by Jason Starr
“No, I didn’t hear about that,” I said.
“We need to expand our recruiting and marketing departments because a few new people are starting. The bottom line is that someone is going to lose his or her office. We haven’t made a decision about who that person will be yet, but I just wanted you to be prepared. Like I said—no surprises.”
I went back to my office calmly and then I slammed the door behind me, rattling the flimsy wall.
I considered calling my old boss at Network Strategies and begging for my old job back, but I knew this would be a waste of time. I hadn’t left on the best of terms to begin with, and I’d really soured things by trying—unsuccessfully—to take some of my old clients with me to Midtown.
I would work on my résumé over the weekend, get back in touch with some headhunters. I didn’t care if I had to take a pay cut, there was no way in hell I was moving to a cubicle.
3
AT SEVEN - FIFTEEN Paula wasn’t home from work yet. I called her office and there was no answer. She usually took cabs to and from work, so I assumed she was caught in rush-hour traffic on the FDR Drive or near the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge.
I had picked up a bouquet of long-stemmed pink roses and a card, congratulating her on her promotion. I was still in a bad mood about work, but I was determined not to take it out on Paula.
To help relax, I went to the liquor cabinet and poured myself half a glass of Scotch, and then I filled the rest of the glass with seltzer. I hadn’t had a drink in a long time—maybe six months—and the first few sips gave me a nice buzz.
I had started drinking in high school. In college, at SUNY Buffalo, I drank more often and then, when I moved back to the city after graduation, I went out to bars with friends at least a few times a week. After a few embarrassing episodes when I blacked out and made a fool of myself at parties, I decided to go cold turkey.
At seven-twenty, there was still no sign of Paula. I had already called her on her cell phone, but it wasn’t turned on. I tried again and it still wasn’t on. I called her office and got her tape, and then I called my answering machine at work but there were no messages. I checked my watch again. It was after seven-thirty, so we were officially late for our dinner reservation.
I finished my drink and poured another.
For a while, it seemed like our marital problems were behind us, but now I wondered if I’d just been naive. Maybe I didn’t want to believe it all this time, so I had blocked out the obvious signs—Paula’s working late, how she was often “too tired” to make love, and how we hardly spent any time together anymore.
Five years ago, a few months after our wedding, Paula confessed she’d had an affair with Andy Connelly, an ex-boyfriend from high school. She said she was “confused” and called it “a meaningless fling.” It took me a long time to forgive her, but I finally did, and for years neither of us even mentioned Andy’s name. Then, a few months ago, Paula and I were leaving a restaurant on Columbus Avenue when we saw him. He was alone and he and Paula smiled at each other when they passed, but they didn’t say anything. Later, in the cab home, I asked Paula why she had smiled and she said she didn’t realize she had. Trying to put me at ease, she commented about how much weight Andy had gained and how he seemed to have aged twenty years.
At eight-fifteen, I was sitting at the snack bar in the kitchen, working on a third Scotch, when I heard a key turning in the lock. Otis started barking and then Paula entered the apartment.
“Hello,” she said.
I didn’t answer. She came into the kitchen and saw me.
“Hi,” she said.
I noticed that her hair looked messy and her work suit was wrinkled. I imagined that she had been in a hotel room with Andy and had to get dressed in a hurry.
“You’re late,” I said.
“Late?” she said. “Late for what?”
“We had a dinner reservation.”
“Oh my God, I totally forgot.” She looked genuinely surprised, but she could have been faking it. “I had to meet with Chris about my new position and then I had this other meeting that ran late. But I’m sorry. Let’s go right now.”
“What was your meeting about?”
“I told you—my new position.”
“Not that meeting. The other meeting. The one that ran late.”
“It was a staff meeting.”
“A staff meeting, huh?”
“That’s right. What’s this all about, anyway?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I guess I’m just a little surprised you forgot about dinner, that’s all.”
“I said I’m sorry. What else do you want me to say?”
Paula looked at me closely, then she glanced at the rinsed-out glass on the counter, and then she examined me again.
“Have you been drinking?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“Then what’s that glass doing on the counter?”
“Why was your cell phone off?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your cell phone was off. You never have it off.”
“I don’t know, I must’ve forgotten to turn it on when I left my office. I can’t believe you’re acting this way.”
Paula started to leave the kitchen, but I stood in front of her, blocking her.
“Why is your suit wrinkled?” I asked.
“Will you get out of my way, please?”
“Were you with Andy Connelly?”
“What? Are you out of your mind?”
Paula pushed past me and left the kitchen. I stood there, suddenly feeling like an idiot. I knew Paula hadn’t been with Andy Connelly. It was just the alcohol, making me paranoid. Paula had been in a late meeting and had forgotten to turn on her cell phone. These were both reasonable explanations.
I went into the dining room to get the bouquet of roses and the card, and then I opened the bedroom door and poked my head inside. Paula was sitting on the foot of the bed, taking off her shoes.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She didn’t answer.
“I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately,” I went on, “with work and everything. I shouldn’t’ve taken it out on you. I bought you a present.”
