“I am happy for you, doodle bug. But I want you to be happy for you, and—” He indicates me with a flick of his chopsticks. “I want you to actually be happy too. I think you should talk to him.”
I give a snort. Shake my head. “I have no idea what I’d even say, other than I’m sorry. And I already said that. That’s not going to cut it. No, I think what I need to do is take a step back. Do something different. I don’t think it’s running away. I think it’s getting off this couch. Taking on a new adventure.”
I stand and stretch. He just looks up at me with judgment behind his eyes.
“But right now, I have to get off this couch and go see Ansley.”
* * *
When she arrives at the dive bar of my choosing, her expression reads as somewhat nervous. She’s not as aggressive with the lower lip biting as she usually is, but she does fidget with it as she sits down, slowly running over it with her upper teeth.
“Hey, listen,” I say with a small smile. “I’m really sorry.”
She shakes her head. “You really don’t need to be.”
“No, I do. Because this all got really out of hand. I think I lost sight of why I started doing any of this to begin with, and that was to help people. To give a better voice to those who couldn’t quite articulate what it was they wanted to say. I should never have set you up with Henry because—yes—I have a thing with him—had a thing—a hundred years ago—and even though I thought initially it was maybe going to be a help for us that I knew him, that I’d have a better edge on the situation and could do really well at getting you two going, it obviously backfired. To say the least. I should have stuck to my rules.”
“But then you and I wouldn’t have become friends.” She presses her lips into a tight smile.
I give a consenting nod. “Well, that’s true, because that’s Rule Number 13: Don’t make friends with clients.”
“Is that a new one?”
I snicker. “I’m basically just making up crap as I go along.”
“Aren’t we all.” She knocks her glass of sangria against my martini.
We sit in relative silence for a few minutes, watching the bartender girl pretend to flirt with the forty-something who’s on glass numero dos of whiskey.
I can’t speak for Ansley, but I’m in wistful thought about this whole experience. What it’s taught me. What to do next. I guess I really should hang it all up.
And then she interrupts my reverie, tone soft. “I know you didn’t mean anything bad or sinister. And Henry really is a great guy.”
I’m not sure if it’s the Ketel One, all the soul searching I’ve been doing the last few days, or what, but her comment hits me right in the guts.
“He is.” I turn to her. “Are you sure there’s no way something can work there? You really don’t need me. And you’ve already proven you can be around him without the apocalypse happening. I mean, dare I ask…what happened on that trip?”
I choke my lunch back as the question tumbles out of my mouth because, Do I really want to know? But it can’t be worse than the sex I had to stop myself from imagining. That I assumed was going on because First Trip Away and Poconos and—
Yeah, I can’t bring myself to think about it even now.
But as Ansley speaks, she doesn’t relay a tale of kink gone wrong. Of debauchery and seduction. Of wild nights and steamy hot tubs. What she details instead are a few anecdotes of what sounds like a truly awkward weekend. Of two people who Meant Well Enough but, in the end, Just Didn’t Gel.
Still, she’s blushing as she tells me everything.
“I didn’t admit to him that I’d hired you to be me. I couldn’t. But he’s not like a lot of these other guys. He knew something was up. He kept referencing all the funny things you two had apparently talked about in your messages. And I know you gave me all the intel you could, but I think we’re too different, you and me. I don’t have that sharp sense of wit that you have. Henry and I tried to connect on many levels, but it just didn’t happen. When he kissed me, I could tell he wanted there to be something more behind it, but there just wasn’t. We ended up having kind of a shruggy conversation about how this wasn’t working and we both felt bad about it, but at least it wasn’t working for both of us. So we laughed it off and decided to come back a day early.”
“Eek” is all I can say to that. “You know, I never intended to be too ‘me’ with him. But I guess because Henry and I had already established banter, things got a little blurry. I got a little carried away. And, look.” I reach into my bag and pull out the envelope I made out to her. “I want to return your money. I went overboard, I screwed things up for all of us, and I’m not going to be needing this anymore. I’d rather just wipe this particular job from the books, so to speak.”
