by Penny Reid
I only half heard her tirade because I was lost in my own head. I started speaking, but honestly I’d forgotten she was in the room.
“We haven’t been together since March, and then it was only for a week. He never called me, never tried to contact me. Not until a week and a half ago, and he didn’t say anything about it. He hadn’t said anything to me about this. Nothing. If he did this for me, then he would have called or tried to get in touch.” My attention drifted back to Emma and I appealed to her simply because she was the only other person in the room. “Right? He would have called me and told me, if he wanted to get back together. He wouldn’t have waited for months. That’s not how Martin does things, that makes no sense…”
She shrugged, pursing her lips. “Well, I have no idea what he wants now. I mean, I believe he was seeing that intern from RER, Rural Educational Reform—that do-gooder think tank in Washington—another bleeding heart martyr type. But now I don’t know, since you’re here.”
I involuntarily winced at this news, confirming my suspicions he’d been seeing someone else. I felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room and my heart was being stabbed with a fork. I rubbed my chest, the spot over my heart.
“He’s…he’s seeing someone?” I had trouble not choking on the words.
“Yes. I don’t know how you missed it, they’ve been all over page six since August. They can’t cross the street in each other’s company without getting photographed. The problem is that they’re just so pretty together. Her family is like yours. You know, lots of impressive ancestors with impressively good deeds.” Emma’s eyes moved up then down my form before she added, “You don’t look anything like her, but he definitely has a type.”
“What does she look like?” I asked, my question spewed forth unchecked.
Emma rolled her eyes. “I don’t know, petite, really pretty, red hair, delicate. Who cares?”
It was the girl I’d seen earlier in the week in the pictures, when I’d made the mistake of googling Martin so I could read the interviews he and Sam kept talking about.
“Forgive me if I have no tolerance for gossiping and giving relationship advice to the person who stole my profits.”
“Your profits?” I asked lamely.
“Yes. My profits. I was to receive a percentage of his share. And so now you see it’s all gone. Instead he offers me a position at the goody-two-shoes foundation and a share of his third world broadcast rights.”
“His what what what? Broadcast rights?” I forced myself to re-focus on the conversation, the real issue, not who Martin had been dating…or had recently dated. Honestly, I was only able to re-center myself because Martin had point-blank texted me he didn’t have a girlfriend and I trusted him to tell me the truth.
Of course, that just meant he didn’t have one right now. But it didn’t mean he’d been celibate since we split. This thought made me queasy, more fork stabbing to the heart, so I pushed it from my mind.
Emma released a derisive snort. “Some crazy idea he has, and invested three million of his remaining monies.” She waved her hand through the air like his idea was a gnat and she was trying to swat it. “He purchased broadcast rights for basically all of the third world. He has a virtual monopoly on Internet streaming of syndicated shows for the next fifty years, as well as the big sites, like Netflix, Amazon, etcetera.” Then she added under her breath, “A lot of good it will do him since no one in those areas owns a computer and they can’t get Internet.”
I stared at a spot over her head as a picture arranged itself in my brain; unthinkingly, I spoke my stream of consciousness out loud. “Broadcast rights for the third world will never yield a profit…unless underserved areas can get cheap access to Internet. Or free access.”
“And are given computers,” she added unnecessarily.
My gaze flickered to hers, held it, and my mouth dropped open because Martin was a genius.
“You mean, if they are given computers by a goody-two-shoes foundation? And trained to use them, by the same foundation? A goody-two-shoes foundation that receives funds from the profits of satellites delivering cheap or free Internet to underserved areas?”
Her frown turned thoughtful, then startled, then amazed. “Oh my God.”
I nodded, grinning at his cleverness. “Hasn’t he discussed this with you? Don’t the two of you talk about anything?”
“No. I wouldn’t…I was so angry, I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“And you didn’t figure it out?”
“No.” She laughed a little, shook her head disbelievingly. “Martin always said you were smart, and he was right. I mean now that you point it out, everything is so obvious. I guess I was just so angry that he didn’t follow through with the original plan, plus that stupid foundation… Oh my God. We’re not going to make anything close to what we would have made if he’d directly invested in the satellite venture, and he’ll never be anywhere near as rich as his father, but wow. We might break a billion. Maybe two.”
“It might take a bit, but yeah. In about ten years, once the foundation does its thing and the satellites are buzzing around up there, giving people in rural Africa and the rainforests of Brazil high-speed Internet service, he’ll be the only one making money off streaming video in what used to be the third world.”
She looked at me and smiled. It was the first time I’d seen her smile since meeting her. Her eyes were bright with excitement and every bit of bitterness had melted away. It was almost a nice moment.
But then she had to ruin it by sighing happily and saying, “God, I love that man.”
***
Emma did stay for tea, and she was chatty. She also had a habit of tossing her long, perfect, wheat-colored hair over her shoulder in excess. It wouldn’t have irritated me so much if she weren’t so suddenly effusive about how much she admired Martin.
Really, he was all she talked about: how smart he was, how intelligent, how he was going to change the world. How he was Steve Jobs and Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg, except being born into wealth, and therefore able to make a substantial difference earlier in his life, not having to wait for pesky things like investors.
