Unwritten

by Kiki Hamilton

  I took a sip of the dark brew and left the foam mustache on my lip to see if he would react. “I got fired.”

  “Probably for not shaving,” he said with a perfectly straight face. “Though your mustache is very becoming. You should wear it like that all the time.” He leaned his arms on the bar. “You got fired from Antoine’s? What’d ya do? Tell off a customer?”

  “No.” I wiped my mustache off and took another sip of beer, the gravity of the situation darkening my mood.

  “How do you get fired as a waitress? Were you inappropriate—” he waggled his eyebrows at me and grinned— “did you make a pass at someone?”

  I frowned. “No. That only happens in this joint. My hair landed in a guest’s food.”

  He eyed the wavy mass of hair that descended well past my shoulders. “Don’t you have to wear it tied back at work?”

  “It was tied back. But it was hot and it curls more when I’m hot and somehow a strand fell out and landed in this…this supermodel’s dinner and she freaked. So Richard fired me.”

  “You saw a supermodel?”

  I glared at him. “That is not the point, Charlie. The point is—”

  “I know, I know.” He wiped the bar with a smooth, easy stroke. “You lost your job.” He tossed the towel under the bar and looked me in the eyes. “I guess that means it’s time you come work for me.”

  “SEE?” NANDINI SAID two days later as she slapped page six of the New York Post down in front of where I sat at our tiny two-person kitchen table painting my fingernails black—a suitable reflection of the current state of my life. “That is what I’m talking about.” She stabbed her brown finger on top of the picture that lay open in front of me just to emphasize her point. “Simone Bouchard is the ‘it’ girl of New York. She even makes the news when she eats.”

  I peered closer at the picture of Simone exiting Le Cirque restaurant. Her tall, lithe figure was easily recognizable as was the pout that now looked unsettlingly familiar.

  “Well, she is at one of the most famous French restaurants in New York. I wonder who she got fired there.” My gaze only stayed on her for a moment, moving instead to search the background of the picture to see if Oliver had accompanied her again. For some reason I couldn’t explain, I hoped he hadn’t. I didn’t want him to be in love with someone like her. But there he was, half cut-out of the picture, his head down as he escorted her from the building. Drat. Why must beauty and wealth always win?

  “So what?” I shrugged and went back to my fingernails. “We know what she’s really like.”

  Nandini didn’t seem to hear me. “Now we know why Richard reacted like he did. To piss her off was a potential public relations disaster. We were lucky the paparazzi weren’t following her that night.” She shook her head, her own long black hair pulled back in a clip behind her head. She’d never had a hair malfunction at work and she’d worked there for three years while she studied pre-law at Columbia.

  “You think Richard knew who she was?”

  “Are you kidding? Of course he did. Besides, the famous ones usually have their people call ahead.” She opened her text book on business law. “I wonder who her date was? I pity that poor bastard.”

  “Maybe he deserves her.”

  “Yes, well, you might be right.” She went back to her book. “But not for us to worry about. I doubt we’ll ever see them again.”

  I STARTED MY new job on Wednesday—the ‘slow’ night of the week.

  “Ya got one day to learn the ropes, West, because Thursdays are just as busy as Fridays.” Charlie handed me a green apron that read Fitz’s in white script across the front. “Put that on and come over here and I’ll teach ya how to pour a beer.”

  After the upscale intensity of Antoine’s the pub was a different kind of intensity. The atmosphere was much more relaxed but the waitress’ were kept just as busy running back and forth and the tips were a fraction of what I used to make. I told myself it was a temporary fix until something better came along or I sold a book—but inside I was secretly afraid neither was going to happen.

  Chapter Four

  I was concentrating on a brief for a case I was working on when Uncle Frank walked into my office.

  “Hello Oliver,” he said in a hearty voice as he shut the door behind himself. I set the paper on the desk. Something was up if we were having a closed door meeting.

