Best Intentions (4 page)

“You will of course report any tidbits you pick up on boys, drugs or other illicit activities,” I add.

Deirdre rolls her eyes. “Relax. Deep down, Claire's a straight shooter just like you.”

“You make me sound so unimaginative.”

“I can't help it if your idea of acting out is using your Rose Day Cream at night.”

“Just keep in mind she's a minor. With a strict budget. I can't afford for her to develop a taste for accessories.”

“Yes, ma'am. So. What did you do this weekend?”

“Not much. Sam went in to work on Saturday and I took the kids back-to-school shopping. A frustrating time was had by all.”

“Was he closing a story?”

“No. Trying to find one is more like it. He's doing a profile on Eliot Wells.”

“Really? I've always thought he's kind of hot, in that weird Silicon Valley never-seen-the-light-of-day kind of way.”

“Actually, he's based in Chicago, as odd as that is. Sam is convinced he had some shady financial doings when he was starting out. Something about predating options. This is, of course, confidential.”

“I take that as a given.”

“The thing is, Sam doesn't have any actual proof. I can't tell if he's deluded or if he really is on to something. But if he's wrong, he's fucked.”

“Why? Reporters follow leads that don't pan out all the time. What's the big deal?”

“He needs a major story. He's apparently not the flavor of the month anymore.”

“Who is?” Deirdre pushes up the sleeve of her boho chic Indian tunic absentmindedly. “Christ, can't they turn the air-conditioning up in here?”

“Good Lord, what is that?” I lean forward. Pale blue bruises in the shape of fingerprints peek out from beneath the navy and fuchsia paisley silk.

She quickly pulls the fabric down to cover them. “Nothing.”

“That didn't look like nothing.”

She smiles sheepishly. “Sex injury.”

“Can I assume that's Ben's handiwork?”

She nods.

“What the hell were you two doing?”

“Nothing.”

“We obviously have different definitions of nothing.”

I stare at her, waiting for details. Our friendship was forged on dorm beds, late-night phone calls, two a.m. bathroom rendezvous where we traded the most intimate minutiae of our nascent sex lives, the fine and not-so-fine points that gained true currency only in the retelling.

“I bruise easily,” she says dismissively.

“Do you know how long it's been since I had sex like that?”

“You have other things.”

“Yes, but they don't leave fingerprints behind. Listen, you're not doing anything I should be worried about, are you?”

“No.”

“Deirdre?”

“No,” she reiterates. Then, considering, she adds, “It's strange. The sex with Ben hovers on the edge but it never goes over. At least not yet. I can't quite figure it out.”

“The edge of what?”

“I'm not sure. Everything is always just a touch—more. Harder. Let's just say he's enthusiastic.” She laughs. “He once told me that a girl he was sleeping with in college used to make him wear mittens when they had sex. I could never figure it out.” She nods to the bruises. “Maybe this is why.” She smiles back at me. “Don't look so worried. He said he just likes something to grab on to. It's fine.”

“Deirdre, are you sure getting back together with Ben is a good idea?”

“Of course I'm not sure. But look, even if I'm wrong and Ben hasn't changed, would that be so terrible? I have a great time with him. And he's been totally honest with me.”

“Honesty is not a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

“Why can't I use him as a placeholder while I look for something better? Men do that all the time. Besides, other men always find you sexier when you're sleeping with someone else. It's like they can smell it.”

“I have nothing against it in theory. I just don't happen to think it works. You care about him.” I am certain that Deirdre is lying, that she does hope for something from Ben, a sign, forward movement. Women always do.

“Maybe he's right, maybe monogamy is against human nature.”

“That's a convenient excuse. Besides, even if it's true, it's a recipe for disaster. Doesn't it bother Ben if you go out with other men?”

“I wish it did,” she admits. “I've never met anyone so totally lack
ing in jealousy. It's impossible to get a rise out of him. He told me the only thing that would really hurt him is not seeing me at all.” Her voice sinks. “I'm not saying you're wrong. All I know is that no one makes me feel as good as he does when I'm with him. When we're together, he's totally present. He actually listens, and remembers everything. He makes me laugh. He's not intimidated by me.”

