by Kate White
“When is her last day again?”
“She’s finishing up Thanksgiving week.”
“Great, now I really will have something to be thankful for.”
I know I should be more annoyed by Sasha’s comment during the segment, but frankly, I’m just grateful about my performance today. The podcast was hardly dazzling, but I’d give it a solid B.
I take a cab back to the apartment, cobble a lunch together, and then read through the contract Mulroney’s sent me. There don’t seem to be any obvious red flags, so I sign, scan, and forward it to him along with a couple of recent photos of myself. It would have made sense, of course, to let Hugh take a lawyerly look at the contract, but I don’t want to wait or run the risk of him talking me out of it. Finally, I use PayPal to forward the retainer. Minutes later Mulroney emails back to thank me and to confirm that he’s already dropped off the bag of tissues at the lab.
I switch out of the black pencil skirt and turquoise V-neck sweater I’ve been wearing and change into jeans, a crisp white collared shirt, and boots. I take more pains than I probably should with my makeup, but I can’t shake the desire to replace Damien’s last image of me—foul smelling, rain soaked, coming apart at the seams—with that of a sane and pulled-together woman.
A few minutes later I head north on Broadway to the café in the West Seventies that Damien ended up suggesting. I remind myself there’s nothing to feel guilty about, that I haven’t told Hugh about the meeting simply because I don’t want to upset him unnecessarily.
The streets are crowded with West Siders doing their thing: culture lovers dashing up the steps of the Lincoln Center plaza; people returning from work (half of the guys with messenger bags over their shoulders); teenagers meandering home from school; mothers and nannies pushing strollers, often with a second child perched on a little platform at the back. Once I wanted the latter—or a variation of it—in my own life. Why did the desire seem to dissolve overnight? When Erling’s question—“Do you not want children, or do you not want them with Hugh?”—tries to force its way to the front of my mind, I fight it off.
I pull my sweater coat tighter across my chest. It’s cooler today than yesterday. The sky’s overcast and the air is raw.
Finally, I reach Seventy-Fourth Street, ready to hang a right. I pause at the corner and wait for the Walk sign to tell me to cross.
And suddenly, I sense something. Not the pit in my stomach. That sensation’s been there the whole walk over, in fact from the second I woke up this morning and knew I’d be seeing Damien.
It’s something else entirely. I can’t help but feel that there’s a pair of eyes on my back. That someone nearby is staring hard at me.
16
I swivel slowly, trying to make the movement appear casual. A woman is attempting to convince a sweet-looking girl of five or six to zip her coat. Behind them everyone seems to be going about their business—glued to their phones or walking their dogs or trudging home with plastic shopping bags. No one appears remotely interested in me.
Is this a warning sign? I wonder. A vague, irrational suspicion that’s actually a prelude to my mind going haywire again? No, it must be nerves, I reassure myself. Nerves about the idea of seeing Damien, and about keeping it from Hugh. The only observer right now is my conscience.
Just to be on the safe side, I fumble in my purse for the tin of cinnamon Altoids, slip one in my mouth, and force myself to concentrate on the flavor.
The light changes, the Walk sign on the far side of Broadway flashes, and I hurry across. By the time I arrive at the café, my pulse is racing. Don’t turn this meeting into more than it is, I tell myself. Yes, I’m curious about Damien, and I probably always will be, but my only real goal today is to glean any clue about why I showed up at Greenbacks.
It turns out I’ve beaten him there. I settle at a table in the back and slip out of my coat. The place is only half full, and the setting—brick walls, buffed wood floors, soft lighting—calms me a little. But I’ve barely had a chance to take in my surroundings when Damien enters the café. He spots me immediately and raises his chin in greeting. Though I saw him only recently, he’s in sharper focus now, and it’s a shock to my system.
“Thanks for coming,” he says as he reaches the table.
“No problem,” I say. “I appreciated the call.”
After lowering himself into the chair opposite me, he peels off his overcoat. Underneath he’s wearing a black-and-white plaid shirt and gray wool tie. He crosses his arms on the table and leans forward a little, leveling his gaze at me.
Could he have been watching me on the street? I wonder. Had he spotted me on Broadway and followed behind at a distance to guarantee I was the first to arrive? That’s not his MO, though. At work he was always strategic—clever, a chess player at heart. But not in his private life.
“I was really worried about you, Ally.”
His comment—and the softness in his voice—throw me. I figured that last Thursday must have been unsettling for him, but what could I mean to Damien Howe at this point in life? Maybe all I’m seeing is simply concern for a former colleague.
I smile wanly. “It was a pretty scary experience.”
“You look a lot better now.”
“Do I? That’s good to know, though I bet most anything would be an improvement.”
The waitress sidles up at this moment, and after I ask for a macchiato, Damien turns to her and tells her to please make it two.
“You bet,” she responds, taking him in appreciatively—his deep blue eyes, the hawkish nose, and that hair. He’s almost forty now, and though his hair isn’t as long as it once was, it’s still that crazy honey-gold color.
“I tried the hospital that morning,” he says, after the waitress moves off. “But they wouldn’t even admit you were there. At least I knew you were getting medical help somewhere. . . . Are you feeling as well as you seem?”
