Now clad in Zartar’s dress and her own black cashmere wrap, Maggie walked into Rxcellance on the balls of her feet in an effort to keep her cute but loud peep-toe pumps from heralding her arrival. She hated being in the spotlight, even if it was just coworkers checking out her outfit.
Maggie cracked the heavy door of the cafeteria and peered inside. The place had been transformed from pharmaceutical boring to invitation-only elegance.
Ivory gauze masked fluorescent lights. Temporary sconces bordered reproduction paintings. Linen-lined tables replaced plastic cafeteria furniture.
Maggie yanked at the neckline of the borrowed dress and walked the perimeter of the room searching for a table. Zartar caught her eye and motioned to the seat between her and Roselyn.
Zartar handed Maggie a glass of champagne and studied her. “You clean up pretty good, Maggie Mae,” she said. “With practically zero makeup, no less. You drink virgins’ blood or something?”
Maggie snorted loudly. Two people at a nearby table turned to look at her. She covered her mouth. “What did I miss?” she whispered.
“Not much. They’re just kicking off the Rx love fest with an overview of how awesome the company’s been to the developing world.”
Maggie followed her friend’s gaze to a simple wooden podium. A small man wearing the traditional turban of a Sikh clicked the button on a wireless remote. His PowerPoint advanced to the next slide: a photograph of a young girl.
It was the kind of shot that inspired donations from people told they could “adopt” a starving child for the price of an Egg McMuffin a day. The girl was alone, sitting on a rough brown blanket beside the bowl in which she prepared what passed as food on most days. She stared down the barrel of the camera lens, molten black eyes lit by a fire within. Her mouth was expressionless, a line that bisected the hemispheres of her face.
She was skeletal. Maggie had expected that. Bones tenting up skin gray with dehydration and malnutrition was the norm. What she didn’t expect was for the left quarter of her face to be gone. The skin that covered the girl’s cheeks and ear had eroded. Chewed away by a necrotizing lesion that fed on flesh and hungered for more. The area was in varying degrees of decay. Red-pink crater. Desiccated skin. White bone gleaming from the depths. Soon, the lesion would spread across her face into a death mask.
The man adjusted his glasses and clicked his Mac to advance to the next horrific photo: a man, flesh of his tibia putrefying to the point of near liquefaction, begging in a crowded marketplace.
“A viral neglected tropical disease, Ghana necrosis is the developing world’s latest scourge,” he said. “It is now found in twenty-five of the world’s most impoverished nations. And it is spreading, a fire that consumes and turns lives into ashes.”
Click. A baby. Click. An old woman. Click. Girls playing in the dirt, wounds weeping down coltish limbs.
Maggie shifted in her chair. The room had grown unbearably hot. She fanned her face with the paper program she’d found propped on her plate. Nausea crawled slowly, teasingly, up her throat. She guzzled the champagne hoping the cool, sweet liquid would settle her stomach and quiet her mind. Then poured herself another glass.
What is wrong with me? I’ve seen worse in college.
But that wasn’t true. Not really. Cadaver lab and disease studies were one thing. Human disintegration multiplied over an entire continent was something far different and far worse.
“Ghana necrosis can create disability, cause blindness and result in death,” the speaker continued. “The most at-risk are women, not because of morbidity.” He paused for emphasis. “But because of the cultural implications of disfigurement.”
Click. A woman was stooping to lean into the window of a battered Jeep, her short animal print skirt hiking up spindly brown legs. “They become unmarriageable. Untouchable. Reduced to begging and prostitution—with all of the attendant risks.”
Click. A bloody sheet covered the unmistakable form of a casualty of violence. Hot pink nails peeping out like Chiclets on blood-leached toes.
The house lights came up. The audience blinked in an attempt to adjust their eyes and clear their memory banks. “Ghana necrosis is the latest plague against humanity,” the speaker said. “A holocaust blazing before our eyes. If it weren’t for Project Collaboration and Rxcellance’s continued leadership in the battle against neglected tropical diseases like Ghana necrosis, these people would have no hope. No advocates. And for this, we can thank Mr. James Montgomery.”
