The Boys' Club

by Erica Katz

  “You need to try this. It’s like butter.” Carmen met my gaze in the mirror she was staring into, her skin smooth and supple, with a dewiness maintaining a careful distance from shine. “It’s life-changing.”

  “Wow. Your skin looks amazing. But I already have foundation.”

  “Uh! Please!” She turned back to the mirror and patted her cheekbone with her finger. “What kind?” I refreshed my email for the fifth time since we’d hit the cosmetics department. Still nothing from Peter. Despite the Christmas music, the counter associate’s elf hat, and the bulging balance in my bank account, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had been used—dismissed by somebody whose attention I wasn’t even sure I wanted.

  “Neutrogena. It matches my tone.”

  Carmen shook her head. “Miss! Can you please find a foundation for my friend here?” From behind the glass-topped counter, a woman wearing elegant black eyeliner and peach lip gloss sprang to action, contemplating me briefly before giving a resolute nod and bending down to open a drawer. “This is Chanel!” Carmen stage-whispered at me. “Our hardworking skin deserves Chanel!”

  My mind drifted back to the night before, grazing over the ballroom and the tartlets and stopping at following Peter out to his car. I knew, unequivocally, that I had made a mistake, but there was something about the ability to take money and make myself into an elegant, high-fashion version of myself that convinced me that money could cover up just about any error. I hoisted my Longchamp up on my shoulder. Peter’s wife was the type of woman who bought Moreaus—she probably had dozens of them in every color in clear drawers in a walk-in closet. I suddenly envied her. I envisioned her hosting dinner parties with Peter and their snobby friends at their house in Westchester. I pictured their quiet candlelit dinners at home, and the two of them sipping champagne in first class on a transatlantic flight. As I sat with these images going through my mind, I found myself wanting her life. Her rich, easy, sophisticated life.

  The woman behind the counter reached toward me with a small beige cylinder boasting interlocking Cs. “Here, if you’d like to try it.” I blinked myself back to reality as she pumped a bit onto the back of my hand. I rubbed the silky flesh-toned liquid between my fingers before applying it to my cheeks, where it blended in effortlessly, obliterating any appearance of pores and giving me a sun-kissed glow even though I hadn’t seen the light of day in four months. I stared at my younger, healthier-looking self in the mirror.

  “Okay. I need this!” I breathed in and felt suddenly calmer. “And new eyeliner. And maybe a new matte lipstick.”

  Carmen was gleeful, and I felt a rush as the saleswoman swiped my credit card, realizing that $200 worth of makeup wouldn’t put a dent in my bank account. I signed my name to the receipt and took the sleek small black bag with my wares from the woman behind the counter. Shopping with funds to spare was a new high. Whoever said money couldn’t buy happiness had never been to Barneys after bonus day.

  We hit the third floor next, and I wanted all the clothes I saw—and not because I recognized a single one of the names on the labels, because I didn’t. But they made me feel like I’d somehow penetrated the world whose perimeter I’d been walking. I felt suddenly that I was the young woman these designers designed their clothes for. I felt that in them, I belonged in the boardrooms and marble lobbies. A designer called Proenza Schouler cut skirts that hugged my hips but allowed my thighs to breathe. Isabel Marant’s fabric was so sheer and light I barely felt it on my skin. A.L.C. dresses flattered my curves in a way that made me feel like I could wear them from work to a dark dinner date. I wanted to wear everything immediately. I wanted to show it off, strutting down Madison Avenue . . . I needed shoes.

  On the second floor, Carmen found a pair of nude Louboutin pumps that I slipped right into.

  “You need them,” she insisted. “They make your legs look amazing, and they’re impossibly chic.”

  I looked at her for a moment, my thoughts racing—I should tell her about last night. She would have good advice. She wouldn’t judge me. But can she keep it a secret? Can I trust her?—then down at my feet.

  “Oh my god, I forgot to say, Sam is so fun,” she gushed. “I’m mad we didn’t hang out more in law school. He’s awesome.”

  I immediately shelved the idea of telling her about Peter and looked back down at my shoes, eager to change the subject.

