These Girls

by Sarah Pekkanen

  Of course Trey was here—he’d probably been nominated each of the last three or four years. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought he’d won at least once before. She watched as he strode onstage to collect the award—a big, metallic thing that looked like a weapon or an exhibit in a modern art museum, or possibly both—and she clapped until her hands hurt.

  After a few more speeches, it was over. People began to stand up from their round tables, and the giant video screen at the front of the room, which had been lit up with the names of nominees and winners, went dark. The night Cate had been dreading had been anticlimactic. She began to look forward to going back to her room. It wasn’t terribly late, and she could take a hot bubble bath with the Bliss products she’d spotted in her bathroom, read a bit, and get a good night’s sleep. She’d wake up early tomorrow and go for a jog. She’d run down to the Washington Monument and follow the geometrical paths around the elliptical garden to the Capitol. Maybe there, in the intricately planned architecture in the heart of the city, she’d find clarity about Sam’s article.

  Then Nigel leaned over, and she smelled sour whiskey and cigarettes on his breath. She recoiled, but he didn’t notice. “We’re having drinks in the bar off the lobby,” he said.

  The big General Mills advertiser was listening for Cate’s response, and so was his wife.

  “Great,” Cate said, plastering on a smile.

  She followed Nigel out of the ballroom and across the wide expanse of the lobby to the bar. It was surprisingly dark, as if someone had created a cave just off the brightly lit entrance area of the hotel. There were low tables with little leather cubes for seats, but Nigel led them deeper in, to a booth. He stepped aside to let Cate slide in first, putting a hand on the small of her back as she did so.

  Cate felt her skin crawl. His hand rested there for only a few seconds, but she could feel the imprint it left behind. Nigel left to get a round of drinks from the bar, and the advertising executive—a beefy, red-cheeked guy named Ron—turned to Cate.

  “We barely got a chance to talk in there,” he said, loosening his necktie. “Tell me again what you do for the magazine?”

  “I’m the features editor,” Cate said.

  “That’s amazing,” said Debbie, Ron’s wife. She was small and dark-haired, with a throaty voice and a ready smile, and Cate liked her instantly. “You’re so young!”

  Cate had no idea how to respond to that—should she order a Shirley Temple?—so she spun the conversation around in a new direction.

  “Do you live in New York?” she asked.

  “New Jersey. Maplewood,” Debbie said. “Ron travels so much that, even though he has an office in the city, he’s only there about one day of the week. And this way, we get a friendly neighborhood and a big garden and yard. And we have four teenagers, so trust me, we really need that yard.”

  “It sounds nice,” Cate said, and she meant it. A house full of kids, a garden full of flowers . . . someday she wanted that life, too.

  Nigel came back with the drinks. “Gin and tonic?” he asked, passing it to Cate.

  “Actually, that’s mine. You had the vodka cranberry, right?” Ron handed her the drink, and as he reached for the one she was holding in her other hand, she noticed his big silver class ring. She stared at it a beat too long.

  “Ohio State,” he said, following her gaze. “Our twenty-fifth class reunion is coming up in the spring.”

  “How did we get this old?” Debbie said, laughing. “That’s how we met. In college.”

  “Really?” Nigel sat down next to Cate, and she inched over, increasing the space between them.

  “It’s actually kind of funny—” Ron began.

  “I hated him the first time we met,” Debbie interjected with a familiarity that indicated this was a well-loved story.

  “But by the end of our first date she was putty in my hands,” Ron joked, as Debbie rolled her eyes.

  Ohio State. Cate kept her face impassive. Nigel wouldn’t remember where she’d gone to college, would he? Maybe she should say something now, just in case he did remember and thought it was strange that she didn’t bring it up. Ron and Debbie were more than a decade older; their worlds would never have intersected with Cate’s. And Timothy wasn’t even teaching back then. He was a student himself—oh, my God. He might’ve been in their class. Could they have known him? Would the gossip about what had happened to him have traveled from classmate to classmate, hopscotching its way to Ron and Debbie?