Paula looked over and I came into the room, holding the flowers in front of me. Her face brightened momentarily. She took the flowers, resting them on the bed beside her, and said, “Thank you.” Then she glanced at the card, where I had written, Congratulations on your promotion to Vice President, to a wonderful woman and to my best friend, love always, Richard, and said, “That’s sweet.” She stood up and kissed me quickly, then sat back down and started taking off her other shoe.
“Don’t get undressed,” I said. “I still want to take you out to dinner.”
“You just accused me of having an affair.”
“I said I was sorry. I was just—I’m really sorry.”
“You were just what?”
“Nothing.”
“You were going to say drunk, weren’t you?”
“No.”
“Please. Do you really think I’m that stupid? I can smell the alcohol on your breath from across the room. Why are you doing this? Am I going to have to start drawing lines on the liquor bottles like I—”
“I only had one—I swear to God.”
“You said you were going to stop. You promised.”
“I did stop. I was just upset, that’s all. So I had a drink— one drink. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Do you still think I’m cheating on you?”
“Will you stop with that already?”
“I thought that was all over with, but if you’re still—”
“I’m telling you, it’s work and that’s it. Come on, let’s just go to dinner.”
I leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips.
“All right,” she said. “Just give me a few minutes to get ready.”
On the way out of the building, I could tell Paula was still upset, but when we were walking uptown to the resta
urant I put my arm around her and she didn’t pull away, so I knew she had forgiven me.
Even though we were late for our reservation at Maison, we were able to get a table on the sidewalk. Paula had the fluke and I had the monkfish.
In the middle of the meal I held Paula’s hand and said, “I have an idea—let’s go away this weekend.”
“You mean tomorrow?”
“Why not? Let’s go someplace quiet—not the Hamptons with that whole scene there. How about the Berkshires?”
“You serious?”
“Why not? We’ll just rent a car and drive up. I don’t know about you, but I really need to get the hell out of the city for a couple of days—clear my head. And it’ll be nice to spend some time alone with no distractions. When was the last time we did that?”
“I guess we’ve both had difficult weeks,” Paula said.
We had dessert—splitting a piece of chocolate soufflé cake—then we walked back to our apartment with our arms around each other.
I took Otis out for a walk while Paula got ready for bed. I came back to the apartment and went into the bedroom, where the lights were out.
“I’m waiting for you,” Paula said seductively.
We hadn’t made love in over a week and it was good to get back in the saddle again. Paula was more energetic than usual, digging her fingernails into my back and spending a long time on top. It was nice, I guess, but I couldn’t help wondering if she was thinking about someone else.
4
THE NEXT MORNING, I was in my office by eight-fifteen to prepare for a ten o’clock sales meeting with Joe Fertinelli at Hutchinson Securities. At nine-fifteen, I took a cab across town and arrived at the Hutchinson building on Lexington and Thirtyfifth at around nine-thirty. I didn’t want to show up at the meeting too early, so I bought a cup of coffee from a cart on the street. Caffeine was good before a sales meeting, to build up energy, but I didn’t want to be overanxious, so I took a few sips then threw the rest away. At a quarter to ten, I took an elevator up to the Hutchinson office, chewing on an Altoid to get rid of my coffee breath.
As I waited in the lobby, I rehearsed to myself exactly what I wanted to say. I imagined sitting down across from Fertinelli in his office and asking him about his golf game. The last time we’d met he’d made a couple of references to golf and it was always good to give a client the impression that you considered him an individual, rather than just a faceless prospect you couldn’t care less about. Gradually, I would segue into asking him if he had any questions about the proposal and then, very confidently and aggressively, I’d work toward the close. Maybe I’d look him in the eye and say casually, “So how about we get the ball rolling and sign?”
At ten-thirty, Fertinelli came into the lobby. He was short and thin with dark hair and a large ethnic nose. He was probably about forty or forty-five. We shook hands and I knew I was in trouble. His handshake was weak and he pulled away first, avoiding eye contact. I tried to stay positive. Sitting across from him in his office, I asked him about his golf game—which I could tell he appreciated—and then I went over the proposal with him. He told me that his boss wanted to compare my proposal to proposals from other companies before he made a decision, but I continued to pressure him politely, remembering how I’d promised myself that I’d be a bulldog closer from now on. I said, “Why don’t we just get the ball rolling?” and he said, “I told you—my boss wants to see other proposals.” Every salesman knows that the key to making a client say yes is to make him say no five times. So I continued to press, saying, “There’s no sense waiting—why not just give me your John Hancock and we’ll start work this afternoon, okey dokey?”
Finally, Fertinelli said, “Look, I really wish you’d stop pressuring me, all right? I don’t like to be pressured.”
On the way back to reception, he promised that he’d call me next week, but I knew he was full of shit. He wouldn’t call, and when I tried to call him, he would be “in a meeting” or “away from his desk.”
Walking mindlessly across town through the crowded midtown streets, I was ready to quit my job, quit my career. I was even ready to go see a shrink.