  “Hello Frank.” I’d stopped calling him ‘uncle’ when I’d taken the job at Beckett, Johnson and Day two years ago. “What’s up?”

  Frank slid into one of the brown leather chairs in front of my desk and crossed his legs. He was a big man, an ex-linebacker from his college days, and had aged gracefully. His white hair gave him an air of authority that served him well in the courtroom. “How are things going with Simone Bouchard?”

  I leaned back in my chair and searched his face for any clues that might reveal why we were having this conversation. I had fast-tracked my law degree by doing Running Start in high school and graduating with an AA degree. I’d only been at the firm for a couple of years and at age twenty-five I was already working with one of our key clients. This opportunity was a huge stepping-stone in my career and I didn’t want to mess it up. “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, I’ve heard a few things—” his gaze drifted, which told me I wasn’t getting the whole story. “I know she can be difficult at times, but you know the saying, Oliver: the biggest names are the biggest pains.” He chuckled. “I just want to make sure we’re on the same page about this one. She’s important to the firm and especially now with the Chanel deal—”

  “What exactly have you heard?” As if prearranged, my cell rang. Simone’s face stared back as if daring me to ignore her. I held up the phone so my uncle could see the screen. “Speak of the devil.”

  My uncle pushed himself out of the chair and headed for the door. “Should’ve known you’ve got everything under control, Oliver.”

  I watched his departing back through the glass walls of my office as I answered the phone.

  “Hello Simone.” I hadn’t forgotten the hair-in-the-dinner episode of the previous week and I braced myself for what I knew was coming. Simone only called for one reason—when she wanted something. Scratch that—when she wanted me—but I wasn’t quite prepared to face another evening with her yet.

  “Oliver.” Her French-accented voice was alluring over the phone. “I need you to escort me to a photo shoot in Central Park this afternoon and then take me to dinner afterwards. I think I’d like Thai tonight. Doesn’t Tom Kha Gai soup sound delicious?”

  I glanced down at the case documents I’d been reviewing. It was a complex legal argument with a potentially significant financial impact to the firm. Every distraction took me ten extra minutes to get my head back into the case.

  “Simone, I have a contract negotiation tomorrow and—”

  “Cancel it. Or re-schedule it. Or delegate it—I don’t care.” I could just imagine her flinging her hand out as if she were shooing a bug away. “When I signed on with Beckett, Johnson and Day it was with the understanding that I would be a priority. Your priority, Oliver. The car will pick you up at one. See you then, bebe.”

  Chapter Five

  The next two weeks flew by and suddenly it was time to head home for Christmas. Between work at Fitz’s and my writing, I hadn’t found time to look for another job. I stared out the window of the tiny apartment I shared with Nandini in lower Manhattan and watched a mother in a bright red coat walking down the street holding her young daughter’s hand, also dressed in a bright red coat. Soft snowflakes drifted from the sky, the sidewalk already coated in white. A pang pierced my chest, and though I didn’t want to admit it—I was homesick. I missed—

  The phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi Lexie, it’s Caroline.”

  My heart jumped in my chest. My agent! She was calling! That must mean—

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, but the last three houses have passed on you
r project. Bloomsbury, HarperCollins and Penguin all turned it down.” The voice on the other end of the phone paused. “I’m sorry, hon, I know you must be disappointed.”

  My heart sank into the bottomless pit of my stomach. Of course they did. Because I wasn’t a supermodel with pencil-thin legs and I would never—

  “Alexis? Did you hear me?”

  “Yes—yes, I heard you, Caroline. Thank you.” I sighed. Twenty-two houses had passed on my manuscript. These last rejections were the end to my year (and six months) of ‘making it’. I was a college graduate with a degree in creative writing who worked in a pub. Period. That was the sum total of my life. For the first time I wondered if I should give up on my dream and accept the fact that I was not part of the two percent who actually got a job in the field of their degree.

  “Listen, Lexie, no doesn’t mean no forever, it just means ‘not now’.”