“And when you're not with him?”

“All right, so maybe our relationship is not always the healthiest one. I do wish he was more invested,” she concedes. “Sometimes I wonder if I'm with Ben because there's no one else or there's no one else because I'm with Ben.” She looks up. “Aren't there any divorced fathers at Weston you can introduce me to?”

“Since when is fatherhood on your list of dating prerequisites? Haven't you heard of alimony, child support, psychotic ex-wives?”

“One of the things I like best about Ben is what a good parent he is. You have to at least give him that.”

“Yes,” I agree. I have to admit that Ben is one of the most involved fathers I know, not out of show but from a genuine desire and delight in his children's lives. He volunteers at school fairs and potluck dinners, he helps decorate pageants and spends hours with art projects. It is hard for me to reconcile his fierce paternal attachment with the slipperiness of his other affections.

“How many kids am I going to have at this point?” Deirdre continues, playing with a strand of hair. “One if I'm lucky. I like the idea of a man who already has children.”

“You realize that you are probably the only woman in New York who feels this way?”

“Good, that leaves the field open.”

“You're only thirty-nine,” I remind her.

“For seven more weeks. Besides, thirty-nine is young if you're married with two children. If you have a boyfriend who can't commit and you want a family, it's geriatric. Right now I'm someone who happens to be single. It's my situation, not my identity. It's not set in stone. But there's a line. Once you cross it, people don't even bother to ask if you're seeing anyone anymore. Your singledom is ingrained. I'm terri
fied of that,” she confesses. “Turning forty is the goddamned Rubicon.” She pauses. “You have no idea how lucky you are.”

“I'm not so sure about that.”

“What do you mean?”

I play with the edges of my napkin.

“Lisa?”

“I think Sam may be having an affair.” Saying the words out loud transforms what was a whispery suspicion, a cloud that existed in my mind alone, into something concrete, with its own shape and weight; once launched into the external world it is impossible to dismiss.

“What?”

I tell Deirdre about the phone call, the woman. “‘Same place.' She said, ‘Same place.'” I can hear the panic in my voice and try to push it down.

“I can't believe you listened to his messages.”

“You're missing the point here.”

“Have you done that before?”

“Can we please get past that?”

“Lisa, he told you he was meeting a source. I'm sure that's all it is.”

“Sam said the source was a man. He said ‘he.'”

“You're not sure of that.”

“I'm pretty sure.”

She considers this. “I once went on a date with a guy who refused to use pronouns. You know, ‘I' did this, ‘we' did that. I kept trying to trip him up and I couldn't. I finally asked if he was divorced or separated and he told me he was married but they had a don't ask/don't tell policy. Can you imagine?” She plays with her eggs, making patterns with their unappetizing border. “I wonder how many relationships have been done in by pronouns.”

“We're off-point here,” I remind her.

She looks directly at me, her gold-flecked eyes steady and sure. “Sam loves you. He always has. It's who he is.”

“Maybe I don't know who he is anymore.”

“C'mon, you two are closer than any couple I've ever known.” Deirdre has always been dismissive of the vicissitudes of my marriage. She needs to believe in us for some reason, or perhaps she, like other single people, assumes that a marriage once formed is monolithic, not given to the drama of their own romantic lives, a fact it is more convenient not to have to reconsider. “You could just ask him.”

“I'd have to tell him I listened to his messages.”

“You're right. Not a good idea. He'd never trust you again.”

“Trust me? He's the one meeting a woman and lying about it.”

We sit in silence for a moment.

“There's more,” I add.

“What?”

“He said there's something he wants to talk to me about later. Nothing good has ever followed a sentence like that.”

“Oh please. He probably wants to switch dry cleaners.”

“Why aren't you taking me seriously?”

“Because I don't think it is serious.”

Of course, if Deirdre did take me seriously it would only make me feel worse. “You haven't touched your breakfast,” I remark glumly. She has, in fact, spent the entire time poking at it as if it were toxic waste.