I slide the check in front of her, and she squints at it, bewilderment in her stare.
“I can’t take this. You provided a service.”
I wince. “Yeah, but that service feels pretty icky now. I just don’t think I can accept money for it. Especially since it didn’t turn out to be a fairytale ending for you. You know?”
“What about you?” She catches me off guard with the question. “Are you going to go after Henry? I think you should.”
My gaze lands on the stuffed olive at the bottom of my glass, and I stab it to death with the toothpick as I speak. “You may not have told Henry about our little arrangement, but he knows. When you texted me the other night, I was with him. And something almost did happen—I think? I don’t even know anymore. But he read the message, and he knows. And he hates me. And who could blame him?”
I finally put the poor olive out of its misery and wash its delicious saltiness down with a pull of smooth vodka.
The two of us catch up a little more—I tell her about the new gig, about Cliff, and she’s wondering the same thing Gordon and Isla were:
“Are you going to let him have it?”
“It’s something I’ve been pondering. I don’t know. He’s been messaging me pretty relentlessly since he ‘returned from his trip,’ and I’ve been pretty silent. Heh. I feel awful about my part in what he’s doing to his wife—he has a family he takes beach portraits with.” I bang my head with the heel of my palm. “I still can’t believe it. I’d love to clue this woman in somehow because, I don’t care who she is or how he’s justified himself in this—no one deserves that. But how do you make that right? How do you let someone know her husband’s scum without also ruining her entire world, you know?”
The question hangs there and we both just kind of let it.
It’s a tricky business, involving yourself in someone else’s love life.
Meddling, as Henry’d put it.
The word makes me feel dirty.
And kind of like a Scooby-Doo character.
I realize it would feel good, letting Cliff have it. But also, what will that really do? He knows what he’s doing, and he obviously must have made his peace with it a long time ago. Who knows how many chicks he has all over town? A kick to the nuts would feel great in the moment, but how’s it really going to make him pay? Make him sorry? Guys like that aren’t sorry about anything.
* * *
After pondering it for a few days, while juggling NYC apartment hunting online and last-minute preparations for the fund-raiser, I agree to meet with Cliff anyway.
I don’t know quite what I’m going to say or do yet—even as I sit at the hotel bar waiting for him to come down from his room, I don’t know.
I sip my martini and try not to think of how many of these I’ve had this week—tough week!—and cradle it close to my face—my baby. The cool of the glass allows a state of Zen to wash over me. I see flirty couples traipsing their way through the lobby—tickling and giggling all the way to the elevators. It gives me a different feeling now than it would have a week ago. I wonder if Dude’s got a wife—if Home Girl’s got a husband. If all the people in this joint have someone somewhere sitting at home with the kids, watching som
e Ray Romano show or the Hallmark Channel, or Jeopardy!.
“Another, please?” I lift my empty glass, and the bartender obliges without a hitch. He knows me, after all. I’ve been in here plenty with the man of the hour.
Suddenly Cliff arrives, right on time, hair still damp from a fresh shower. At the sight of him, a sight that mere days ago would have sent me into a high school frenzy, an acrid taste coats the back of my throat. When he pulls me in for a kiss, I squirm. I can’t go through with it. Not for one more second. I haven’t thought this through completely, but Act Like Everything Is Okay Then Zing Him Later isn’t going to happen.
“What’s wrong, peanut?” He kisses me wet on the cheek anyway, disappointment thick in his voice.
I rotate toward him on the barstool so I’m facing him. A slow, dramatic turn, and I only wish I had some sort of exotic pet to stroke as the words begin to fill my head and I let them tumble out.
“I know.” I put extra emphasis on the second word and sip my martini, clean and smooth. Shaken, not stirred.
