The One That Got Away

by Leigh Himes

  Seconds later, standing in Charlotte’s light- and leather-filled office, I told myself not to give up any info, and not to fill the silence with my usual blabber. After arranging herself neatly in her chair but not offering me one, Buns of Steel began her usual inquiry:

  “Sooooo, what’s new with our friends at Maxim Pest?”

  I took a breath.

  “Jules and I have the fall e-blast all set for today, just waiting on one last photo from the client,” I told her, pretending not to notice as her eyes slid from my faded sweater to my scuffed ballet flats. “And I’ve been working really hard to get the word out about the new stink-bug promotion. I’ve got some interest from reporters, but nothing definite yet.”

  Actually, I did have a really good lead. For weeks, I’d been doing some schmoozing of my own, and I was very close to getting a reporter at the New York Times to interview our client Max DiSabatino regarding a top secret bedbug product he was developing. Max was the founder and owner of Maxim Pest, the biggest pest-control franchise in the Philadelphia area and a man so intimidating and irascible that he kept me up more nights than my teething toddler. His company’s communications strategy was my main responsibility at the firm.

  Before I got on the mommy track, I had represented some of the agency’s best and most creatively challenging accounts: Web developers, restaurants, architecture firms, and the Fine Arts League. But now that I wasn’t as available for travel or late-night drinks with clients—and since Charlotte was promoted to vice president of public relations—I was assigned all the clients nobody wanted: exterminators, chemical manufacturers, mushroom farms. If an account involved something that people tried to avoid thinking about, it was mine. And if it was something that I wanted to work on—something with museums or artists or medicine—Charlotte always either snatched it for herself or gave it to one of the straight-out-of-central-casting clones she had recently hired.

  Still, stories by the New York Times didn’t come along all that often, and if I could pull this off, I could ride this placement for a few months without the client or Charlotte asking me, “What’s next?” And with holiday bonus checks coming out in November, the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. But I also knew I couldn’t say anything about it just yet. If I told her, she’d announce it at the staff meeting as if it were her idea and then hound me about it from then on. And if the story didn’t happen, then I’d look like I’d failed at something that had always been a long shot to begin with. Don’t say anything, I told myself as I tried to slowly back out of her office.

  But she wasn’t letting me go so easily. “Abigail. Surely you have something you’re working on,” she asked, nose wrinkling in disbelief. “You know how important this account is to the firm. To Richard.”

  “I promise, I’m working on it,” I replied, my voice growing terser at the mention of Richard Elkins, our firm’s owner. “But it’s not exactly the most exciting account. There’s been another mass shooting and it’s an election year. No one cares about bugs.”

  “It’s our job to make them care,” she said sharply. Then she leaned closer, her expression disbelieving. “You’ve been running this account for a while now. Don’t you have any leads?”

  She was questioning my abilities. And it made me roar inside. Despite my disheveled appearance, I am very good at my job, I wanted to scream. Of course I have leads. I get more story leads in a week then you’ve gotten your entire career. But I stayed silent, staring at the little crystal clock on her desk.

  A moment passed and I heard her sigh. “If the account’s too tough, we should consider getting you help with it. Perhaps Britney. She’s got some new ideas.”

  My head snapped up to see her expression. She was serious. If I didn’t give her something, she would stick me with some pretty young thing, maybe even demote me. Nicely played, Charlotte.

  “Well, there is one reporter who seems interested…”

  Her eyes narrowed and she leaned back in her chair, victorious. “Well?”

  “I had a brief conversation with Marty Alyward at the New York Times. Turns out he’s working on a story about new technology in pest control and he wants to talk with Max next week.”

  “Fabulous,” she said, picking up her silver pen and beginning to scribble.

  “Well, it’s still not definite, so let’s not get too excited,” I told her. “Seriously, it’s just a ‘maybe.’ I really don’t want Richard to know; he’ll think it’s a done deal. So please don’t say anything—”

  “Of course not. I totally understand.” She nodded, all wide eyes and false concern. “My lips are sealed.”

