Best Intentions (15 page)

I nod. “I could use a friend at Weston, too.”

It is just past 10:30 when I get out of the elevator at 425 Park Avenue and head through the glass doors, stepping carefully around two workmen who are engraving “Merdale” across the entryway. Hoping to reach my desk unnoticed, I take a longer route so I will not have to pass by Favata's office.

But it is as if he can sniff me out. He is lurking just outside the locked closet where we store samples of our clients' goods—the pricey French cosmetics, the kitchen appliances and pocket electronics we bring to lunches with editors and messenger to their assistants in the hopes of printed coverage. We keep one person on staff whose sole job is to count up the number of mentions each month.

“Good morning.” Favata's bulldog eyes narrow slightly. I see a few boxes still in their original wrapping sticking out from behind his leather binder.

“Good morning,” I reply. “I was meeting with a client,” I add hastily, instantly regretting that I feel the need to explain my whereabouts to him, which not only tacitly acknowledges his position as being above mine but makes me appear guilty of some indeterminate slacker crime.

“That's fine,” he replies. “But it's important for me to get to know our clients personally. From now on, I'd like you to inform me of any appointments ahead of time. I'd like the option of accompanying you.”

“Of course.” I turn and head down the hall. I glance back once and see Favata awkwardly balancing his armful of goodies as he stops at the desk of a junior copywriter with double-D breasts where, I've noticed, he can often be found hovering.

Safely inside my office, I scan the morning logjam of e-mail. There is still no word from Susanna Carter in London, just an endless stream of meeting requests and a particularly annoying chain about a surprise birthday party for someone in the art department that required eleven sallies. I am in the process of deleting the first ten when Petra buzzes to tell me that Ben Erickson is on the line.

“Ben, hi, how are you?” I greet him with far more enthusiasm than I ever have in the past. He still holds out some hope of salvation, at least as far as the Weston benefit is concerned.

“I'm well, thanks. I'm sorry I didn't get back to you sooner. I was in a godforsaken corner of Connecticut with no cell phone service all weekend and didn't get your message until this morning.”

Either Ben is lying to me because he didn't want to call me back—knowing his aversion to phones, this is not impossible—or he lied to Deirdre about being in town with his children all weekend. Nothing in his confident, easygoing manner hints at the slightest prevarication, though, which makes it all the more disturbing.

“Oh? I thought you were in the city with the kids.”

“No.” He doesn't explicate further, he is far too experienced for that. Having a “rotation” of women will do that to a man.

“So, you mentioned in your message you had a favor to ask for the girls' school?” he asks.

“Yes. Look, I know you have your own kids' school and…”

Ben's children, Beryl and Jake, go to a downtown private school densely populated with the offspring of Hollywood East, a onetime second-tier option now renowned for the number of movie stars seen dropping their children off every morning, as proudly as if they alone had discovered and trademarked parenthood. The six-foot-four actor famous for his political correctness and for his very hot, very young wife who never misses a hockey game is a particular favorite of the paparazzi. Applications have recently been skyrocketing.

“Go on,” he prompts.

“Weston has this annual benefit to help with scholarships,” I add, hoping to spin this as an appeal to his conscience rather than a way
to save my butt. “I was wondering, you are probably far too busy, but is there any way you could donate a portrait session?”

“Sure,” he answers so quickly I'm thrown off course.

“Really?”

“Of course. I'm all in favor of anything that mixes up the gene pool.”

“I'm not following.”

“I don't doubt private schools offer a superior education, but one of their main purposes is to introduce likely marriage prospects to each other. It's one of the last uncontested holdouts of class. Anything that stirs that particular pot is fine with me.”

“Our kids are not even fourteen yet, I doubt marriage is foremost on their minds.”

“No, but it's in the parents'.”

“Don't you think that's hopelessly old-fashioned?” There is an edge in my voice that has nothing to do with Ben's theories on elite education and everything to do with his lying to my best friend.

“Yes, since you asked, I do think it's hopelessly old-fashioned. I also believe that it's true.”

“Almost all the transfer kids Weston took last year came from public schools,” I inform him. “Twenty-five percent of the school gets some kind of financial help.”

“And the other seventy-five percent procreate and rule the world.”

“Weston is all girls. They are certainly not procreating with each other.”