Deirdre smiles and for the first time all morning, she looks almost embarrassed. “I haven't seen Jack in so long. It's a basic law of human nature—you must look as thin as possible when having dinner with an old boyfriend.”

“Are you nervous?”

“About tomorrow night?”

“Yes.”

She considers this. “Not exactly nervous.”

“Really? I am.”

“You mean because of our history?”

“Among other things.”

“Don't be. All has long since been forgiven. I'm sure it will be a perfectly peaceful evening.”

“Funny, that's not the first word that comes to mind when I think of you and Jack.”

“Actually, I'm kind of excited. And curious. Do you think chemistry has an expiration date?” she asks.

“I've been wondering the same thing. In my case I hope not.”

“And in my case?”

“Christ, Deirdre. It's been seventeen years. Jack's married, you're…”

“Not.”

“You're with someone. Even if there is some leftover ember, what good will it do you?”

“Ember, I like that.” She smiles, pushing her uneaten food resolutely out of reach. “On that note, I should get going. I promised some East Village ex–rock star wannabe I'd look at her line of leather-free shoes. I can't believe she gets up before noon but it's part of her whole new ‘commitment' thing. It's a perfect setup, even if the shoes are hideous, I'll look like an environmental ignoramus if I refuse to carry them.” She shakes her head. “I'll give you a call later. In the meantime, try to relax about all this nonsense with Sam.” She nods to her upper arm. “Look at it this way, at least you don't have to wear long-sleeved shirts all week.”

“The price of love.”

“Not love. I don't know what it is, but I'm pretty sure it's not that.”

We get the check and head out, kissing good-bye in front of the restaurant. I watch Deirdre walk a few yards, then stumble on her three-inch heels before righting herself. Her clumsiness is like a punctuation mark to her innate panache, a dent, and I love her for it. I wait until she and her disturbing fingerprints disappear into the eddy of commuters pouring out of Grand Central Terminal and then I begin to walk up Park Avenue to work, the murky coffee, the suspicion, still clinging to the back of my throat.

I
walk into the lobby of 425 Park Avenue, swipe my ID card and ride in a crowded elevator up to the twelfth-floor offices of Steiner Public Relations, nodding hello to the two front-desk receptionists who are expertly juggling six phone calls between them—PR is a business of constant pitching and placating. As I hurry down the long corridor of open cubicles people look up, smile politely and self-consciously return to their work. I pretend not to notice the eBay and Style.com windows they rush to close as I pass. There was a time when mine was the office everyone gathered in to vent about boyfriends and bosses and failed diets or to debate whether black nail polish was hideously Goth or crazily chic. But that was two promotions ago. I miss it now, the easy camaraderie, the feeling of being in the trenches, and try to resurrect it with a smile, a gossipy interlude, though there is a strained note underneath. Frankly, it does annoy me when I see eBay up, when people wander in two hours late complaining of spats with lovers or bemoaning their hangovers and expect sympathy on my part.

My assistant, Petra, looks up from her three-inch-thick September issue of
W
. “Morning.” She smiles broadly, anticipating approbation for being on time.

I smile back but refuse on principle to compliment her on the mere fact of her presence.

Twenty-four, with endless legs, no hips, a Russian accent and a brightly hennaed bob, Petra has a cheerful disposition, a father who imports God knows what from Russia—one month it's cars; the next, baby grand pianos—and entrée to every nightclub in Manhattan and Miami. For the past couple of years, the city has been overflowing with Russian models, hungry young teens who come over with little more than a plane ticket and some names scribbled on a slip of paper, girls with such bad teeth they can't smile in photographs, giving them a surly look that the uninitiated interpret as evidence of their dark Russian souls, though by the time they hit the bigger fashion magazines they are smiling broadly, either at their newsstand placement or simply because they can, having finally earned enough money to have their teeth fixed. Petra, on the other hand, has perfectly good teeth and lives in Short Hills with her family, though her father recently promised to buy her an apartment in Manhattan, which, she assures me, will help with her tardiness.

I head into my office and shut the door.

Deirdre is right. Why shouldn't I just ask Sam who he's meeting, or at least insist that he tell me what it is he wanted to talk to me about? I pick up the phone and am halfway through dialing his number when Petra buzzes me.

