by Kate Hilton
“Doris, please,” I say. “Peter has a strong record on women’s issues. No one is perfect, but he has been a genuine supporter of the shelter project from day one.”
“He is a betrayer,” she says. “He has betrayed his wife, and a young woman in your office who was in a position of great vulnerability. His so-called record is irrelevant.”
“With respect, Doris, I disagree,” I say.
“I can see that you have had the wool pulled over your eyes as well, and I am sorry for it,” says Doris. “But WAFADASS is done with this administration. I recognize the soul within you. Namaste.”
“Okay, bye,” I say.
Five minutes later, Marshall Westwood calls.
“We were pleased to learn that, unlike so many other waterfront projects, your city has wisely rejected the proposal for an aquarium.”
An aquarium was never proposed at all, but Marshall doesn’t need to know this. I’m thrilled to be talking about something other than Peter’s sex life. What a difference a day makes. “We felt that it wouldn’t send the right message,” I say.
“Exactly,” says Marshall. “I wish more city officials understood that an aquarium is a prison, not an entertainment. Someday, in a more enlightened age, we will judge people who visit aquariums the way we now judge people who toured lunatic asylums for fun back in the eighteenth century.”
“Could be,” I say. “In any event, Mayor Haines stands with MEL on the aquarium issue.”
“We have photographic evidence of Mr. Wozniak visiting aquariums in both Baltimore and Chicago,” says Marshall. “Confidentially, when asked by an undercover MEL operative, Mr. Wozniak said that he thought an aquarium would be ‘a great idea’ for the city.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” I say.
“I’m calling to let you know that MEL will not be taking a position on the current scandal in the mayor’s office,” says Marshall.
“Thank you for letting me know,” I say.
“Good luck,” he says.
When the phone rings a few minutes later, it’s exactly the person I’m expecting.
“I want the mayor to know that he has the full support of ArtCo,” says Jim Crawford.
“I’m delighted to hear that,” I say.
“Naturally, there are conditions,” says Jim.
“There usually are,” I say.
“We will need to see the studios moved back to Building One, and the daycare centre and the shelter moved to Building Two. Also, we would like to see an increase in the number of rent-controlled spaces for artists.”
“What kind of increase?” I ask.
“At least thirty percent,” says Jim.
“Thirty percent,” I repeat. “Anything else?”
“We would like to see members of the ArtCo receive special consideration in the selection process for the public sculpture competition.”
“We’ve announced that it will be an international competition,” I say.
“We are aware of that,” says Jim. “But we are taking the position that our members produce work of international quality and they should have pride of place on the city’s waterfront.”
“That may be a bridge too far, Jim,” I say, in what I hope is a mild tone of voice.
“That’s the bridge I’ll be taking over to the Wozniak camp if I don’t see some good faith from the mayor,” says Jim, and hangs up the phone.
“Who does that?” I say out loud in my office. “Who issues a threat and hangs up the phone?”
“People do that all the time,” says Bonnie from the doorway. “You’d be surprised.” She hands me a faxed press release. “Another quarter heard from,” she says.
“Judy Mendelson?” I say, scanning the document. “I thought she was in and out of consciousness.”
“Well,” says Bonnie, “she woke up long enough to throw Peter to the wolves.”
“Peter and the wolves,” I say. “Funny.” Although it really isn’t. “According to Doris Renaud, he is the wolf.”
Bonnie shakes her head. “Beware of fair-weather friends,” she says. “I thought the law business was bad. It was nothing compared to politics.”
“This must be hard on you,” I say.
“No,” says Bonnie. “It’s stressful, and it’s busy. It isn’t hard.”
“I mean emotionally,” I say. “Because you and Peter have worked together for so long.”
“Avery,” she says, “unlike you, I don’t invest emotionally in my work. I have relationships outside the office. Peter treats me with respect and he pays me more than anyone else will pay me to do the same job. I have no other expectations of him. Peter and I aren’t friends. We’re colleagues.” She looks at the press release from Judy Mendelson and shakes her head. “I told Peter those flowers we sent were too expensive,” she says.
