Balancing the Scales

by Laura Carter

  “Rebecca.” I hear Mike and open my eyes. He’s glaring at me. He moves toward me and hovers over me, close to my ear. “You did this. You did this on purpose, you selfish cunt.”

  My willpower is immediately zapped by this man. “Mike, please. I swear I didn’t.”

  “I told you to leave that job,” he snarls.

  I’m saved by a doctor who enters, wearing a white coat and carrying a clipboard. “Hi, Becky. I’m going to sign you off, now that you have someone to take you home.”

  Please. Please don’t send me away.

  “Your head wound is superficial, and you can take painkillers for your muscle soreness.” He pauses, and his eyes fill with pity I don’t deserve. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He looks at Mike too and places a hand on his shoulder.

  Maybe I am a bitch. Mike lost a baby too and all I can think about is myself and how to get away from him.

  I dress and meet Mike at reception, feeling emotionally drained, more than in physical pain. I climb into the passenger side of our rusty Volvo in silence. Mike doesn’t speak the entire ride home, but his grip on the steering wheel tightens to the extent his knuckles are white under the broken flashes of streetlights.

  My heart races in my chest. I’ve done things wrong in the past. I’ve seen his temper. But this… He knew I didn’t want a baby. He almost hit me when he found my stash of pills. Now he believes I murdered our baby.

  “Mike. Please talk to me.” Talk to me now, here, in the car, where I know you can’t hurt me.

  “What the fuck do you want me to say? Tell you what I’m thinking? Because right now I’m thinking you killed my baby.”

  “Mike. I was in pain and bleeding. That’s why I fell. I didn’t—”

  He reaches out and grabs my thigh, digging in his fingers so hard I yelp. “I told you to leave that job. You did this.”

  My tears roll down my cheeks again.

  “Stop crying like a crying fucking bitch.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? You think sorry is fucking good enough?”

  “No. I know it isn’t.” I say the only thing I think might end this before it begins. “We’ll try again. I do want your baby. Of course I do.”

  It pacifies him enough to finish the drive. He screeches to a halt outside our house, forcing my body forward against the dashboard.

  He storms into the house and I take deep breaths, willing myself to be strong. I push through the front door of the house tentatively. He slams it behind me and pins me against it by my throat. “You killed my fucking baby.”

  “I didn’t,” I sob.

  It happens in slow motion. He pulls back his free hand, and though I raise my hands to protect myself, his knuckles connect with the corner of my eye. I scream, part in shock, part in pain, and he lets me go.

  I fall to my knees and look up at him, seeing his own shock on his face. He’s never hit me before. He’s bashed me verbally, called me every name for a whore he can, but he’s never hit me.

  I stare at him, holding my hand to my stinging cheek, and I find my strength, my resolve.

  No more.

  I’m going.

  I stagger to my feet and get a good look at his ghost white face. “Rebecca, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. You’re upset. Go to bed. I’m going to ice this.”

  He reaches out his arms and it takes all the strength of my will not to flinch. “Becky—”

  “It’s okay, Mike. I’m okay.” Because in the morning, I’ll be gone.

  * * * *

  When Mike goes to work, I pack what I need. I’m already late for my shift at work. I told Mike I would quit. I won’t. If there’s one thing I know about all of this, I need money. I need a job. And my work is the one place I feel safe and worth something.

  I take my suitcase to the train station and ride into London. People stare at my blackened eye on the train. Two women whisper among themselves. I rest my head back against the window, trying to block them out.

  I take the underground and receive similar reactions. When I get to work, I walk through the hotel with my suitcase, keeping my head down.

  In the kitchen, I say good morning to the staff already in and take my suitcase to Edmond’s office, where I’ll leave it until the end of my shift. Meanwhile, I need to figure out where on earth I’m going to go. Where in the hell I can go that Mike won’t find me.

  I punch the code into the keypad on Edmond’s office door and let myself in. “Oh, I’m sorry, Edmond, I didn’t realize—”

  “Becky, what happened to your eye?”

  “I…” Haven’t even thought of a lie. “It’s nothing. I fell in the train station last night.”

  He stands from his desk and comes toward me, taking hold of my chin and looking closer at the bruising. “And the pavement shot up and punched you in the face?” The anger in his words is clear.

  I don’t have a lie to tell him. He knows he saved me once by bringing me to this restaurant, and in a way I’ve let him down every day I’ve continued to be with Mike. I’m fed up with letting people down. I’m fed up with being controlled. I’m fed up with my life.

  An audible sob escapes me and opens the floodgates to what I think might be endless tears. Edmond seats me at his desk, then leaves the office, returning with two cups of tea. He sets them down with cookies, telling me I could use the sugar, and I tell him everything he needs to know, leaving out the pregnancy and the full extent of just how fucked up my relationship with Mike really is.

  “I knew you weren’t right last night.” He shakes his head. “I never should have sent you home to him.”

  I place my hand over his on the desk. “Edmond, you’re not to blame for any of this. It’s been my weakness, my decision, to stay with him.”

  “You’re not going back to him, Becky. He hit you.”

  I shake my head. “No. I’m not going back.”

