An Ex to Grind

by Jane Heller

  “You really can’t stay, Mel?” said Patty, pouring herself another glass of merlot.

  “Thanks, but duty calls,” I said. Duty always called. Every night. That’s how it was. Ever since the separation and even before it.

  “Maybe you’ll stop by my place sometime and take a look at my paintings,” said Evan. “I’m just down the hall.”

  “I’m pretty busy,” I said. I had both feet out the door at this point. I needed to go home. He was sweet, but my mind was elsewhere. I had paperwork to go over and memos to write, especially since I’d be leaving the office early the next day to meet with Desiree.

  “No interest in making a new friend?” he asked in that low, soft voice of his. It was sexy, the way it drew you in and made you listen harder. But he was penniless, for God’s sake. I didn’t need another drain. What I needed was a ninety-day wonder woman for Dan.

  “Look, Evan,” I said, backing out now, “I don’t mean to be rude, and I did enjoy meeting you, but I’m really focused on a special project these days. I don’t have a lot of time to look at paintings or anything else. Okay?”

  He held his hands up in surrender. “Your loss.”

  I waved good night to both of them and went back to my place, thrilled to be alone. I closed and locked the door, kicked off my shoes, then dumped my keys, purse, and briefcase onto the foyer table, pausing to give myself a cursory glance in the fake-pewter mirror that hung there. I was about to walk away when I noticed there was something on my—

  I leaned in, took a closer look at my face. Yes, there was a piece of—

  I planted myself even closer and squinted at my reflection to try and figure out what—

  Great. It was a small crumble of the blue cheese I’d been wolfing down at Patty’s, and it was clinging to my skin, right underneath my left nostril. How the hell it had landed near my nose instead of in my mouth I can’t tell you, but it looked exactly like a booger. I stood there staring at it for a second or two, then flicked it off in disgust.

  No, of course I didn’t care what Evan Gillespie thought of me. I’d probably never run into him again, and I certainly wasn’t planning on seeking him out.

  Chapter

  9

  “Jelly? That’s her name?” I said as I studied an eight-byten glossy of an extremely pretty young woman whose brown hair was a mop of corkscrews.

  “It’s Jill, but people started calling her Jelly when she was a kid and it stuck,” said Desiree, who was wearing another wig—a short dark one that curled under her pointy chin. She was in another caftan too—purple again but with black stripes—and the same fuzz ball slippers as before. I couldn’t decide if she was one of those people who enjoys being different or if she didn’t get that she was.

  “Dan’s not a fan of women with ringlets,” I said. He likes long, wavy hair, I thought, remembering how tenderly he used to comb mine with his fingers after we made love.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. She’s a beauty,” Desiree said, the way you’d say it about a boat or a racehorse or a piece of salmon fillet. “She jogs, goes hiking, all that outdoorsy stuff. He’ll love her.”

  “How about her personality?”

  “Friendly. Upbeat. Lots of energy. She won’t have any problem making the first move with him. She’s the type who marches right up to people and tells them to have a nice day.”

  I rolled my eyes. “What about her job? Or is she too busy spreading good cheer to work?”

  “She’s a massage therapist.”

  I flung the photo onto the coffee table. “Come on. We need one who can support Dan, not just knead his sore muscles.”

  “Why? You’re supporting Dan.”

  “Yeah, but I was hoping I wouldn’t have to support both of them for three months.”

  “What’s three months of supporting them compared to seven years of supporting him?”

  She had a point.

  “I know my business,” said Desiree. “The fact that Jelly’s even heard of Dan is a plus. Some of the others didn’t have a clue.”

  I picked up the photo and looked at it again. “Dan and Jelly, huh? Sounds like a sandwich a child would eat.”

  She checked her watch and sighed heavily. “We’ve been at this an hour. What’s the holdup?”

  I didn’t know why I was hesitating. I wanted to get this show on the road more than anything, but for some reason I was having trouble making a decision. “Swear to me that she was never in a loony bin.”