  “And, well, I had to offer him the exclusive,” I said, almost under my breath. “I hope that’s okay.”

  She stared at me, considering. Then she sighed and said, “An exclusive? Without asking me first? Well, I hope you at least put a clock on him.”

  “A clock? It’s the New York Times, Charlotte,” I told her, incredulous. No one makes demands on the Gray Lady. You wait for them. As long as it takes.

  “Put a clock on him,” she repeated, “or pull the offer.”

  I opened my mouth to protest but then stopped. She looked down at her iPhone and starting responding to a text, and I swear I noticed a smile curving on her lips. She was probably already texting our boss to tell him that she had a lead on the New York Times.

  I waited for her to finish and cursed my big mouth. Despite her threats, I should have kept my mouth shut. But once again, I’d given in.

  “One more thing,” added Charlotte, with fake nonchalance. “I need all the current Quaker Chemical clips analyzed, including impressions and ad equivalencies, by Monday morning.”

  I should have refused, told her it would have to wait until next week, but I was tired, and I figured it was just easier to acquiesce. “Okay,” I said. “No problem.”

  She smiled, then turned her perfectly painted crimson lips and professionally blown-out hair toward her computer screen, showing me her Pilates-toned back. I was used to it and I knew what it meant.

  The stained sweater, scuffed shoes, and I were dismissed.

  Three hours later, I was seated in a booth in the only lunch spot within walking distance of my office, a little café promising Conshohocken’s biggest bagels (my happy place). As my sesame-and-light-garlic-cream-cheese monstrosity cooled, I checked my e-mail, praying for word back from the New York Times. I debated internally whether to contact the reporter again and composed several versions of a “just following up” e-mail before deleting them all in frustration. I then proofread a press release and cringed, dreading the thought of spending all afternoon pushing “Maxim Pest’s Five Tips for ‘Sinking’ Stink Bugs in French Drains” on innocent reporters. I sighed and closed my laptop.

  Looking out the window at the pretty, quiet streets of Conshohocken, a nineteenth-century factory town trying to reinvent itself as a small business enclave, I sighed. Sure, it offered views of the Schuylkill River, no city wage tax, and old brick warehouses turned into open-concept office space, but I missed working in the city, where the hustle and bustle made even stink bugs seem important. I took a bite of my bagel when a text appeared from Jules. She was going to “need a few more minutes,” which could mean anywhere from three to thirty-three.

  Jules, my best friend since college, was chronically late. She’d grown up the last of six kids born within ten years to hippie parents, so things like schedules, rules, and deadlines were only words, and time was arbitrary, not finite. At times her lateness brought tragic consequences—failed classes, big arguments, missed flights—but she never changed, or thought to buy a watch. And when she became a graphic designer, and a darn good one, she had no incentive to change, her constant tardiness discounted by her bosses as “artistic idiosyncrasies.” Usually it annoyed me, especially when it ate into my comically tight daily schedule, but after today’s long morning, I needed a moment to collect myself. I took another bite, then a breath, and repeated the sequence unti
l I was halfway through the enormous bagel. When I washed it all down with a sip of coffee I was in a better place, my mood buoyed by the carbohydrates, not to mention the luxury of five minutes spent without anyone asking me for anything.

  I lugged my heavy workbag up onto the table, setting salt and pepper shakers dancing. I should have started with the latest Pest Control Technician and Bugs Today, but I bargained that I deserved a few minutes to peruse the latest feel-bad-about-your-skin/thighs/life fashion monthlies instead. That was one of the few good things about working in PR—free magazines.

  I pulled out my nine-hundred-page September Vogue, now a month old. I flipped through the blur of colorful stilettos, long limbs, and glossy lips before digging into an article about a young mother in irresponsibly high heels and a red taffeta ball gown. Her two toddlers roamed between cypress trees and sculpture in gauzy white dresses, oblivious to the world beyond. The idyllic scene seemed galaxies away from the sizzles and clanks and beeps of Bagel Towne.

