“Stop it,” she said, the impact of his words hitting her right between her legs and making her throb. No. It was wrong. She sat up straight and focused at her drink, refusing to look at him, be drawn in more.
“Oh, come on. You love it. At least you used to. Don’t you love it anymore, Chel? Or have you dried up like a prune? I bet you’re wet right now.”
She couldn’t help it. She looked up at him. Oh, God. She wanted him still. Right now. “Stop it, please."
“No. Don't you see?” he said, reaching across and cupping her face with his warm hand. "I already made that mistake once."
She looked away again, a part of her crumpling inside at that: his admission of their perfection together. Still, she'd refused him that night. She knew better, and with Lucie's support she had resolved to avoid him going forward. But that didn't stop him from continuing his pursuit.
Thus far, John's efforts had been limited to emails, voice-mail messages, and texts, all of which were increasing in frequency until they were almost hourly, distracting and distressing her until she started making mistakes at work. They were small mistakes, mistakes of forgetfulness. She wasn't one for lists or notes, she had always been able to rely on her super-sharp memory, and now it kept failing.
She'd forgotten updates of spreadsheets she managed, failed to submit several of Kevin's expense reports which had piled up in her inbox, lost a client file which remained mysteriously at-large in spite of much frantic searching, and double-booked her boss for meetings by verbally agreeing to them without checking his calendar because she typically remembered things like meetings she had scheduled for him. The sheer volume of errors had continued to build until Kevin reached his frustration-saturation-point earlier that day in an episode that not only threatened her job, it threatened his.
He'd been late for a meeting, jogging past her and into his office without a glance in her direction. A moment later he emerged.
"Where are they?" he shouted.
"What?" she said, swiveling in her chair.
His booming voice grew even louder. "The weekly run-down reports? Twenty copies? Where are they?"
A flutter of light behind her eyes, a blip of a memory emerging and then expanding. Of course. That was what she'd forgotten. And Kevin's boss, Mitchell Rosenberg, was here today. Would be in that meeting, the one that Kevin was now unprepared for. Because twenty copies of the report - the report this meeting centered around - were supposed to be printed and bound on her boss's desk right now.
She cringed, making an apologetic face. "I'll do them right now. I'll bring them in to you."
He stared at her. "They're not ready? You know how Mitchell is?"
She nodded, feeling sweat breaking out all over her. Unrelentingly perfectionistic is what Mitchell Rosenberg was: a real ball-buster. Even though Kevin was a screaming horny jerk, she still felt sorry for him, having a nightmare of a boss like that. The only good thing was that Mitchell worked in the Manhattan office and was rarely in Stamford. But he was here today and waiting for his copy of the run-down report.
Kevin, usually tan and healthy looking, was turning a frightening bluish-white color. "I can't believe this. Again. We're...I can't deal with this right now. Get the reports done and in Northwest as fast as you can. Got it?"
Chelsea sent the reports to the copier and literally ran after that. But it was too late. Kevin had a grim-faced meeting with her in his office later that afternoon, followed by a meeting with HR. She had been warned. It was on paper, a written warning she had been required to sign, so the trail had started. Two more incidents and she was out according to her once handy-dandy and now ominous employee handbook.
When Chelsea had arrived at Cafe Luna, she had been filled with a defensive righteousness, but it had deflated since in spite of Sharon's and Lucie's sympathetic assurances, which would have bolstered her if she had any ground to stand on. But she didn't. And she knew it. And now, to make matters worse, John wasn't only threatening her job, he was threatening her most treasured friendship. Bianca had almost seen, had peered at the message right there in Chelsea's phone! What if she'd been able to read it? What if she knew that J was for John, her husband?
The waiter had tried to convince them to order desserts a few minutes before and now arrived and placed the check on the table. Chelsea pulled out her wallet and plucked out a ten, her portion of the split bill that she had already figured to include tax and a hefty tip, and put it on the tray with the bill.