“Still a little wobbly, but much better overall. I’m sure I created quite a stir that day. Were people buzzing about it?”
“Don’t worry about that. As far as anyone knows, you and I had a meeting in my office, and you fainted. Did the doctors figure out what the matter was?”
“It’s something called . . . dissociating. I lost my bearings and didn’t remember certain things. I was actually missing in action for two whole days, apparently roaming the city on my own.”
“That’s awful. Your husband must have been going nuts.”
Husband. He knows, of course. But so weird to hear him utter that word.
“He thought I was out of town giving a speech,” I lie. I’m certainly not going to reveal anything to Damien about my marital issues. “He didn’t know until the hospital called that there was something wrong.”
“Fortunately, Caryn’s still the office manager and she’d heard through former staffers what your husband’s name was and what he did. My assistant found the number for his office online.”
“That ended up being a lifesaver. I appreciate all the effort.”
I need to arrive at the business at hand, but I don’t want to rush him. I watch as he takes a sip of his macchiato, his fingers encircling the cup rather than holding it by the handle.
“So had something happened to you, Ally?” he asks after a moment. “To cause this thing?”
“Probably. An incident—or some combination of factors—must have stressed me out pretty badly, and it seems that part of my mind shut down as a way to cope.”
“But you’re not sure what it was?”
“No. I’m working with a therapist, but I still haven’t remembered.”
For a moment I consider sharing that my fugue state might be related, directly or not, to Jaycee Long. I’d told Damien about her not all that long after we started sleeping together. He’d made pasta for us one night at his place, this dreamy spaghetti carbonara with a sauce I fantasized about for weeks, and later—after sex and before more sex—we put on the TV to find a movie to watch. There was o
ne, whose title I can’t remember now, about the disappearance of a young child, and as Damien read the description aloud, I felt myself freezing up. “What’s the matter?” he’d asked me, stroking my hair. And I’d told him. It had been easy to tell him anything.
But what’s the point of resurrecting it now for him? This conversation is a one-off.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asks.
“There is something, yes,” I say, glad he’s given me an opening. “I’m trying to get a handle on why, in this midst of basically losing myself for two days, I went to Greenbacks. Because maybe figuring that out will help me understand the rest.”
He leans back in his chair, and for a brief moment, his knees brush mine. Startled by the touch, I shift my position slightly.
“And you thought I might have an idea?”
“I was hoping so, yes.”
“All I know is that you seemed to believe you still worked there. You said something about it being your first day back.”
I summon an image from that morning, of me stepping off the elevator. Yes, I’d had the sense that I’d been away for a while, but certainly not for years. “Like I’d been on vacation?”
“Right.”
“But . . . but why Greenbacks? There are so many other places I could have gone that day. Like my own workplace.”
He narrows his eyes and crosses his arms against his chest.
“You tell me, Ally.” All of a sudden, his tone has cooled.
“Tell you what?” I ask, flustered by the sea change.
“Why do you think you showed up there?”
“Damien, I haven’t the foggiest—that’s why I’m asking you.”
“It wasn’t because of the story you’re doing?”
“Story?”
“The woman who handles our PR says that someone who works for you called her a week or so ago. She said she was doing research and wanted to speak to the person on staff who oversees the financial advisory end. Maybe that’s why we were on your mind.”
I frown, momentarily at a loss. “It must have been my researcher, who’s helping me on my next book,” I tell him. “But I can’t imagine why she’d want to speak to someone in that role.”
He doesn’t respond, simply studies me. The silence unrolls like a ball of yarn.
“Damien, I never suggested she talk to anyone at Greenbacks,” I continue, more insistence in my voice this time. “So that call doesn’t explain why I showed up out of the blue. And you and I didn’t have any contact prior to this, did we?”
Another few beats of silence.
“We haven’t talked since you left,” he says coolly. “Per your request.”
“Per my request? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You made it clear after you broke things off that you didn’t want any personal contact with me.”
I nearly gulp in surprise. I have no clue where this is coming from.
“Damien, I wasn’t the one who ended things.”
“No?”
“All I did was suggest that we take a break since people seemed to be wise to us.”
“Kind of a breather, then? And we’d pick up again after the gossip died down?”
“Until I found another job. Or went out on my own.”
“Months later.”
“Well, what we were supposed to do?”
“Keep seeing each other? It was hardly against the rules. I own the damn company, remember?”
I can’t believe any of this—not only what he’s saying but the edge in his voice. I’m almost relieved when the waitress lays the check on the table.
“Look,” he says, his tone softening, “I’m sorry if what I said upset you. That’s the last thing you need right now.”
“It’s okay.” I’m trying not to sound as flustered as I feel. “I appreciate you reaching out—and sending my coat over, too. I guess your assistant found it in the conference room.”
“Actually, I found it.” He fishes a few bills from his wallet and lays them on top of the check. “I went back in there afterwards—to see if you’d left anything.”
He stuffs both arms in his topcoat, readying to leave. I’m briefly tempted to tell him I’m going to stay for another coffee, so I can avoid an awkward good-bye on the sidewalk. But I realize that the awkward good-bye would only happen in here instead.
