Eventually the woman brought the whole grilled fish on another wooden plate. She left the salt box and set down a fresh lemon. “Bon appétit,” she said, vanishing again. I peeled back the crackled skin, squeezed the lemon over the white flesh and pinched some salt from the box. It was fresh and meaty and the best fish I’d ever eaten, like a clean cube of briny smoke plucked out of the sea.
At the end I was given a bowl of ripe peaches, peeled and diced, and a little bowl of cream. I poured the cream on the peaches and swallowed them with a bitter espresso. The meal was a marvel, and if I’d had the gift of hindsight it might have occurred to me that in this moment I was living exactly the life I’d always wanted to live. But all I could think about was Rousseau’s absence and the square rosé situation and the lies I’d told Gus and the possibility that Lauren and Max had seen us in Cannes. I was there and I wasn’t there, preoccupied with both past and future, where my imaginary self in my imaginary life might have a dinner just like this. Where I might be someone exceptional, someone who might leave a footprint on history. I didn’t know that history, while it’s happening, no matter how it’s retold later, feels remarkably average. I still believed that history was the stuff of books, the stuff of mythical giants, not of regular people who ate food. This night didn’t count; my clock had not yet started. History wasn’t happening right now, wasn’t happening to me.
The next morning I chose one of the twelve square rosés as the winner and sent the bottle’s measurements and some photos to Molly, for the custom label. It seemed simple enough, but around two she called me.
“Sorry to interrupt beach time,” she sang. “I just have an itsy bitsy question about this bottle.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Well, do you think maybe the bottle might be slightly truncated, and that maybe we might need to have one here in hand so we can make sure the label is the right size?”
“You have the measurements, but if you need the bottle I can send it.”
“I’m sure your measuring is just as adequate as the rest of your work,” she continued in her high pitch. I could imagine that squirrel finger puppet pointed at me, its happy black eyes boring into my soul. “I’d just feel better if I could have the bottle here, to make sure it’s right.”
“Sure thing,” I said.
“Also, Halley, I need the booth graphic work orders.”
I sighed heavily. “I can’t get them to you until I have the theme, and Max is still working on it.”
“I’m sure you can find a way to work around that, right? After all, they wouldn’t have hired you if you couldn’t manage your part of the project.”
I cleared my throat. “I’ll send the bottle of wine out by FedEx this afternoon.”
I drove to a department store to buy packaging materials. I wrapped the wine in bubble wrap, taped it up inside a cardboard box, filled out the FedEx slips, and took it to the clubhouse to be picked up by the courier that afternoon.
A couple hours later, I received a call from the clubhouse receptionist.
“Madame ’alley,” she began, “in order to import wine into the United States you must go online and pay a fee. The courier cannot take the package until you have done this and printed the confirmation.”
The receptionist gave me the URL for the website. I went online, used my credit card to pay the fee, printed the confirmation, drove the printed page over to the clubhouse and rescheduled the courier pickup for the following morning.
The following morning, I received a call from the receptionist.
“Madame ’alley,” she said, “in order to export wine from France, you must go to an office in the center of Cannes and file a form and pay fourteen Euro.”
“Can I email the form to them?” I asked.
“No, you must go in person,” she said.
I drove to the clubhouse, retrieved the package, unpacked it at my kitchen sink, uncorked the wine, took a big harried slug and poured the rest down the drain. I wrapped the empty bottle back in the bubble wrap, filled out new slips and rescheduled the pickup for that afternoon.
The bottle was finally delivered into Molly’s hands two days later.
That same day, I got a call from Gus. “Halley,” he said, “I was talking to Anthony the Wanker yesterday and he thinks that if we give wine to some people in the company and not others, some people will be offended and get upset. So we either have to give wine to everyone in the company, or no one. I decided it’s just too much of a hassle. So cancel the wine; we’re not giving any gifts after all.”
24
“Halley, I am calling on behalf of the president.”
“I know what you’re going to say, Jamie, but . . .”
Jamie cleared her throat. “I thought I was clear the last time we spoke, that Anthony is making the announcement at the DEVO booth. But one of the other VPs told him today that Gus thinks he is making the announcement.”
“Gus said it’s his project, so . . .”
“This is Anthony’s project. Anthony is the president. Every project is Anthony’s project.”
“Gus is giving everything to this launch,” I said. “He relocated to another country! Don’t you think he deserves the opportunity to stand up in front of our customers and make this announcement?”
That was the funny thing about proxy wars. We were so dedicated to our respective causes that soon it became our war too.
“Ha, that’s rich,” Jamie said. “You all are over there living in the lap of luxury, playing golf and going to the beach and jet setting around Europe on a company-paid vacation, while Anthony sits in an actual office, and you want to talk about what Gus deserves?”
“We’re not—”
“Anthony is making that announcement. Put his name on the itinerary, or you’re fired.”
I wasn’t sure she had the authority to fire me, but I wasn’t sure she didn’t have the authority.
“Fine,” I said.