{CHAPTER 20}
Thursday, July 20, 2017, and September 2001
“You need some sleep,” says Matt. It’s seven o’clock in the morning. I can hear in his voice that he’s just woken up. I feel a wave of love and relief to know, however annoyed he might be with me right now, his first coherent thought this morning is for me.
“I know,” I say into the phone. I arch back in my chair and stretch my lower back. “I’m too stressed and there’s too much to do.”
I’ve never been the kind of person to pull all-nighters. For all my artistic proclivities, I’m an advance planner at heart. I remember each and every time I watched the sun come up: the overnight with Tara and Jenny when we were ten that resulted in a year-long sleepover ban; the first and only attempt to write a university essay in one day; the day before the mayoral election; and today. I have a healthy respect for the power of sleep, both to heal and to completely undo me in its absence. On the street last week, I heard a woman say to her friend, “Your skin looks amazing. Have you had Botox?” And the second woman laughed and said, “No, I’m taking a lot of naps.” I believed it.
“What’s happening?” asks Matt. “Do you need me to come and bring you some food?”
“I don’t even know what’s happening,” I say. “I’ve been in meetings all night with the PR people. Now they’re in with Peter and I’m responding to email from half the city and trying to figure out what we tell the staff when they come in at nine. We’re waiting for polling data following yesterday’s statement.”
“Ah,” says Matt.
“You thought he did well, right?” I say. We’ve already had this conversation, twice, since Peter took the podium outside city hall late yesterday afternoon. He was perfectly on message. The PR people are pleased.
“I thought it was extremely smooth,” says Matt.
“I thought it was brilliant,” I say. “He explained in detail how he ended up at Adam’s club, he was generous to Melanie without getting drawn into the specifics of the lawsuit, he talked about his family and how much he loves them, and he still managed to convey his vision for the city!”
“Yes, he did,” said Matt. “He was incredibly prepared. You did a fantastic job.”
I try again. “I thought he displayed real gravitas,” I say. “He looked like a person of substance and power. He looked trustworthy.”
“Avery,” says Matt. “I’m only prepared to go so far with this for you. He didn’t take many questions, and I don’t think we’ve heard the whole story here.”
“But you believed him, right?” I say.
“Why is that so important to you?” says Matt.
“Because you’re smart and affluent and left-wing and fall squarely into our voter demographic,” I say.
“Any other reason?”
“Because I trust you,” I say. “And I’m scared.”
I hear Matt take a long breath, in and out. “Avery,” he says, “I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“I don’t know how to help him.”
“Maybe that’s the wrong question.”
“It’s the right question for today.” Bonnie appears in the doorway. “I
have to go,” I say. “I’ll call you later.”
“Peter needs to see you,” says Bonnie. I start to collect up all my documents and binders. “Leave them,” says Bonnie. “There’s a new development.”
The outer office is quieter than it has been in the past twenty-four hours. It should be reassuring, this sudden absence of PR people with serious faces milling about, but the unexplained change has a menacing quality. Is it a sign of something? We are in a world now where every small detail is pregnant with meaning, because our powerlessness has made us superstitious. I hope that the PR people are merely locked in a conference room to work on yet another draft, but the silence feels larger than that.
Bonnie says, “He’s waiting.”
I enter Peter’s office and find him alone. “Close the door,” he says. I do.
“How are you?” I say.
“I’ve been better,” he says.
I brace myself. “What is it?”
“I just had a call from Aidan Clarke,” says Peter. “He’s working on a story about Adam Rothman and he wanted my comments. He wondered if I knew that Adam owns the numbered company that owns the sex club attached to the restaurant.”
“Oh my God,” I say. I feel weak. “Adam is part of the prostitution ring.”