After I pull on my own coat and rise, Damien gestures for me to lead and I snake through the tables with him trailing me. Outside, the wind whips my hair into my face.
“Take care,” he says. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help.” Leaning forward, he brushes his lips across my cheek. Even in the cold, raw air, I feel my face redden in surprise. He’s gone before I can manage a good-bye.
I wait until he’s far ahead and then hurry toward Broadway myself. As I walk, I check my phone and spot a text from Hugh from a few minutes before: Home in thirty or so, he says. Everything okay?
Yes, all good, I write back. See you soon. I pick up my pace so he won’t beat me there, leaving me to explain where I’ve been.
The urgency distracts me a bit but still, I’m rattled. About the exchange with Damien. About the cool breeze that suddenly blew through the conversation. About his announcement that I dumped him.
Does he really think that? Or has he been rewriting history to serve his own purposes?
There’s also the fact that he has no more idea than I do why I surfaced at Greenbacks. At this point it seems Mulroney is my only hope.
Halfway home, I decide to make a pit stop at a gourmet grocery store, where I pick up chicken cutlets cooked in a mushroom sauce, fresh broccoli, a head of lettuce, and a wedge of triple crème cheese. Surely it’s going to take more than one evening to get things back on track with Hugh, and so why not make dinner special again? Recalling Gabby’s advice, I realize she hasn’t contacted me today. Knowing her, I’m surprised she hasn’t touched base. But at the same time I’m sure she’s jet-lagged and bogged down with work.
I’m turning the key in the door to the apartment when my phone rings. Maybe that’s Gabby, I think, but Sasha’s name flashes on the screen. Calling to fish for compliments, I’m sure.
“Do you have a minute to talk?” she asks. I can tell from the background noise that she’s on the move, probably in a cab or Uber.
“Sure, but give me a second, okay?” Lowering the phone, I drop the shopping bags on the counter and tug off my coat.
“Okay, I’m here,” I say, using my free hand to begin unpacking the bags.
“So how do you feel the podcast went? I was hoping I’d hear from you afterwards.”
“Sorry, I was really busy . . . I thought it went well. Good show. I appreciate all the preparation you did.”
“But what about my segment? Did you like it?”
I’ve been so preoccupied this afternoon with the Mulroney contract and the meeting with Damien that I haven’t thought for a moment about what to tell her. I refuse to lie—that would be of zero value—but I can do my best not to ruffle her feathers.
“It was a good start. I have a few suggestions, though—some little ways to improve going forward.”
“I’m all ears,” she says. Maybe so, but I can sense from her tone that her back is already up.
“Why don’t we wait and do this in person? I also find it more beneficial to have these conversations face-to-face.”
“‘These conversations’? Was there a problem?”
“No, not a problem. I simply wanted to offer a few guidelines.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d really like to hear them now. I may not see you for a few days—unless you can meet tonight.”
That’s not going to happen. “Okay, like I said, a good start, but some of your comments sounded a little rehearsed. On a podcast, particularly the type of segment we did, you want to come across as natural as possible.”
“Are you saying I shouldn’t have contradicted you about IRAs?”
“Of course not. That kind of stuff
makes a segment compelling. But the back-and-forth should be easygoing, as if we’re chatting over coffee. I noticed you reading notes before we started, and I probably should have advised you to look them over last night and then forget about them. I’m sorry I didn’t mention that.”
“Okay,” she says, sounding less irritated now that she’s manipulated me into accepting partial blame. “And yes, that would have been good to know.”
“Well, there’ll be a next time. Remember, Casey is on vacation in a couple of weeks.”
“Right, thanks. I’ll look forward to it.”
Using one hand, I’ve also managed to slide the chicken onto a plate and extract the remaining half baguette from the freezer.
“Unfortunately, Sasha, I have to go. I’m having an early dinner with Hugh.”
“Of course. Say hi for me, will you? And tell him I finally remembered where I met him.”
I freeze in place, holding the head of lettuce.
“Sure.” I wish I could deny her the pleasure of asking where, but I can’t resist. “Why don’t you tell me, and I’ll pass it on.”
“It was at the Yale Club a few weeks ago—at a lecture on money laundering. I’d gone with a friend of mine, Ashley Budd, and she introduced us.”
I’ve been gripping the phone so tightly I’m surprised I haven’t crushed it, but now I let my fingers relax. I remember the night. Hugh had told me he’d be going with a friend of his from law school.
“I’ll let him know. Have a good weekend.”
As I’m setting the phone down, I spot another text from Hugh.
Sry! One of the partners grabbed me. In sub station now. 15 minutes tops.
I could actually use the time. Sasha’s call has compounded how uneasy I feel, and I’m craving a few minutes of silence alone. After washing and spin-drying the lettuce, and chopping up the broccoli, I retreat to the bedroom. Without turning on the light, I lie facedown on the bed in the darkness with my phone next to me. Lately, I’ve been keeping it by my side.
I close my eyes, taking four deep breaths. The room smells vaguely of anise and orange, from the scented candle I burned while dressing this morning, and I force myself to focus on the scent and stay in the moment.