Silver Lining

by Diana Simmonds

  Parveen sat back, her frown even deeper. “Okay, so they don’t really know zip, but I still don’t get it. What’s happening? Why you?”

  Amanda grinned. “Why not me? Bear Stearns and Lehman Brothers were on the edge, but people were saying they’d never go down. And they’re gone. The earthquake from that is what’s rattled me loose from eFrères. The dead turkeys have come home to roost.”

  “Yuk, what a terrible thought. But this can’t get worse, can it?”

  Amanda shrugged and picked up the last morsel of crispy bacon in her fingers. “Well, the pundits have been saying no, so I’d say that pretty much guarantees it’ll get heaps worse before it gets better.”

  “Like a crash? Like 1929? Nah. You’re shittin’ me!”

  Amanda shrugged or shivered—she wasn’t sure which—and nibbled on the sliver of bacon. “Debt and panic. That was 1929. Debt’s okay just so long as nobody panics—that’s the theory and it’s worked fine so far. Then there was Drexel Burnham Lambert and Michael Milken—you should look that one up. If you saw it at the movies you’d never believe it. That was debt and crime. This time it’s more than debt and a different kind of crime. This time the crime is a moral and political one and it goes back a long way and started with all good intentions. Debt isn’t simply about owing money anymore. You know anything about derivatives?”

  Parveen shook her head.

  “No, well I’m not surprised, even we don’t know the half of it and we’ve been selling them so hard it’d make your eyes water. Now it looks like it’s more than eyes watering; it’s like the Hoover Dam has sprung a leak, although it’ll stabilize. It shouldn’t spill over into the rest of the economy, although there’s going to be some collateral damage—like me and God knows who else.”

  Parveen looked relieved. “Okay, so there’s going to be a bit of a shakeout and then it’s business as usual?”

  “That’s the way it works.” Amanda didn’t sound convinced in her own ears, but could think of nothing else to say. Anyway, she didn’t want to think about it too hard just yet.

  “What happens next?”

  Amanda grinned. “I get another cup of coffee, I go buy myself a cell phone. Then I make a few calls and see what’s hangin’.”

  Parveen grinned back and stood up. “Sure. Like coming up.”

  Chapter Four

  The Day—as Amanda decided to name it—was one of the strangest and most painful she had ever experienced. She drank her second coffee, paid the check and savored a reassuring hug from Parveen and cheery wave from Mrs. Kumar before stepping out onto Lexington Avenue and the disinterested morning. Parveen’s younger brother, the self-styled cool dude Ashok, had volunteered directions to Best Buy Mobile on Third and, in honor of her new status in having all the time in the world, Amanda decided to walk the fourteen blocks downtown. It also gave her time to try to think. And trying to think was complicated by the vision of Natalie that kept flashing in front of her eyes.

  Every time the waggling purple penis filled her inner vision Amanda felt a roiling wave of fury and disbelief rise. She and Natalie had been together almost three years and Natalie had moved in a year into the relationship. It had seemed perfect, as far as Amanda was concerned. She had the money, the apartment and the soaring career; Natalie had very little money, a cockroach-infested shoebox in BedStuy and was a talented but struggling artist. They had met at an exhibition opening in a momentarily fashionable loft gallery where the wine was almost as bad as the video installations; and Natalie had picked her up. That evening Natalie had looked like an intriguing cross between two kinds of angel—Botticelli’s and Hell’s. When she suggested they leave and go somewhere that served wine rather than vinegar, Amanda agreed right away. And that was how it began.

  * * *

  As she walked along Lexington, head down, watching the steady one-two of her Nikes’ white toecaps, Amanda examined the parade of feelings and memories from those two years and slowly began to wonder. At the grand old age of twenty-nine she had been unique among her friends in never having lived with a lover—until Natalie came along. And it was not as if Natalie really pushed the idea, she was a free spirit, she said, and liked her independence. But somehow or other, bit-by-bit, she had kind of moved in. First of all, it had been too inconvenient for Amanda to make the possibly life- and jewelry-threatening subway journey to Natalie’s rat hole on anything like a regular basis. Then, having got there, the tiny apartment with its ancient plumbing and lack of a proper bathroom had given her the shudders.