“I believe they start mixers with the appropriate boys' school when the kids are still in diapers, no?”

“Didn't you go to prep school?”

He laughs. “Precisely. And I married someone I met there. She and her pals are good at talking to other billionaires and AIDS orphans in Africa. Unfortunately, anyone in between leaves them stumped. I'd like all of our children to be a little more open-minded. If donating a portrait session helps rattle the walls a little, I'm happy to oblige.”

I wasn't seeing the donation as an act of subversion or a reaction to Ben's failed marriage, but I'll take it any way I can get it. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Just one request. If you could specify a six-month window for cashing it in, that would be helpful. I never know my travel schedule.”

“Of course.”

I begin to type an e-mail to Georgia sharing the good news even while Ben and I speak. I consider adding a postscript informing her that I spied her daughter Vanessa gorging on Milano cookies. At ten a.m. Three blocks from school. But I manage to refrain.

After exchanging a few more pleasantries with Ben about our children's lives, I thank him once more and hang up.

I am relieved by his consent, of course. But the last person I want to be beholden to is Ben Erickson, with his opaque heart and his little white lies. I contemplate calling Deirdre to tell her that he was not in the city with his kids this weekend as she thought but I don't want to hurt her. I know, too, that I would risk becoming the target of her ire and her disappointment rather than him.

Instead, I pick up the phone and call Jack.

“Finally,” he says. “Did you talk to Deirdre?”

“Yes. I saw her on Saturday.”

“And? What did she say? Do I have a chance?”

“Yes.”

“But?”

“Move quickly,” I tell him.

T
he enormous chandelier, a steroidal display of descending glass particles, shimmers disconsolately in the late-afternoon light. Though the gathering has been under way for close to an hour there remains an air of awkward anticipation rather than any real sense of festivity. People who just a few minutes ago were determined to mingle and introduce themselves, bonding over their shared good fortune at being here, have retreated to their own cliques, no longer trying to hide the divide that separates the guests. The Merdale people have marched into town—and won. Now, two weeks later, they are here to celebrate—or flaunt—their success with clients, potential clients, representatives from the Philadelphia and New York offices and a few lesser representatives of the business press.

I stand near the rear of the room fake-talking with someone from the marketing department while I stare warily out. Any nod to “merging cultures” or “taking the best of both companies” lasted all of about two minutes. Unlike other ambitious newcomers to Manhattan determined to learn the city's byways, and assimilate, Merdale exudes the brio of the triumphant and unapologetic provincial. The days of New York's unquestioned superiority are over. The conquering visitors have a thing or two to teach us.

Robert Merdale circulates on his wafer-thin loafers, his satisfied
face glowing as he leads his dewy-eyed minions through the room, glad-handing, backslapping, while the few remaining holdovers from Steiner smile anxiously from the sidelines, trying to look as if they are thrilled, or at least at ease, with the turn of events. The only people who appear truly relaxed are the reporters, happy for an excuse to get out of the office and enjoy free alcohol before sundown.

I watch Favata slice through the crowd like a land shark. He cannot approximate the social graces of the others but he makes up for it with sweaty, testosterone-laden drive. There are those who manage to cloak their ambition in self-deprecation, those who can quell it with Ativan or justify it with constant rereadings of Machiavelli, but Favata is incapable of any of these accepted strategies. His jagged rawness is both off-putting and effective, an accidental weapon. Rita Mason, making the rounds by his side, towers over him, a prized possession.

Favata gives me a surprisingly enthusiastic greeting, though it is obviously not for my benefit. When he touches my arm it is all I can do to keep from screaming “cooties!” the way the girls used to.

I say hello to him without attempting to match his fervor, and turn to Rita. “I tried one of your recipes last night,” I tell her, with what I hope approximates enthusiasm. “The roast chicken with thyme. It was delicious.” Needless to say, there is not one iota of truth in this. I hardly recognize myself anymore.

She regards me with the jaded apathy she assumes comes with being in the public eye for longer than she has. “I'm sorry you've decided not to work on our account,” she replies.

This is news to me.

“I explained that you decided to concentrate your efforts on our beauty clients,” Favata interjects.

Considering beauty accounts comprise, oh, maybe ten percent of our client list, this is a highly unlikely scenario. Certainly an unwanted one.