"I'm going to the ladies. Be right back," she told the table and stood, planning how she was going to "discover" the missing lipstick in the bathroom and launch part one of her mission.
Sharon and Lucie looked up and nodded at her. Bianca and Kate were engaged in another of their intimate discussions and didn't seem to notice her departure, making another piercing blade of jealousy cut through Chelsea.
She clenched her teeth, turned away, and headed around the clustered and now full tables on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, noting what Bianca had said earlier was true. It was a dates-only kind of place. Every table had one couple or two. There were no other groupings of women like them and certainly no single men. Cafe Luna was the wrong place for a single woman on the make.
It was a good thing that they were going to the Latin dancing place afterward where the single men were thick on the dance floor and all around it, hips moving to the salsa rhythm. On the other hand, the ultimate prize of the night could be sitting in a seedy dive bar two blocks away. She wondered if she would even return from her mission or if she would have to call one of the girls, make up a story, and then run back to the still-warm bar stool next to Travis, an Alabama Slammer waiting and sweating onto a promotional cardboard coaster in front of it.
As she turned in the little path carved between the sidewalk tables that led to the door of the restaurant, she saw that, no, there was a table with two women sitting at it over here. And, a crazy coincidence, Molly from HR, the same Molly who had pushed the piece of paper across her desk toward Chelsea to sign only a few hours before, was one of the women.
Molly looked up as Chelsea approached and saw her. "Chelsea! What a coincidence! What are you doing here?" she said in her usual warm super-friendly way.
Chelsea smiled widely at Molly, who was as round-featured, cute, and chubby as a teddy bear, making Chelsea want to hug her whenever she saw her. She was so grateful it had been Molly she'd talked to. She was the nicest one in HR and had been so kind and understanding about the whole thing. Chelsea would never understand why Lucie and Sharon hated Molly so much. How could you hate such a nice person?
She said, "Molly! It is, isn't it? I'm just here with some friends having cocktails and apps. Then we're going to Bembe, for those free salsa lessons they give on Thursdays? So much fun!" She forced herself to stop, realizing she was gushing.
"Jill," Molly said, turning to her friend, a dark-haired skinny woman who was looking at Chelsea with appraising eyes. "This is Chelsea Hays. You know, the one I was telling you about. Chelsea, this is Jill. We've been best friends since grade school, can you believe it?"
"Oh! I can! My best friend from high school and I still hang out all the time. She's over there at the table we've got in the corner, the group of us?" Chelsea said with pride, pointing across the outdoor dining area.
Molly turned her head and craned her neck to look across, lifting herself off of her seat so she could see. "Isn't that nice? Oh, Sharon Wozniak is with you. Huh. And, wait,...that's not...that's not Lucie Scott? Lucie Scott is your best friend from high school?" she asked, screwing up her face a little.
"No, no! Bianca Moretti, I mean Rossi; she's married now. She's the one with the long dark hair. We've known each other forever. Like you guys!"
Molly sat back down in her seat and looked up at Chelsea, her face still screwed up with an unusual look of distaste. "I didn't know you were friends with Lucie?"
"Yeah," Chelsea said, shrugging and wondering again about the whole Molly-Lu
cie thing.
Lucie had remained resolutely mum about whatever happened between them, only shaking her head and saying, "She's horrible. You just have to trust me. It's true." Chelsea, having never seen anything bad about Molly, remained unconvinced and chalked it up to incompatibility until Sharon started singing the same song.
"Well," Molly said, her eyebrows going up, "You know what we talked about?"
"Yes, I know," Chelsea said and sighed. How could she forget? She had to, according to Molly, "straighten up and fly right", whatever that meant. Molly had said it with such conviction and seriousness, Chelsea had been afraid to ask for a definition. She figured it probably just meant to stop making mistakes. As if she was trying to make them. As if it was that easy.
"Your friend Lucie is an example of failing to do that. She had so many problems with priorities and managing her time, but it was her attitude that was her worst issue. I really couldn't recommend her anywhere. So be sure not to start following her example, Chelsea. You've always had a fantastic attitude, really a team-player. Honestly, I'm surprised you two are friends?"