  “I swear.”

  “Now swear that she doesn’t have any jilted boyfriends who were in a loony bin.”

  “I swear. Look, it’s your call, but I’d give her a shot.”

  The following Tuesday morning at ten, Jelly bounced over to the reception desk at Manhattan Body and Fitness, signed up to use the treadmill, and watched for Dan to make his entrance. I know this because I was hovering outside, on the street, my nose pressed against the wall-to-wall window. Yeah, I felt pathetic, but less pathetic than if I’d gone there in disguise, which is what I’d contemplated and then dismissed as being utterly out of character. (I was the killjoy who would never even wear costumes to Halloween parties.) What was I doing there when Desiree promised she’d call me with all the details after she spoke to Jelly? I was dying to witness the very first of our fix-ups for myself, that’s what. Wouldn’t you feel the same way if you were in my situation?

  What I could make out from my post outside the gym—my breath kept fogging up the window and I had to keep wiping it clear with the sleeve of my coat—was that as soon as Dan walked into the room in his gym shorts and Giants T-shirt, Jelly hopped off the treadmill and zoomed over to him.

  I couldn’t hear their conversation, obviously, but she said something and he said something and she smiled and he smiled. Then she said something and he laughed, like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, and I thought, Wow, wouldn’t it be wild if I nailed him with the first one? I know, I know. A two-minute exchange wasn’t the stuff of long-term relationships, but it was better than a total kiss-off.

  I continued to play the stalker until my cell phone blared the “William Tell Overture.”

  I reached into my purse and grabbed it, irritated by the interruption.

  “What?” I hissed into the phone.

  “It’s Steffi,” said my assistant. “I’m standing outside Ornbacher’s suite at the Waldorf. Did you forget that Gary’s here to meet with him about his taxes?”

  “Oh, God.” I hadn’t forgotten about the meeting exactly. I’d spent the previous night preparing for it, even calling Gary, our top CPA, at home to discuss it. I’d assumed I would simply pop over to the gym, take a quick look at Dan and Jelly to see if they were clicking, and be at the hotel before the meeting started.

  “When they called to ask where you were, I figured I should run over here myself. I saw your folder on your desk when I came in this morning, so I brought it with me. I can refer to your notes.”

  “Great. But I really should be there too,” I said, my stomach in knots. “Can you stall them a little?”

  “I’ll try,” she said.

  “You’re a lifesaver,” I said. “I’ll get there as fast as I can, I promise.”

  “Don’t stress about it,” she said, always my steady backup. “Where are you, by the way?”

  “I’m—” I trusted Steffi, as I’ve said. She was more than my right hand. She was the young woman I’d once been—smart and industrious and willing to do whatever it took to advance within the company, no matter how menial the task. Still, I couldn’t possibly explain to her that I was spying on my ex-husband and the woman I was trying to shove down his throat. “I’m—coming,” I said vaguely and hung up.

  I lingered for a few seconds, unable to tear myself away from Dan and Jelly, before finally getting into a cab. As I was leaving, they were still chatting up a storm, smiling and laughing, laughing and smiling.

  My God, I thought. If he really liked her—

  Well, the mere prospect m
ade me so giddy I tipped the cab driver an extra five dollars.

  I got out at the Waldorf and told the front desk clerk at the exclusive Towers wing of the hotel that I needed the suite number for Mr. Ornbacher.

  “Name?” asked the clerk, a handsome young blond man who looked eerily like Dan. Or was I just having a psychotic break?

  “Melanie Banks,” I said. “I’m late and they’re expecting me up there, so could you just—”

  “I see your name on the list, Ms. Banks, but the meeting’s over,” he said.

  I dropped my briefcase onto the marble floor. “Over?”

  “There’s nobody up there. I saw Mr. Ornbacher leave about five minutes ago.”

  I just stood at the desk staring at the guy. Not speaking. Not moving. Not breathing.

  “Ms. Banks?” he said, snapping me out of my stupor.

