Breaking the Rules

by Cat Lavoie

  I clear my throat and try to stop the butterflies in my stomach from making me throw up in front of this man. I’m sure my face matches the hostess’ crimson red blouse. I take a deep breath and try to make Greta proud.

  “I believe we have an appointment, Mr. Williams. My name is Roxy Rule. I’m here representing the Kilborn Agency.”

  He peels his eyes off the girl with the red blouse and takes me in. My heart is beating so fast I might just be a few mortifying minutes away from a full-blown heart attack. I’m really hoping he doesn’t realize how scared I am, but I know my shaky knees and the sweaty hand I extend to him give me away.

  “Let me show you to your table,” the hostess says, guiding us inside the busy dining room. I follow behind Lucas and notice a few heads turning as we walk by.

  He looks back at me and smiles. “Fans. I might have to break that autograph rule after all.”

  Our table is in a quiet area in the back. Perfect. We’ll be able to talk. But I can sense that Lucas isn’t comfortable. “Why’d she sit us here?” he asks, stretching his neck to see where the hostess went. “Nobody’s going to be able to see me.”

  I change the subject. “My boss loves it here. The owner is...”

  “Molly Keyes. They went to high school together. She told me when we spoke on the phone earlier.” He picks up the menu and flips through it without really looking. “I doubt I’ll be impressed.”

  Feeling as though my mouth is coated with sandpaper, I grab my glass of water and down half of it in one gulp. This is not going well. In fact, this might be the textbook definition of blowing it. And I’ve barely said anything.

  Focus, Roxy. Focus. If Greta wants him as a client, then I’ll make sure he becomes one. And my days of being a gopher will be over. I should be able to relate to this guy, right? We both love food. He has my dream job. How is it possible that we’re not talking and laughing and swapping recipes at this very moment?

  “For someone from a PR firm you don’t say much, do you? Aren’t you people supposed to be good at all this talking stuff? Me, my home is the kitchen. That’s where I work my magic. Where do you work your magic, Roxy Rule? Tell me, how are you going to make me even more famous than I am right now?”

  He leans back on his chair and grins at me.

  “Well,” I begin, remembering Greta’s speech about magazine covers and grand openings. But before I can utter another word, the waiter arrives at our table.

  “Good afternoon. My name is Jacques and I will be your waiter. Let me tell you about today’s specials...”

  “Hey, Jackie,” Lucas says, taking the menu out of my hands and giving it to Jacques. “Go back to the kitchen and tell your Head Chef that Lucas Williams is sitting at the worst table in this place and he needs to bring out his A-game today. What’s good here?”

  Jacques smiles politely. “The Spaghetti Bolognese is a personal favorite of mine.”

  “You up for it?” Lucas asks me a little too loudly. I nod, readjusting the white linen napkin on my lap.

  “Bring us two plates. Okay, Jackie? And try to make it quick.”

  I cringe. Maybe it’s because I have a friend who works in the service industry or maybe it’s because I wasn’t raised in a barn, but I hate it when anyone is rude to waiters. From the stories that Adam has told me, this guy has just ordered himself somebody’s bodily fluids in his food. And quite possibly my food, too.

  I hate to admit it, but Lucas Williams is a bit of a douche and I want to stab him with my salad fork. Or, better yet, stab myself.

  Jacques brings us some bread and butter. I grab a roll and start devouring it as though I haven’t eaten in twenty years. Anything to keep from talking to this idiot. But I can hear Greta’s voice in the back of my mind. She’s counting on me.

  “Mr. Williams, I truly think you should consider Kilborn PR for all your public relations needs because we are a small yet devoted company who will represent you with...with...”

  Great. I sound like an infomercial. And I have no idea what I’m going to say next.

  Lucas gives me a crooked smile. “With?” he says, urging me to continue.

  My mind races. This needs to be good. I take a sip of water and a deep breath, which turns out to be a bad move for me at that particular moment because, all of a sudden, my throat closes up and I can’t breathe. I gasp and cough. Lucas inches my glass of water closer to me with the tips of his fingers and gestures for me to drink. I can tell he’s not impressed.