  “Don’t you think it’s odd how ‘not’ and ‘now’ both start with no?” My gaze drifted outside to the snow-covered street and I watched until the red-coated mother and daughter turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

  “Lexie, you can’t look at it that way. You’ve got other stories in you. Work on something else.”

  I wanted to tell her she was wrong, but I didn’t. I’d been trying to write something new for months and had gotten nowhere. Zip. Nada. Zilch. Instead, I forced a smile.

  “That’s a great idea, Caroline, thank you.” I tried to sound sincere. “Hey, I’ve gotta run, I’m headed to the airport—but we’ll talk soon. Enjoy the holidays.”

  “Okay hon. Don’t worry, things will work out. Take care.”

  I ended the call and bit down hard on my lower lip to stop the tears that were welling in my eyes. I didn’t have time to cry. I had to catch a cab to JFK, like five minutes ago, or I’d miss my flight. There was another monster snowstorm hitting the East Coast guaranteed to snarl traffic and mess up all the incoming and outgoing flights. I had no desire to spend Christmas sitting on the floor of the airport with a million other out-of-luck souls. Christmas Eve was tomorrow. I needed to make this flight if I wanted to get home in time for the holidays.

  I fingered an envelope that was addressed and stamped, ready to be mailed. Two hot tears spilled over my lashes and ran down my cheeks. I brushed them away with the back of my hand and tugged my black bag toward the door. “Be mature, Lex,” I whispered. I’d been through worse in my life. And not that long ago. I could handle this.

  My keys jingled as I stood in the hallway and fumbled to lock the three deadbolts that protected my miniscule world full of worthless memories of my life in New York. Nandini had taken the train the previous day, headed to her family’s house up in Boston.

  Finally, the last lock slammed home. I swiped at one more stray tear and clattered down the steps, my suitcase bumping behind me down the stairs. Our apartment building had the slowest lift in the universe—I didn’t dare wait for it. My flight to Seattle was due to leave in two and a half hours and I still had a forty minute cab ride. I whispered a little prayer that there were no wrecks on the expressway.

  “Have a good holiday,” Mrs. Ornstein called down the open stairwell to me. She had pink curlers in her salt and pepper hair—the old-fashioned sponge kind—and wore a faded pink housecoat. “I’ll keep an eye on the place while you’re gone.”

  I waved a red gloved hand over my head in her direction. “Thank you Mrs. O.” Mrs. Ornstein always kept on eye on our apartment—even when Nandini and I were there. “Enjoy the holidays!”

  “Thank you, Dearie, you too.”

  I dropped the envelope in the mail slot then pushed through the front door. A blast of frosty air froze the tears on my face as I made my way out onto the street. I shivered as I pulled my bag to the curb. The sky was gray and low, as if weighted down by a billion snowflakes and the bitter wind made the air feel like it was twenty below. My hair was tucked up in my red hat and I tightened the matching scarf around my neck before I raised my hand to hail a cab.

  Five full cabs drove past.

  My heart started to pound. “C’mon, c’mon,” I muttered under my breath, “I don’t have time for this.” The light changed to red and traffic backed up along the street next to me. The light changed to green and four more cabs whizzed by, their occupants looking warm and on-time. Red light again and cars cruised to a stop.

  There!

  An empty cab.

  I yelled, but the cabbie ignored me so I ran up to the window and knocked before I realized the cab wasn’t empty after all. The silhouette of a guy dressed in black was in the back, practically invisible in the dark interior. I hurried back toward the curb. If you stopped in the street in New York City you weren’t a pedestrian anymore—you were a target.

  “Hey.” Somebody called from behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. The cabbie had rolled down the window and was leaning across the seat. “Where you goin’?”

  “JFK?” I said hopefully.

  A horn honked somewhere back in the line. The light had changed and the cab was holding up traffic.

  He waved his arm at me. “Get in. The fare says he’ll share.”

