Cinq A’ Sept

by Mj Fields

  Instead of waiting the twenty minutes for Natasha to FaceTime me, I decide to contact her.

  Our conversation is forced on my behalf. I try to bluff my way through an amazing recap of my “date.” I’m fairly certain she bought it. In fact, she smiled like she always did when I read her fairy tales before bed.

  When the call ends, I worry that maybe telling her the truth would have been a better idea. Do we give our daughters too much unrealistic information? As their role models, is it better, at an age-appropriate level, to let them know we are still human? That we make mistakes and put too much trust in people? Is it wrong to tell them we bought into a dream that so many of us were raised believing? Is it wrong to admit that, as adults, we make poor choices? We mess up?

  Is it a waste of our lives pursuing a career, something we can drive successfully and gain satisfaction from? Is it wrong to be a stay at home mother, whose focus is raising strong children who carry our own beliefs? Is it wrong?

  I wipe away tears and look up at the wall where I see two pictures. One was from when she was just eight years old, before I re-entered the workforce, and another at a company fashion show. That’s when I realize that none of those things I questioned were wrong.

  Staying home was an obvious choice. She needed me desperately then. Working was also the right choice. She saw that a woman could do what she set her mind to. By being present, no matter the time or the moment.

  Life isn’t a Facebook post or an Instagram filter; it’s all that we see beyond the screen and all that we feel without the digital cloud of judgment.

  It is evident that women are more emotional creatures, but it does not make us the weaker sex. It makes us so we think deeper, longer, harder, and it makes us so much stronger. We just have to own that and move ahead from the past that could weigh us down.

  Be Present.

  I reach down to my wrist to feel the strength of the steel bracelet with the words that mean so much more than are given credit for.

  And … it’s gone.

  For the past two hours, I have torn through my bags and have come up with two missing articles. The bracelet and the red shoes.

  His words “I’m holding your shoes hostage; do you really think I changed my mind?” echoes in my mind, and with my mind set that I will not be filled with regret, I don’t get angry. I smile because, at that moment, it felt so damn good.

  I look at my phone for the millionth time and even check to see if by some miracle I could air-drop him.

  He can keep the shoes, but that bracelet means so much more to me, and I want it back.

  When the buzzer for the building chimes. A tiny part of me hopes it’s him. Okay, a much bigger part than I even care to admit to myself, hopes it’s him.

  After taking a deep breath, I hit the app on my phone and say, “Hello?”

  It’s Autumn.

  I buzz her in and decide to open a bottle of wine, knowing it’s about to get real. I may not be ready to tell Natasha about all that transpired, but Autumn … I need her.

  When I open the door, I see she’s wearing large sunglasses and tears are coming down her cheeks underneath them. I step back for her to come in, and she rolls her suitcase behind her.

  “I wasn’t gonna cry,” she says as I open my arms and hug her.

  After several minutes, she steps back and pushes her glasses up. “You’re going to be so disappointed in me.”

  “No, I’m not,” I assure her.

  “Yes, you are.” She begins crying again, harder this time.

  “Autumn, it can’t be that bad.”

  “It is. It’s so bad.”

  I take her hand and lead her to the plush sectional. “Sit down, and I’ll get you some wine.”

  “I’m not worthy.” She sniffs.

  “You’re wine-worthy.”

  She smiles as she bats away tears.

  “All women are wine-worthy.” I open the cupboard and get out the biggest wine glasses I have and file them up. Then I walk over and hand her one as I sit down across from her, tucking my legs beneath me.

  She takes a few drinks and looks at me.

  I wait for her to begin, but she takes another drink, a bigger one this time.

  She sighs. “I’m just not ready.”

  “Then I’ll go first.”

  “Please.” She lets out a relieved breath.

  “Ever heard of a dump and dash?” I push out a laugh, and she shakes her head.

  I tell her everything that transpired today, leaving out intimate details, and when I finish, I expect to be mortified, but I’m not. I actually feel relieved.