  No, she was being silly; it was a huge school. Still, she needed to get them off this topic.

  “Sounds like an interesting story,” Nigel said, sipping his drink and stretching an arm across the top of the booth. He wasn’t touching Cate, but the gesture still seemed too intimate. Her skin was itchy and she could feel her cheeks flaming. She was trapped against the wall in a corner of the booth, inches away from Nigel’s armpit, with Ron’s ring glinting at her every time he picked up his drink. She picked up her own cocktail and took a healthy sip. If she finished it quickly, maybe everyone else would follow her lead and they could wrap this up fast.

  “Now you’ve got to tell us,” Nigel said. “How did you offend Debbie when you first met?”

  “Oh, sure, take her side,” Ron said, grinning. “Actually, I always do that, too. You learn a few things when you’ve been married twenty-two years, and that’s rule number one.”

  “The wife is always right?” Nigel joked.

  “I like that rule,” Cate said lightly. “By the way, did any of you read the story Trey Watkins won the award for? He’s writing a piece for us right now.”

  It wasn’t a great segue, but it was all she had. She’d steered the conversation back to business and let Ron know the magazine had captured a hot journalist—Nigel couldn’t find anything wrong with that. But he was holding up his hand like a stop sign. “Hang on a sec, Cate, I want to hear this story first.”

  “So I was living in the dorms my senior year—”

  “And he borrows this pathetic-looking beagle from the housemother in a sorority—”

  “That dog was a chick magnet,” Ron said fondly as Debbie swatted his shoulder.

  “And I actually had a dog at the time, too—a stray mutt named Maggie that I’d found on the street just a few weeks earlier,” Debbie said. “I was hiding it in my dorm until I went home for the holidays, when I was going to spring it on my parents.”

  “Her dog wasn’t spayed,” Ron said. “And my beagle . . . noticed.”

  “So the first thing I ever said to him was, ‘Your dog is trying to hump my dog!’ And he just laughed!”

  “It was pretty funny,” Ron said. “My dog was about a quarter the size of hers. It was humping her dog’s ankle.”

  “It wasn’t your dog,” Debbie pointed out. “It was your wing-man. Your prop.”

  Nigel was laughing so hard he had to set down his drink, and Cate forced herself to join in.

  “So she storms off, yelling at me, ‘Tell your dog to put his lipstick back in its case!’ and that dog and I just stared after them. Both of us were totally smitten.”

  “That night they showed up in our dorm. He brought daisies for me, and his dog—his fake dog—brought a bone for Maggie.”

  “Three years later, we got married. Maggie came down the aisle with the rings tied to a ribbon around her neck,” Ron said.

  “Brilliant,” Nigel said.

  “God, I miss college,” Debbie said. “Our oldest is getting ready to go next year.”

  “A new generation at Ohio State?” Nigel asked.

  Cate felt as if she was strapped into the passenger’s seat in a car, helpless to do anything as it sped the wrong way down the highway. They were never going to get off this topic. A collision was inevitable. She realized her hand was shaking so badly that the ice in her drink was making little clinking noises.

  Then, miraculously, Debbie shook her head. “She’s going to Juilliard. She’s a pianist.”

  “Wonderful!�
�� The word shot out of Cate, so loudly that everyone turned to stare at her. “I really admire musicians,” she said. “I, ah, have always wished I had that talent.”

  “My uncle is a sax player,” Ron said. “We think she got it from him.”

  Cate sagged against the back of the booth, which was a mistake, because now she was closer to Nigel’s arm. It was brushing against the back of her hair. “I’ll get us a new round,” he said. “Cate, another vodka cranberry?”

  She nodded. What else could she do? Ron and Debbie couldn’t have been nicer—for rich, powerful people they seemed so down-to-earth—but Cate desperately wanted this night to end. Her body had accumulated so much tension that she felt more exhausted than she ever had at the end of a long run, and the crab cakes that had tasted so light and fresh now sat heavily in her stomach.

  “Actually, we’re going to call it a night,” Ron said, glancing at Debbie as she nodded. “This was a great evening. Cate, it was a pleasure.”

