Is this not weird? Should I be more pulled together? Yes. Pull yourself together. He’s Southern. He’s a politician, connecting with people, this is his job, it means nothing. It’s a handshake.
She tried to stop the swirling in her mind when another thought hit. It’s nice. She hadn’t noticed how strong his hands were. She felt almost as if her back were resting on his hand rather than the other way around. As much as she tried to talk herself out of it, she couldn’t escape the bubble she felt she was in. The bubble where the only thing that mattered was his hand on her back. The hand that moved gently when he laughed and tensed up when he spoke seriously. The hand that grabbed at the ends of her hair as he reached for another glass of wine. Every move registered with Olivia like she had her own personal Richter scale. How was it possible that she was in an earthquake zone and no one else seemed to notice the shocks? The only thing that helped was the wine, so Olivia downed it.
Three glasses and a healthy serving of truffles later (“More,” Matt had said to the waiter, pressing him, “I just sold the Park Tower so we can at least afford a few extra truffles”), Olivia was bleary-eyed and exhausted. She had been working overtime to stay in the conversation with that hand on her back, the hand that had actually become quite comfortable there—yes, she would finally admit, comfortable.
By the time Yanni paid the $4,600 check with a scoffing, “Did we not drink tonight?” the hand on Olivia’s back and no one’s questioning of it emboldened her to almost feel like Taylor’s plus-one. The night had been entirely entertaining, the conversation always finding its way back to the campaign, which Olivia was growing to love and feel a part of. For the rest of the table, all seemed as it always was: Matt and Chris’s girlfriends had disappeared to the bathroom together, something they seemed too old to do. Stu had stepped outside after his wife had called screaming obscenities that the whole table could hear, all but confirming the rumors that she was probably abusing him on a regular basis. Todd and the cheerleader were engaged in a session of heavy petting that made the hand on Olivia’s back seem familial. Yanni and the governor, fast friends, were far into an export-import conversation that shouldn’t have been possible with the wine intake.
“C’mon,” Erin said, gently tugging at Yanni’s arm. “I think we’ve all had enough banking talk for one evening, right, Olivia?”
“Sure,” Olivia said, acquiescing, as Erin stood up. Actually, she could have stayed there all night, but agreeing seemed like the right thing to do.
“We may take longer to get ready, but they take longer to get going!” Erin looked at Olivia and motioned for her to follow her lead out the door.
Again transported back to the seventh-grade cafeteria, Olivia eagerly shadowed the “cool girl at the table” toward the steps. The governor and Yanni followed suit and the others lagged behind. Up the stairs and back into the bright lights of the city, the world suddenly came into sharper focus.
Right, because I just spent four and a half hours in a windowless den of an alternate reality. Apparently the rest of the dinner guests felt the same way, each one standing up a tad straighter and soberly making their way into their chauffeur-driven Mercedeses and SUVs. Governor Taylor, looking ten times more sober than he had at the bottom of the steps, said his good-byes. He gave Olivia a peck on the cheek.
“Great day, Olivia, great day.”
And with that he turned to walk the few blocks back to his hotel, leaving her in a weird state of proud confusion. She figured she shouldn’t even try to process the evening. At least not until she got home. Home. Gotta get a cab. She looked down into her bag at the ten-dollar bill she had stuffed there before she left. The ten dollars that she had found in her jeans that was supposed to last her until her next paycheck hit in two days. Coffee tomorrow or cab tonight? She knew it should have been more of a decision, but the subway wasn’t safe at this time, and there was no way she could bear the walk home, so she headed to the curb to wait.
“Olivia,” Yanni called. She turned back to him. “What are you doing? Are you crazy? George will take you home. Erin and I can take her car.”
Olivia looked over to the two black cars against the curb and Yanni’s driver, George, standing by an open door.
“Really? Are you sure? That would be great. Thank you.” Coffee tomorrow, she cheered silently.