  Finishing Vogue—and still no sign of Jules—I moved on to my other guilty pleasure, Town & Country. The pages revealed a world so decadent and beautiful, it was like peeking at life on another planet, a place where roses never wilted and every house fronted a sapphire-blue sea.

  I was only a few pages in, somewhere between the fancy rugs and the fancier watches, when I saw it. Or rather, him.

  There on the party page, looking slightly uncomfortable at having his photo taken, but very comfortable in his perfectly tailored tuxedo, was Alexander Collier van Holt. His smile was straight and wide, his hair thick and dark, his eyes as blue as I remembered. Pulled apart, each feature was impressive, but together they created an image so rare among the scruffy, bearded looks of today—the traditionally handsome man. The kind you might see advertising cologne or watches, not sneakers. Beside him were two women in plain gowns, one older, one younger, but each with hair and eyes the same color as his. Their hands placed protectively on his arms told me they recognized his uniqueness too.

  I leaned in and peered at his face, then let my thoughts escape out loud: “Oh my God,” I said to anyone listening.

  This man, who I knew simply as Alex, had worked in the same building as I when I was a year out of college. He had been interning at Philadelphia First, a big foundation that gave away tons of money to the arts, schools, and health care. My employers at the time, a small PR firm run by two ex–Philadelphia Inquirer reporters, shared a floor with the foundation, and we often benefited from the proximity. Many of our firm’s clients were recipients of Philadelphia First grants, eager to give us at least part of their new capital in exchange for some media recognition.

  It had mostly been grunt work, but I loved Sharon and Barbara, my smart and sarcastic bosses. I had learned more on my first day with them than in a whole semester’s worth of Image versus Morality: Best Practices in Media Relations, even if I was just typing up media lists, faxing press releases, and pasting newspaper clips in spiral-bound books. I also loved the building, a former nineteenth-century department store once known for its elaborate window displays. Walking through the lobby each morning, I hunted for the peeling gold cherubs who peeked down from the ornately carved ceiling. At one time they presided over shoppers buying bowler hats and rose-water perfume, but that summer they watched, chortling, as a young blonde in an Ann Taylor suit and Payless heels shuffled by each day.

  It was on a warm day in late April, while waiting in the line at the lobby coffee cart, that I first saw Alex. The morning sun threw curved patches of yellow across the lobby, lighting up women’s stockings and men’s briefcases as they crossed. He stood behind the crowd, at the farthest elevator, hitting the up button over and over and looking around for help.

  He was tall and angular and boyish, his looks still a rough draft of the masterpiece they would become. His cheeks and nose were tanned, as if he had just stepped off the slopes, and his thick dark hair had loosened from the grip of its pomade, falling into his startlingly blue eyes. He wore a classic navy blazer, crisp white shirt, and tan pants, all expensive looking and well tailored, but with contrasting muddy boat shoes and a fraying red-and-black REI backpack. The overall look was one of Outward Bound counselor turned management trainee, the kind of young man who made both mothers and daughters swoon.

  Still befuddled by the elevators, he looked up with anxious eyes as I walked up, attempting to be cool and nonchalant. “Need some help?”

  “Thanks,” he said, smiling with relief. “It’s my first day today, and I can’t figure out how to make this thing open.”

  “You need a key card,” I told him. “They’re locked.”

  Juggling my coffee and my bag, I tried to slap my electronic card against the keypad nonchalantly, but it slipped from my grip and went flying. I watched as it hit him squarely in the groin and then dropped to the ground with a clatter.

  He cringed for a second and then bent to retrieve it. Too mortified to speak, I stepped into the elevator, hoping the dim lights would shroud my face, now red and blotchy with embarrassment. He hopped in after me, apparently not seriously hurt.

  “What floor?” I whispered, finger hovering above the numbers.

  “Six,” he said as the door slid shut.

  “Oh, same as me.”

  “Philadelphia First?”

  “No. I work at Salmon and Sisley Communications.”

  As the elevator ascended, I kept my gaze on the blinking buttons inching closer to floor six, still too mortified to make eye contact. It was not every day that I found myself alone with a man like him. Most of the guys I met smelled like cheesesteaks and cheap shampoo; this guy smelled like Christmas morning.