  “They’re amazing, but I literally cannot walk. I look like I threw out my back!” I wobbled across the carpeted floor to the couch and plopped into it, momentarily contemplating whether to buy them just to sit with them on my feet.

  The salesman, a tall, thin, handsome guy with highlighted cheekbones, burst out laughing.

  “Try these,” he said, and extended a pair of nude snakeskin Jimmy Choo pumps. “They’ll look fierce.”

  I slipped my foot into them, and Carmen nodded approvingly. “Obsessed.” She slipped a pair of funky spiked Versace pumps onto her own feet.

  “Let’s just see if I can walk.” I stood up uncertainly and floated a few paces to the full-length mirror. I lifted my pant leg a bit higher and marveled at the definition they created in my calves, the way they elongated my legs.

  I turned around eagerly. “Totally obsessed! Thank you!” I squinted at the man’s name tag. “James. Thank you, James!”

  James grinned as he scanned our mess of shopping bags and placed a hand on his hip.

  “Either somebody died and put you in the will, or you two just robbed a bank!” He shook his head as we giggled. “Either way, you have to try the silver open-toed Jimmy Choos from this summer. They’re on sale for five hundred or something stupid like that. I won’t let you walk out of here without them!” He turned on his heel and disappeared.

  Carmen and I sat in a mess of shoes and shoeboxes. “I want everything!” she whined.

  James plopped down on the couch next to me and let out a sigh of exhaustion as I contemplated my feet in the silver Jimmy Choos.

  “Girl, you better be taking everything. You think I was going back and forth so you could take one pair of shoes? No, ma’am!” I leaned back into the sofa and laughed, utterly spent from my hangover and my day of dressing and undressing. “I’m messing with you. This is the most fun I’ve had at work in a while. Most of these Upper East Side ladies who come in will only look at Manolos and don’t ask my opinion about anything!”

  “We live downtown,” I said proudly. “Chelsea”—I pointed to my chest, then to Carmen’s—“and Union Square.”

  “But seriously. What’s your deal?” James prodded. “Rich daddy? Sugar daddy?”

  Carmen beamed. “Putting our Christmas bonuses to good use.”

  “No shit! Good for you. How messed up is it that it didn’t even occur to me that you were spending your own money?” James shook his head. “What do you guys do?”

  “We’re lawyers,” I told him, sitting up straighter.

  “My ex was a lawyer. Looks like I should have held on to him!” James laughed. Carmen was still scanning the shoes. “Okay, I’m taking the nude and navy Louboutins and the black Alexander Wang ankle boots,” she finally said.

  James looked to me.

  “Just the nude Jimmy Choos for me.” He cocked his head to the side.

  “Fiiiiiine. And the Stuart Weitzman boots!”

  He nodded and began to clean up the shoes we weren’t taking. “Where do you ladies work?”

  “Klasko & Fitch,” I said, placing the two pairs I wanted back in their boxes.

  “No shit! Small world. That’s where my ex was! Last I heard, anyway. We don’t speak anymore. Ever heard the name Derrick Stockton?”

  * * *

  The week after the holiday party, the office was half full, populated by those of us who weren’t lucky enough to have left for the holiday yet. Those of us who remained (all the first-years, who were required to stay, plus the unlucky second-, third-, and fourth-years who had had to cancel their plans entirely and submit their holiday reimbursements t
o the firm) worked at a ferocious pace, compensating for the absence of their coworkers who were smart enough to have already put their out-of-office replies on and jump on planes. Come the following Friday, I still hadn’t heard a word from Peter, besides a bunch of group emails about Stag River. It was December 23, and the last workday he might possibly be in the office. I tried to brainstorm any and all tasks—deal-related, administrative, housekeeping—to keep my anxious mind occupied.