  “What are your plans?”

  I suck in a breath. “I haven’t got that far yet. I’ve packed some things and left, that’s all. I need to get away, far enough from my usual life that he can’t find me.”

  Edmond leans back in his chair. “Stay here. At the hotel. Just for now. I need to make a few phone calls, but I don’t want you to leave. You don’t have to work. I just mean you should stay in the hotel.”

  I shake my head again. “No, please, Edmond, I want to work. This is the only thing I have left.” My eyes fill again, but I fight back the tears.

  “Okay. I will spread the word that you fell last night. If you start working and you don’t feel up to it, you can go to your room.”

  “Thank you.”

  * * * *

  I get to the end of my shift without any questions and without having time to think about anything but the Saturday night service. The decision to work was a godsend.

  I’m cleaning down the pastry station when Edmond asks me to follow him to his office. I finish wiping the disinfectant from the steel benchtops and go to him.

  He’s sitting on the edge of his desk, his hands folded in his lap. “You look better tonight. Do you feel better?”

  “I still have no clue where to go from here, but working has helped.”

  He nods. “I have a proposition for you. Take a seat.” I do. “How would you feel about taking a job in my New York kitchen? Same role. Same pay.”

  “I…” I feel my jaw drop. “I… New York? America?” My mind frantically tries to piece together the request.

  I would go to New York. To Edmond’s signature restaurant. I’d leave London. I would leave Mike, forever. I’d work out who the hell I really am. I could start again. Free of my family. Free of everyone who has put me down for as long as I can remember.

  “When can I start?”

  Chapter 22

  Drew

  Becky d
idn’t come to me on Tuesday, and I didn’t go to her. I told myself I was drinking scotch after scotch with Marty to celebrate winning the trial against Codaware. I know I was really drinking to forget. To be numb.

  She didn’t come yesterday. And I didn’t go to her.

  Since I made love to her, real love that rocked me to the core, we’ve sent a few friendly text messages to each other. For my part, forced.

  I don’t want to lose her. I can’t. But I can’t do that again. I can’t give her every single part of me and get nothing back.

  She felt it too. She had to. It’s not possible that something could be so overwhelming for one person and not affect the other. But she didn’t say a word.

  I didn’t tell her how I feel. But she had to have sensed it. And she said nothing. Nothing. Not a thing.

  “Ladies. Gents. Thank you for being here. This is obviously a sad and momentous time for the firm.” Marty addresses the conference room full of partners. We sit around the large board table. The most junior partners stand around the periphery of the space, leaning against windows and walls. “For more than thirty years, this firm has thrived under the Turner name, no matter what changes have been encountered along the way. I know my own father couldn’t speak highly enough of Richard. It is with a heavy heart that we say goodbye to him as a managing partner, but his legacy will live on in the ethos of our firm. Before we take the vote on the next named partner, Richard would like to say a few words.”

  As Richard recounts tales of his time at the firm, sharing anecdotes of bloopers and awkward clients, I glance around the room. My nerves are jangling as I silently count which partners I think will vote in my favor and which I really couldn’t take a guess at. I only hope that my efforts over the last few weeks have won over those who might have chosen Patrick initially. Others, those who vote on billables, I know I have them in the bag.

  “Without further ado, then, let’s vote on my replacement,” Richard says. “Take a voting slip. Mark down Drew or Patrick and drop your response in this box. Drew and Patrick will not be entitled to vote on this matter. Gentlemen, you both deserve this. Good luck.”

  Purely for show, I offer my hand to Patrick, leaning across both Marty and Richard. He takes it. I avoid looking at the other partners as they place their votes. I could try to see where they place their mark. I could look for a subtle nod or wink that might give me an indication of their choice. But it wouldn’t change a thing at this stage.

  Instead, I interlace my fingers and place my hands at my waist, trying to hide my anxiety. Patrick drums his fingers on the tabletop, and I swear, if the man doesn’t stop, I’m going to tear off his goddamn fingers.

  As partners begin depositing their slips in the sealed black box, Sarah comes into the room, her presence calming me slightly. She winks at me, then makes her way to the far end of the table. When the last slip is in the box, Marty asks Sarah to break the seal and count the votes.

  She unfolds the first piece of paper and places it down on the table to the right of the box. “Drew.” She does the same again, placing the next piece on the left side of the box. “Patrick.” She continues through the slips and we’re neck and neck with three partners left. When she meets my eye, she’s no longer calming my agony, she’s worried. “Drew.” I hold my breath. “Patrick.” Even. She takes the final voting slip and opens it. She closes her eyes.

  Fuck. All these years. All these years of being an asshole and thinking performance alone could get me where I wanted to be. I’ve lost.

  She opens her eyes and her lips begin to curve. “Drew.”

  I try to stay outwardly calm. I try to act like it was always a sure thing. It never was.

  My heart is racing. My mind is in some incomprehensible state.

  I stand and shake the hand Patrick offers to me. It’s only when Marty takes hold of my shoulders and rocks me once that I absorb what just happened.

  “Welcome to Statham Harrington, buddy.”

  “Fuck.”