  I didn’t share cabs with strangers. My mother had given me a fifty-point list of Don’t’s! when I’d moved to New York last year and sharing cabs with strangers was somewhere around number five. But I was desperate.

  “Thanks!” I bumped my suitcase over the curb again and ran after the cab, which was easing out of the main stream of traffic. My bag twisted over on its back like my old dog, Sam, wanting a belly-rub. My wrist twisted with it and the handle wrested from my grasp.

  “Crap.” I hurried to grab it again. Horns blared as the other cars had to go around my cab. Somebody shouted. By now, the guy in the back had pushed the rear cab door open for me.

  “Lady, get in already—” the cabbie yelled in a tone of utmost disgust— “ya want for us to sit through another light?”

  I tugged my bag upright and ran for the back door. “No, no, I’ve got it.” I tried to slide gracefully onto the seat and swing my suitcase into the back with me, as it was evident the cabbie wasn’t going to open the trunk, but instead, I lunged onto the seat, launching my suitcase into the back like some land-to-air missile. It landed on my lap, almost beaning the other passenger with the still-extended handle. The door wasn’t even shut when the cabbie hit the gas and skidded around a corner.

  I shrieked as I was thrown toward the stranger, who—purely in self-defense—caught me in his arms. At least the movement of the car swung the door closed so I couldn’t fall out. We were trying to untangle ourselves as the cabbie streaked through the tail end of a yellow light.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said breathlessly as I shoved back over to my side of the cab. I tried to gracefully extricate the suitcase from between my legs but after struggling for a few moments with the graceful part, I finally hefted my right leg over the top of my suitcase and shoved the bag toward the door so I could position my boots primly on the floor in the middle. Up front, the cabbie sang along with Bing Crosby dreaming of a White Christmas.

  There. I let out a slow breath and brushed back my hat that had slid over my eyes. “Thanks for sh—” I glanced over at the other passenger. What had started to be the word ‘sharing’ suddenly became something else. “Shit—you again?”

  Oliver smiled. “Hello. Crazy how small New York can be at times, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Whatever.” I crossed my arms and sat back, unsure of how to react. In the last two weeks I had thought of him and that horrible Simone more often than I cared to admit. Unfortunately, he was as attractive as I remembered.

  “Traffic’s crazy too.” He glanced out the window. “Christmas rush, I guess.” He was dressed in a black trench coat over what looked like a black suit with a maroon tie. His shoes were so shiny I could have put my lipstick on in them.

  I grunted in response. He’d gotten me fired. It was a little late for friendly.

  He motioned to my bag
. “You headed off for the holidays?”

  “Seattle.” I turned my head and looked out my own window. Maybe he’d get the hint. The snow was falling fast and furious, a swirling mess of beautiful white flakes. I loved snow—always so magical. It didn’t seem right that it was snowing when Caroline had called with such bad news and now this—

  “You’re getting out in the nick of time. Sounds like a monster storm is on the way. It’s supposed to dump two feet of snow on the city in the next twenty-four hours.” He shook his head. “I’ll probably never get out.”

  The cab was warm so I pulled my red gloves off and loosened the scarf around my neck, telling myself to ignore him, but curiosity got the better of me. “Where are you going?”

  “Paris,” he said, as if that was an everyday destination.

  I forgot for a second that I hated him. “Wow.”

  “My flight doesn’t leave until seven but I decided to head to the airport early. No telling what shape the roads will be in by then.” He gave me a confused look. “Didn’t you have a British accent before?”

  “What?” I totally lied. “No. But that sounds like a nice vacation.”

  “It’s actually for work.”

  “Over Christmas?”

  He shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

  Nandini had said Simone Bouchard was the new face of Chanel. He must be going to see her. Or—an unhappy thought zoomed through my head—maybe they were married? I glanced at his hands but he wore black leather gloves, making it impossible to see if he wore a ring.