“According to Aidan Clarke, Adam is at the centre of the prostitution ring.”
“Shit,” I say. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“The fact is, Avery, there aren’t many people in life who you can trust,” says Peter.
“That’s true,” I say. We sit in rare silence. Peter is a talker, ordinarily. Sometimes I have to tell him to stop talking so that I can catch up. But we’re in the trenches now, anticipating the next rocket, and being so close to the edge of disaster has made him pensive.
Perhaps it is the lack of sleep, but I find my mind drifting. What constitutes trust, anyway? Is it the willingness to let someone see you for who you really are? And if so, have I ever trusted anyone? Peter? Matt? Not Hugh, certainly.
And who is that person, the one I really am? I’ve been so many different selves. Is your true self the one you are born into, or the one you cultivate and mould? Is it the self in which you invest the most belief ? Is it the self you most want to be? I was once Avery the backpack-toting citizen of the world, Avery the aspiring novelist, and Avery the young professor’s wife. And then I was Avery the law student, who celebrated the beauty of a well-reasoned argument and who preferred numbered paragraphs to emotionally charged prose. And then Avery the young law partner, faking it until she made it, willing herself to become the competent professional that Peter told her she was. And Avery the chief of staff, always prepared, never flustered, the woman behind the great man. And finally, Avery the modern not-wife, thriving in a partnership of true equals, neither needing nor wanting the assurance of marriage, secure in the solidity of a life built on shared objectives and desires. Were any of these selves true, really? Were any of them more than wishful thinking on my part, or evidence of the adaptive genius of humans more generally?
“I thought you were one of those people,” says Peter, jarring me into the present.
“Did you say you thought I was one of those people?” I say. “I am one of those people.”
“Apparently not,” says Peter. “I am neck-deep in shit here, Avery, and you’re the one who put me here.”
“Are you crazy?” I say.
Peter waves a sheaf of paper at me. “Have you read Melanie’s claim? We wouldn’t be in this situation but for you. There are pages here outlining the toxic work environment in this office. There are full paragraphs about how you belittled her, shunted her aside, rejected her ideas, screamed at her.”
“I never screamed at her,” I say.
“I heard you fire her,” says Peter. “My ears are still ringing.”
“This is insane,” I say. “Melanie is suing us because you fucked her, Peter, not because I wasn’t the big sister she wanted.”
“Your expression is telling,” says Peter.
“Yes, Peter, I dislike the idea of you having sex with an intern in the office,” I say. “It’s gross. It’s beneath you. It makes me sick.”
“The PR people told me that you were jealous. I shut them down. I said, ‘I’ve known Avery since childhood.’ I said, ‘She doesn’t have a petty bone in her body. She puts the collective ahead of her own needs. She’s all about the larger vision.’ But I can see now that they were right. You’ve never really supported me in the way I thought you did.”
“What are you saying?” I say. “My whole life is about supporting you. I changed careers for you, twice. I’ve put you first, ahead of any of the demands of my personal life, more times than I can count. I’m all in. We built this together!”
“And what have we built, Avery? We haven’t built anything. We have a plan, that’s all, a brilliant plan that could have transformed the city and now may never be realized because of your incompetence.”
“My incompetence?” I’m whispering.
“Who handled the waterfront file for me? Who reviewed the bids? Who sat on all the committees? Who attended the meetings? Who wrote the briefing notes? Who sat here and assured me that we had the best possible team? That was you, Avery.”
“Are you saying I should have known about Adam’s secret business interests?”
“I’m saying that I’ve been blinded by my family feelings for you. You lacked the experience to be chief of staff, and my error was in giving you a level of responsibility that you clearly couldn’t handle. The waterfront file is a mess. The major developer is an alleged criminal, and, despite your assurances to the contrary, none of our stakeholders support the plan. That meeting I attended yesterday was a joke.”
