For Christopher, who knows why.
For Erika Rhys, in friendship.
For Ann Ross, for your love and support.
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First ebook edition © 2013.
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead (unless explicitly noted) is merely coincidental. Copyright © 2013 Christina Ross. All rights reserved worldwide.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
BOO
K ONE
CHAPTER ONE
New York City
August
In my suffocating, one-bedroom, prison camp of an East Village apartment, I stood in front of the narrow mirror attached to my broken closet door and saw an older, messier version of myself staring back at me. I wondered who the hell was she—a distant relative, a long lost sibling, my ugly stepsister? All of the above? But then I was too distracted by the sweat coming through my white blouse to be sure or to even care.
What am I thinking? I look ridiculous. Not even ice in a freezer could keep cool in this heat. Call and cancel. Tell them there has been a death in the family—my hair.
“This isn’t going to work,” I called out. “My makeup is running down my face, my hair looks like a hot mess because of the humidity, and my clothes are starting to make the Hudson look dry. Why couldn’t I have found a job in May or June? Or even July? I could be in a comfortable, air-conditioned office right now, doing my work, making light chit-chat with my elegant co-workers, laugh, laugh, laughing with them over the water cooler, and getting something I’ll apparently never see in this city—a paycheck. But, oh no! For whatever reason, no one wants to hire me. So, today, I’ll go and sit in front of some other prickly HR professional who will judge me to be unworthy and send me on my way.”
I waited for a response, but none came.
I grabbed a magazine off my bed and started to fan myself with it. I walked to the doorway that entered into the living room, and found my best friend and roommate, Lisa Ward, typing at a quick clip on her MacBook Pro. She was nearing the end of her second novel, which she’d upload to Amazon in a few weeks. Given the success she enjoyed with her first book, which was an overall Top 100 best seller, I knew my time with Lisa might be brief if this book also took off. And I hoped it would, if only for her. Lisa had worked hard and she deserved it. At least one of us could enjoy our lives.
“You’re awfully quiet,” I said.
“That’s because while you were in a full-on rant, I was taking notes. I’m going to use that mother of a tantrum for a scene in the new book. You were brilliant.”
“You’re putting me in your book?”
“I’m putting that rant in the book.”
“Tell me I’ll receive a royalty of some kind.”
“How about dinner out? Like at a hot dog stand? We can afford that.”
“Works for me. I’m Raman-noodled out.”
Lisa pulled her blonde hair away from her face, wrapped it into a ponytail, and turned to look at me. Her skin was shiny from the heat, but even from where I stood, it appeared poreless. Lisa was one of those beautiful young women who could go without makeup and still look chic. She often said the same about me, though I never believed it. I’d never seen what others saw in me. I only wished I had Lisa’s confidence.
“So, where is this interview?”
“At Wenn Enterprises.”
“Never heard of it, but I’m not the business type. What’s the job?”
“Oh, you’ll love this.”
“What?”
“I may have my master’s degree in business—you know, the one that has sucker-punched me with forty thousand dollars’ worth of debt—but because I’m essentially broke, I’m now going for a secretarial job.”
“Jennifer—”
“It’s fine. Wenn Enterprises is a successful conglomerate. Here’s what I’m thinking. If I can get my foot in the door as a secretary, someone might see something in me, and in a few months, I’ll have the job I’ve been seeking.”
“I told you I’d give you money. The book is doing well, and this one is better than the first one, so maybe it’ll do better.”
“I appreciate that, Lisa. But I need to get out of this mess on my own. I still have a little left in savings. Enough to pay for next month’s rent, but then I don’t know what I’ll do. If I don’t get a job, I might have to go home.”
“Why would you ever leave New York for Bangor, Maine? Why would you ever go back to your toxic parents? They just bring you down.”
“The reality is that there is a bomb attached to my bank account, and it’s about ready to explode. I’ve been frugal ever since we came here in May—no bars, no boys, no eating out, no new clothes, not even a latte—and it turns out I did the right thing. Otherwise, I would have been out of here at the end of June.”
“You know,” she said, “maybe you should consider a waitressing job at one of the city’s better restaurants. You could clean up there at night, and then you could look for a job during the day. It wouldn’t be easy, but if there’s one thing I know about you, Jennifer, it’s that you’re tireless. The servers at some of the best restaurants make serious money. Six figures a year isn’t uncommon here—and not many of them look as good as you do. Stop underestimating your looks. I think you’re not getting a job because you intimidate the women who are interviewing you.”