James Montgomery materialized from nowhere. Magic. Maggie wondered if he’d now select someone from the audience to saw in half.
“Project Collaboration is pleased to recognize Mr. Montgomery and Rxcellance as Partner of the Year for the company’s exemplary contributions.” He faced James Montgomery and handed him something square and Lucite. “It is a pleasure to work with a company so young yet so committed to the betterment of humanity. It is with companies like Rxcellance that we can win the wars that kill millions each year. You are truly changing the world. We look forward to seeing what Rxcellance will do next and joining you in these valiant efforts.”
The men shook hands and applause echoed through the auditorium. Montgomery grinned and continued shaking the small man’s hand, turning slightly so that the flashing cameras, manned by the company’s social media sycophants, could get his best side.
The men returned to their seats, Montgomery pressing the flesh of any well-heeled guest within five feet of his path.
“Wow, that was amazing,” Maggie said, sipping her drink. “I knew Rxcellance was involved in the fight against neglected tropical diseases, but I had no idea they were doing so much.”
“Don’t wet yourself, Maggie,” Zartar said. “That Lucite paperweight from Dr. Sharma doesn’t mean a lot.”
Roselyn blotted colorless lips on her cloth napkin. Her lank brown hair blended perfectly with her sagging brown shirtdress. “I know it was a lot of chest-beating,” she said, “but Rx is doing good things by participating in this consortium. Not all pharms are stepping up to the plate, not even the big players. Less than 10 percent of research funds are devoted to the health needs of 90 percent of the world’s population. They’re not called ‘neglected’ diseases for nothing.”
Zartar’s face was stony. “The timing seems convenient, that’s all. Montgomery announces the IPO and, bam, Rx wins a prestigious humanitarian award in front of the city’s biggest movers and shakers. What are these ‘exemplary contributions’ Rx has made? Must be donations, because it certainly ain’t research. Not anymore.”
Roselyn looked surprised. “I had no idea you were this passionate about NTDs.”
Zartar looked away. “If you think it looks bad through a camera, try it up close and personal.”
Now it was Maggie’s turn to look surprised. “You have personal experience with NTDs?”
She smiled tightly. “I wasn’t always a heartless bitch, Maggie. I did a stint with a relief program in Angola before grad school. Sort of like the Peace Corps without the love beads. What you don’t realize is that pictures are just what you see. They can’t capture the crushing heat of the savannah. Or the taste of water from a stagnant river where people wash. Or the smell. Did you know hopelessness has a smell?” Zartar wiped her nose on a napkin. “And here we are, working to create drugs to help mitigate herpes symptoms and help teenagers go to prom zit-free, all while watching fat cats like Montgomery collect his awards and line his pockets and take people off work that matters.” She stood. “I, for one, need a drink. This evening is leaving a bad taste in my mouth.”
Chapter 9
Maggie watched Zartar amble toward the portable bar, then looked at Roselyn, whose face had blanched.
“She’s pointing at the shot glasses,” Roselyn said, her eyes trailing Zartar. “When Zartar does shots, she shoots off her mouth.”
Maggie put her hand on Ros
elyn’s, which now clutched a napkin that resembled a strangled goose. “Don’t worry,” she said, grabbing her purse. “I’ll talk to her.”
Maggie got to her feet and slalomed around guests standing in gossipy clumps. She got halfway across the room when a cold hand clamped down on her bare shoulder. She flinched and turned to see who was attached to the hand.
“Maggie,” James Montgomery said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Maggie spun around. Montgomery looked even larger than she had remembered, as if the upcoming IPO and the evening’s events had inflated his body along with his ego. “Mr. Montgomery. Congratulations on the award. What an honor.”
“It is an honor,” Montgomery agreed, “but it’s an even greater honor to advance medicine and serve our human family.” Montgomery closed his eyes for a moment, as if meditating. The moment stretched toward a minute. Maggie wondered if he’d forgotten she was standing there. His eyes snapped back open and he fixed them on Maggie. “I’d like to introduce you to some people, show off my brightest new star to potential investors. Do you have a few moments?”