“You know Mark Zuckerberg created Facebook when he was nineteen? And Steve Jobs founded Apple at twenty-one?”
“Hmm.” I did know this. I think everyone in my generation knew this information—or at least every person with any geek persuasions. Except I also knew that Steve Jobs was just a smart enough and pushy guy who exploited his friend (Steve Wozniak), pilfered his ideas, and passed them off as his own.
“There’s no one like Martin, though. No one who thinks about strategy like he does, who sees the whole picture. He’s completely brilliant.” Her eyes scanned me, up and down, like she was expecting me to do a cheer for Martin, maybe suggest that we dedicate a fan site to him, and was irritated I didn’t seem to share her enthusiasm.
I couldn’t decide whether I liked Emma or not. Furthermore, I couldn’t decide if it mattered. Perhaps it was the naïve do-gooder in me, but I was disappointed she saw no merit in Martin’s foundation until after I pointed out his plan and the foundation would ultimately bring her millions. I also didn’t like that her loyalty seemed to hinge on how much money she could make off him.
Plus, I couldn’t stop thinking about the very pretty redhead he’d allegedly dated and with whom he’d been photographed countless times. I reasserted the prudence of my decision to never search for any news story or interview related to Martin until I was completely over him. Just thinking about him with someone else made me want to throw a month-long drama parade.
“Did you know I used to work for Martin’s dad?” Emma asked apropos of nothing.
I shook my head, surprised. “No. I didn’t know that. What happened?”
“Have you met Denver Sandeke?”
“Yes…unfortunately.”
“Exactly. He’s a complete ass. He’s brilliant, but he’s an ass and that means he’s arrogant. And he’s known
for sexually harassing his female staff. Once you get used to it, it’s…bearable. Mostly I just ignored that part of my job. But my work with Denver is how I met Martin. He was a junior in high school and I was arranging a corporate event at Denver’s house in Santa Monica. Martin definitely didn’t look like a seventeen-year-old. I knew who he was so I tried to be nice. He started asking me all these questions about what I did for his father, and I thought to myself, This kid is brighter than his dad. He’s going places! It also helped that he was completely disinterested in me other than my knowledge. Unlike his father, he seemed more interested in what I had to say than my cup size.”
“So how did you become Martin’s business partner?”
“Well, I had access to information Martin did not. So Martin pulled me aside at one of the parties and asked me how I liked working for his father. I was careful at first, but eventually I saw that he had a plan. And, honestly, I liked the idea of screwing over Denver Sandeke—he is so awful. I agreed to stay on with his dad and pass Martin any information that might be useful. I figured once Martin trusted me enough, he would share his plans with me. He did and the rest is history.”
“Hmm…” I studied her. “You placed a lot of faith in a teenager.” Not to mention she’d just admitted to corporate espionage like it was no big deal.
“I did,” she admitted soberly. “But there’s just something about Martin, right? Do you know what I mean? He inspires confidence. People want to follow him. I thought about my position with his father and knew—other than gaining work experience—I had no growth potential at Sandeke Telecom. Denver runs it like a good-old boy’s club. I was doing the work of an executive and being treated like a 1950s secretary.”
“That does sound awful.”
“I trusted Martin and he never made me feel like he was interested in anything from me other than my brain. I can’t tell you how refreshing that was.”
“I bet.” I nodded, studying her and finding her to be sincere. Emma may have been a corporate shark, but she was a well-reasoned, capable corporate shark. I understood better why Martin had singled her out.
“What do you think of this place?” She indicated to Martin’s apartment and sipped her tea, changing the subject and issuing me a friendly smile.
“I like it. It’s very Martin.” I hadn’t thought about it until she asked, but it was very Martin. It was no fuss, but not sterile. Comfortable. It felt like a home.
I don’t think she heard me, because she followed her question with, “I keep telling him he needs to move into a better space. We can’t have dinner parties here. This apartment is…okay. But he should be in a penthouse. Did you know he picked out all the furniture himself? I tried to get him to use a decorator.” She shook her head, like he was a silly child. “Sometimes I forget how young he is, how much he still needs to learn about the corporate environment. Eventually he’ll see things my way.”
I opened my mouth to ask why he couldn’t have dinner parties in this apartment—it seemed fine to me—but then she started talking again.
“Maybe you could help me. Together we could get him to see reason. I’m sure you have a good perspective, with your parents being who they are. You’re probably even better suited to persuade him than I am.” She giggled meaningfully.
I tried to keep the abject horror I was feeling from painting itself on my face. I decided it was time for her to go.
She left when I mentioned I needed to get ready for work. Of note, she was diligently nice to me as she departed, asking if she could take me to lunch the next time I was in the city.
“I think it would be really great for Martin if you and I became friends,” she said, then added as though to clarify, “that way he won’t feel torn about his loyalty to either of us.”
I gave her a noncommittal smile and nod, but felt like she was communicating in a different language. I didn’t know how to speak corporate politics and networking.