  She sets her glass down, gets up, and comes over to hug me. When she doesn’t let go, I feel tears against my shoulder.

  “Don’t hate me,” she whispers.

  “Never.”

  “Eric, my hot, sexy Eric …” She pauses.

  “Go on.”

  She lets out a sob. “His last name is Cartwright. And yes, it’s that Cartwright. I’m going to be office gossip. I’m going to be the office gossip that makes everyone look at me funny and whisper behind my back, but not really behind my back because those assholes want me to feel like shit.” She steps back and looks at me. “I’m going to be the office gossip who ends all office gossip.”

  “No, you aren’t,” I tell her, taking her hand and pulling her down next to me.

  “I am.”

  “You didn’t end a marriage, Autumn. You didn’t—”

  “He’s in college, for God’s sake!”

  Oh dear, I think as I hug her while she sobs.

  When she catches her breath, she looks up. “When I found out, I flipped shit. Do you know what he said to me? Do you know what he had the balls to say to me?”

  I shake my head.

  “Chill out, brah. BRAH! What the hell is that?”

  “What happened next?”

  “I told him he was a dick”—her lower lip pops out farther—“just like his father.”

  “You didn’t?” I gasp.

  “I diiiiid!”

  “Oh dear.” I pull her down to sit, and then give her a much-needed hug. “Well, you aren’t wrong.”

  After she cries for a few more minutes, she tells me she wants me to cut her hair.

  “To disguise you?”

  She nods.

  The poor woman has lost her mind.

  “As what, Autumn? A woman who got a bad haircut? I don’t know how to cut hair.”

  “No, ’cause our hair sucks and blondes do not have more fun.”

  I laugh. Autumn was dragged along by Natasha when we went for highlights.

  “I agree, but it’s a holiday.”

  “But I know someone.” She steps back and pulls her phone out of her pocket.

  “Someone?”

  “Yep.” She smiles through falling tears.

  Autumn’s third cousin is apparently in cosmetology school, which honestly frightened me, but I thought maybe the blonde was the “root” of some of the evil. That and two bottles of wine later, I gave no cares. In fact, I didn’t even check my phone for messages … more than once an hour.

  Waking up in Natasha’s bed, because Autumn stayed in mine, I have a slight headache, but not too bad.

  Jefferson not only did our hair and talked crap about his own problems with men, but he also made us drink water, eat, and pop a couple Tylenols.

  I really hope, when I look in the mirror, I love my hair, because he was fabulous as a person.

  I push myself up and walk into Natasha’s bathroom. Then I take a deep breath and turn to face the mirror. I whisper a thanks to God and to Jefferson.

  It’s a touch darker than my natural color, but he was correct when he told me it would give me a more youthful appearance.

  I hear Autumn squeal, and then I hear her feet patter against the floor before she bursts into the bathroom.

  “Look at us.” She smiles.

  “Look at us,” I agree.

  Together, we get ready for w
ork, and although she doesn’t have to be there as early as I do, she insists on coming with me so I don’t have to ride the train by myself.

  Just across the street from the twenty-five-story, glass headquarters of de la Porte is a coffee shop. I’m not hungry, but I know it’s necessary to eat. Something I forgot to do yesterday.

  Autumn gets us two seats at the bar in front of the long window while I stand in line for the coffee and breakfast we ordered with the app.

  Two grande, black and two caramel macchiatos with extra caramel and extra espresso. And two yogurts, two fruit bowls, and two blueberry scones.

  I bring the four coffees back first.

  She takes one of the blacks and inhales the aroma. “You read my mind.”

  I return her smile then walk over to grab the food.

  Sitting, we eat silently as we watch the traffic go by. Horns blowing, fingers flying, pedestrians nearly getting hit by vehicles because their noses are in their phones and not looking where they are going. Everyone’s in a hurry.

  “I miss the beach,” Autumn mumbles, and I look over. “But not the boy.”