“Peter, you have told me explicitly that you have no interest whatsoever in speaking to the stakeholders on the waterfront file. I’ve asked you repeatedly to engage, and you’ve always had a meeting with a developer or a street fair or, I gather, a rendezvous with an intern that was more important. That is not my fault.”
“The more I hear, the more inclined I am to agree with the advice of our PR firm. You’re a major liability.”
“How could you say that to me?” I say. The air is thin in the room. “You can’t believe that. You know me.”
“I thought I knew you,” says Peter. “But it turns out I don’t know you at all. You’re fired. You have ten minutes to get your personal belongings. Security will escort you to your desk and out of the building.”
I hadn’t expected to live in Toronto again after moving to New York. Certainly, I’d never imagined arriving in town with the urge to fall on my knees and kiss the stained concrete platform in Union Station. But here we were, displaced and disoriented, with our parents crying and holding us close.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said to Matt as our parents pulled us toward the exits.
When I did, I said, “How do you feel about going to the cottage with me?”
“What’s at the cottage?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Perfect.”
My mother, having had twenty-four hours to examine me, had been concerned. “You’re peaky,” she’d said.
“That’s hardly surprising in the circumstances, Mom.”
“You need fresh air,” she’d said.
“I’ll go for a walk later.”
“Not city air,” my mother had declared. “Cottage air.” My mother believed that most psychological ills could be cured with a trip north for a dose of pine and lake water.
I doubted, frankly, that northern air, however fresh, could cure what ailed me. But I was keen to escape my mother’s scrutiny. She hadn’t asked me about Hugh yet, but it was only a matter of time, and I didn’t want to talk about him.
Matt picked me up early the next morning. It was a strange, mostly silent, drive. We were exhausted and agitated. There was an intimacy to our wordlessness; we were long past small talk. But the conversations that lay ahead of us needed to w
ait until we could touch each other again.
Three long hours later, we arrived. I bolted out of the car and unlocked the door to the cottage while Matt unloaded the bags.
“We’re here!” I said, walking into the kitchen. “What would you like to do first? We could go out in the canoe if you want. Or maybe we should run out to the store for some groceries? Are you hungry? Let me give you a tour of the—”
Suddenly Matt’s mouth was on mine and his hands were everywhere, and he spun me around and up against the refrigerator. His lips moved down the side of my neck and up again, his thumbs teasing my nipples. I gasped and he answered with a deep, wet kiss that curled my toes, sliding his hands down my back and cupping my ass.
“Matt,” I said. The kiss softened then, and Matt pulled away.
“Jesus Christ, Avery,” he said, resting his head on my shoulder.
“Don’t stop,” I said. I tucked my fingers into the waistband of his jeans and flicked the top button open.
“I wasn’t going to,” he said. We kissed again. He said, “Were you going to give me a tour?”
“Let’s start upstairs,” I said.
“Let’s,” he said.
I held out my hand and he took it. I led him upstairs to my childhood bedroom. The Grandma Moses print was still on the wall, and the rag rug was still on the floor, and Anne of Green Gables was still on the bookshelf. And my body still knew how to find pleasure in the body of another, and to give it, and I was grateful.
Matt loved me. He told me so in bed, inside me. He told me as I fell asleep, curled against him. He told me while he fed me marshmallows that he’d roasted over the fire he’d made. He told me while we sat in the dark and looked at the stars, and I pointed out the constellations, just like my dad taught me to do. I kissed him when he said it, and asked him to be patient with me. I didn’t want to break any more promises. I didn’t want to pretend to be sure if I wasn’t. He said he could live with that for now.
So we didn’t talk about our future, but we talked about Matt’s. He’d had a call from his mentor, Will, who was safe but shattered. The firm was in chaos, he told Matt. There was talk of a hiring freeze, and of layoff packages for associates who hadn’t even started yet. Office space was suddenly scarce, and expensive. Will thought he could protect Matt, if that was what Matt wanted him to do. Matt asked for a few days to think about his options.