  “I’m starting at Philadelphia First. An internship in their public policy department. I’m Alex.” His voice, deep but warm, filled the elevator.

  “I’m Abbey. Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you too,” he said, extending one hand while keeping the other one protectively over his groin. I looked at him, horrified, then realized he was joking. I shook his hand and we both laughed.

  The door slipped open and he motioned me out first. I turned and walked slowly toward my office, wishing I could have prolonged the conversation. Then I heard his voice—“Abbey, wait, I think this is yours.”

  I turned around and saw his arm extended again, this time with my elevator key card. As I walked back toward him, our eyes locked. Silently and slowly, I took the card from his hand, our fingertips touching. It was a moment that felt dangerously intimate for an office hallway. And sure enough, another elevator opened, adding others—nameless, faceless strangers—to our private moment. Alex smiled, then turned toward the walnut-and-glass doors of Philadelphia First.

  I stood and stared, watching him walk out of my life.

  Or so I had thought.

  Two days later, while I was busy faxing press releases, a call caught me off guard. I had almost missed it, its ring barely audible over the screeching fax machine.

  “Hi, Abbey,” said a male voice, a bit timid. “This is Alex. We met the other day?”

  “Hi! How are you?” I swiveled in my chair and leaned down, a finger over my other ear. This was important.

  “They let me come back, so I guess I’m doing okay. And you?”

  “Fine, thanks.” My voice was higher than I wished. I cleared my throat. He did the same but didn’t say anything else. The uncomfortable seconds ticked on. Finally, I broke the silence with a question: “Um, do you need some PR or something?”

  “No,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I’m not calling for that, though I’m sure you would do a fantastic job. I… I was calling to see if you wanted to go out with me sometime. Maybe Friday night? My friend’s band is playing… and there’s this new Thai place nearby and…”

  His voice began to fade in and out as I struggled with what to say. Even though every bone in my body yearned to say yes, even though I was twenty-three years old with every reason to play the field, and even thought th
is guy seemed nice, sweet, and more than a little sexy, I did what any good, rule-following girl would do. Told the truth.

  “I’m really flattered,” I said, my heart thumping in protest, even my internal organs disbelieving what I was about to say. “But I have a boyfriend.”

  “God, I’m so sorry I’m late,” said Jules. “But Charlotte made me change a layout even though the client already approved it.”

  She slammed her giant key ring on the table and then slid herself, her giant woven purse, and her brown-bagged lunch into the seat across from me. “So now I’m totally caught between the client and her and I really don’t know what to do. I think I’ll just send the file as is and tell her the client was not happy. Or maybe I’ll change it and let her take the… take the… why aren’t you listening to me? What’s wrong? Please don’t tell me it’s the termite mailer.”

  “No, the mailer’s fine. It’s termite-tastic. Really.”

  “Well, what, then? You look like you saw a ghost.”

  “Well, I kind of did.”

  “What? Who?” she said, first sinking back with relief, then sitting back up and waving her hands. “Wait! Don’t tell me until I get everything out.”

  She threw her cell phone and keys into her bag, unstuck her long reddish hair from her striped sweater coat, and pulled out three plastic containers of food. I peeked over the table, anxious to see what bizarre, low-calorie cuisine she would be dining on today.

  To a (mostly) skinny, flat-chested gal like me, Jules was curvy and voluptuous and lovely. But to the rest of the world—and in her own mind—she was about twenty-five pounds overweight. Every few months she would try the latest fad diet, cooking up a week’s worth of recipes in her tiny studio apartment kitchen, but usually giving up by day three. I’d seen her try the no-carbohydrate diet, the caveman diet, the blood type diet, and even eat only red and yellow foods. I didn’t dare tell her what I really wanted to: that none of these “guaranteed” diets would ever work and to me, she was perfect and beautiful just the way she was. Whenever I made any comment about her looks, she always glared at me and said the same thing: “Easy for you to say. You have a husband and kids. My time is running out.” To which I would always respond, “Nonsense. You have plenty of time.”