I overlooked the comment. I just didn’t see in the mirror what others saw in me. Never had, never would. “I’ve actually thought about waitressing. And I do have experience, though hardly at a high-end restaurant. Essentially, I shucked pizzas and beers to get through college.”
Lisa held out her hands. “What you got at Pat’s is experience. Whoever hires you will likely train you to serve their customers in the manner they expect anyway. Think about it. It would give you the money you need, and allow you to look for a job during the day. If this interview doesn’t work out, that might be the magic bullet.”
She was right. “Sorry I freaked out earlier.”
“I’m not. That shit was good.” Her face softened, and she looked at me with concer
n. “I just wish you weren’t going through this. I know it’s been difficult. I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked to find something. It’ll happen at some point, but I’m as frustrated as you are that it hasn’t happened yet. You deserve a good job.”
“We’re a team,” I said. “Always have been.”
“Since fifth grade.”
“How’s the book coming?”
“I’m actually digging it. The zombies are ferocious in this one. I think I might have the first draft done by the end of this week, and then it’s all about the editing, which is good, because editing is the best part. You just slice and dice the words, reassemble them, read and re-read, get the book into its best possible shape, and put it out there.”
“When can I read it?”
“The day it’s finished. You’re a great proofreader.” Her eyes widened. “Hello. This town is filled with publishers. Have you considered that avenue?”
“I’m a business grad. They want English majors from Harvard.”
“I wouldn’t rule it out. You can do anything. I’ve always told you that.”
“You’re the best. I love you.”
“I love you, too. It’ll get better.”
“I hope so. It’s only the first week of August, and this is my seventh interview this month.”
“Lucky seven. Now, go and take the hairdryer to yourself. Put it on cool, blot your face with a clean towel, and air yourself off. I’m giving you money for a cab, and I won’t take no for an answer. Seriously. Don’t even start with me. You need air conditioning. If this new book takes off, I’ll buy us one for the apartment.”
If this new book takes off, I’m afraid I’ll lose you, which is another reason I have to find a job.
“OK,” I said. “But you need to let me pay you back for the cab when I get a job.”
“Fine. Whatever. Now, scoot. Your appointment is in ninety minutes. Traffic might be tight.”
CHAP
TER TWO
With my briefcase in hand, I left our sorry-looking apartment building on East Tenth Street, and stepped into the baking sun. Thankfully, at least, there was a breeze, which was rare these days. For the past month, Manhattan had been an airless sauna with the coals stacked high and some fool pouring ladles of water over them in a successful attempt to keep the air miserably moist.
I looked down the street for a cab, and, to my surprise, I didn’t have to wait long to find one. I held out my hand, the driver spotted me, pulled toward the curb, and I stepped into the back seat, relieved to find that the air conditioning was turned to full blast. I positioned myself so the cool air flowed over me, and I took a breath. It felt wonderful.
“Fifth and Forty-Eighth,” I said to the driver, an older woman with a shock of red hair that was clipped close. “The Wenn Enterprises building. Or as close as you can get me to it for twenty dollars.”
The woman looked at me in the rearview mirror with a raised eyebrow. “I’ll do my best. You know how it is during the lunch hour.”
“Whatever you can do, I appreciate it. And please make sure you leave room for a tip. Unfortunately, five dollars is all I can afford.”
“Don’t worry about the tip,” the woman said. “Some nice young man just gave me a twenty for a five-dollar fare. We’ll take yours out of that.”
I met the woman’s eyes in the mirror. Sometimes, this city surprised me with its kindness. “Thank you.”
“Just paying it forward, sweetie. Now, you do the same today. OK?”
“Deal.”
And yet another reason why I love it here. Now, if I can just stay here. I’ve got to get this job.
We crossed over to Sixth Avenue, the driver hooked a left past the First Republic Bank and Jerri’s Cleaners, and we started to move uptown. I kept my gaze fixed on the meter noticing how quickly we were burning through the money Lisa gave me when I left. Already, we were at eight dollars and counting. In this traffic, I’d be lucky if she got near Sixth and Fortieth Street, let alone Fifth and Fortieth.
And I was right. By the time we reached Thirty-Eighth Street, my twenty dollars was gone.
“This is fine,” I said. “I can walk from here.”
“You going back to work?”
“I wish I had work. I’m going for an interview. I think this is about my hundredth interview in the past few months.”
“Looking like you do, I’d think someone would hire you in a minute.”
Before I could deflect the compliment, the woman pressed a button. A receipt started to print, and she clicked off the meter. “Can’t show up looking like a mop, now can you? No one’s going to hire a mop. Don’t worry about it. The fares uptown always pay. I’ll make up for it.”
