I pull clothes from Jules’ closet and lay them on the bed. She left ninety percent of her wardrobe behind when she left for her new job in Sao Paolo. For the first time in my life, I am her size: a four.
“Wear it,” she said before she left.
And so I will. I don’t really have another option since the only clothes I brought with me from Washington are my flannels, ripped jeans, and rain boots. My bank account has dwindled down, only allowing me necessities for some time now. Jules’ wardrobe is a blessing. I settle on an olive green sheath dress and nude heels. Woods is a leg guy and the nude heels will make my legs look longer. I’m ashamed by that thought but not so ashamed that I put away the dress. This is war and I am weaponizing every asset I have. It’s why I came back and I am going to follow through. Woods isn’t married yet. I have time.
Chapter Seven
Satcher’s assistant shows me to his office on Monday morning. He introduces himself as Bilbo, and I have to ask him to repeat himself three times before he sighs deeply and tells me that his parents were huge fans of the Tolkien books.
“Bill-bow,” he says, pinching the air with each syllable.
I note that most of the cubicles are unmanned and mention it as we walk the wide circle to where the main editorial staff have their offices.
“Satcher goes down to a skeleton crew in the summer. Everyone is due back this week.”
Good idea. I never thought to do that. My payroll was always gargantuan.
“—Back-to-school posts,” Bilbo finishes.
Bilbo is in the habit of singing the last word in every sentence. As he sings the word posts he makes big eyes to indicate the importance of the back-to-school frenzy. I remember all too well: posts about what to put in your child’s lunches, where to shop for school supplies, and the best recipes for back-to-school cocktails for Mommy. Bilbo leaves me with a bottle of water and tells me that Satcher is on his way. With a smug smile, I settle into a velvet green chair that I’d bought for the office two years ago. He’s kept things much how I left them, only replacing my slimline desk from Ikea with a much larger wooden desk. I raise my eyes at the three monitors, wondering how much Satcher has taken on, on top of Rhubarb. The door opens; I’m expecting Satcher but Pearl walks in instead. She’s wearing her hair pulled back and twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck—her signature style. Loose pieces of hair frame her face in what’s supposed to be an “effortless” look, but I know she spent thirty minutes perfecting it.
“Billie,” she breathes, “I guess I should say welcome back.” Pearl sets her coffee down on the desk, swiping a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She looks on edge, but maybe I’m searching.
“I guess you should,” I echo. I don’t, under any circumstances, feel the need to be polite to Pearl. “It’s Wendy now, actually.”
She raises an eyebrow, but before she can say anything, Satcher walks in carrying two coffees.
“Pearl.” He looks surprised to see her. “I thought you were taking the morning off for your appointment.”
Is it just me or does her face flush?
“It was canceled,” she says quickly.
Satcher stares at her thoughtfully for a moment, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. Just as suddenly, he looks away. He’s rifling through his desk when he says, “Coffee’s for you, Bil—I mean, Wendy.”
“Hey, thanks, Sasquatch,” I say. “Is there anywhere in particular you’d like me to set up?”
“There’s a cubicle open down the hall,” Pearl offers. She’s made herself at home in his office.
Satcher looks up from what he’s doing. “Billie—”
“Wendy,” I correct.
“Right. Wendy will be in the open office. Do you mind showing her where that is, Pearl?”
Pearl stares at him, her mouth slightly ajar. “Kimberly’s old office?”
Satcher frowns, annoyed. “Yes.”
“I thought we were keeping that office open for the senior content blogger.”
“We were,” says Satcher. “And now the position is filled. So since you’re already here, see Wendy to her new office.”
We turn to go, Pearl rigidly, when Satcher says, “Wendy—?”
“Yeah?”
“If you call me Sasquatch again, you’re fired.”
I wink at him.
Pearl, who refuses to wear pearls of any kind, flashes her giant bauble engagement ring as I trail behind her. I get it; I get the office, but she got the engagement ring. I follow her down the hall and a few heads pop up from their cubicles to look at me. There are only two familiar faces: Loren, who I hired to cover the food and beverage section of the blog, and Dave, the website guy. They both smile at me as I pass. Pearl would have urged Woods to replace some of the people who were loyal to me, and others would have left of their own volition when I sold. She turns a corner and stops in front of a door, blinking at me. Before she opens it, she turns around. Pearl, who is at least half a foot shorter than me, has no problem looking me in the eye. If I were her, I’d be ashamed, but I suppose she had the gumption to sleep with another woman’s husband in the first place…
“I didn’t even know you were back in town. Now Satcher is bringing you coffee, and you’re in the corner office.”
It takes me a moment to catch onto what she’s insinuating. I stare at her, mortified.
“Not everyone has to fuck their way to the top, Pearl,” I say.
“As far as I can see, you haven’t done anything to earn this job.”
That’s when it hits me: Pearl wanted my position. She probably had a pretty good shot at it too before I came along.
“You mean like start this blog, turn a profit, and sell it for enough to live off the money for two years?”
Her dainty nostrils flare as she glares at me. She’s on the verge of shooting some word poison at me, I can tell by the way her whole body is wound up like a little dog defending its territory. Hackles, I think. She has her hackles bared.