“Know?” He motions to the barkeep to make his usual and scoots a bit back on the stool.
“Probably not the half of it, but, yes, I do know. Is there anything you want to tell me?”
His features kind of…twist, like What are you getting at, a dumb look spreading on his dumb face, and so I Burger King him.
“Have it your way.” I cock my head and go for my purse. Fish out my phone and pull up the pictures I took at Finnegan’s.
Of him and whoever this redhead is who also isn’t his wife.
“Tell me again how Richmond was,” I say, presenting him with the photos, and just watch his face dissolve as I scroll through them.
His whole expression skates downward—eyes begin to narrow, brow falls, his jaw tightens with each new piece of evidence.
When I get to the end, I set down my phone and just look at him.
Truth be told, I’m a little excited to see what he’ll come up with. I can’t suppress the hint of a smile.
“A client. She’s a client.” He kind of fireworks his fingers, like No big deal, but I just keep staring—and it must unnerve him because he suddenly can’t sit still.
“How many are there? I’m one of…what?”
“It’s not like that, peanut.” He’s talking with his hands now.
I purse my lips. Do a slow nod. “Mm-kay. Well, let me ask you this then. How can you do this to Stephanie? Your kids?”
“Kid,” he corrects, almost like it’s on autopilot.
Like that’s the part to focus on regarding this subject. How many kids he’s being shitty to.
But the moment the word slips out, his hands fly to his mouth as if he can catch it and shove it back in.
“My wife and I are separated,” he says, almost like I’m supposed to believe it. But when I don’t react, his tone turns to venom. “And anyway, how do you know about that?” He hisses it low and menacing, and casts a furtive glance up toward the bartender.
I chuckle and grab my drink once again. “I have my ways.”
His words remain even, but I can tell the very strings holding him together inside are beginning to come undone. The heat emanating off his creamy skin, the perspiration that’s bubbled up on his temples, gives him away. Makes me wonder how far I can really push this guy before he throws a full-on mantrum in public.
“What do you want? Money?” It’s almost a growl.
This makes me burst out in laughter. The bartender throws me a look like I’ve disturbed his glass-wiping routine with my merriment.
“No, Cliff, I don’t want your money.” I give the top of his hand a pat. “I want you to stop being such a piece of shit.”
The bravado he worked so hard to keep going flies from his mouth along with some spittle as he sputters at me, anger seeping from his every cell, his every pore. “Are you threatening me? You’re going to tell my wife?”
I shrug at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The smug look on my face amuses me and I give myself a little grin. “I mean…I could?”
He just keeps breathing on me. A cross between seething and probably pissing in his designer dress pants.
“But what I really think you should do is tell her yourself. Beg her forgiveness. Do everything you can not to be a scumbag anymore, you know?”
And I hop off the barstool.
“Thanks for the drinks,” I say. “And good luck to you, peanut.”
Chapter 21
I spend half the next week in New York, realizing I need a whole new wardrobe—library chic is not going to cut it at corporate—and meeting with my new team. They’ve set me up with a decorator who’s furnishing my entire apartment on the company—“One of the relocation perks,” Van de Kamp says with a strong elbow jab and a wink.
Gordon’s taken the reins putting the finishing touches on the event, which makes my inner control freak a little squirrelly, but I know he’s more than capable—and really, it’s going to be his store in a few days anyway. I need to let go.
I haven’t heard from Clifford the Big Red Dickface since I left him sniveling at the hotel, and I am definitely more than okay with that.
As I make follow-up calls, lunch with corporate clients, and sit in on meetings and training sessions, I do wonder if I’ve done the right thing with regard to Cliff. But part of me basks in the fact that he knows I know the truth—that I’ve got something on him—and yet he can’t ever really be positive what I’ll do with the information. I relish the thought that he’s probably haunted a tiny bit every morning, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Looking over his shoulder. Wondering if an envelope will arrive in the mail. A phone call placed to Stephanie’s office. An anonymous note. I picture him coming home extra early every day—sweating—frantic to get to the mailbox first. All the while knowing, even if he’s getting away with it, he hasn’t really gotten away with it because he’s been found out.