“You’re incredibly kind.”
“Just paying it forward. I know what it’s like trying to find a job in this rotten economy. Still pulling myself out of it. I take it you’re not from here?”
“I’m from Maine. Moved here in May.”
“Without a job?”
“Just one of the many stupid things I’ve done in my life. There’s so much to offer here, I thought it would be easy to find work. Well, at least easier than finding work in Maine, where there are zero jobs.”
“Nothing’s easy in New York, sweetie. But pay it forward. Every day do someone a kindness. You’ll see. Things will turn around for you. They did for me.”
When we pulled alongside Wenn Enterprises, which was a gleaming, modern skyscraper that seemed to catch the sun and toss it back to kiss the sky, the woman adjusted her rearview mirror so I could look into it. “Do you have a compact?”
“I do,” I said. I lowered my head and saw why she asked—despite the air conditioning, my face was shiny. I opened the right side of my briefcase and removed one.
“I’d blot.”
“Blotting.”
“Under the eyes.”
“Eyes.”
“Don’t forget your neck.”
“Neck.”
“Now, kill the interview.”
“You must have some very lucky children.”
“I’m the lucky one,” the woman said, taking the twenty I handed her. “I remind myself of that every day.”
CHA
PTER THREE
Once inside the lobby, which was a hive of activity as people stepped into and out of elevators and crisscrossed in front of me, I approached the reception area. I was so nervous that my heels sounded to me like drum taps on the marble floor.
A man looked up at me.
“I’m Jennifer Kent,” I said. “I have an interview with Barbara Blackwell.”
“Ms. Blackwell?”
“Sorry. Yes, Ms. Blackwell.”
He typed something into his computer, read the screen, picked up the phone that was next to him, and made a call. “Jennifer Kent to see Ms. Blackwell. Shall I send her up? I understand that she’s early, but she’s nevertheless here. Thank you.”
He hung up the phone and motioned toward the elevators. “Fifty-first floor. Take a right when the doors open. You’ll find a sitting area to your left. You’re early. Wait there for a bit, and Ms. Blackwell’s assistant will come for you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Sorry I’m early.”
“Better than late,” he said.
* * *
When the doors opened, I steeled myself and stepped into the hallway. I saw the sitting area, went to it, and found it packed. There was no room to sit down. Fourteen faces looked up at me, eyes roamed over me, and one fat man stuffed into a gray business suit that barely contained his girth smiled suggestively at me.
“Excuse me,” someone said as they brushed past me in the narrow hallway.
“Sorry.”
“Right.”
Christ.
“Julie Hopwood?”
I turned and saw a middle-aged woman standing next to me.
“No, I’m Jennifer—”
“I’m Julie Hopwood,” a pretty brunette sitting next to the fat man said. She was po
lished and when she stood, I thought she looked smashing in her dark blue suit.
“You’re here for the secretarial job?”
“I think we all are,” she said.
The woman smiled tightly. “Right this way. Ms. Blackwell will see you now.”
“Thank you.”
As she moved past me, she said, “I’ve so got this.”
Seriously?
I looked over at the fat man, who was staring at me, his lips slightly parted. Why is he looking at me like I’m roast beef? I certainly couldn’t linger in the doorway, so I went over to the chair next to his and sat down. I put my briefcase in my lap, and noticed that his face was turned to mine. I didn’t want to engage him, so I ignored him, snapped open my briefcase, and pretended to look inside for something until he finally looked away.
Fifteen minutes later, I caught sight of Julie Hopwood walking past the sitting room’s door with a contented smile on her face. Then the older woman who had retrieved her a moment before asked for a Jennifer Kent.
“That’s me,” I said, standing.
“Ms. Blackwell will see you now.”
“Thank you.”
“Good luck,” the fat man said.
I raised a hand in acknowledgement and continued toward the woman, who brought me down a long hallway to the open door of a corner office. Inside, I saw a severe-looking woman in a chic black business suit sitting at a large desk with the Manhattan skyline shining behind her in the sun. She was talking on the phone, but she waved me inside, motioned for me to sit in the chair opposite her, and mouthed but did not say the word “resume.”
I clicked open my briefcase and retrieved a copy of it for her.
“No, no,” the woman said into the phone, while reaching out a hand for my resume. “That’s not how it works, and you know it, Charles. Speak to my lawyer. Don’t call here again. And may I offer you a piece of advice? Just sign the damned paperwork so each of us can move on with our lives. It’s been months since I’ve filed. I’m tired of this. I want you out of my life. So do the children. God!”
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