“You had no reason to come back,” she says. “There’s nothing left for you here.”
I cock my head to the side. “Isn’t there?”
To my enjoyment, the corners of Pearl’s mouth tuck in her frown, dulling her eyes.
“You look a lot older,” she says, tilting her head to the side. “Divorce took a toll on you.” And then she marches off before I can say anything else.
Older and wiser, Pearl, I think as I let myself into my new office. Older, wiser, and meaner.
There’s a lot to be said for spiteful pettiness. It’s underrated by those moral do-gooders who jive to the beat of karma. I make a show of hanging my new nameplate next to the door, and then for good measure, I buy everyone in the office lunch even though my bank account is dwindling dangerously low. She’ll get hers, they told me. But when I look at Pearl, who is trying her best to pretend I don’t exist, I decide that she definitely did not “get hers” as everyone told me she would. Calling the shots in the company I started, riding Woods’ giant dick every night. I figure karma must be a cool bitch, but she’s too busy for me. In which case, I’ve decided to be karma.
Satcher comes to see how I’m settling in and offers to give my furniture back.
“I’ve been trying to unload that green chair on someone for two years,” he says.
“Stop it. That chair is beautiful and it cost me a thousand bucks.”
He grins like he knows it.
“It looks good in your office,” I say. “I’ll start with a clean slate if you don’t mind.”
He sets down a bottle of Champagne and two glasses on the windowsill.
“How was Pearl?” Even as he asks, he rolls up his sleeves and gets to work on assembling my new desk.
“Flustered.”
“You know, Billie, you could just move on. Forget about this vendetta you have against both of them. I can set you up with some of New York’s most eligible men.”
“It’s Wendy,” I say. “And what vendetta? New York is as much m
y home as it is theirs.”
“I’m not arguing that,” says Satcher. “But if you think I don’t recognize that look in your eyes, you’re mistaken.”
I place a hand over my heart, and fluttering my eyes innocently, I say, “Satcher Gable. You always think the worst of me.”
He grins from where he’s sitting on the ground sorting planks and screws into organized piles.
“By the way, I saw those three monitors in your office. How much have you taken on exactly? I mean, it’s no secret that you’re a workaholic, but, Satch…”
“It’s nothing,” he says. “I don’t have a family. I have to keep myself busy, and I might as well keep busy making money.”
“True that,” I say.
“Why don’t you pop the bubbly? I like to drink while I work.”
We’re both sitting on the floor sipping from our glasses and laughing at something I’ve said when the door opens and Woods walks in.
“Way to knock,” I say, tossing back the rest of my drink.
He’s wearing a denim jacket over his white V-neck, which makes him look like the type of douchebag who buys his girlfriend a new set of tits and drinks vodka cocktails while wearing a pinky ring—oh wait! That is him.
His eyes travel between the two of us and then land on the desk Satcher is assembling. I’m lightheaded from the Champagne, slouched against the wall, but Woods barely glances at me; his eyes are trained on Satcher. I try to hide my smirk behind my newly refilled glass. This was exactly the type of subterfuge I was hoping for, wasn’t it? To get under my ex-husband’s skin as thoroughly as possible.
“Taking a little break, Satch?” Woods says. “We can hardly drag you away from your office, and here you are drinking Champagne and assembling furniture like a newlywed.”
I see a muscle in Satcher’s jaw jump. He drops his screwdriver and rights the desk to standing, examining his work.
“Speaking of newlyweds, when is your wedding date, Woods? Should be coming up soon.” I kick my shoes off and stare at him pointedly.
“October, actually,” he says, not taking his eyes off Satcher. “Of next year…”
“Lovely! When everything starts to die,” I say.
Woods smirks, he can’t help it. I’ve caught his attention now. His warm eyes roll over me like hands and goose bumps erupt on my arms. While the rest of the world clamored for pumpkin-flavored things and oohed and ahhed over the leaves changing color, Woods always bitterly called fall the death of summer.
“I don’t suppose I get an invitation, do I?”
Woods doesn’t bite. He acts like he hasn’t heard me, but Satcher does.
“You can always be my plus one.” Satcher looks up from where he’s lifting my computer monitor onto the desk, his eyes bright with mischief.
I stare at my ex-husband, who excels in confrontational avoidance. He’s flustered; we’re ganging up on him and he hates it.
Satcher winks at me. “All done!” he says, standing up. He takes a step back to admire his work. All three of us are checking out my desk when Pearl rushes in, a constipated look on her face.
“It’s been fun, Billie,” says Satcher. “I’ll have Claire come over to brief you on our fall schedule; we still have some slots to fill.” He’s halfway out the door when his broad shoulders turn. “Also, you’re going to need to hire a new fashion editor. Marie is pregnant.”
Marie not Pearl, thank God.
I give him the thumbs up and then he’s gone, leaving a pissed-looking Pearl and a stressed-looking Woods in his wake.
“Is there something I can help you two with?” I start carrying things over to the desk: the stacks of paperwork I need to look over, a cup of pens...