  “I understand the concern with who the young man is, but Autumn, in the moment, did you have fun?”

  She nods.

  “Other than the brah statement, do you feel like he was respectful?”

  She bites on her lip a bit and shrugs.

  “You’re thirty-five years young. He’s an adult. It was fun.” I look out the window. “It was relaxing.”

  “I never want to relax again.” She takes a drink then sets it down. “Besides, there is something seriously sexy about a man in a suit and tie.”

  “I was loving board shorts and bare feet,” I admit.

  “Right?” She smiles, and then it fades and she looks desolate again.

  I watch her, realizing she probably had feelings for him. For heaven’s sake, she never even accepted a third date because she wasn’t ready to settle down again.

  I look away as I consider how easy it is to get swept up in moments when there are no responsibilities.

  “For the love of suits and sex appeal.”

  I look up to see her grinning out the window and laugh at myself for possibly overthinking … everything. Then I look across the street and see a black stretch. I recognize the car. It’s Jean’s. When Alfred steps out, I try to bite back a laugh.

  “From boys to men. Much, much older men. That’s Alfred.”

  “Like hell it is.” She stands up on the seat rungs.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Wait for it,” she hums.

  “What?” I laugh.

  When the light on the corner changes and the traffic begins to move, I see a sleek, black car and a man bent over inside the car, retrieving something.

  When he stands to full height and throws a navy suit jacket over his light blue shirt, I swear everything—and I mean everything—clenches between my legs. Then he shuts the door to the sports car.

  “Ferrari,” she whispers.

  When the man walks around the car, she actually moans. When he shakes Alfred’s hand, she begins to choke on the sip she just took.

  “Oh, my God, Autumn.” I laugh.

  When the man freezes and looks across the road, Autumn ducks like he’s looking at her. “Did he see me?”

  He looks away and up at the building, and my chest squeezes when I realize who he looks like.

  His hair is shorter on the sides and back, it’s styled on top, but you can tell it would be a mess if your fingers dug into it enough, and as much as I love board shorts, I suddenly have to agree with Autumn. Suits are very … very sexy.

  I take a drink as Alfred and two men walk into the building, our building.

  “Holy shit, Ang, do you think that’s our new CEO?”

  When he looks back again, I can’t help thinking, God, I hope not.

  Part Two

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bass

  Standing in the office of a man I despised with just a door and a thin wall connecting to the boardroom, presently full of assholes, I hear Alfred’s bullshit speech.

  “We’ve kept you all waiting long enough, wouldn’t you say?” He laughs, and so do the nine-to-fivers.

  “In front of you is an NDA. You’ll need to sign it before I continue.”

  After a few moments of silence, I hear Alfred say, “Ms. Petrov?”

  “I’m just reading it first. I’ll hurry.”

  “Take your time.”

  I lean against the wall and try to stow my fucking anger, but it’s been consuming me for nearly two days now.

  Alfred begins again. “Most of you are unaware that, about eight years ago, Jean received news that he was a father.”

  They all gasp, and I look over at the one fucker in this world I trust. He mockingly gasps, too.

  I give him the finger. He returns it.

  “People skills, motherfucker,” I remind him.

  “I’m no mother fucker, Bass. That’s …” He points to me.

  I give him the finger again then walk over and grab my smokes out of my jacket pocket.

  “Thought you quit …?” He pauses. “Again?”

  “Well, shit went bad, remember? Now shut up so I can hear.” I light up the cigarette as a fuck you to the no smoking policy I plan to piss all over as soon as I have the chance. “My office, my fucking rules.”

  He salutes me … with one finger. “Yes, sir.”

  As I smoke, we listen to Alfred continue.

  “There was bad blood between the two. As a major player in the fashion industry and a company going through immense changes, it will not be to our benefit for it to become public.”

  I hear Ms. Petrov clear her throat, and Alfred stops.