  “You are such a honky,” Natalie had laughed when Amanda squealed and leapt clean out of bed the first time a cockroach scuttled across the pillows. Amanda had not responded immediately because she was too busy rubbing her leg. The horrified leap had taken her right across the room and she’d cracked her shin on the edge of a bike pedal. It was a hefty black and silver mountain bike that Natalie loved to race about on, and it took up much of the floor space. Amanda later discovered just how much space when, in the early hours, she tried to navigate her way to the john in the dark and scraped her other shin on another part of the machine.

  Amanda checked her whereabouts. Eight blocks down and a good way still to go. Nevertheless, she was beginning to feel almost mellow and even, for the occasional flashing moment, all but okay. She had not been out and about on the city streets—in daylight during the working week—for more than six years and she was experiencing odd little bursts of enjoying it, as if she were playing hooky. She came upon a display of fruit and vegetables under a cheery yellow and white striped shop awning and marveled at the color of brilliant red tomatoes arranged in a perfect pyramid in a wicker basket; and a wooden crate of gleaming speckled pink apples. She stopped to peer in the window of another small shop whose age-crackled, gold-painted sign told of an old-fashioned watchmaker and jeweler. In the window was a display of antique wristwatches. Amanda peered at them, enjoying the elegant faces and legendary names. Inside the shop, she spotted an elderly man bent over a brightly illuminated tray. He was working on the glittering innards of a pocket watch, spread out on faded black velvet. He looked up, aware of her gaze. A magnifying eyepiece obscured one eye but not his luxuriant white eyebrow; the other eye twinkled at her and he smiled. She smiled back and continued on her way. She watched a dog walker in a bright blue bomber jacket negotiate the diplomatic niceties of getting his three golden Labs and one yapping, dancing, peach-colored miniature poodle past an elderly man whose snuffling pug seemed to be even more futilely aggressive than old Puppy. Amanda laughed aloud at the sight and, taking her hands out of the front pouch of her hoodie, she began swinging her arms as she strode along the street. Her head was up, the chill breeze riffled her hair and much to her surprise, the thought crossed her mind that life was unexpectedly and inexplicably looking pretty good.

  * * *

  Life also took on a new and interesting turn when she finally reached the phone store. There she had the novel experience of buying her own phone and deciding what brand and how she would pay for it. Forty minutes later, she left the store with a kit of new toys that began with an iPhone and continued all the way through the accessory range from on-ear headphones to a neat Bose sound dock. Somehow, the iPhone signaled a new Amanda, she thought. Old corporate Amanda was BlackBerry Amanda; new, free as a bird Amanda would soon be swinging down the street listening to Beyoncé—or Beethoven—depending on her mood. First, however, she would have to plug the damn thing in and charge its little battery; and that meant going home.

  Her heart sank at the thought and as she began the long hike back up Lexington she tried to analyze why. It gradually came to her that it was the video setup and what it meant that bothered her more than anything. It was the intrusion into her apartment first and foremost, and then the realization that whether or not Natalie was an artist, the fact that she had actually been making a tacky porn movie there made her feel despondent. More than that, she felt naïve, stupid and humiliated. A flare of anger coursed through h
er, then subsided; but as she thought about the scene, anger erupted again. How many porno movies had been made in her apartment when Natalie was supposedly engaged on an art project? How come she was always broke and playing the impoverished artist? How come she had made so few artworks but was always “working on a new concept”? It all began to make sense—the mysterious and secretive absences; the lock that had recently appeared on the “studio” door.

  What kind of fool had she—Amanda McIntyre, Wall Street princess—been taken for? And what kind of fool had she—Amanda McIntyre, gullible dummy—proved herself to be? A sick feeling followed the flash of fury at the thought of Natalie fucking the blond, but that dissipated with surprising speed, although the sick feeling remained in the pit of her stomach.