“Of course.” Maggie felt her heart rate quicken. Personal introductions to industry heavy-hitters? This was good. Maybe very, very good.
Montgomery ushered Maggie from table to table, the pair island-hopping across the transformed cafeteria. She smiled, shook hands, laughed politely and blushed whenever Montgomery bragged about her achievements.
Bar Guy Ethan caught her eye as Montgomery introduced her to a city council member. She could feel his gaze travel up and down her body as he took in the dress, the simple jewelry and her hair, which she had braided then piled high. He raised his eyebrows, then his glass. A toast to her. She returned the gesture, feeling a flush of embarrassment, pleasure and pride.
When Montgomery had reached the end of his political tour, he removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket, mopped his forehead and upper lip, then stuffed the moist cloth back into its small square hole. He watched Maggie watching him.
“I like you, Ms. O’Malley,” he said finally. “You work hard. You’re obviously smart. And you look…” He gave her an appraising gaze. “Responsible. I’d like you to be my administrator for the Rxcellance Foundation. It’s the charitable wing of the company that helps fund the fight against neglected tropical diseases. Part of our commitment to this NTD consortium and the main reason we’ve been recognized for our work in this arena. Miles used to manage it, but he’s been relieved of his duties.” Montgomery snorted in disgust, nostril hair waving in the tiny breeze. “He’s made some mistakes lately. Had some indiscretions. I need someone I can count on.”
Maggie stifled the urge to perform an end zone dance. “I’d be honored, sir,” she answered calmly. “Thank you so much.”
“Excellent,” he boomed. “It’s nothing too taxing. Deposit funds from contributors, reconcile statements. That kind of thing. I’ll have someone get in touch with you about the details.” He took her hand, gave it a paternal pat. “It’s nice to know I finally have someone I can trust.”
Montgomery’s cell phone rang. He removed it from the inner folds of his jacket and checked the display. His mouth turned down at the corners, a horseshoe with all the luck running out. He glanced quickly around the room, then at Maggie. “Excuse me.”
Maggie nodded solemnly and waited until he’d turned his back before doing a little jump. It wasn’t a promotion. Not exactly. But it was an increase in responsibility, an outward indication of her trustworthiness and value, doled out by the president of the company himself. Maggie hugged herself. Maybe she’d save Pop’s restaurant and have her dream career.
“The old man seems to like you,” a voice near her ear said.
Maggie turned.
Ethan, looking more handsome than usual.
Maggie felt her face flush rutabaga red. “Oh, Mr. Montgomery? He was just introducing me to some people.”
Ethan broke into a broad smile. “Word around the water cooler is that you’re blowing management’s socks off.”
Maggie sensed the flush climbing up her skin like a rash. She scratched her neck. “Really?”
Ethan moved closer. They were inches apart, almost touching. He was taller than she had remembered. Maggie’s heart started hammering wildly in her chest. “Face it, Maggie. You’re a rock star.” He raised an eyebrow. “Which I guess makes me a groupie.”
He made fake crowd noises, then waved an imaginary lighter to a make-believe song. Maggie laughed. “Very convincing. What’s your second act?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” His crooked grin broadened, then he looked around the room. “Well, I suppose I should do the compulsory mix and mingle.” He held her eyes for a moment. “Great seeing you, Maggie.”
Maggie watched him stride into the crowd. Maggie blinked. What just happened? Was that friendly coworker repartee, or was he actually flirting?
She thought about his eyes, the cool blue of the Caribbean. The full lips that always seemed ready to break into a smile. He probably had dozens of women chasing him. Not that it mattered. The truth was, she was okay basking in the glow of his attention, even if it was just friendship. She loved the way she felt around him. Interesting. Intelligent. And, for the first time in her life, attractive. It was enough. And she had a lot of practice being happy with enough.