  “The NDA states that Bastien Josephs may speak about it if he wishes. If it’s brought to any of us in question, are we to say no comment or—”

  “That’s a great question to ask Mr. Josephs.”

  “Thank you, Alfred.”

  “You’re very welcome, Ms. Petrov.”

  Finding out that Ms. Petrov, was in fact, my Bridge, an employee of de la Porte felt like a kick in the nuts. Finding out the rest was like a knife to the heart. Everything I thought I knew about her was bullshit.

  She’d played me. And now, now her voice is pissing me off. Her questions infuriating. Her … just her.

  “Mr. Josephs isn’t a virgin to the industry. In fact, he worked for de la Porte’s biggest rival. So, please don’t underestimate our twenty-five-year-old acting CEO and majority shareholder.”

  “That’s our cue, Bass. You ready to do this?”

  I butt out my smoke on the asshole’s desk and nod before putting on my jacket. “It’s go time.”

  I let Oliver walk in first because, fuck no, I’m not ready. I’m fucking furious, and even a two second delay in seeing her fucking helps.

  When I walk in, Alfred greets me with a handshake while the rest of the room stands.

  “Have a seat and let’s get this going. I’m sure none of you want to come off a long, hot weekend of”—I pause for a purpose—to make her uncomfortable. I feel her eyes on me, but she doesn’t get mine—“whatever the hell you all did.”

  They laugh as they sit.

  Before I sit, I remove my jacket and hang it on the back of my chair. “I’d like this to be informal. So, if you have questions, feel free to ask.”

  “You’re really twenty-five?”

  “Saturday was my birthday and also the reason I didn’t join you all. I had a private party.”

  I get a fuck of a lot of satisfaction when I see Ms. Petrov squirm in her chair.

  “Your name?” I ask, reaching over take her coffee. Then I take a sip of it.

  When everyone looks shocked, I look at them all, except her. “Did I do something wrong? Is it not my assistant’s job to get me coffee?”

  Now I do turn to her, and she looks like a fucking statue. And her goddamn hair is brown. What. In. The. Fuck
? Does she think I’m that fucking stupid, that I won’t know who the fuck she is?!

  “Well? Tell me how things run around here.”

  She swallows down a lump that I assume is the size of the load I last shot down her throat, and then clears it. “That was mine. And no, I don’t typically fetch coffee. However, Mr. Josephs, feel free to drink it.”

  “Feel free to call me Mr. Joe. All the others under me do. Less formal. More personal.” I pick up the cup and take another sip. “Caramel macchiato with extra caramel and extra espresso?”

  Her face begins to flush as she nods curtly.

  “From all I’ve learned of you these past two and a half days, I’d have taken you for a woman who drank her coffee strong and without the bullshit.”

  She opens and shuts her mouth like a damn fish out of water. I can’t fucking look at her, or her damn mouth, so I look away.

  “Questions, let’s have them.” I lean back and, fuck yes, take another goddamned drink of my choice of flavors for her.

  “Do you plan on making staffing cuts?” one of the dumbasses asks.

  “Sure do.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “Sure don’t.” I take another fucking drink.

  When I get a foot to the ankle, I look left at Oliver. It pisses me off, but I suppose my shit isn’t quite together, so it was called for.

  I lean forward and look around, giving them each eye contact. “Let’s cut the bullshit here, okay?”

  I wait for them to nod, but they don’t. I continue anyway.

  “You have seventeen employees in the mailroom who are sitting on their hands, doing not a damn thing for half the day. Ten straight-up have been caught on camera sleeping and have yet to be fired. It’s in their employee files for God’s sake. They need to go and so does the woman in HR who allows it to happen year after damn year.”

  I look right and see Bridge … fucking Angela scribbling away on a yellow legal pad.

  “The woman in HR isn’t the only one who needs to be replaced.”

  Ms. Petrov huffs and writes more shit down.

  “There’s a man in accounting who has had complaint after complaint for making lewd comments to women. He’s a sexual harassment suit waiting to happen. He’s going.