  “Am I jealous? I don’t think so. How can I be jealous of that?” Amanda muttered out loud. She examined the various sensations and the unexpected sense of lightness that followed. It had, she recognized, everything to do with feeling detached from her grinding, relentless, scary-exciting job, and also feeling free—suddenly—of Natalie. She wondered whether it might be possible to retain the feeling. She sighed and walked on.

  As she retraced her walk uptown, Amanda stopped at the store with the yellow striped awning and bought an apple. She polished the sweet-scented fruit on her leg and took a sumptuous, crunching bite. The juice ran down her chin and she wiped it away with her sleeve. The apple was as good as it looked: sweet, crisp and flavorful. She sucked at the juice as she chewed and walked and thought. There was an awareness coming over her mental horizon and it was that after the initial shock when she walked in on Natalie, the bitter-tasting emotions were evaporating. As she examined things more deeply Amanda began to suspect that she was possibly glad to be given an excuse to admit that she was no longer in love with Natalie. Even that—her stomach did a somersault as the idea crystallized—she might actually be glad to be rid of Natalie. And that she did want to be rid of her was now uppermost on her list of things to do; even clearer than the need to get a job.

  After all, she rationalized. I’ve got plenty of money. I can do without a job right now and I don’t need that bitch.

  By the time her building came into view Amanda was actually starting to feel twinges of guilt over the knowledge that she was neither hopelessly heartbroken nor miserably lovesick. But they were only twinges; the worst feeling was anger because her pride had taken a severe bashing. She dropped the apple core in a trashcan and turned in to the lobby. Joe was still on duty and she stopped to check her mail.

  “How you doing, Joe?” she asked as he riffled through the contents of the fifth-floor pigeonholes.

  “Pretty good, Miz McIntyre,” he said, sorting the envelopes into separate stacks. “And you?”

  “I’m…” She paused and considered the truth for a second, then went on, “I’m pretty good too, thanks Joe. I got laid off this morning.”

  His eyes widened and his mouth opened in a perfectly round “O” bracketed by a droopy black mustache. “You’re kidding me?”

  “Nuh. Banks are in a bit of a fix right now. You watching TV?”

  “Sure thing, follow the stock market of course, but I never thought…” He glanced at the sheaf of envelopes he was about to hand her. They all had windows. They were all bills. “Sorry,” he said, grinning sheepishly.

  “Never mind, Joe. And you’re right, nobody ever thought,” said Amanda. “Least of all me, but hey! I’m always saying I could do with a vacation and this is the first day of it, and so far, I’m having a fine time! See ya later.” She tipped her forehead with the envelopes in a cheery salute and sauntered on her way. Her cheery skip almost succeeded in dispelling the icy feeling that was starting to lodge in the pit of her stomach. Almost. Once again Amanda’s thoughts turned unbidden to her mother; she really wanted to talk to her. She really wanted to be in Connecticut and not in Manhattan. And again, stupid tears threatened and her throat closed on the beginnings of a sob.

  As Amanda turned the key and pushed open the front door her heart began to beat a little faster and a wave of nervous nausea rolled around her stomach. She swallowed on a dry mouth and stepped into the entryway. The obviously deep silence of the apartment told her there was no one else home, but she called out anyway.

  “Natalie, you home?”

  She walked into the living room and laid the bag of phone goodies on the dining table, dropped her keys in the glass bowl on her grandmother’s elegant late-Biedermeier bureau and went on through to the kitchen. It was tidy but breadcrumbs speckled the counter. Out of habit Amanda picked up a wipe and swept the crumbs into the sink and sluiced them away. She opened the fridge and found a Diet Coke. Her stomach had stopped orbiting an imaginary ice block and was returning to normal but wondering what to do next and what might happen kept her feeling edgy.

  Amanda found the remainder of the first day of the rest of her unemployed life uneventful but unhappy. She broke a fingernail on the packaging of the new phone, finally got it assembled in the right order and plugged into a power point in her den. After wandering around the apartment aimlessly rearranging this and that, she sat down at her desk and started a round of phone calls to industry friends and colleagues. The news was at first unsettling and, by early afternoon, unbelievable. “This one makes the dotcom bust look like a cocktail party, Amanda,” said her analyst friend at the Times. “I reckon eFrères will be gone by the end of the week. If you got out with a paycheck you’re doing well. But bank it now!”