"I don't know. She's nice. I like her. I'm sorry that it didn't work out for you with her."
"Well," Molly said, chuckling a little. "It's not going to work out for anyone with her. I could never give her a reference, it would be unethical, and I understand she had a bad attitude at other jobs, too."
"Oh!" Chelsea said, brightening. "She's not an admin anymore. She started her own business! She's a caterer!"
Molly blinked and then huffed out a breath of disbelief. "Really? Her?"
"Yes, and she's doing really well. Maybe she was just burned out on the whole corporate thing."
Molly narrowed her eyes. "Maybe." She glanced again across the crowd toward their table.
"Well, it was good seeing you. Have fun!"
Molly looked back up at Chelsea, her usually bright eyes darkened. "You, too. See you tomorrow."
Chelsea started to laugh and crack a joke about not wanting to be reminded, but thought better of it. Molly was HR and as PC as they came. "See you then," she said instead, gave a little wave, and trotted inside to find the bathroom, the desire to pee having grown during her conversation until it was now starting to become painful.
After using the toilet and refreshing her makeup with the exception of the lipstick she had purposely left in her work bag in her car, she was started for the door of the bathroom, a pretty private room with its own lock rather than a more public toilet with stalls, when her phone rang with the default twitter. It was John, had to be. And it had to stop now. She couldn't take it anymore.
She ripped open her purse and pawed through it until she spied her phone's lit face and snatched it up. "John, stop it! Enough! I'm not interested! Save it for your wife!"
A cool female voice spoke, "Miz Hays?"
"Oh, uh...I'm sorry?"
"Miz Hays, this is Susan Lukins from BCA Bank. I’m calling about the overdue minimum payments on your Sapphire MasterCard. Your payments are now ninety days past due. We've left several messages, but hadn't heard back from you."
"Three months? Are you sure?" Chelsea said, stalling. She knew all about it. She just didn't have the money. Oh, why didn't she check before answering the phone? It was always a three-zero-two area code when it was the bank.
"Very sure. I need to know if you are able to take care of this past due bill at this time."
"Uh, can I get back to you? You caught me at a bad moment. I promise I'll call. Can I have the number?" she said, crossing her fingers and not bothering to search for a pen.
"The number to call and the case number are on the letters we've sent. It sounds as if you didn't get them. Would you please verify your address?"
Chelsea told the woman her address while imagining her kitchen in her apartment where the unopened letters and bills still sat in a little scary pile in the corner. After more promises that didn't seem to impress the woman on the phone at all, Chelsea hung up, tucked the phone back in her purse and tried to brush off the feeling of desperation that was flooding her and bring back her earlier enthusiasm. No. Tonight had to be great, incredibly fun. And Travis!
She trotted back outside in time to see that the sun had already started to set, casting the dining area into blue shadows. The four women at her table were already getting to their feet, the bill paid. In spite of the lowering light, Chelsea still couldn't miss the fact that Lucie and Molly had locked eyes across the pavement.
Mojito
Bianca strode ahead of the other women into Bembe, annoyed with their slow and clucking progress down the block. It was like being with a bunch of chickens. Crossing the threshold and coming to a stop, her nose was assaulted by the smell of stale beer, cheap cologne, and body odor.
A bulbous-nosed little woman was sitting on a stool by the door. "It's five dollars cover tonight," she said in a raspy voice that was thick with the sound of one of the city's boroughs. Imported cheap help.
Bianca only raised her eyebrows at the woman's insolence. She didn't pay cover charges, particularly not at dumps like this one. Luckily, a lug-headed body-building Italian who was clearly a manager stepped forward. "Oh, no cover for you, miss. You're very welcome here," he said and smiled at her with teeth so white and uniform they looked like Chiclets and contrasted dramatically with his deeply tanned skin that had a faint touch of orange from the tanning salon.