She heard a loud cackle from the bar and then remembered. Zartar.
Feck.
Maggie turned quickly to find her friend, who she imagined was already doing body shots, and instead slammed straight into a man busy inhaling a plate of hors d’oeuvres.
Crab cakes leapt into the air. Sauces splattered and splashed.
“Oh my God,” Maggie gasped, mortified at what she’d done. “I am so sorry.” She looked into the face of the man whose powder blue sports jacket now looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. She tilted her head and looked at the man more closely. “Dan?”
The man returned her gaze with a mixture of surprise and bewilderment. “Maggie? What on earth are you doing here?”
Maggie’s face broke into a smile. “I work here,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
Dan’s gape of astonishment morphed into an impish smile. “Didn’t expect to see your old professor at such a posh event, eh?”
Maggie laughed. “I admit I usually picture you in the lab with a test tube in your hand, but I guess it’s a small pharmaceutical world after all. How have you been? Looks like life outside the ivied walls of academia agrees with you. I mean, aside from the cocktail sauce.”
Dan laughed and replaced his hat, straightened the lapels of his too-small jacket and stroked his Magnum, P.I. mustache. “I suppose I’ve traded my mad scientist mystique for bureaucratic BS, but I can’t complain. No office hours. No lectures.” He smiled. “The money’s still terrible, but now that I’m with the FDA, I get to hang out with industry bigwigs like James Montgomery—and now you.” He gave a small bow. “Congratulations.”
Maggie ducked her head.
“Thanks. I feel very fortunate.”
He summoned a waitress who refilled Maggie’s glass. “You’ve got the job, the salary and the chance to better the world. And that’s why we’re in this business, right? To save the world.” He smiled a funny little smile and lifted his glass. “Here’s to bright futures and rewarding careers.”
Maggie raised her glass and clinked it against his.
Dan checked his watch and winced. “I’ve gotta run. Don’t want to miss my curfew. The wife will have my hide.”
Maggie nodded. She knew Dan’s wife, an unapologetic gold digger who’d picked the wrong man to mine. Despite expensive vacations and a diamond ring that could summon spacecraft from distant galaxies, she was always stopping by his office, haranguing him about what she lacked—or more specifically, how his lack caused hers.
“It was great to see you, Maggie,�
�� Dan said warmly. “Keep in touch, will you? I’d love to hear how my favorite former pupil’s doing.”
“I will,” Maggie promised. They hugged the sort of hug typically reserved for great-aunts on Thanksgiving. Brief, minimal contact, accompanied by rapid back pats. Then Maggie watched Dan sail out of the door, a fedora on his head, his powder blue pants bunching awkwardly around his buttocks. Maggie placed her glass on an adjacent table and scanned the area by the bar. It was empty except for Ryan from marketing, who was attempting to impress the female bartender with his ability to vacuum peanuts off the bar with two straws thrust up his nostrils.
Maggie’s eyes darted from table to table, corner to corner, as she searched for Zartar. Finally, she spotted her near the windows, a cell phone at her ear. Her friend’s free hand gesticulated wildly, pointing, thrusting, chopping. Then her hand came to her mouth, where it rested against her trembling lips. Zartar closed her eyes and shook her head again and again. Then she threw the phone at the Linoleum floor. It exploded in a shower of plastic.
No one flinched. The room’s hundred-plus heads didn’t turn, Rockettes-style, to identify the source of the commotion. Fueled by alcohol and excitement, the crowd had grown too loud to hear the anguish of one woman. It was as if Zartar’s actions were part of a silent movie playing only for Maggie.
Maggie watched in horror as her friend fled the room. “Zartar,” she called. “Zartar, wait!”
She jogged down the hall again, motion-sensitive lights awakening to illuminate her path. She caught a glimpse of a gauzy black scarf around the corner and picked up speed. She rounded the corner and headed down a new corridor. Her ankle turned in her slingback heels. Maggie’s phone shrilled from her purse. She yanked it from her bag and checked the display. Feck.
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