Rousseau’s text said, “I love you so much I sometimes spontaneously vibrate.” Outside my window the evening sky glowed purpley-pink over the golf course.
“How do you always know exactly the right thing to say?” I replied.
“You okay?” he wrote.
“Yeah. That wine-buying thing was a bust; Gus just pulled the plug on it. And I’m the middle man in a war between Gus and Anthony over something stupid. I feel like I’m just spinning my wheels here.”
“Ah, I sensed a disturbance in the force. Well, at least you’ll be fully stocked up on square rosé for a while. You’ll be a hit at dinner parties.”
I chuckled at the screen. The sound echoed off the tile floor of my silent living room and back into my own ears again, reshaped into something sadder.
“Indeed,” I replied. “How are things going for you?” I wished I could watch his life via a series of hidden cameras like a reality TV show and know once and for all what kind of person he was, what was in store for us. Time and distance made everything about Rousseau more perfect, as I mentally relived our days together.
“You mean with my wife?” He knew that’s what I was really asking and, even though it was intrusive, he would answer.
“I don’t know, we barely talk anymore,” he said. “She’s been sleeping in a separate room for a long time.”
“Why?”
“Maybe she’s seeing somebody else. Maybe she doesn’t love me. I don’t know. We go through phases of this every couple years.”
“Why don’t you just get divorced?”
“I don’t want to wreck everyone’s lives. We have kids. We have a family. It’s easier to just let it be.”
I leaned over the armrest of my chair and fished around in my purse for a bottle of Nurofen—French ibuprofen. I found the bottle and extracted two of the red capsules, replacing the cap with a satisfying snap. I didn’t have any water and di
dn’t feel like getting up to get some, so I swallowed them dry.
“So what are you going to do after the kids are grown up and out of the house?” I asked.
“That’s a long time from now,” he said. “I could die before then.”
I rolled my eyes. “Seriously though. Let’s say your kids are gone and you and I are still close. Would you be with me?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “A lot could happen between now and then.”
“But if we were still happy, as happy as we are now. Would you?”
“I don’t know, Halley.”
“Jeez. I’m not going to make you sign anything. This is hypothetical.”
I went to the sink for that glass of water after all. Something, probably the pills, felt lodged in my throat. I took the glass back to my chair.
“I guess, yes,” he wrote. “Hypothetically. I probably would. But no promises.”
I sat back down and stared at the ceiling. What was happening to us? What was happening to me?
“You said this was going to be enough,” Rousseau wrote.
“I know,” I replied.
But maybe it wasn’t going to be enough. My heart was beginning to resemble one of those computerized adaptive tests—as I found answers, the questions changed. What satisfied me a few weeks ago didn’t satisfy me anymore. Tendrils of anxiety began to wind around the back of my neck. I had to be careful. I had the sense that my not needing more was the only thing keeping us on solid ground. But as my life got lonelier, as my job became more difficult, as I began to doubt the decisions I was making, I needed Rousseau to deliver the light.
“It’s just . . . I’m afraid of losing you,” I said.
If only I could stop caring so much, stop needing so much, stop wanting so much . . . I could be what Rousseau needed me to be. I could be what the company needed me to be. I could have been what Celeste had needed me to be, what my parents needed me to be. The sight of my own disgusting need spelled out on the tiny screen in front of me made me feel suddenly, grotesquely self-conscious. In my mind I saw Rousseau in all his effortless, accomplished perfection, behind glass like a beautiful instrument, while I stood next to him, something clunkier, trying too hard. I feared his response to my last note, feared he would be as disgusted by my growing desperation as I was.
I stood from the chair and took a walk around my living room, touching the yellow wall, the antique armoire, the rustic green couch, totems of my prosperity. I opened the sliding door and stepped onto the terrace to watch the last remaining light drain from the sky. Nighttime in Biot didn’t smell the same as daytime in Biot. Everything intensified at night, as if a divine hand reached down to Earth and turned up the volume. The lavender misted its soapy perfume in the direction of the olive trees, whose woody, bitter bouquet swirled together with the green acrylic scent of hedges against stucco walls. I lay on a chaise and watched the inky sky until a few stars began to shine through, then I went back into the condo, which now felt stuffy with stagnant air. I picked my phone up off the floor, knowing a response from Rousseau would be waiting.
“You’re not going to lose me,” it said.
25
July and August were hot and crowded. But by September the droves of vacationers had mostly gone home, and the balmy, bug-filled days had begun to cool. I knocked on the chalky pink door of Darren’s condo and heard him shout “Come in” from inside. The door opened easily. There was something oddly comforting, almost holy, about the minimalism of his place. No trinkets to clean, no gadgets to maintain, nothing to distract the eye. Darren’s only splurge had been a high quality espresso machine that rivaled Gus’s, which meant that meeting at his place consisted of a tranquil table, really good coffee, and undivided attention. I sat in a wicker chair next to the window.