I don’t have a photo—everyone else has photos of loved ones propped where they can see them ... I try to think of who I could put a picture of on my desk and sadly come up empty-handed.
“I was just collecting Woods,” Pearl says.
Collecting! Her voice is like ice. I look up from what I’m doing, half amused, and see them both staring at me. Did they need a dismissal?
“Collect away…” I wave them off and I’m relieved when they head for the door, Woods looking like he still has something to say to me. Too bad, I think. You’ve been collected.
Five minutes later, Loren pops her head around the doorway.
“Welcome back.” She grins. “I’d have brought you a cactus for your desk, but ... um ... Satcher didn’t tell us you were coming back.”
“It’s okay, it kind of all happened at the last minute. It’s good to be back.”
Loren glances over her shoulder and then slips through the door, closing it quietly behind her.
“Pearl’s pissed.”
“Oh yeah?” I lean back in my chair, trying to keep the smile off my face. Loren and I have been nothing more than Facebook friends for two years, but it feels natural to have our old office camaraderie back. I rest my palms on the desk and push up so I’m standing.
“She’s—” Her words are cut short when my office door opens again and Satcher walks in.
“She’s pissed,” he says, shutting the door behind him.
Loren props herself on the arm of the nearest chair while Satcher sits inside of it.
“What’s she doing?”
“Reaming Woods out.” Loren sniffs.
“For what?”
“For letting you happen.”
“She should be pissed at Satcher then,” I say, shrugging it off. I must be really bad at hiding my delight because Satcher raises an eyebrow and smiles knowingly.
Loren heads for the door. “Everyone put on your seatbelts. It’s going to be a bumpy ride,” she says before slipping out.
“Ride from hell.” He looks at me squarely and I shrug.
“Don’t care. I’ve already been on life’s ride from hell. I know all the turns.”
He grimaces and then stands up, heading for the door. He stops at the last minute to say, “Let’s not make Rhubarb a ride, yeah?”
“Get out of here, Sasquatch,” I say without looking up. “I need to work.”
“Tomorrow, the rest of the staff are back,” Satcher warns. “Best behavior.”
Chapter Eight
The vibe in the office the next morning is somewhat like the first day of school. Refreshed and ready, the employees of Rhubarb gather in the common area, popping pods in the coffee machine and discussing where they went on vacation. I listen outside the door, anxiety clawing its way up my throat. There are familiar voices: Dee, who attended my wedding. I hired her part-time after her baby was born to cover the Crunchy Mom section of the blog. She probably tried the hardest after I left, sending me update texts even when I didn’t answer. I hear Pearl too, she’s updating them on her wedding planning while they ooh and ahh like good minions. I’m nearly hyperventilating when Satcher appears through the front door, a drink carrier in his hand. Shoot. Shit. I was supposed to get coffee. His eyebrow quirks up when he sees my face.
“It was my turn,” I say when he hands me a cup.
“I knew you’d forget,” he says.
Our eyes meet and I suddenly feel hot under Jules’ Rebecca Minkoff dress. The room has suddenly gone quiet. They’ve heard our voices. I squeeze my eyes shut, but Satcher pushes me forward, forcing me into the open doorway.
“Dammit, you fucker,” I say under my breath.
“Morning.” He flashes a smile around the room, his dimples making a few of their eyes glaze over: men and women.
I smile, smile, smile! So big and so genuine, at least to their eyes. Suddenly, there are arms around my neck, exclamations of surprise. Janelle, our photographer, Dee, Loren ... and Eric, who runs a column called Pretty Gay. Pearl’s smile is frozen on her face like a mannequin. I see that a couple of them glance back to gauge her reaction to my presence. After a few minutes of questions from all of them, Dee goes to the fridge and pulls out the bottle of Champagne, the smile pressed so sincerely to her lips, my chest tightens. The Cham
pagne is a tradition I started when we moved into the building. We always kept a bottle chilled in the fridge ready to celebrate. Now Dee pops the cork at eight o'clock in the morning and everyone holds out their plastic flutes for a swallow. Everyone except Pearl, who demurely declines, saying she’s watching her weight for the wedding.
“It’s just a sip,” Loren presses. “To welcome our Billie back.”
Pearl’s face is strained as she accepts the glass, clutched between her fingers like some dirty object she’d rather not be touching.
“Where’s Woods?” someone calls. “Go get him.”
One of the employees I don’t recognize scurries out. I wait, tensed, the flute sweating between my fingers. I switch hands and rub my open palm down my dress. When Woods follows the girl back into the room, the air stills. He meets my eyes and my stomach does a rebellious flip. Quit it, I want to say.
“You guys are always looking for a reason to drink,” he teases.
Loren makes the toast: “To the best damn editor and blogger that ever was,” she says, raising her glass. “Welcome back!”
There are cheers of Hear! Hear! and then everyone’s tossing back their early morning bubbly. I notice that Pearl has only pretended to sip hers. Her eyes are on the floor near Woods’ shoes. Alert and hard as graphite, they follow him when he walks toward me. He’s opening his mouth to say something when Satcher steps in front of him, blocking his direct route.
F*ck Marriage Page 4