How long can a person keep from losing his mind, having that kind of thing hanging over his head?
But then I decide it’s probably a lot longer than most of us, if he could stomach the things he did to get himself into that situation in the first place.
Meh.
When the night of the fund-raiser arrives, the convention center is a masterpiece of bookish delight. Hundreds of hardcovers—handpicked by moi—hang suspended in designs from the ceiling and create the gorgeous illusion of intricate flight formations. There’s a flock of Hemingways over by the bar. A quarrel of Austens. A murder of Poes. Smaller arrangements of children’s works and contemporary works in complex clusters. A large V pattern of various fairytales from all over the world presides over the entire room.
And each book, no matter where it sits on high, appears to sparkle as prisms from the chandelier illuminate every one. The light twists with any bit of movement. Dazzles against the covers, against every surface it can find. Winks down from above and glitters like fairy dust to promise a magical night.
As the guests file in, dressed to the nines in designers I’ve never heard of but who are probably Important, I talk to Gordon in my headset to make sure we’re all set. In hindsight, these headsets were probably a mistake because G keeps singing old-school Backstreet Boys into his (but I have to admit catching him doing the dance moves from across the room is pretty priceless).
He’s the spitting image of Ryan Seacrest in a silver tuxedo jacket with black velour lapels, and he’s doing a stellar job of guiding folks to the tables with the highest-ticket items for the Chinese auction in between his impromptu concerts. We’ve been instructed to keep the CFO of Book Warehouse, Gary Cavanaugh, “properly sauced,” as Roger put it. Not only have I not seen Gary without a highball glass in his hand since he walked through the door, but he just barely missed sloshing the contents of one of his drinks on my one-shoulder Rent the Runway little jobbie when I went to say hello—so I’d say we’re doing just fine.
Once the auctioneer has been located, I take to the stage to an
nounce the last event of the night. I’m not quite sure how it’s going to go, but Roger gave us the go-ahead on it, so he can’t be too upset if it’s a flop.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. On behalf of Johnson & Biddle, parent company of Literature & Legislature, as well as our new owners, Book Warehouse…” I do a sweeping hand gesture like Book Warehouse is the king of the world, and I’m silenced by excruciating applause. It feels like it goes on for twenty minutes, which isn’t likely, but I’m pretty sure the spotlight is actually cooking my face right off.
When the cheering dies down, I continue, doing my best Oprah and Let’s Get Ready to Rumble impression rolled into one. “I’m thrilled to announce our bachelor auction.”
I fight back the urge to hurl up the dozen cocktail shrimps I mainlined earlier as the crowd erupts into more self-satisfied ovation. Raising this money for children’s literacy. Patting themselves on the back for doing so much Good.
“But I guarantee this bachelor auction will be unlike any you’ve seen before. I give you…the Great Bachelors of Literature.” And then I step aside—another grand sweep of an arm—to make way for the auctioneer to come to the mic.
Once we’ve done our stage business, I make my way backstage, and Gordon’s there to greet me behind the curtain. My head’s in my hands, but I’m totally laughing.
“See? I told you they’d eat this up!” He swats at my arm with his clipboard. “What did Vandy say?”
I stare out at the crowd and shake my head—and I can’t help but crack up.
“He went nuts for it, of course.” I give him the side-eye. “Although I half think I could have sold him a Famous Clowns Throughout History auction and he’d have gobbled it up, the way he’s singing my praises these days.”
“Shh!” Gordon’s over this convo now. He does an anxious little drum on my shoulder with two fingers as we become engrossed in the very cheesily dressed knight who appears upstage center.
“Put your hands together for…Sir Lancelot!” The auctioneer beams.
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