“Please,” he joked with a hint of sarcasm and a hint of truth, “thank-yous are for having the jet take you home. The car is easy.”
When the sun drifted in through the blue sheet tacked up as a temporary curtain beside her bed, Olivia still hadn’t made sense of the night in her mind. She couldn’t reconcile the feeling that she had been on the best date of her life with the fact that she had been at a business dinner. It was work and nothing more. Politicians are warm, touchy-feely people. Right? She scolded herself for even thinking otherwise. Get it together, she said, looking in the mirror. These thoughts cannot even be going through your head. It was not a date. It is your job. The job. The job of a lifetime, which you will not ruin by having ridiculous thoughts.
She considered calling her friend Katherine to dish about it, but every time she dialed and thought about what she would say, it sounded so stupid she hung up before the ringing started. Her non-boss put his hand on her back? That was a nonevent. She scolded herself, deleting the email she had written to her sister, the one that she almost sent a few times, asking if it was normal to keep a hand on a colleague’s back for extended periods of time. Or if it was something that a married guy might do habitually since he was used to having his wife beside him? His wife. Aubrey. She’s perfect. They’re perfect. It was nothing.
“Got a little bounce in that step, eh?” Her coffee-cart friend winked as he handed her a coffee.
She gladly took the compliment and the coffee, which was at its best. Some days Harun put in too much sugar or too little milk. But other days, like this one, he got it just right. She bounced down into the subway and reached the platform as the train pulled up. She loved days when the city worked with her. If you were a real New Yorker, she had decided, or maybe she had heard it on Sex and the City, the city melded with your mood. If you started in a bad mood, the coffee would be cold and the train would be late and crowded. But on a day like today, a good-mood day, everyone and everything was in sync with her. Her flawless morning left her outside Bronler’s office with twenty minutes to spare. She was sitting on a bench across the street answering emails when one from her sister came in, reminding her she had never finished the email she had started more than a few times.
[email protected]: You okay?? How was yesterday? It’s been 36 hours! Email me back.
Trying to recompose the email turned her giddiness into a flurry of nervousness.
[email protected]: Hey! Sorry, been crazed, wound up going to a dinner with the gov.
She started to type It was crazy and I think I love him, but seeing it in her BlackBerry made it sound even stupider than it sounded in her head. She pushed herself again to stop the thoughts. She quickly deleted it and settled on All good. All good. Well, that was sort of right. Things were good, really good, even if she wasn’t quite sure which side was up.
When the black SUV pulled up, she was already waiting in the lobby of Stephen’s building trying to imagine how the morning would go. Would the governor say anything about last night? About his hand? That hand, she thought, remembering its steady strength. As he stepped out of the car she could see the businesslike look in his eyes—the same one he’d had that morning at the Brinmore. The one that grounded her then and made her stomach plummet now as if she were a kid realizing she was alone at recess. Business, she reminded herself. This is business. Her thoughts straightened up her shoulders as she approached the door and opened it for him.
“Good morning, Governor,” she said, attempting to hide her nervous smile.
“Hey, kiddo.” Alone at recess with her hair pulled.
Thankfully, the doorman stood up from his chair, exci
ted to meet Taylor, sparing her from having to come up with chitchat in the midst of her disappointment. She had become “kiddo” again.
“I voted for you. And my mom, well, she just loves you,” the slight, redheaded doorman was saying. “She’s still in Georgia.” He was so excited, he spoke without taking breaths.
“I ’preciate that,” Taylor said in his sweetest Southern accent. “You tell your mama we’ll be back even stronger this time and we’re going to need her.”
The young man straightened like he’d just been called to attention. “Yes, sir.” He all but saluted as the elevator doors opened.
When they got in, so close in the small space, Olivia could feel her knees weaken a little, wondering if she should say something. Anything.
He broke her inner monologue.
“You know what I was thinking?”
That we should forget the world, get married, and have lots of beautiful political kids? Maybe I can get myself one of those shock bracelets to stop thinking like this.
“Yes, sir?”