  The maroon skirt I’d bought at Bergdorf’s and cut the tags from that morning, on the off chance I ran into Peter, went from snug to tight after lunch. Each time the seams of the leather dug into my hips, it felt like a harsh reminder that Peter had moved on. I’m probably too fat for him. He’s grossed out by my body because his wife is so thin. By six o’clock I’d kicked off my black pumps and begun disposing of the clutter on my desk. I tied my hair into a bun and reached for the Windex that I kept on my top shelf. I flipped my keyboard upside down and slammed it onto my desk, watching the debris of countless meals eaten there release.

  “Easy! What did that poor computer ever do to you?” I jerked my head up to see Peter at my door. I didn’t have time to put on my shoes or take down my hair, but I blew a stray strand out of my eye with the side of my mouth and elongated my spine. “Can I come in?” he asked casually.

  I gestured to my spare chair as professionally as I could, mimicking the motion Matt had made to me on several occasions. He entered without shutting the door behind him, and a wave of disappointment swept over me despite myself. My brain flashed again to the back seat of his car, and I became acutely aware of the tiny scab forming on my breast. He looked good, despite the late hour. His tie knot was faultless, his hair flawless.

  I sat in my chair as he did in his. I willed my gaze to steady, but it refused to oblige my wishes. I turned to my monitor instead.

  “When are you leaving for the holiday?” I asked, looking sideways at the screen and touching my mouse to wake it up, trying to sound nonchalant.

  He looked around my office. “How do you find anything in here?”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Anna crane her neck toward my office. I shot her a sideways look and she ducked back down into her cubicle, but I could feel her listening.

  “It’s all junk. I just finished filing everything I need,” I said, loudly enough so that Anna would grow bored with our conversation. “A wise man once told me not to save paper you don’t want dug up twenty years later in litigation.”

  Peter let out one short laugh toward the ceiling before he lowered his gaze to meet mine.

  He sat still for a moment before leaning back on the two legs of his chair and smoothing his hair. I watched it fall over his eyes. It was a little game: Does he or doesn’t he? Is he just trying to figure out what I’m thinking as well?

  I looked past him at a figure in my doorway. “Hey,” I said as Matt poked his head in, eyes darting between Peter and me. They nodded mechanically at one another.

  “Did you send the comments out?” Matt asked me.

  “About an hour ago. I cc’ed you.”

  “Good. I must have missed it.”

  “Probably not the most important email you got today. How did it go with Didier?”

  “Fine. Yeah. Long day, Skip. Go home. You’re going to be holding down the fort for the whole holiday, so you better get some sleep while you can. See you in the New Year.” He gave us both a short wave.

  “Thanks. Have a great holiday! Safe travels.” I started to organize the papers on my desk as though I was preparing to go home, not stopping until I was certain he was gone.

  Peter looked at me, cocked his head to the side, and relaxed his body. The green in his eyes darkened to hazel as I felt a tension creeping toward me and then flooding me.

  “It’s late,” I said, craning my neck to stay above the rising tide.

  “Yes,” he said, unblinking.

  I watched as Anna packed up her things and gave me a wave as she headed toward the elevator. Then I gave Peter a slight nod to indicate he should shut the door, which he did before sitting again with a smirk.

  I crossed my legs and leaned back in my chair as though stretching before calling it quits for the night, looking at him as neutrally as possible, almost begging him to leave. But he didn’t. Nor did he move toward me. He was smarter than I was, more controlled, more evolved. He just sat there, legs slightly spread apart, his white shirt impossibly crisp under his blazer. I bit at my lower lip and felt his eyes on my mouth. I pretended to ignore him and look at my computer for a moment before turning back to him. And still, he sat. I felt a stirring below my stomach.

  “It’s late,” I repeated.

  He just looked back at me. I stood up, my head light and my legs shaking. As I walked toward Peter, it occurred to me that my brain had just capitulated to my body. I made my way slowly around my desk and stood directly in front of him, inches away but not touching. I leaned against the desk and rested on it.

  For a moment I feared that he wouldn’t do anything, but he reached for me, placing one hand on each of my hips so gently he was barely touching me. His thumbs rested on my stomach, right where my skirt met my blouse, and his other fingers wrapped around to my back. I felt that he had complete control over me, that he could will me into any position or direction he liked, but he wielded this power so subtly, exploring rather than commanding, feeling rather than forcing. In that moment, I realized the futility of pretending I didn’t want him.