She didn't return his smile, instead making a gesture over her shoulder at the other four women who had finally reached the door and stood behind her. "And my friends?"
"Yeah, sure. All of yous can go in."
"Thank you," she said, purring a little now that she'd been properly petted. She shot the ugly runt on the stool a dagger look, enjoyed her squirming response, and then turned back to the other girls. "We're in," she said with a little shrug and led the way into the dark club.
Bembe was a restaurant, too, but the food was so inedible everyone knew not to eat there. There were rumors of local dogs and cats going missing, but the fact was that the restaurant's owners were victims of their own nepotism when it came to hiring: the owner's nieces, nephews, and assorted cousins just didn't know how to cook. Luckily for them, one of the nephews had an amazing Latin dance band, Tropico, and they were all excellent ballroom dancers, so they made their money through the bar and cover charges and increased business at the family-owned dance studio down the street.
Bianca stopped near the bar and enjoyed the surging male attention directed at her, watching the first one break out of the pack and leap forward to offer to buy her a drink, which she graciously accepted. The other girls joined her and Chelsea was also swiftly attended to by another panting Lothario. The other three girls, ignored, went to the bar to order.
She smiled at the red-haired muscle-head who brought her Mojito and let him lean over her. It felt good getting the attention and she needed it more since her most recent interaction with Grant. Basking under the man's admiring eyes, she let herself review what had happened, looking clues and playing with the pieces of the Grant puzzle.
After the lunch-and-learn at his office that she'd hosted earlier that week, Grant, Kate and that horrible nurse of theirs in attendance, Bianca had insisted on seeing Grant in his office. She said she needed to talk to him about something, keeping it purposefully vague. He'd looked perplexed but agreed.
It was his face, his presence, during the presentation that made her decide she couldn't wait. Just looking at him brought back all of her adolescent yearning for him, the big football hero in junior high, the handsome quarterback with the broad shoulders and chiseled superhero features. And she grew certain during their lunch-and-learn that he felt the same way, yearned for her, too, that the good-husband act was just that. His gaze had seemed so lingering and keen.
"So, what's up?" he said, following her into his office but failing to shut the door.
Bianca shook her head wonderingly that such a smart doctor could be so stupid. She reached over
from her chair and pushed the door shut.
"I think you know," she said, turning back and smirking a little at him. In a moment he would be on her. Would they do it in the chair? Or on the floor? Oh, yes, on the floor, that brand-new carpet underneath them and soaking up the droplets of sweat that would fall from their bodies.
He shook his head. "I don't. Is it Kate?"
"Please. Let's stop this. I want you."
He blinked and then looked at her sideways, his face hardening. "I'm....really confused now. What did you just say?"
And that was when she knew she'd made a disastrous mistake. He wasn't ready yet. He needed more priming before she could pump.
Air was swiftly being sucked from the room. She opened her mouth in the vacuum and forced herself to take a deep breath. As calmly as possible she said, "I said I want your help."
He visibly relaxed. "Oh, thank God. I thought you said something else. What can I help with?"
She pressed her lips together. Quick: think. The smell of the new carpeting hit her again. God, she hated that smell. It reminded her of all the rotten jobs she had to put up with until she married John. The thought of those jobs made her remember Lucie, her once-bright dreams of success on the corporate ladder were now replaced with a whole new batch of fantasies. Lucie's card, snug in Bianca's wallet, was waiting for its purpose.
"Well, it's actually not me that needs help. It's my friend Lucie. She desperately needs business for her new catering company, and so I promised I'd hire her. I'm planning on hosting a small dinner party and I wanted to invite you and Kate, but Kate told me you're not interested in going out anymore. Please tell me it's not true," Bianca said with a girlish pout. She hadn't planned on hiring Lucie once she knew she had the girl back under her thumb, but maybe she would turn out to be useful after all.
His smile was sheepish as he shook his head. "No, it is true. I'm a homebody. It just seemed like we were going out every night."
Cocktail Hour Page 17