Back at my office, I passed Bob Goldstein, the last person I wanted to see, in the hallway.
“How’d the meeting go?” he asked.
“Great,” I said, hoping my smile didn’t look too phony. “I think I’m gonna close him Monday morning.”
“Let’s hope so,” Bob said.
As I booted up my computer and accessed my database of leads, I decided to change my whole attitude. Struggling to make sales obviously wasn’t working, so I might as well just give up, resign myself to the fact that I was a loser and a failure, and see what happened.
I spent the rest of the morning calmly calling prospects, without any expectations, and the strategy worked. I set up two appointments for next week with MIS managers I had been trying to meet with for weeks.
Sometimes it amazed me how the future could seem so hopeless at one moment and so bright at the next. Suddenly, I was confident that everything would work out for me after all.
I left the office early, at about three-thirty, and arrived at my apartment at a little after four. Paula came home at around five. She had arranged to have a neighbor in the building take care of Otis for the weekend.
I carried the luggage down to the lobby—two small suitcases and our tennis rackets—and then I went to pick up the car that I had reserved last night. When I pulled up to the building, Paula was waiting out front. She looked especially attractive today in khaki shorts, a black T-shirt, and sunglasses on her head, pushing back her blond hair.
Driving through Westchester along the Taconic State Park-way, I opened the windows slightly, letting in a rush of cool, refreshing country air.
“By the way, you were really great last night,” Paula said.
She put her hand on my thigh, kneading my leg with her fingers. I looked over and saw her giving me a sexy smile.
“So were you,” I said, looking back toward the road.
I lowered the visor to shield my eyes from the setting sun.
We arrived in Stockbridge at around nine o’clock. The temperature was probably in the fifties, at least ten degrees cooler than in the city. Paula said she was cold and she walked ahead of me while I took our luggage out of the trunk.
Our reservation was at the Red Lion Inn, a quaint, eighteenth-century resort famous for its wide front porch with big white chairs facing the town’s Main Street. We had stayed there once before, in the height of the summer tourist season, and had a great time. Tonight, the porch was empty and there were only a few people in the lobby, but I figured this was to be expected given the chilly weather and that it was the off-season.
Our room was so cold we had to call down for a space heater. After we unpacked, I suggested that we go downstairs for tea or coffee, but Paula said she’d rather go to bed early. I went to the bathroom and took a quick shower. When I came out, the lights were dim and Paula was lying in bed, wearing a black see-through negligee. Besides the natural surprise, seeing her in a sexy outfit was jarring. Before we were married, when we first moved in together in Manhattan, she used to dress up for me all the time, and we occasionally rented porno movies and experimented with sex toys. But lately, if we did it with the lights on it was a big deal.
“Where did you get that?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” she said. “You bought it for me.”
I remembered. It was the Victoria’s Secret nightie I’d bought for her to wear on our honeymoon in Jamaica.
“I didn’t know you still had it.”
“I would never throw it away, even though it is a little small on me now.”
“Are you kidding?” I said. “It fits you perfectly. But what made you bring it up here?”
“I don’t know. I found it in the drawer the other day and I thought it would be fun to wear again. But if you want me to take it off—”
“No, I think I can manag
e that part myself.”
I took off my T-shirt and my boxers and climbed into bed. I started kissing her, my hands sliding over her breasts and hips, down her waist.
“You want a back massage?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said.
I lay on my stomach and Paula sat on my lower back. It felt good at first as she gently worked out the knots in my shoulders and neck, but then she started to work my shoulders harder and suddenly I was in Michael Rudnick’s basement and I could smell the odor of his cheap, mediciney cologne. I heard him yelling, “You’re gonna feel it! You’re gonna feel it!” and I could feel his scraggly, teenaged beard against my cheek.
I turned over so quickly Paula almost fell off the bed.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, alarmed.
I was breathing heavily, like I was having an asthma attack.
“Nothing,” I said. “I just got a bad cramp in my leg.”
“You scared me.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just give me a second.”
Paula was quiet as I tried to catch my breath.
“Okay,” I finally said. “I think I’m all right now.”
“Does your leg still hurt?”
“No, it was just a cramp—probably from driving.”
“You sure you’re all right?”
“Where were we?”
We continued our foreplay. Then Paula tried to climb on top, but I pushed her aside again.
“Sorry,” I said. “I think I might be coming down with something. You think we could—”
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s late anyway.”
It was quiet in the room except for wind rattling the windowpanes. I was starting to doze, but Paula was still wide awake, running her fingers through my sweaty chest hair.
We had breakfast at the inn’s restaurant. The atmosphere wasn’t any more active or less depressing than it had been last night. There were a few couples at the other tables, but they were all in their seventies and eighties and I felt like I was in the cafeteria at a nursing home. I wanted to make a joke about it to Paula, but I knew she would get upset and accuse me of “trying to ruin the weekend.” So I kept my mouth shut and instead made a few phony comments about how “peaceful” and “relaxing” it was up here in the off-season, and Paula smiled, agreeing, although I think she probably felt the same way I did.