  His fingers tightened, coaxing me into him, almost in between his knees, and he finally leaned into me. I was shocked by the intimacy of it, of how I felt him need me as his cheek rested on my stomach, his arms around my waist. I reached down and touched his hair, combing through the thick strands, then pulled slightly at the electricity that passed between us.

  He stood slowly—painfully slowly—his hands still at my waist, his face inching up my torso toward my mouth. His lips passed my breasts and brushed them. Everything in me came alive—too alive. I felt as though I would crumble. He came to eye level with me, and then his lips passed mine as he stood straight. I couldn’t bear to look up at him just yet, but I placed my hands on his chest and slid my fingers between his shirt and his blazer. I pushed the blazer over his shoulders and down his arms. He let it fall onto the chair behind him.

  I put my hands back on his chest and fingered his top button, feeling the charge from his heart course through me but still not looking up at him. I undid the next button. And then the next. I let my hand rest on the brass buckle of his belt. I stopped there, too afraid of where it might lead. He ran his hands slowly down the sides of my arms, letting them slip over my silk shirt, then started back up.

  I finally looked up at him then, unable to help myself, begging him with my eyes to kiss me. He didn’t obey, though he knew precisely what I wanted. He put his hands back around my waist, lifted my feet off the ground and dropped me onto my desk, where my feet dangled off the floor. I stole a glance at the closed door. He saw my gaze. He registered the fear of being caught, of the affair, of what I felt for him, in my eyes. I shut my eyes and breathed as he finally kissed me. He pulled his lips away and locked eyes with me. I gave him a short, sad smile—a silent apology to Sam, to the world, for escaping into him. He worked my skirt up to my waist and I took a sharp breath in.

  He pushed my head down toward my desk so my back was flat against my mess of papers, then dropped to his knees and put his mouth on me.

  I clamped my hand over my own mouth. Just as my back relaxed out of its arch and the world formed definite shapes around me again, he was on top of me. He smiled, taking a piece of paper from next to my head, crumpling it up and shoving it in my mouth. I let the paper muffle my cry of pleasure.

  We lay on my office floor, the rough industrial carpeting scratching deliciously at my back. I clasped his hand in mine, staring at our intertwined fingers. I ran the index finger from my free hand over the small lines of his scars, recalling that first
meal we had had together, contentedly imagining little Peter shucking oysters, basking in the New England sun. We looked up at the ceiling and out at the other lit-up Manhattan buildings. I wondered how many other interoffice affairs were happening in those little cubes of light, and how many of them had just watched ours. He rolled away from me and began plucking up his clothes from around my office.

  “I leave for Hawaii tomorrow,” he said, buttoning his shirt. “Catch you in the New Year, kiddo.” He winked at me. I had known he was leaving for vacation before I slept with him, but it somehow now felt like he was getting on a plane to leave me personally. I forced a smile through the mental images of him with his wife and kids on a beach in paradise. I wanted him to tell me that he’d miss me. I wanted him to tell me he didn’t want to go. But he touched my chin and lifted it to him, giving me a short kiss, and left me seemingly without hesitation. I felt suddenly that I might cry.

  Alone in the room, I set out to destroy all evidence of the encounter in an effort to wrest control of my emotions. I swept every piece of paper on my desk into the bin with one arm, gasping to see that the wrinkled statement of intent was now streaked with blood. I got a tissue and slipped it up my skirt to see if it was coming from me. It wasn’t.

  I grabbed the Windex again and scrubbed the surface of my desk until it shone, then called reception to order me a car home. On the way out, I ran to the restroom, where I brushed my teeth and spit out a bit of blood. I inspected my tongue and found a raw paper cut on the tip. I used mouthwash and relished the sting—as though it were my punishment for the transgression. As I walked through the lobby, I gave Lincoln a friendly wave, searching his expression for evidence that he was aware of my indiscretion. If he was, he didn’t let on, smiling warmly as usual. I slipped into the black town car that was waiting for me.