“I'll miss you,” Rita says, her eyes growing limpid on cue. I've heard rumors she wants to branch out from cooking to a talk show
of her own. Showing sympathy for the downtrodden must be one of the talents she's been rehearsing in preparation.

“I'll miss you, too,” I assure her.

She and Favata begin to turn to speak with an advertising columnist from a trade rag. Only when Rita is safely out of earshot does Favata take half a step back and lean into me, his cantankerous voice low and threatening. “By the way, Lisa, Susanna Carter was let go from Harcourt's London office last week. Be careful. You are playing a very dangerous game.”

Alarm quickens my pulse but before I can reply the room begins to hush. All attention is turned to the podium, where Robert Merdale is lowering the microphone to his diminutive stature. “Welcome,” he begins to a round of applause, “and thank you for joining us in what will surely be the beginning of an exciting new stage in our growth.”

I hardly hear a word of what follows, the blood is thrumming too loudly in my ears.

“What was that about?”

I turn to see who is whispering in my ear, his warm breath so close I can feel it steal down my neck.

David Forrester is standing an inch behind me, his hands in his pockets.

“What are you doing here?” I blurt out.

“Now there's a friendly greeting for you.”

“Sorry. That's not what I meant. I'm just surprised.”

“I called your office and your assistant told me you were here. You might want to teach her to say you're in a meeting without quite spooning out all the details next time, though personally I'm glad she did. You've been so cagey about returning my messages I thought I'd better take matters into my own hands. Judging by the look on your face, it's a good thing I did.”

“That obvious?”

“I've seen happier people at a funeral. What did Mick Favata say that got you so spooked?”

“You know him?”

David nods. “You didn't tell me he was working at Merdale.”

“Does it matter?”

“It might.”

The people to our right shoot us a dirty look, despite the fact that we are whispering. Their leader is speaking, we might at least show some respect.

David leans in closer. “We seem to be making ourselves rather unpopular. Do you have time for a quick drink? It will be easier to talk about this someplace else.”

“I can't leave in the middle of Merdale's speech.” I hesitate, though there is nothing I'd like more.

“Of course you can. No one will ever know. Come.”

Before I can protest, he takes me by the hand and leads me around the outskirts of the room until we make it to the coat check. “I know a place nearby,” he promises.

The street is just beginning to darken as we step outside. I take a deep breath, relieved to be away from the watchful eyes and murky motives run amok in the hotel ballroom. David touches my elbow to point me in the right direction and we begin walking west.

“I'm not sure if you just rescued me or doomed me,” I remark.

He smiles. “I may not be an M and A guy but I've watched my fair share of acquisitions. There's always a shaking-out period,” he tells me as we wait for a light. “You're being watched. You want to impress them. You have to learn a whole new culture. It's nerve-racking but I'm sure you'll be okay.”

I strongly doubt that. Favata's threat echoes in my head, though sharing this particular piece of information is not in my best interest.

Two blocks away, David steers me toward a discreet gray awning. “In here,” he says. We make our way past a glamorously disheveled couple with matching sun-streaked bed hair and the attractively weary eyes of the young and dissolute. They barely look up from their cigarettes as we pass.

Inside the clubby wood-paneled bar small groups of well-appointed men and women are ensconced on brocade settees and wing
chairs with ironically old-fashioned cocktails before them. They all seem to be the same age—midthirties—as if the city as a whole has decided that this is the perfect nexus of experience and promise, barring anyone else from appearing in public. The only empty place to sit is a deeply cushioned emerald green couch against the far wall. We make our way there and settle in a few inches from each other. I sink more than I'd expected and struggle awkwardly to pull down my skirt while David watches with some amusement.

We order drinks from a waiter with a chiseled jaw and piercingly blue eyes who appears far more interested in David than in me. I'm quite aware that this is a genetic predisposition rather than a choice but it does nothing for my fragile ego nonetheless.

An uncomfortable silence ensues as we adjust to the quiet of our new surroundings, to our proximity. Our legs brush up against each other as I shift position and then separate.

“So, aside from the always delightful Mr. Favata, how is it going with the Merdale people?” David asks.

“Fine.”

He laughs. “You are a very bad liar. A quality, I might add, that I appreciate in a woman.”

“And not in men?”

“That's a separate conversation. Have they offered you a contract?”

“No. But I never had one with Carol either.”

“That was different.”

