Doris called, leaning forward and waving at her. Cheryl didn’t even respond.
“Slide over, honey,” Jackie said softly. “We’re taking you home.” Opening the door, Jackie climbed in.
Back at her house, Doris dug out a pair of snug microfleece pajamas for Cheryl to change into and pulled a frozen eye mask from the freezer. She ran it under warm water to soften it, and then brought it to Cheryl.
“Put it over your eyes,” Doris instructed, then went back to the kitchen to heat up a rice relaxer.
The rice relaxer was a long tube of material made to be popped in the microwave for a few seconds, then draped over the shoulders, nice and warm. Doris had this comfort system of fleece, ice, and warmth down—she’d gone to it so many times after her mother died.
“Better?” she said, smiling at Cheryl.
Cheryl nodded, her chin thrust out. Squinting through the holes in her eye mask, she dialed Bob Turner. Jackie settled in next to her, a comforting hand on her knee.
Doris fluttered around, setting up a pot of ginger tea and her best china, along with a box of chocolates. She wanted to do everything right, happy to have her best friends back in her home. She was only half listening to Cheryl’s phone call with Bob, but turned to look when she heard shouting from the other end of the phone.
“Thanks, Bob,” Cheryl was saying. “Yup, I know. I appreciate it. We’ll talk soon.” Cheryl hung up.
“What happened?” Doris asked.
“Bob’s livid,” she reported, reaching for a truffle. Her tiny hands hovered over the box for a moment before selecting a dark chocolate lined with coconut. “He’s on the first plane to New York and his lawyers.”
“Do you think he’ll be your client?” Jackie asked eagerly. “You could go out on your own, open your own office. Cheryl, this could be big for you . . .”
“That would be great,” Doris tried, settling on the edge of the sofa.
“His contract’s watertight,” Cheryl cut them off. She rubbed her forehead vigorously. “Even if they found a loophole, Fitzgibbon Ale couldn’t work with any other marketing company for three years.”
“How on earth do you know that?” Jackie marveled.
Cheryl sighed. “Who do you think drafted it?” She took a sip of tea and winced.
“Too hot?” Doris grabbed for the cup. She would have taken it back to the kitchen to drop in a tiny ice cube, but Cheryl deliberately held it out of reach.
After a moment, Doris sat back and fiddled with a string on a throw pillow. There was silence and Doris wished she could blurt out something to make Cheryl feel better but the Xanax she’d taken was making it hard for her to focus. The shiny set of silver tea set tongs were captivating her attention, as Jackie used them to drop three sugar cubes into her cup.
Doris pushed her glasses up her nose and the motion seemed to jog her brain. “Stan,” she cried, suddenly. Everyone looked at her in surprise and Doris blushed. “I mean, why do you think Stan did all . . . I mean, why did he . . . ?”
“Stan was always a bit of a weasel,” Jackie scoffed. “He’s wanted to push Cheryl out for years.”
“But why, if she’s good at what she does?” Doris was having a hard time understanding. It wasn’t just the Xanax. It was her lack of experience in the corporate world.
“It doesn’t matter,” Cheryl said. “It’s over. I was playing hardball and I struck out.”
“That’s enlightened,” Jackie said.
Cheryl snorted. “I’d still car bomb him if I could.”
“Or blow up his house.”
“Or shit-bag him.”
Jackie and Cheryl cackled, setting down their tea to keep from spilling it.
Feeling left out, Doris stirred hers, the tiny spoon clinking against the rim. “Cheryl, why were you keeping accounts on Stan?” she finally asked.
“I wanted to take over the company.” Cheryl’s answer was short. “What do you think?”
“Oh, Cheryl.” As soon as Doris heard her voice, like some kindergarten teacher scolding a kid for writing on the walls, she wished she could take it back. It wasn’t how she meant it, but of course, now both Jackie and Cheryl were staring at her like she was some monster. Shit.
“Doris, you are really unbelievable,” Cheryl shouted, tugging at the face mask like she was going to remove it and throw it at her. “Just when I think . . .”
“Honey, stop,” Jackie said. Her many diamond rings sparkled as she grabbed Cheryl’s hand. “Don’t get upset. The trick is to figure out what you’re going to do now.”
“There’s nothing I can do,” Cheryl said, obviously irritated. “Jackie, I’ve had enough. Grab your stuff and come stay with me. I’ll need someone to play nurse so . . .”
Suddenly, Windham Hill blasted over the speakers. Everyone jumped and Doris fumbled around underneath her for the remote control. Sitting on it had been a happy accident. Doris certainly didn’t want Cheryl to leave and take Jackie with her. If Jackie stuck around, maybe some of her glamour would rub off on Doris. Doris smiled at the thought but then c
ocked her head in confusion. She was hearing a low rumbling. Was the stereo still on? She looked up and the tiny blue lights on the dials were dark. The rumbling got louder.
“Do you guys hear that?” she asked, looking around in confusion.
“It’s a motorcycle,” Jackie squealed, leaping up. “Hottie alert!” She bounced to the bay window. “When did Doug start riding a bike?” Jackie said, disappointed.
“It can’t be Doug,” Doris said, not trusting her own voice. “He doesn’t ride motorcycles.”
Just like he didn’t see movies with other women.
Jackie nibbled on a piece of chocolate and gestured at the front lawn. “He does now.”
Doris raced to the window and sure enough, her husband had just pulled into the driveway on a roaring death machine. His thighs were wrapped around it and he was struggling to pull his helmet up and over his head. The chin strap seemed to be stuck under his neck.
Doris rushed to the front door, shoving her feet into a pair of boots and pulling a sweater around her shoulders. She stumbled outside, saying, “Dougie? What on earth . . . ?”
Doug had finally gotten the helmet off and tiny spikes of brown hair stuck up like sharp little thorns, all over his head. Mashing his lips together, Doug stared at her for what must have been a minute. The yard was filled with the smell of gasoline and suddenly, Doris felt cold and afraid.
“Doris,” he said, “I need to tell you something.” Doug’s familiar eyes looked past her as he started to speak, to some point far away on the horizon. “When I married you, I made you a promise. But we were young and I didn’t know someone else would come along and make a liar out of me . . .”
Instead of looking at Doug’s eyes, Doris found herself staring at a piece of dry skin that hung from his nostrils. In a gesture of intimacy that did not match up with the words coming out of Doug’s mouth, she ached to reach out and brush it away as her husband admitted to having an affair with Katherine Rigney.
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