  No doubt about it. I’m choking.

  “Sorry about that,” I tell him as soon as my throat opens up again. “I wanted to say that Kilborn PR will represent you with enthusiasm and an attention to detail.” I’m happy to have finally finished my sentence but I’m aware that the delivery is a complete failure.

  He nods and looks at his watch. “You guys are definitely on my top ten list. But I’m sure you know that a lot of people want to be associated with me. I have publishers running after me to get a cookbook out there. I have investors throwing money at me for this new restaurant. I’ve been cooking since I was five years old and by the age of ten I was better at cooking than my mom and my grandma combined. I only want the best around me. Why is Kilborn the best?”

  “Because,” I say, not missing a beat. “Everyone at Kilborn PR has a passion for food and working with you would be more than a work assignment, it would be an honor.” There. If I’ve learned anything in the last half hour it’s that Lucas Williams’ massive ego loves a good stroke. He doesn’t need to know that Greta Kilborn can’t even make instant coffee and that most of the girls in the office think a salad with four croutons is a five-course meal.

  Before he can say anything else, Jacques comes back with our Bolognese. I feel my stomach churn at the sight of the mountain of pasta covered in thick, meaty sauce. It looks and smells amazing and I really wish I was hungry.

  “Enjoy your meal,” Jacques says before walking away.

  Lucas looks at his plate and sighs. “The presentation is horrible. And the portion is way too big. In my restaurant, the plates will be smaller and the prices higher. And the waitresses’ skirts shorter.” He laughs at his own joke.

  I pick up my fork and force myself to eat a few bites. Closing my eyes, everything seems to disappear for a few moments as I savor the food. Lucas Williams is gone and I’m no longer in the middle of a meeting going downhill fast. No, I’m in a lovely restaurant with friends and I’m having the best Bolognese I’ve had in a long time. It’s so nice on this side of my eyelids. Do I have to go back?

  I open my eyes and face the harsh reality. I’m still here and so is Lucas.

  “This is shit,” he says, pushing his plate away and knocking over an empty water glass.

  “Too much salt. Too much meat. Pasta is undercooked.” Lucas looks me straight in the eyes. “Right?”

  This is a test. If I don’t agree with him, he’ll think I know nothing about good food and Greta can forget about having him as a client. But there’s absolutely nothing wrong with this dish. Now I need to decide whether I’m going to be loyal to Greta or to the food. I have no choice, really. Even though I really wish it did, Spaghetti Bolognese does not sign my paycheck.

  “Right,” I say, putting down my fork. “It’s dreadful.”

  “Hey, Jackie! Come here,” Lucas calls out.

  I want to crawl under the table and cry. Jacques walks over and smiles at me, then Lucas. I can’t smile back. I just want to tell Jacques to run. “Yes?” he asks, a lamb about to be slaughtered. I can’t even watch.

  Lucas points at our barely-eaten plates of food. “What you served us is completely inedible. Take it away now and tell your chef he should be ashamed.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, sir. Can I get you something else? The shrimp linguine perhaps?”

  “Don’t bother,” Lucas says, standing up and throwing his napkin on the chair. “I’m done with this meeting. What a waste of time.” He looks at me. “Tell Greta I’ll be in touc
h.”

  I watch him as he walks out of the restaurant in a hurry, not even stopping to talk to the hostess, leaving me alone with Jacques. I need to come clean to him, if only to salvage one tiny part of this disastrous lunch.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell Jacques, looking for the company credit card and handing it to him. “The food was really great but I’m not hungry because I’m just getting over a bout of food poisoning and I was stressed out about this meeting because it’s so important.” I catch my breath and continue. “And I’m so sorry about what just happened.”

  “No need to apologize,” Jacques says, giving me a warm smile. “Mr. Williams is one of our regular customers. He’s been trying to get our chef’s Bolognese recipe for some time now. He thinks that by ordering it and making a scene we’ll give it to him. Our staff is so used to his antics that we find them funny now.”

  He walks away with Greta’s credit card and I sit there, stunned and speechless, wallowing in the sinking feeling that I’ve just been part of a bad improv sketch.