“I'm beginning to realize that.”

“Then you must realize that there's not going to be room for both you and Favata.”

“Are you trying to make me nervous or is it just happening naturally?”

“Sorry.”

“Favata is only consulting,” I insist.

“That's just a fancy term for unemployed. There hasn't been a consultant in history who isn't angling for a corner office, full benefits and an equity position.”

“Shoot me now,” I mutter.

David laughs. “I'm sure we can find a more appealing course of action.”

I look over at him as he pushes his wire-framed glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. I can feel the dented armor I've been clinging to begin to slip. “He's taken me off all accounts except for beauty,” I admit.

“Is that so terrible? They usually have a lot of dollars to throw around.”

“Until an hour ago, I oversaw almost all clients. He is totally ghettoizing me.”

“That's just his opening salvo. Be careful of Favata. He is completely lacking in scruples.”

“So I've been told. What exactly is your history with him?”

“He represented a company we were bidding against a couple of years ago. Nothing wrong with that, I've always believed that as long as you play fair you can be on opposite sides during the day and have drinks at night. It's a circular world. But when his client ran into some trouble, Favata got desperate and began to spread rumors about us that were patently untrue. It cost us a lot of money. He went out of his way to damage my reputation personally, which I did not appreciate.”

“If I'd been handling your PR that never would have happened,” I inform him, only half joking.

He smiles. “That's why I'm here. Or one of the reasons.”

I try to ignore the flush rising over my face. “I have given your eco-fund some thought.”

“Go on.”

“I'd start by naming an advisory board of people with impeccable environmental credentials, maybe someone from Greenpeace and that organization fighting deforestation out west, the Wilderness Society. I'd aim for about seven in all. Then I'd announce that a portion of the fund's profits will be donated to specific causes.”

“Interesting. I like the advisory idea.”

“You don't sound convinced.”

“Lisa, you're right on target and needless to say I would love for us to work together. But I have to be honest with you, the only way I'm going to sign on with Merdale is if Favata is gone.”

“There is nothing I'd like more.”

“I knew we would have things in common.”

I take a large sip of my wine. “I don't think there's anything I can do about it, though.”

“You have to outsmart him.”

“I'm not sure I can. He has more practice at this sort of thing.”

“I'll help you,” David offers. “The chance to even the score with Favata doesn't exactly make me unhappy.”

“Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

“I can't imagine that happening.” His smile is slightly crooked, a little boy's grin in a very grown-up man. “Seriously, Favata is a bully. And I don't appreciate bullies. I have some experience with his type. If you need advice, I'll be happy to be your rabbi.”

I laugh. “You are just about the least Jewish person I have ever met.”

“You're right. I grew up on a failing farm in Pennsylvania. Well, most of them are. Failing, that is. And my family is Baptist. But for your information, when I came to New York I decided to be Jewish, at least figuratively. It seemed the smartest way to go. What I meant by rabbi was adviser, go-to person.”

“I get that. I didn't need a translation.”

“Of course.”

“While we're on the subject of personal history, you never answered me about the three things that weren't true in your e-mail,” I tell him.

“What would you like to know?”

“Were you serious about wanting to teach one day?” As much as anything else, this has stayed in my mind. I've always had a weakness for do-gooders. I suppose it excuses him to me in some way. Then again, I am surely the only person in New York who thinks David Forrester needs an excuse.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I was.”

“Why?”

He smiles. “Don't you think it's a noble profession? Or is it that you don't believe I have anything to offer?”

“Neither. I'm just curious.”

“Because it doesn't fit in with the image you have of me?”

“I'm still forming the image.”

He considers this. “All right, yes. I had a teacher once who changed my life. I always thought if I could do that for someone else it would be a worthwhile thing. Payback, if you will.”

“I believe the term is ‘giving back.'”

He laughs. “I have been on Wall Street too long.”

“Who was the teacher?”

“Growing up, it was automatically assumed I would take over my family's farm as soon as I graduated high school. I didn't really see an option, my grades sucked, my family had no money. But I had an English teacher who for reasons I have never quite figured out believed in me. She drove me to the local community college and enrolled me. It was my ticket out.”

The couple next to us leans over to kiss, their arms wrapped around each other's necks, distracting me.

“So. You're the PR person,” David says when my eyes turn back to his. “What do you think, good story?”