“I feel like I’m losing my mind,” Darren said, setting the cups, spoons, and sugar cubes on the table between us. “There just isn’t enough time in the day. I shouldn’t even be having coffee with you right now—I have so much to do—but I need a break or my head might explode.”
“What are you working on?” I stirred some sugar into my espresso.
“Everything. I’m doing most of Gus’s, Lauren’s, and Max’s work for them. I’m writing a report for Gus for his next executive meeting. Max has me drafting the marketing plan. And Lauren talked me into ‘helping her’”—he fingered air quotes—“design the sales training, but she has gradually punted the whole thing over to me. In fact, she wasn’t even here half the summer; she was off touring Europe with Max.”
He tossed his coffee back like a shot and then looked up, crazy-eyed.
“Last week I didn’t sleep for three days straight. I feel like nothing I do is ever good enough. I’m actually thinking about hiring a freelancer—whom I would have to pay out of my own pocket—to take a few things off my plate. I haven’t even had time to fly my kites!”
“Why don’t you just stop? Tell them to do their own work.”
“You know the answer to that,” he said.
“I’m serious. What are they going to do, fire you? Think about it. You’ve got them all on the hook now; they need you. They can’t do this without you. So, set some boundaries.”
“Halley, come on. They could replace me in a second. We have to do our time. And if I don’t want to do the time, there’s a steady supply of new blood from business schools across the U.S. waiting to do it. If I can’t hack it, if I start complaining or start making things difficult for them, there are hundreds of guys out there eager to take my place.”
I picked at a hangnail on my index finger and looked at the table in thought.
“You know what bothers me the most?” Darren said. “Gus still has never made me a cappuccino from his cappuccino machine. I’ve actually daydreamed about sneaking into his house and making one for myself.”
“No! You know what happened to Baldwin Frank. Besides, you have your own machine. It might even be nicer than Gus’s.”
“That’s not the point,” he said. “It’s . . . it’s the principle. I want a seat at that table.”
“I do too,” I said.
But maybe he was right: maybe we had to do our time. Maybe we were just spoiled millennials, too entitled, too coddled, unwilling to do the heavy lifting that our predecessors had done. I mean, really, what was so unsatisfactory about all this? We lived in a beautiful place, we had all these perks, we got to see Europe.
But it did feel like something was missing. We were working hard. In fact, we lived at work; we worked all the time. And what was waiting for us at the end of the passage, after we’d done our time?
As if he’d read my mind, Darren said “It’s just that sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever get there.”
“I know what you mean,” I said.
“This job . . . Level 2 . . . it’s not as good as I thought it would be. I mean, I like working. I like feeling like I’m contributing, you know? But . . . I don’t know, I thought it would feel different. This just isn’t who I thought I would be at this point in my life.”
I shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I always thought I’d be a princess by now.”
“Right? This isn’t what they promised us!” He banged his fist on the table in mock outrage and we both laughed.
“Who are ‘they’ anyway?” I said. “Who made up all these stories about dreams and wishes?”
He picked up our empty cups and took them to the sink. “Probably people trying to sell something.”
Then he turned back toward me, and that old glimmer was there. “But what if we’re right on the edge of it . . . and if we just work a little harder we’ll get there? You have no idea how much I want to succeed here. Sometimes I sit up in bed at night, wired, imagining what my life could be like. I feel like a drug addict or something.”
That was all he needed to say to get us both back on track again. Beca
use we did believe that we were bound for something more special. So we would keep jumping higher, reaching further, rearranging the pieces to make something new. And hoping.
Max and Lauren sat on opposite ends of the table and didn’t look at each other. I hadn’t seen them in weeks. Lauren looked stricken and stared at the floor, while Max wore his usual smirk, as if he had a secret he wanted everyone else to guess at.
“Goddamned cat,” Gus muttered as he walked in. “Sitting there all slitty-eyed, like he’s plotting to kill us. I tried to shoo him off and he hissed at me. Cook and Bezos trained him well.” He drank the last dregs of his cappuccino and put the cup on the table.
Max held back laughter. “Maybe there’s a mouse in your condo and he’s trying to catch it. Could be a helper.”
“I’ll take the mouse,” Gus said, lowering himself heavily onto the chair at the head of his dining room table.
The door opened and Gus screamed, “Don’t let the cat in!” as Darren shuffled inside. We heard him slam the door shut.
“Jeez, what is that cat doing here?” Darren said, emerging from the entry hallway. “I thought it liked to hang out over by Lauren’s apartment.”
Gus’s lips flattened. “It’s a goddamned spy cat, that’s what.”
Darren unshouldered The Backpack and pulled out two huge binders, a notebook, and a pen, and arranged them on the table in front of himself. He looked up and read the very clear exclamation in Gus’s eyes that said, “Why haven’t you gotten the goddamned wine yet?” and stood up again.
“Wine, anyone?” he said.
We all grumbled our yeses, we’d take it if he was already going to the trouble.
“Let me help you,” I said, following him into the kitchen.
“I’ll come too,” Lauren said.
The Insatiables Page 16