New Amsterdam: Julia

by Ashley Pullo

  Placing her cell phone back in her bag, Julia removes a pack of Trident and tosses it in Meredith’s lap. “Did you just get in?”

  “Half an hour ago. Hey! I have great news, well the great part is subjective.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “The paper is having the holiday party in Atlantic City!”

  “I wonder if we’ll take a party bus . . .” She opens the spreadsheet of spotlight applications and then spins her chair toward Meredith. “Now, ask me about last night!”

  “Oh my God, I completely forgot. How was the wedding? Did you tell your hot neighbor about Evan? Did he freak and leave?” Smacking her gum and waggling her eyebrows, she adds, “Did you sleep with him?”

  “Awesome, no, no, and no, but Theo did ask me on a real date.”

  “Look at you, bagging a second date. The bad luck streak is over, my friend.”

  Julia smiles, thinking about Theo’s lucky tie. “Technically, it will be our first date . . . oh, I brought you something.” She retrieves a navy velvet box from her bag and passes it to Meredith. “You know Lydia Garrison Hoffman, right?”

  “I met her a few times, yes. Lydia is the hip designer for all the New York celebrities. She did Amy Schumer’s apartment on the Upper West Side – I’m sure her wedding was amazing.”

  “It was very modern and clean, like a photo spread in a design magazine. But the personal touches, the additions I know Lydia controlled, were my favorite things. Anyway, open it.”

  As instructed, Meredith lifts the top off the velvet box and tosses it on the desk. She removes a brass and leather viewfinder and examines a stack of weathered New York postcards. “What the heck is this?” she asks, holding it upside down.

  “Take a postcard, put it in this slot, and then look through the lens.” Julia squeezes the worn postcard into the narrow slit and guides the viewfinder toward Meredith’s face.

  “Ah, it’s like a 3-D skyline. That’s pretty cool – did everyone get one or just Julia Pierce?”

  “There were at least a hundred boxes.”

  “A hundred vintage viewfinders and old postcards, I bet that cost a pretty penny. Spending all that money on old junk seems a little too quirky, even for a designer.”

  “Maybe, but think of the things you could do with this same concept. Your taste is very modern and chic, but I know Bradley would dig a little retro New York.”

  Placing the viewfinder back in the box and returning the lid, Meredith huffs, “Bradley would be happy marrying me at the clerk’s office and then sharing a cheesecake. And I’ll be honest, I’d do the simple wedding in a heartbeat if I could get the fucking wedding planner off my back!”

  “Simmer down, Mere. Your cheeks are flushed.”

  “Sorry, I’m just stressed about the wedding.”

  “And you’re allowed to be stressed, sweetie, but you seem miserable. Did you already approve the invitations?” asks Julia, knowing the invitations are the first leap toward commitment.

  “Jules, the invitations are the least of my worries.”

  “That’s good.” She sighs.

  “No, it’s not. I mentioned I might want tulips for the ceremony, and Molly offered to contact her dealer in Amsterdam. Who the fuck has a European tulip dealer?”

  Concerned, Julia says, “Mere, calm down and talk to me.”

  “I need . . . I really need your help. I love Bradley so much, but I’m screwing everything up. I don’t know if I can go through with the wedding. It was in the moment, a rash decision, but I should have thought about how it would hurt him. Jules, he deserves someone he can trust.”

  “You’re not making sense. Wait, you didn’t . . .”

  “No. Never. I would never cheat on him.”

  “Then what’s going on?”

  Taking a deep breath, Meredith scoffs, “Weddings are fallacious celebrations. I know it, you lived it, and the wedding industry just laughs as we march like zombies into the path of financial destruction.”

  “Oh, shit, is there a problem with money?”

  “Yes, but I should talk to Bradley.”

  “Yes, you have to . . .”

  “Julia? Sorry to interrupt, but I need to see you in my office.” Howard drums on the gray partition mid-sentence, smiling awkwardly, before walking back to his office.

  “I’ll be right back.” Julia stands from her chair and kisses the top of Meredith’s head. “Can we have a late lunch?”