  They all shook hands, and, as Ron and Debbie left, Nigel slid out of the booth. Cate made a move to follow him, but he said, “One vodka cranberry, coming up,” and walked to the bar.

  This couldn’t be happening. Just when she thought she’d dodged a trap, another was sprung before her. The last thing she wanted to do was sit next to Nigel, enduring his clumsy attempts at charm. Because he was her boss, she’d have to, but she vowed that, if he crossed the line, her drink would decorate his face.

  Nigel came back, and instead of sliding into an empty seat across from her, he sat down next to Cate again. This time she deliberately moved over and put her purse between them.

  “Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass against hers.

  “So exciting about the feature writing award,” she said, steering the conversation to business, where it belonged.

  Nigel nodded and took another sip. How many drinks had he had tonight? If he’d started with his pre-event “toddy,” he must be on his fifth or sixth. Cate scooted over another inch. She couldn’t move any farther; she was trapped against the wall. She’d never been claustrophobic, but she felt almost panicked now. She fought the urge to push past Nigel and run through the hotel lobby, all the way out the door and into the clean night air. She thought again about Sam’s story, then Nigel’s half growl as she bent over the desk, and her hands grew so sweaty she almost dropped her glass. She couldn’t do this; she couldn’t sit next to him and make polite conversation, she couldn’t—

  “Hey there.”

  Cate’s head jerked up at the sound of the familiar voice.

  Nigel was on his feet, reaching out to clap Trey on the shoulder. “Congratulations! Where’s that award?”

  “I put it up in my room. It looks like a lethal weapon, and I was worried I’d get arrested for carrying it around,” Trey said. Cate blinked when his joke echoed her earlier thought.

  “Join us for a drink?” Nigel asked.

  “Normally I’d love to, but I was hoping to steal Cate away for a bit to chat about the story we’re working on together,” Trey said. “I’d invite you to join us, but I know Graydon Carter is up at the bar—he was just asking about you.”

  Nigel actually preened at the idea that the editor of Vanity Fair was seeking him. “Trey, I’m going to put together a party to celebrate our awards. I’ll send you an invite—now that you’re writing for us.”

  “Sounds great,” Trey said.

  “Catch up to you when you’re through then, Cate?” Nigel said as he stood up.

  “Sure,” she lied.

  And just like that, he was walking away and she was safe.

  Trey leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I’m going to guess you really don’t want to be here when he comes back after talking to Graydon. Who, by the way, didn’t really ask about him.”

  “How did you know?” Cate asked.

  “The look on your face,” he said. “I was watching from across the bar.”

  She ignored the little tingle that his words conjured—he’d been watching her—and simply nodded.

  “I really do want to talk to you about the story, though,” he said. “How about we grab a cab and get out of here?”

  She nodded again and followed him as he wove through the room, never breaking stride as he greeted a few people and accepted their congratulations.

  A minute later, they were outside the hotel and she was tasting the fresh air she’d craved.

  “There’s a great little bar in Georgetown. Just a few minutes away. Sound good?” he said.

  She nodded once more—she felt so turbulent from the emotions of the night that she didn’t trust herself to talk in case she burst into tears—and he hailed one of the cabs lined up at the curb and climbed in after her. He was so big that he took up more than his half of the bench seat, and his leg brushed against hers whenever the cab made a sharp turn or hit a pothole.

  Cate’s throat went dry as the realization hit her: Her earlier thought was wrong. She wasn’t safe, not at all.

  Twenty-one

  “WHOA, GIRL. HAVE YOU lost weight?”

  Renee broke into a grin as her friend Kathy, a writer at Sweet! gave a low whistle from a few tables away in the cafeteria.

  “Just a few pounds,” Renee said. She could feel herself standing up straighter. She hadn’t run into Kathy in at least a week, and it was fantastic to know the difference was that obvious.

  “Seriously, you look incredible! What’s your secret?”