Once Emma left, I made quick work of wrapping Martin’s presents, stuffing as many as would fit into his stocking, hiding everything under my bed, then leaving for my gig.
I tried not to let myself get caught up in the idea that Martin had established the foundation and made sweeping, philanthropic changes to his grand plan as some sort of gesture to win me back, as Emma had suggested originally. If he wanted me, the Martin I’d known would have just shown up on my doorstep and demanded we reconcile.
No. There was more to the story of the foundation. I was sure of it. Maybe it had something to do with the pretty redhead he’d been dating…
Again, this thought made me queasy and was accompanied by forks piercing my heart, so I pushed it from my mind.
I decided I would wait to draw any conclusions until after I had all the facts, after I questioned Martin.
CHAPTER 8
Chemistry of the Nonmetals
Christmas in New York is magical.
It’s also a time for drunken holiday party hookups, engaging in yelling matches with co-workers after imbibing too much holiday cheer, and sloppy make-out sessions behind fourteen-foot plastic Douglas fir trees.
By the third set of the night I felt like the audience was much more entertaining than our band. We were playing a Christmas Eve party for some huge conglomerate at a skyscraper downtown. Willis told me they were originally supposed to have a real band, but then that real band backed out two weeks ago. A real band meaning recording musicians who wrote and sold their own compositions.
And so they were stuck with us and we were stuck with them and that set a very surly, rebellious tone for the evening. Willis decided we would end our third set with I Wanna Be Sedated by The Ramones.
When we walked off stage it was the first time they had applauded, and I even heard a few whistles of appreciation.
“We’re playing punk, loud, and defiant for the rest of the night,” Janet said as she fished a cigarette out of her bag.
Abram pulled out his own pack of cigarettes and his voice was tight and angry when he spoke. “Those fuckers out there are pissing me off.”
“Agreed.” Willis marched over to Janet and put his hand out for a cigarette. I’d never seen him smoke before; in fact, I was pretty sure he’d quit several years ago.
“Katy, you want to go take a walk?” Fitzy gave me a hopeful smile. He really was cute, handsome, nice. And yet he did nothing for my pants.
I was beginning to suspect that my pants were actually my brain.
Before I could respond, Willis laughed at Fitzy’s suggestion. “Where are you going to go for a walk? On the roof? You’d be pacing a small square and shivering your nuts off. We have to be back out there in fifteen minutes, bucko.”
“No thanks, I think I need to find the ladies’ room,” I tossed over my shoulder and didn’t wait for anyone to respond. Rather, I exited the backstage area through a giant steel door in a rush because I actually really needed to use the facilities.
I walked through a window-lined hallway, the sounds of recorded music from the party following me most of the way. I stopped when I encountered elevators and a fork in the path. Shrugging, I decided to go left into a new hallway. One side was glass, looking down on an atrium several floors below. The other side was lined with offices.
Soon I found I’d gone in a circle and was back where I started. This was bad news as my bladder was sending up the yellow emergency flag and I was doing the pee-jig to keep myself together. Thankfully, I encountered a pair of intoxicated women who appeared to be on a mission. On a hunch, I followed them and sent a silent thank you to the heavens as they stumbled into a nondescript—and unmarked—women’s bathroom with several stalls.
At this point I was cutting it close, so after my business was finished I jogged back to the backstage area and rushed through the door just in time to hear Fitzy say, “She’s not even with you! Katy is none of your business—”
I halted, my eyes flickering over the scene before me. Abram was smirking at Fitzy, leaning his shoulder against th
e brick wall. Fitzy was standing in the middle of the room and appeared to be quite riled up. Willis was between them, apparently keeping them apart. And Janet was nowhere to be seen.
All eyes turned to me as I entered; I didn’t know quite what to do. The only person who didn’t appear to be upset was Abram. In fact, he looked positively pleased.
At a loss, I stared wide-eyed at the trio and gave the room a little wave. “Hey, guys… What’s up?”
***
Abram didn’t stop casting sinisterly pleased looks in my direction through most of the fourth set. I assumed this had everything to do with getting under Fitzy’s shirt collar, so I ignored his antics.
But then abruptly, his expression sobered during the last song and turned irritated, his eyes narrowing on me as we wrapped up the last stanza. No sooner was I off the stage, I felt his hand on my upper arm leading me out the steel door I’d used earlier on my hunt for the bathroom.
“Where are you going? We have one more set!” Willis called after us.
“Just for a quick walk,” Abram called over his shoulder, practically pulling me behind him.
Once the door closed behind us, I demanded, “Let go of my arm, this is a very uncomfortable way to walk.”
He didn’t turn, but his hand slid down to mine. Abram threaded our fingers together and continued leading me forward.
We came to the fork in the path and I volunteered, “It’s a circle. No matter which way you go we’ll end up back here.” I was honestly too tired to give his strange behavior much consideration.
He pulled me to the right and finally spoke. “Your boyfriend is here.”
“My boyfriend?”
“The stockbroker.” His eyes slid to mine, his big jaw working, his brown eyes dark and unhappy.
I stumbled, forcing Abram to stop. “Martin? Martin’s here? Where? I didn’t see him.”