  At the end of that call Amanda woke up the laptop and brought up her eFrères personal banking page. Her checking account was healthy but there was no sign of the huge payment that should have been there. She rang Dennis. It went straight to voice mail. She left a message that was polite but unmistakably threatening. She had no time now for persuasion or cajoling and she did know where he spent many unaccounted for evenings; and she had his home number and had met his wife. Within three minutes the phone rang and it was Dennis, spluttering.

  “Hey, Amanda, kiddo—there must be a mistake. Your payout should be through. Give me a second and I’ll check.” His next words echoed: he’d put her on speakerphone; his office door must be shut. “Okay, seems to be a delay so, I’m authorized to override that and I’m just…” Amanda listened to the tippy-tap of computer keys. On her own computer she refreshed her account page and re-logged in. “I’m just making sure, right now, that…okay, your payment should show up like any minute…how’s that?”

  “Well, just keep talking and tell me what’s going down while we wait and see if you’re right.” Amanda felt no need to soften her tone. She stared at the screen, refreshed it again, and waited.

  “It’s not looking great, Amanda.” Dennis’s voice was hoarse and nervous. “Not looking great at all. Godfrey’s called a senior executive meeting for tonight. Nobody knows what that’s about.” He cleared his throat and hummed tunelessly. Amanda figured he was trying desperately to think of something else to say and also praying that he could escape this call quickly. She did not feel like letting him off the hook. Once more she refreshed the account page, logged in and tapped out her password; this time a satisfying sum of money featuring many zeroes showed up in the appropriate column.

  “Okay, you did it Dennis, good for you. I got it now. I really like that authorization of yours. Maybe you’ll be able to score a job as a teller somewhere after the shit hits the fan tonight!”

  Dennis chuckled; it sounded more like a strangled choke. “You’re funny, Amanda,” he said weakly. “Well, look, I got a lot of stuff to do so…”

  “Sure, Dennis, you get on with your day,” Amanda said cheerfully. With the phone tucked between her shoulder and ear she was already well into a further transfer procedure. The payout was on its way from eFrères to another bank—as far as she could get it from Dennis’s alarming “authorization” facility.

  “Well, okay, good luck Amanda. Um, I mean—let’s stay in touch.”

  “Absolutely Dennis, and
give my best to Tracey. Or is that the girlfriend?”

  “No, you got it, it’s Tracey.” He tried and failed to chuckle once more. She put him out of his misery and let him go with a click of the “off” button.

  Chapter Five

  Having the money in the bank was one thing, but feeling better about what was going down was another. To cheer herself she decided to call her best friend in the world. He picked up on the second ring.

  “Malcolm Darling, how may I help you?” sang out a joyously chirpy Australian voice.

  “Mal, it’s Amanda.”

  “Sweetheart, it’s still daylight. You never call in daylight. Have you been fired?”

  “Got it in one.”

  “Eeek! I didn’t mean to. Omigod. How…well, how are you? Or whatever it is I’m supposed to ask at this point?”

  “I’m cool. I think. It’s a bit of a shock. But it hasn’t really sunk in.”

  “I suppose not. Fired. Crikey, that’s dramatic. Where are you?”

  “At home.”

  “Is Natalie there? Is she making you cups of tea and giving you cuddles?”

  “Not exactly. Actually when I got home this morning, which was obviously unexpected and I hadn’t thought to call ahead, I walked in on her with a woman I’ve never seen before and they were being filmed having sex.”

  “Oh stop! You cannot be serious! Natalie?”

  “The same. And I hope you’re sitting down for this one. She was fucking Female Unknown with a purple dildo.”

  Malcolm’s squeal of disbelief and joy was almost beyond the capability of a human ear. “Oh! My darling! I’m sorry, but that is the most exquisite thing I have ever heard. Purple! What was she thinking of? Star Trek?”