  As soon as Jacques comes back, I grab my bag and bolt for the door. I can’t get out of there fast enough. What made Greta think I could handle this guy? Lucas Williams is probably on the phone with her right now and she’ll know everything before I get back to the office.

  As usual, I have no luck hailing a cab. So as I’m standing there with my arm stretched out, I start daydreaming about all the wonderful things I could go buy with the company credit card. Maybe once I’m in the cab, I won’t tell the driver to take me back to work. Maybe I’ll tell him to take me to Macy’s and I’ll buy some kitchen equipment for my new apartment with Ethan. I’m dying for a new blender. Mine is so loud it sounds like I’m grinding metal screws every time I use it. But Ethan will ask where the new appliances came from and I’ll be riddled with guilt. It’s not worth it.

  “I believe you’re headed my way. Care to share a cab?” I spin around and come face-to-face with Lucas Williams and his piercing blue stare. He raises his hand and a cab comes screeching to a halt right next to us.

  I know I should tell him to get the hell away from me, but I’m tired and the cab is waiting. We climb into the back seat and Lucas gives the driver instructions to take me to the office and then gives him the address of where he needs to go.

  After a few minutes of driving in silence, I turn my head slightly and see that Lucas is looking straight ahead, completely ignoring me. Should I try to talk to him about the lunch and ask him if he’s made a decision about choosing Kilborn as his PR firm? Maybe I can get him to change his mind. Going back to the office with good news for Greta would make the last hour-and-a-half totally worth it.

  I’m still trying to think of something to say when I feel Lucas Williams’ hand on my thigh. I stare at it for a few seconds as if it might be some sort of hallucination. His hand moves up just an inch. Nope, it’s definitely there. I suddenly realize how close we are to each other. Our shoulders are touching, so are our knees. I can feel the rhythm of his breathing by the way his arm rubs up against mine. I don’t want to turn my head and look at him again. What if I just reach down and move his hand? He’ll get the picture and we can just pretend it never happened, right? Simple.

  So why can’t I move? Why is my pulse racing?

  I can see the faintest of grins on Lucas’ face from the corner of my eye. What a pretentious ass. What a gorgeous, crazy, pretentious ass. He turns his head and stares at me for a second as if he’s waiting for me to stop him, but I don’t. I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe I’m letting this happen. He lunges forward and kisses me. I kiss him back and run my hands through his long hair and let my fingers slowly wander over his tattoos. Lucas’ hand finds its way under my blouse. He moves his lips to my neck and I throw my head back and bang it against the window. I open my eyes to see the driver looking at us through the rear-view mirror. He gives me a creepy smile.

  “Stop, stop. Please, Lucas. Stop.” I put my hands on his chest and push him off me. “I have a boyfriend. A fiancé, actually.”

  He moves away from me to the other side of the cab. “Then why the hell are you making out with a stranger in the back of a taxi?” He doesn’t look at me when he talks.

  There are many possible answers to that question. Because I’m the world’s biggest idiot? Because even though you’re the most self-centered airhead I’ve ever met, I’m strangely attracted to you? Because there’s something programmed in my DNA that makes me fuck up every good thing that’s ever happened to me? Because I’m a failure.

  Nobody speaks for the rest of the cab ride. The driver looks up at me a few times and I try to avoid his gaze. When he stops in front of my office building, I take a few bills out of my wallet to pay for my share of the ride. Lucas puts his hand on my arm before I can give them to the driver.

  “It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.”

  I nod. Great. As if I didn’t feel like a cheap hooker enough already. I slam the door and watch as the cab drives off. I can’t help but wonder if my little performance in there just ruined Greta’s chances of signing Lucas as a client. And what if the opposite is true? What if he wasn’t going to sign with us and after I let him grope me for a few minutes he changed his mind. Can I have that printed on a business card? Roxy Rule, Your Expert in Hands-On Public Relations.