“You should call Henley—he’s our finance chair, do you know him?”
“Not well.”
“Jacob can connect you guys. We should plug him into Filipaki’s event. Tell him Jon, his business partner, should talk to him about his rail-freight deal. Jacob will know . . .” He trailed off, his words going back down into his BlackBerry as they walked off the elevator.
“Hi, we’re here for Mr. Bronler,” Olivia said to the receptionist.
“Your names?”
Ah, our names. Say our names.
“Sorry, ah, Governor Taylor and Olivia Greenley.” She could barely compose her thoughts. Where was the person she was on a date with last night? And who was this person standing so formally beside her? What happened to their newly found coziness? Then her thoughts crashed in on insecurities. Could she have said something wrong? Was she acting too boldly? She didn’t think she had had too much to drink last night, but what if she had said something inappropriate? She tried to replay every last word of every conversation, but there were parts she couldn’t remember exactly. Or could she?
The frenetic thoughts continued well into the meeting in Bronler’s huge office. Perched on one of the coolest streets in the Meatpacking District, the place overlooked the Hudson River and New Jersey. “Let’s head into the conference room,” Stephen said.
They followed closely behind him as he walked them the long way through the office so as to give them the full tour.
It’d be nice to have a long way through an office, Olivia thought.
As they passed walls covered with pictures of celebrities, one more famous than the next, Stephen explained the occasion for each photograph. Laughing with Barbra Streisand at his Empire State Building birthday party. Chatting with Leonardo DiCaprio on the set of Titanic. Andy Warhol, Basquiat, and Stephen at an art opening. They seemed never-ending.
“Here’s my political wall,” he said with a gruff arm-wave toward the back side of the office. It was covered with memorabilia, most of it signed, as well as pictures of him with the last four presidents. “I used to do movie nights with this one,” he said. “He loved movies. We’d screen all the good ones at the White House. It was great; we’d invite ten or so people and sometimes even do a double feature. There’s a great screening room in there.”
“That’s for damn sure. And it has the best popcorn this side of the Mississippi River.” Taylor nearly slapped Stephen’s back in kid-like enthusiasm. “I don’t want to count my chickens before they hatch, but hopefully we’ll be making good use of it soon!”
“With Stephen’s backing you will,” Olivia interjected, needing to say something to break her thoughts of watching movies with Landon in the White House screening room. You will not be sharing popcorn with this man’s hand on your back ever, she thought, scolding herself. Get a grip!
It was at that moment that Stephen started talking about the black and white picture that hung prominently in the middle of the wall of Marilyn Monroe and President Kennedy sharing a whisper.
“That was backstage before she sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to him,” Stephen explained.
“Wow. Do you know that was almost fifty years ago? May 1962. Man, what that must have been like.”
The grip she had just forced upon herself slipped as quickly as it had come. I wonder if Marilyn was happy. Maybe it’s all backward. Maybe Marilyn was the real love of his life. Maybe Kennedy needed someone else. Maybe the governor needs someone else. Too bad I’m not a gorgeous, famous singer. Holy shit, she snapped at herself, I cannot be having these thoughts.
“Recarpeting?” she asked, trying to change the subject to the dozen or so carpet samples that lay on the side table.
“Yup, the plane,” Stephen said, as if it were obvious. “That reminds me, Lisette,” he yelled to his assistant standing two feet away, “see if we can’t get bigger samples of these. I’ve never understood how they expect you to pick a fuckin’ carpet based on a square you can’t even walk on.”
“That’s true,” Olivia said, grateful to have a new ridiculous thought to focus on. Why were carpet samples always so small?
With that, Stephen led them into the adjoining conference room. Olivia tried not to drop her jaw to the ground in amazement, but the governor didn’t hide his awe.
“Holy Moses! I have certainly picked the wrong field!” he yelled with a loud Southern twang.
“This is really amazing,” Olivia said in agreement, trying to have her reaction appear polite without seeming naïve.