  Kathy looked at the lunch tray Renee was carrying—it held a bottle of water and a container of low-fat vanilla yogurt—and smiled. “Never mind, I think I figured it out. Starvation diet?”

  “Pretty much,” Renee said, putting her tray on the table and pulling out the chair next to Kathy’s. “And, not to sound too much like a personal ad, but taking long walks at sunset, too.”

  “You’re a better woman than me,” Kathy said as she crumbled up a saltine cracker and dropped it in her bowl of chili. “I’d never have that kind of willpower.”

  Renee had tested herself on the way down to the cafeteria by walking past Gloss’s kitchen. Today staffers were replicating a brunch from Gwyneth Paltrow’s newest cookbook. Renee had inhaled the cinnamon challah French toast—so puffy and buttery—ambrosia fruit salad, and chocolate-covered strawberries. Of course, Gwyneth would never actually eat that stuff, and now Renee didn’t, either. She’d looked at the food, admired the colors and textures like they were pieces of art, and walked away.

  “Ooh—look who’s heading this way with his eye on you,” Kathy said. “Good thing you look so pretty today, skinny bitch.”

  And just like that, Kathy was putting the lid on her mostly full chili and standing up.

  “Hi, Renee,” Trey said. She glanced up and tried to look surprised, but she suspected a C-list actress would’ve scoffed at her performance.

  “Grab my seat if you want it,” Kathy said to Trey. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

  Now that was a true friend, Renee thought, smiling as Kathy walked toward the elevator with her chili in one hand. Kathy lifted her hand over her head and, without looking back, wiggled her fingers in farewell.

  “Congrats on the National Magazine Award,” Renee said.

  “Oh, thanks,” Trey said. He looked tired, Renee thought as she pushed away her yogurt. No way was she going to be slurping it down when she was talking to Trey.

  He didn’t say anything else, so she continued the conversation. “So was it a fun night? Cate was there, too.”

  “Yeah, I, uh, ran into her,” Trey said. He cleared his throat. “Listen, I just wanted to thank you. Abby told me she sort of freaked out and you really helped her.”

  “Oh!” Renee said. “Trey, you don’t have to thank me. I’m just sorry she’s going through such a terrible time.”

  Renee swore she saw his eyes grow damp. “She’s dealing with a lot right now,” Trey said.

  “Cate told me a little bit about it,” Renee said. “There was something going
on with the husband at her nanny job?”

  Trey nodded. “I think she was in love with him.”

  “And she really misses the little girl she took care of. Annabelle.”

  “Yeah. I think some other things are hitting her, too,” Trey said.

  “Look, I really like your sister,” Renee said honestly. “She’s welcome at our place anytime. It doesn’t just have to be when you’re away. Do you want me to call her and see if she wants to hang out this week?”

  Trey looked at her then with such gratitude and hope that Renee’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Renee, there’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you for a long time,” he started.

  This was exactly how ninety-nine percent of her fantasies began. The other one percent began with him scrapping the speech and throwing her over his shoulder, caveman style, before dropping her onto a bed.

  “That last time we went out . . . I felt like I didn’t treat you that well,” he said.

  “Wasn’t I the one who threw a drink on you?” she said. She couldn’t believe she’d actually joked about it, and Trey threw back his head and laughed. “I’d forgotten about that,” he said. Oh, fabulous—good thing she’d reminded him.

  “Seriously, though, I don’t ever want you to think it was . . . anything about you,” he said. “You’re a wonderful person. I hated hurting you.”

  “Trey, it’s okay,” she said. She patted his arm because he looked so tortured she almost felt sorry for him.

  “I feel like we’re becoming friends, too. Not just you and Abby, but you and me,” he said. “And I like it.”

  It was as good a place as any to restart their relationship. “I like it, too,” she said.

  He pushed back his chair, then looked at her more closely. “Hey, are you feeling all right?”

  “Sure,” Renee said. “Great. Why do you ask?”

  “You just look . . . I don’t know, kind of pale, I guess.” “Obviously I need a medicinal trip to Hawaii,” Renee said. “I’ll tell my health insurer to get on it.”