  Standing in front of the elevator in the lobby, I feel as though everyone is looking at me. I recognize some agents from the real estate firm on the fourth floor and nod at them. They quickly look away and I realize that I must look like a complete mess. Surely, I reek of guilt and slutiness. There’s no way I can go back to the office now. The elevator pings and the doors open but I am glued to the floor while people walk by me to get inside. I need to get out of here. Fast. I turn around and head outside, my feet dragging as I walk to the subway.

  When I get home, the apartment is dark and empty. I stop and look at myself in the hallway mirror. My hair is messy and my mascara has leaked. If you add that to the half-unbuttoned blouse I fixed on the subway ride back home, I must have been quite a sight to see in the lobby a few minutes ago. My phone rings and I grab it out of my bag, not looking forward to explaining to Greta why I’m not back already. I’ll just tell her that I’m sick. Sick and perverted and a sorry excuse for a human being. But the number flashing on my phone isn’t Greta’s, it’s Ethan’s.

  I run to the bathroom just in time when a wave of nausea hits me. I rest my head against the cool white porcelain for a few minutes. How could I do this to Ethan? Again.

  As I’m pouring myself a glass of ginger ale in the kitchen, my phone beeps with a new voicemail. I put the phone on speaker and listen as Ethan’s booming voice fills the room.

  “Darling, it’s me. I’m still in Nashville. Turns out I have to stay here an extra day. Really wish you’d answered your phone cause I miss you and I can’t wait to talk to you and see you again. I’ll call you back soon, okay? Miss you. Love you. By the way, did you get that spreadsheet I sent you? We can discuss it later. Bye.”

  I want to call him back right away but I can’t. I don’t deserve to hear him tell me he loves me. Not when I was betraying him less than an hour ago.

  I leave a quick message on Greta’s voicemail telling her that I got ill after lunch and had to head home. For all I know, Lucas might have already called her and told her that she kissed away her chances of having him as a client by sending me to represent the firm. Greta will never trust me with anything important again and I’ll be stuck in this job forever.

  I throw myself on the couch and contemplate my inevitable future. One day, without a doubt, I’ll be roaming around the Kilborn office in a walker, stocking the supplies closet with fresh Post-Its and getting coffee for Greta, who looks great for someone who’s just turned 104.

  “You have got to be kidding me!” Adam says, laughing and pounding his fist on the table. “You did what?”

  We’re sitting in a booth at The Quid and I’ve just told Emma, Tali and Adam ab
out my afternoon escapade. “Please don’t make me say it again,” I groan, holding my head in my hands. I’d let Emma drag me out of the apartment to take my mind off of Lucas but, so far, it isn’t working. “I need a drink.”

  Emma shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  Tali nods. “Emma’s right. Maybe we should just take you home.”

  Why? So I can sit in the dark and think about what I’ve done? “Don’t be silly,” I say. “I’m fine. Get me a beer, Adam?”

  Adam looks at Tali and Emma, who just shrug their shoulders and keep their eyes glued on me. I’ve always hated the taste of beer but now it’s all I want.

  “If you don’t go get it for me, I’ll go get it myself,” I tell him.

  He nods and goes to the bar.

  “Are you okay?” Emma asks. “Have you spoken to Ollie?”

  I love Emma, but I hate that she’s bringing up Ollie. Being reminded of yet another failure is not what I need right now. After screwing up at work and screwing up again with the love of my life, the last thing I need is to think of the friend I’m losing.

  I shake my head and look up as Adam brings over beers for everyone. He puts down a frosty mug in front of me and I grab it with both hands. The taste is horrible and it makes me gag. Still, I don’t put it down until the last drop is gone. My mouth, throat and stomach are on fire but I like that. It takes my mind off everything else.

  “Another, please,” I say, slamming the mug on the table.

  Emma, Tali and Adam look at each other. I know what they’re thinking. This isn’t me. But being me is the last thing I want to be right now.

  “Please,” I say, looking at Adam.

  Adam gets up again and goes to the bar, shaking his head.

  “We’re here if you need to talk,” Emma says, grabbing my hand. I wiggle out of her grasp, afraid that I’ll start crying if I let my mind wander.

  I must not cry. I must drink. I must not cry. I must drink. I must not cry. I must...