“You’ve never seen this, Olivia?”
“No, sir,” she said, realizing the meetings she usually had with Stephen were quick and rarely passed the front office, much less the back two. The room was incredible. She guessed it was at least four thousand square feet. She had no clue what that really was, but she knew her apartment was six hundred and fifty and this was definitely five times the size, if not more. There were floor-to-ceiling windows on three walls, giving a view of the entire city, all the way up to the Chrysler Building. The only wall that wasn’t windows was literally a snack counter from a movie theater. The governor leaned his head against the far window.
“Sakes alive, I’m not sure I’ll ever get over how big all the buildings are here.”
Olivia smiled, loving how free he was with all of his thoughts. She was so careful with her words, always conscious of how they seemed, how they made her seem. He, on the other hand, had such an expressive naïveté. She thought it must have been the fact that he was so clearly intelligent that made the naïve things he said, like how big the buildings were, sound honest rather than stupid.
They always said JFK was like that, with a natural curiosity. He was never afraid to ask questions. Her mind flashed momentarily back to Marilyn before she could bat the mistress idea out.
Stephen sat down at the head of the long glass table and the governor pulled himself away from the window and took the modern-looking black leather and silver seat next to him. Olivia and Lisette, Stephen’s assistant, who seemed too pretty and too well dressed to be the person Stephen barked orders at, sat in the seats next to their bosses.
“Let’s get some coffee.” Stephen pressed down on a big button on a small, beige-colored square that looked weirdly similar to the garage-door opener Olivia’s parents had before garage doors had codes. Within seconds, a man in his forties dressed in all black came into the room equipped with a small pad and pen.
“Yes, sir?”
“Uhhh, I’ll have a skim cappuccino with extra foam. Gov?” Stephen looked to the governor, who hadn’t yet lost his look of childish bewilderment.
“Hiya. How are ya doing today? I would just love a coffee with some sugar. Thank y’all so much.” He bowed his head toward the waiter.
“You sure?” Stephen asked. “We can do mochas, lattes, anything. I swear they’re better than Starbucks here.”
Olivia wondered who “they” were and where “they” worked.
Olivia looked up. “Oh, nothing for me. I’m good.”
“Have something!” Stephen shouted. “Have a mocha. It’s fuckin’ great. Bring her a mocha. Everyone loves a mocha. And bring us some muffins. Thanks.”
Olivia smiled. “Okay, sure, that sounds great, thank you,” she said.
Lisette leaned back in her chair toward the waiter. “I would love a skim latte. Thanks so much, Jeffrey.”
They had barely started talking when Jeffrey reappeared with the tray of drinks and muffins. Olivia lasered into her mocha, which did indeed look delicious, but was topped with tons of whipped cream. Curses! she said in her head, knowing there wasn’t a chance anyone, much less her, the clumsiest and messiest person in the world, could drink that drink without becoming a disaster of whipped cream. The cream sat upright in the large round blue porcelain mug, complete with the Bronler logo. Jeffrey placed one small cloth napkin, also with the logo on it, next to the mug. Super, Olivia thought to herself, that is going to be a gigantic help.
“Now is that a fuckin’ mocha or what?” Stephen said, banging his hand down on the table.
“It’s incredible!” Olivia tried to figure out how to attack the milky enemy that seemed to stare mockingly at her from the table as Stephen rattled on and on about the summer event they would do in Martha’s Vineyard—complete with rock star performances, movie stars emceeing. Suddenly the glitz of it all seemed to take a backseat to the work she was going to have to do to make it happen.
“Get a date,” Stephen said to Lisette.
“Is there a specific month we want it in?” Lisette asked.
“I don’t fuckin’ care. Olivia will just fuckin’ get it done.”
Olivia nodded her head in agreement, giving Lisette a look of understanding shared worldwide by assistants. She wondered how Lisette stayed so polite with a boss who used the word “fuck” much more frequently than he did “please.”
Domestic Affairs Page 9