  “Yes. Right. The meeting’s over,” I said.

  I picked up my briefcase. It felt heavy suddenly, as if there were weights in it. How could a morning that had gotten off to such a promising start go so terribly wrong?

  When I arrived at the office, I thanked Steffi for saving my ass by going to the meeting in my place.

  “You’re very welcome,” she said. “But Jed was upset that you weren’t there.”

  “How upset?”

  “He said to tell you he was beginning to think—and I quote—‘that gal’s twenty-four/seven speech was bullshit.’ ”

  “Oh, God. I should have called him on my cell and given him the family emergency story again.”

  “Was there a family emergency?” she asked tentatively, as if she didn’t want to accuse me of lying. She was so respectful.

  “I’m trying very hard to settle a sticking point in my divorce” was how I phrased my answer.

  She nodded. “I’m here if you need me. But please be on time for your eleven-thirty with Bernie.”

  Bernie. Oh. Normally, I looked forward to my Tuesday meetings with him. It was my weekly opportunity for a one-on-one with him, my chance to tout my accomplishments without interruption. But on this particular Tuesday, I didn’t have much to tout, except the possible match between my ex and Desiree’s client, and I doubted he’d want to hear about that.

  Nevertheless, the meeting got under way in his office at eleven-thirty on the dot. He’d heard about the Waldorf incident, and instead of launching into his usual diatribe about interest rates and the tyranny of Alan Greenspan, he reiterated how concerned he was about my recent distractions.

  “You were the one who made the pitch to Jed that sealed the deal,” he said, “so I’m inclined to keep you on his account.”

  “Keep me—” How could there be any doubt that Jed was mine? I was Pierce, Shelley’s top gun. Of course I would stay on the account. Yes, I’d screwed up a couple of times, but I’d do better. As soon as Dan was no longer a drain on my—

  “Did you find a professional to help you deal with the alimony thing?” said Bernie.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “It’s still early, but I’m giving it everything I’ve got.”

  To prove the point, I dashed out of his office right after the meeting and called Dan on his cell. Perhaps he and Jelly were still at the gym. Perhaps they were sipping power juices and exchanging phone numbers. Perhaps they were making plans to live together for ninety days. I had to know, had to stay on top of the situation.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Hi, it’s Melanie,” I said.

  “What did I do this time?” he said.

  “Do?” I had to think of a reason for the call. A good reason, not necessarily an honest reason. “Buster’s been itching and scratching since you dropped him off yesterday,” I lied, buying time until he dropped a clue about Jelly. “Did you give him his flea and tick medicine?”

  “Same as always. Maybe he’s got an allergy to you, darlin’.”

  “Very funny.” Pause. “Gosh, have I caught you at the gym?”

  “I gave you my schedule, Mel. You know exactly where I am.”

  “It must have slipped my mind. Are you, um, with a trainer?”

  “Nope,” he said.

  “All by yourself?”

  “Nope.”

  “So you’re with someone?”

  “Is that why you called? To play Twenty Questions?”

  “I was just curious, because of Buster. Maybe the person you’re with knows about dogs and why they scratch themselves if there’s no flea and tick problem.”

  “Hang on, I’ll ask her.”

  Her! Be still, my heart!

  And then I heard him ask his companion, “Are you a dog person, Jelly?”

  Well, I nearly did a cartwheel right there in the hall. So he liked her enough to still be talking to her! What a great, great start!

  “Hey, Dan?” I said.

  “Just a second. I’m asking her—”

  “Never mind. I’m in the middle of my workday, so I’ve gotta run.”

  I hung up beaming. I stuck the phone in my pocket, picked my head up, and swaggered down the hall, to my office. My mood change must have been obvious because Steffi remarked that I looked more relaxed than I had in a while.

  “Things have taken a favorable turn,” I said, because I really thought they had.

  Chapter

  10

  The next morning I called Desiree.