  Slouching, Meredith replies, “I can’t – I have to produce a blog video about a winter wardrobe.”

  “Okay, we’ll talk later. I promise.”

  Julia grabs her notebook and heads to Howard’s corner office. Worried for her friend, she glances back at her cubicle, but Meredith is gone.

  “Hi, Julia,” Alex says, passing her quickly and darting into a conference room.

  “Oh, hey,” she replies as he disappears. Knocking on the glass door, Howard motions for her to enter and take a seat.

  As she sits in a leather wingback chair, Howard asks, “How would you describe the weather this week?” He may hold dual-degrees in English and Journalism, and the role of editor of one of the largest newspapers in the country, but Howard loves to start a conversation with small talk – the weather being his favorite hot topic.

  “Salubrious,” she replies with a smile.

  Howard scribbles on a notepad and retorts, “Ah, good one. I’ll alert the crossword team.” Leaning against the edge of the desk and crossing his arms, he lets out a troubled sigh. “The wedding this weekend, the rich kids on Shelter Island, it’s getting full coverage, yes?”

  “It’s high-profile, yes. I’ll be sure to mention all the right people.”

  “Right, but a syndicated column demands a different approach. Less high-profile and more anecdotal.”

  Holy shit, syndication! “Are you serious?”

  “Congratulations, Julia.”

  “Wow, thank you, sir.”

  “You deserve it, kid. Do you have an agent?”

  “Why do I need an agent?” Julia furrows her brow, confused by the question.

  “Let’s see, I know several literary agents, but you’re going to need someone in television.” Howard squints his beady eyes as he scrolls through the contact list on his cell phone. “Several networks have expressed an interest in developing your column into a weekly segment.” He writes down a name and number and passes it to Julia. “Call Mabel Davis, she’s a tough cookie.”

  Taking the slip of paper and straightening in her seat, Julia repeats, “Television. Television?”

  “Don’t act so surprised – you got the London job a few years ago, didn’t you?”

  Julia tightens her jaw and clasps her hands, squeezing until her knuckles turn white. Fucking London, she thinks.

  Howard moves into the seat next to Julia and taps the armrest with his hand. Hesitating, he finally says, “There’s something else. And trust me when I tell you I fought against the idea, but we both know your publications have a legal ownership that precedes individual copyright. Julia, the Herald and all its subsidiaries are planning to rerun your first spotlight article – the one about your wedding.”

  “The United States government spent twenty-seven million dollars to teach Moroccans how to design and make pottery. When I traveled to Marrakech last summer, I bought a decorative vase for fifty Moroccan dirhams, roughly five U.S. dollars. Economics can be a fickle bitch.”

  Chapter Six

  Bradley Gilmore received his first piggy bank when he was six months old. Luckily, it was a plastic pig made in America, because baby Bradley gnawed on the pointy, pink ear until it was a slobbery nub. When he was six years old, he tossed the pig and asked for a change counter as seen in a Highlights magazine. The plastic contraption cost twelve dollars plus shipping and handling, but it held almost fifty dollars in change. Ultimately, after analyzing the cost to return ratio, Bradley settled on printed sheets of paper to roll his own coins at a fraction of the cost. Bradley’s brothers a
nd sister would tease him about his stacks of cash and rolls of change, but then beg to borrow money the very next day. So by the time he was thirteen, the Bank of Bradley, a small enterprise offering low-interest loans, had its own corner in the cafeteria of MS 54.

  Logically, Bradley should have been a banker or a financial analyst, but his love for civil economics and academia lead him on another career path. Employed as an adjunct economics professor at NYU, and hired by NYC as a municipal budget analyst, Bradley met Meredith during the Bloomberg administration while she was assigned to City Hall.