  Marty laughs, as does Richard. Richard thumps my back and says quietly to me. “You always had my vote, son. I’m glad you took your head out of your ass long enough to win the other votes you needed.”

  Sarah throws her arms around my neck. “All these years were worth it, huh?”

  All these years of denying myself things that might make me happier than spending my life in an office. “We did it,” I whisper as I hug her back.

  “No, Drew, you did it.”

  “Actually, I think someone else deserves some of the credit for making me see the bigger picture.” And she’s the person I want to tell first. She’s the person I want to drink champagne with. She’s the person I’m madly in love with. I pull back from Sarah’s hold. “I’ve got to go.”

  The grin that pulls on her face lifts her cheeks. “Go tell her.”

  I shake more hands and thank people as I leave. When I’m finally free of the boardroom, my strides turn to a jog. I leave Lexington Tower and run to Edmond’s place.

  I’m panting when I pull open the door to the restaurant. The kitchen looks busy, and staff are already behind the bar and setting tables, but the first diners aren’t yet in.

  The restaurant manager, Beatrice, is looking at a computer screen at the hostess station. “Drew. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I think so.” I’m about to put myself out there and see whether the woman I don’t think I can live without wants me back. “I don’t know.”

  I rub my hand across my chin, suddenly wondering whether this is insane. I could lose her. I could scare her away and I don’t think I can take it.

  “You look pale, Drew. Do you want water?”

  I shake my head. I also can’t keep going with this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. The hell of not knowing. “Could you get Becky for me?”

  “She isn’t here. Some kind of emergency came up this afternoon, and she went home.”

  “Emergency? Is she okay?”

  “I’m not sure what happened. I think maybe she was sick. Edmond sent her home.”

  My thoughts are so erratic, it takes me a beat to process the conversation. “So, she’s at home?”

  “I believe so.”

  I release my held breath. “Okay.”

  Well, if she’s sick, that’s not ideal, but there must have been less timely declarations of love in the history of mankind.

  I thank Beatrice and flag a cab outside the restaurant.

  I thought waiting for the partnership vote was agonizing. That was before I sat in this cab, going over the words I want to say to Becky. Everything sounds ridiculous, or just not enough to make her understand how I feel.

  “Can we make this any faster?” I ask the driver.

  “Sorry, man, it’s seven thirty. This is Manhattan.”

  Tell me something I don’t know. The night seems to get warmer as we sit in traffic. I loosen my tie, then take it off and undo the top buttons of my shirt. When we’re a few blocks from Becky’s place, I can’t bear the waiting any longer. I pay the driver and walk the rest of the way.

  I slip through the door to her building behind another tenant and go up to Becky’s floor. I’m frantically trying to string words together, and I’m still trying when I knock on her apartment door.

  “Drew.” She’s surprised, but doesn’t look sick, when she opens the door in yoga pants and a sweater.

  “Hi.”

  She steps into the hallway and pulls the door shut behind her. “I thought you were at the partners’ meeting.”

  My brow furrows as I consider the closed door, but I concentrate on her, on getting out the words I need to say. “I am. I was. I got voted in.”

  Her face breaks into a smile and my entire body aches to hold her. “I’m so happy for you, Drew.” I force my arms to stay by my sides and take a calming breath.

  “Listen, Becky, I
… Damn it.” I rub my hands roughly over my face. “When I got voted in, Sarah was there, Marty was there, but the one person I really wanted to tell was you.” She glances across her shoulder to her apartment door. When she looks back at me, her eyes are glazed. “Becky, I know what we said. I know we said we’d take it slow....”

  “Drew—”

  “Please. Let me finish. The thing is, I’m hoping that… Christ, I have no fucking idea how to do this.”

  “Drew, please, there are things I need—”

  “I love you, Becky. I’m in love with you.”

  Her eyes widen and she presses her lips together as her eyes fill again. I feel helpless as I wait for her to say something. Anything.

  The door to her apartment opens, stealing our attention. A man stands on the threshold, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. “Rebecca, what are you doing out here?”

  I look from his dark, wet hair, to his bare feet, then I look at Becky. “Rebecca?”

  “I…”

  The half-naked man moves toward us. “Who’s this?” he asks, his voice thick and deep. British.

  Becky clears her throat, shifting her focus between the man and me. “This is my friend Drew.”

  He doesn’t make a move toward me, he just lifts his chin in acknowledgment, eyeing me suspiciously.

  Her friend? Right.

  As he holds out his hand to me his expression is anything but amiable. “I’m Mike, Rebecca’s husband.”

  It’s like someone just tackled me, crashing into my chest and taking the air from my lungs. I look at Becky, waiting for her to tell me it isn’t true. Silently begging her. She only looks at me through wet eyes, her mouth opening and closing without making a sound.

  I take a step back and feel everything inside me start to crumble.

  Pain sears my body and stings my eyes.

  I push out of the fire door and into the stairwell. I head down two flights of stairs before my legs give out and I sit on a step. I drop my head into my hands and dig my knuckles into the corners of my eyes. Bile rises to my throat.

  She’s married. How can she be married? That makes no sense.