  “Did she stay over?” I asked breathlessly, having tossed and turned the entire night, imagining Dan sharing his bed—my old bed—with Jelly. No, I didn’t picture them in graphic sexual detail. I wasn’t a complete psycho. I just sort of envisioned them in this gauzy, dreamy, wish-fulfillment scenario that ended with his begging her to pack her bags and move in with him and her jumping for joy and saying yes and me ratting him out to some family law judge and then buying myself a nifty apartment, maybe even my old apartment. Totally unrealistic, I know, but I wasn’t at my realistic best.

  “I told you before. My girls aren’t sluts,” said Desiree. “When they sign up with me, the first thing I tell them is: don’t give away the store until the third date.”

  “Why the third date?”

  “Because it’s the Desiree Klein Heart Hunting way of doing things, that’s why, and it works.”

  “Right.” If memory served, Weezie and Nards did it on the second date, and it hadn’t affected their relationship adversely. But whatever. “I was just eager for some feedback from Jelly.”

  “I spoke to her a few minutes ago.”

  “And?”

  “She liked Dan.”

  “That’s wonderful!”

  “She thought he was very handsome.”

  “She should have seen him ten years ago.”

  “And she enjoyed listening to the stories about his playing days.”

  “They’re great if you haven’t heard them a million times.”

  “And she said he wasn’t an egomaniac like a lot of professional athletes.”

  “You have to have an actual job to be an egomaniac.”

  “But here’s the bad news: he didn’t ask for her number. He just said, ‘See you again sometime,’ and went to take a shower. She was really disappointed.”

  “She’s not the only one.” Crap. “It must have been the hair.”

  “What?”

  “I warned you. Dan’s not attracted to women with ringlets.”

  “She says it was her remark about her brother.”

  “What’s her brother got to do with this?”

  “They were talking about their families and she mentioned that she had a brother who was always borrowing money from her and spending it on things like clothes and cars and trips. She said to Dan, ‘He has absolutely no shame when it comes to taking from me. What kind of a man acts like that?’ She could tell by the look on his face that something was wrong. I guess he soured on her right then.”

  “You think?”

  “Hey, it’s not her fault. We were the ones who didn�
��t tip her off about Dan’s situation.”

  “Dan’s situation,” I muttered. “It’s my situation, and I need to get out of it. I hired you to help me get out of it, Desiree.”

  “Relax, would you? I’ve got plenty of other girls. All shapes and sizes. Later in the month I’ll go through my files and you can come—”

  “Later in the month? I don’t think you’re getting the urgency here.”

  “And I don’t think you’re getting that your five grand only buys you one date per month.”

  “I doubled your fee. I’m entitled to as many dates as you can scare up.”

  I needed to calm down. Acting all pushy wasn’t a smart move. If I really pissed her off, she could tell Dan what I was up to and blow the whole deal. “I’d really appreciate it if we could pick another client right away,” I said sweetly. “Are you free this afternoon, by any chance?”

  “I suppose.”

  Contestant number two was Rochelle, a former ballet dancer who currently designed websites. Desiree maintained that dance and football were both sports and that the two of them were bound to find common ground. I had my doubts, given Dan’s antipathy for anything with cultural significance. Besides, Rochelle looked awfully skinny in her photo, and he had always liked that I had meat on my bones. But Desiree kept promoting her, so I finally agreed.

  Rochelle and Dan met at the Post House, the restaurant where he ate lunch after the gym. She reserved a table for herself, sat in the back right next to him, caught his attention, and eventually got herself invited over to his table. I know this, not because I was peering at them through the window, but because I stopped by the restaurant earlier that day and paid the maître d’ to spy for me. I was a busy executive, and it would be a much more efficient use of my time, I’d decided.

  The maître d’s name was Fred, and he was one of those brusque, old-style maître d’s who work at the same place forever and have no aspirations of being, like, a screenwriter. At first he was protective of Dan and nearly took my head off about what a loyal customer he was. But within five minutes, the guy was in my pocket.