  Their physical attraction was immediate – two, good-looking single New Yorkers with sharp tongues, argued their way into the bedroom by the end of the first date. But it wasn’t until the third date when they realized they really liked each other. And on their ninety-seventh date, Bradley dropped to one knee . . . in front of a unicorn tapestry, inside a European abbey, of the famed Cloisters-Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  Presently discussing the economic crisis of Greece in Dupont Circle, Bradley politely listens to his former professors while finishing his steak. When the check is delivered to the table, the three men fight over paying the bill, but Bradley snags the leather binder from their hands. “Please, let me.” Without looking at the total, he places his American Express card in the binder and motions for the waiter.

  The assistant dean at Georgetown University acknowledges the gesture and then asks, “So, Bradley, what neighborhood are you thinking after the wedding? My daughter and son-in-law live in Battery Park City and love it. Lots of families and parks, and great schools.”

  “We’re considering the west side, but we’d really like to rent a two-bedroom in Greenwich Village. Meredith loves the neighborhood, and it’s an easy commute for both of us.”

  Bradley’s other former professor, a man known to share very few words, pushes the subject one more time. “What are the chances you’ll reconsider making the move to D.C.?”

  “I won’t lie, the meeting today put a few ideas in my head, but convincing Meredith to leave her job in New York is a much harder sell.”

  “We have newspapers here, too!” He exclaims, handing his empty glass to the waiter.

  “Sir, may I have a word with you?” the waiter whispers, leaning into Bradley.

  “Is there a problem?” he asks.

  “If you could just follow me to the hostess stand . . .”

  “Excuse me, gentleman,” Bradley says as he stands to follow the waiter. Running through all the horrible scenarios in his head, he finally manages to ask, “Is Meredith okay?”

  “Sorry?” the waiter replies over his shoulder.

  “My fiancée – is she okay?”

  Arriving at the mahogany hostess stand, the waiter turns to Bradley and returns his American Express card. “I’m afraid your card was declined, Mr. Gilmore.”

  “That’s impossible. Did you try to run it through again?”

  “Twice, sir. Our restaurant policy is to return the card and ask for another form of payment.”

  Scowling, Bradley removes his wallet and takes out another credit card. As he hands it to the waiter, fear washes over his face while he thinks of the only reason his card was declined – the American Express card must have been compromised, and some asshole spent eighteen-thousand dollars thereby exceeding his credit limit.

  “Here’s your card, Mr. Gilmore. Please sign here.” The waiter hands Bradley the credit card and a receipt. “Again, I’m very sorry for the inconvenience.”

  Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Bradley returns to the table and forces a smile.

  “Everything all right?” the assistant dean asks.

  “Oh, yeah. Apparently I left my phone by the sink in the bathroom,” Bradley replies.

  “You need a snazzy holster on your belt like me.”

  “I’ll look into that, Robert.” Bradley grabs his suit jacket from the back of his chair and says, “I think I’ll head back to the hotel and get some rest.”

  “What time is your train in the morning?” Robert asks, standing from the table and gathering his briefcase.

  “Five-thirty.”

  “Hang on, I’ll drive you to your hotel.”

  “Nah, I’ll walk from here, fellas.”

  As the men say their farewells and warm well wishes, Bradley promises that he’ll talk to Meredith about the offer to teach at Georgetown.

  The two professors hop into a silver Porsche at the valet stand, so Bradley starts his walk back to the Hilton. He whips out his phone and calls American Express, determined to cancel the card and fight the recent charges.

  After seven minutes on hold, he finally gets a live person on the phone.

  “Do you have the card in your possession?” the representative asks.

  “Yes, but I haven’t made any purchases in several days.”

  “So your card isn’t lost?” she probes.

  “No, but someone must have stolen the account information.” Bradley waits at a crosswalk, lowering his voice so the pedestrians around him can’t hear his private conversation.

  “Can you verify your last purchase?”

  “I tried to use it tonight at Bryant’s Steakhouse.”

  “Sir, please speak louder, I’m having trouble understanding you,” she orders.

  Lowering his head, he shouts, “Bryant’s Steakhouse Dupont Circle.”

  “Yes, that purchase was declined.”

  “I know. What is the last charge made to the card?”

  “The last charge was September twenty-ninth for ten-thousand, four-hundred and eighty-nine dollars and eleven cents.”

  “Where?”

  “SoHo Bridal Boutique. Do you acknowledge these charges or would you like to open an investigation?”

  Meredith, he thinks, partially relieved as he enters the hotel.

  “Oh, that’s right. I apologize for the call. Please don’t cancel the card.”

  Hanging up with customer service, he paces around the hotel lobby, creasing his forehead and shaking his head. Why wouldn’t she tell me? We tell each other everything. Taking a deep breath, he sits at a secluded table in the bar and calls Meredith.

  “Hello?” she answers, her voice weak.

  “Hi, babe.”

  “Bradley, I was going to call you.”

  “Everything okay?” he asks, hearing the fear in her statement.

  “I’m fine. We’re fine,” she hitches, “but I need to tell you something.”

  “What’s wrong, Mere? Please stop crying and tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she sobs.

  “Is it about the wedding?”

  “Yes. I was desperate, Bradley. The wedding planner needed a deposit for like everything right away or we would lose it, so I had to take money from your savings. I know that’s for our future – for our family, but I just got so wrapped up in having all the things.”

  “Meredith, I was calling about my credit card.”

  “My dress,” she whispers. “And the yacht rental. Oh, my God, I’ve fucked up.”

  Bradley rubs his temples and huffs.

  With jagged breaths, Meredith sputters, “I will get all your money back, and then, I’ll remove, my, toxic life from yours. You deserve someone so much better.”

  Straightening in his chair and switching the phone to his other ear, Bradley shouts, “Meredith Victoria Rice, you listen to me right now. You will not do anything until I get home. I love you – do you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I love you.”

  Chapter Seven

  Julia retrieves a canvas satchel and matching hanging bag from the hall closet while listening to an audiobook. She packs leggings and a sweatshirt for her mom’s house, pants and cute sweaters for the wedding day activities, and two dresses with coordinating heels for the wedding reception.

  Scooting Fletch off her bed, she grabs her laptop and power cord, a few blank notebooks from her desk, her cosmetic bag from the bathroom, and a book f
rom her bookcase. Cramming everything into the satchel, she squeezes in a pair of sneakers and then zips it closed.

  While pausing Outlander, and powering off her iPad, her phone buzzes inside the pocket of her jeans.

  Meredith: The wedding is off.

  Clutching her chest, she calls her friend as there’s a knock on the door.

  “Call me,” Julia demands, walking toward her apartment door. She hits the redial button and leaves another message. “Meredith, please call me.”

  Opening the door, she smiles and motions for Theo to enter, and then sends a text to Meredith.

  “Hey, I brought scones and coffee,” he says, lifting a bag and a cardboard carrier with two large coffees.

  Julia nods toward the dining alcove as she leaves another message for Meredith. “I want to talk to you. Please call me!” She slides her phone back in the pocket of her jeans and then takes the bag from Theo. “This is really sweet, thank you.”

  “Everything okay?” he asks, pulling out a chair and whistling for Fletch.

  “I hope so. Meredith is like my sister, ya know?” Julia answers from the kitchen.

  “Like girly problems?” He shudders.

  “What? No.” She sets two plates on the table and then places her hands on her hips. “Do you even have a sister?”

  “Not really.”

  “Not really?”

  “Oh, I had a few foster sisters over the years.” Theo removes the lid of his coffee and dunks a raspberry scone.

  “Oh?”

  “What about you? Any brothers or sisters I need to meet?”

  “I have a younger sister, Lauren. She’s a junior at Stony Brook.”

  “Are you close?”

  “We were really close as kids. I’d dress her up and treat her like my little doll. She idolized me, but then . . .”

  “Then what?”

  “My dad left,” she utters.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.” Julia takes a bite of her scone and then continues. “Lauren was really young and impressionable when he left. I was a stubborn pre-teen who needed attention. She loved the gifts from all his travels. I burned them. She was a brat to my mom. I understood the pain my mother felt. To Lauren, Gilbert Pierce was a god. And to me, he didn’t exist.”