“Yes?”

“Carol just called. She's going to be late. She wants you to handle the Rita Mason meeting on your own. Rita and Barry are on their way up.”

“All right,” I reply, annoyed.

Carol Steiner is in her early fifties, petite, well-preserved and given to low-cut tops beneath fitted jackets that display an impressive amount of ripe cleavage, which, on anyone else, would have been deemed inappropriate. Divorced, she has a daughter who was kicked out of Chapin for her starring role in a blow-job soiree that ended up on YouTube and is now safely ensconced in boarding school. Carol has a new boyfriend (is that the word at her age?) and has not been turning up in the office as much as she used to. Carol, who started the business from scratch in her living room fifteen
years ago and grew it, through hard work and relentless determination, to thirty-six employees, seems to have grown bored. Her newly laissez-faire attitude makes decisions hard to get signed off on but it also means that I, as her number two, am effectively running the firm most of the time. Unfortunately, no raise has gone along with this, but I am hopeful that will come. I've just been waiting for the right moment to bring it up.

“Should I show them into your office?” Petra asks.

“Yes.” I hang up and hurriedly straighten up my desk. The phone call to Sam will have to wait.

Rita Mason is one of our newer and more difficult clients, a cooking maven who started out on cable and now has her own network show five mornings a week, two books on the best-seller list and a recently launched line of kitchen accessories at Wal-Mart. She also has a huge temper, a huger ego and surprisingly little common sense that seems to diminish further the more successful she becomes. Four days ago, she threw a hissy fit in a restaurant, supposedly smashed her plate on the floor, where it shattered on the waiter's foot, and then left no tip, all of which was gleefully reported on a blog and festered across the Internet with such force it hit the mainstream media. It was, unfortunately, a slow news week. For Rita, whose success has in large part been built around her carefully honed persona as the unpretentious suburban underdog, no more of a perfectionist than any other working mom (though she does not in fact have children), this is particularly damning.

Petra shows Rita and Barry Nielson, her manager, a short, shiny man with a suspiciously omnipresent tan, into my office, gets them bottles of water and shuts the door. Rita, in a navy Armani blazer, hunches over the small, round table by the window, her near pitch-black hair fanned out across her shoulders. Her body is perfect for her job, as if she focus-grouped it, with just the right amount of softness to imply she enjoys eating her own food but not enough to make one think doing so will cause sticky irreversible flab.

“Hello.” I smile and hold out my hand. Rita's palm is moist,
doughy. I let it go and take a seat. “Unfortunately, Carol had an emergency and won't be joining us.”

I see the disappointment play across their faces as, quick to sense a demotion, they calibrate their response. I'll have to ask Carol to send them both a note later. I'm getting a little tired of covering for her.

“I was just telling Rita that the drop in book sales is nothing to worry about,” Barry begins.

Rita ignores him. Just a few short months ago, she was thrilled that he agreed to represent her, but good ratings go a long way toward erasing the uncomfortable memory. “What is it with this blogging shit anyway?” she demands. “Who the fuck cares what a bunch of pasty-assed twenty-year-olds who can't score real jobs think?”

I nod sympathetically. We, like most established old-school media companies, ignored the blogosphere for just a little too long and are now frantically trying to figure out who's important, who isn't, if we should advise clients to start their own blogs or link to others, how to leverage them to move product, make money, create buzz, or at the very least not be destroyed by them. We spend much time explaining to our clients—from the high-end French cosmetics firm to the twenty-four-hour gym chain—that they have to court those pasty-assed twenty-year-olds as assiduously as they court
Vogue
.

“Your fans care,” I say carefully. “The report had a lot of traction.”

“It wasn't even true. The plate fell, it just fell,” Rita says petulantly.

“I'm sure. The unfortunate thing is, at this point the truth no longer matters. Perception is what counts.”

“You're telling me my book sales dropped eleven percent because of one whiny klutz of a waiter in a lousy West Village restaurant?”

There is a long pause. I refrain from reminding her that the waiter needed seventeen stitches.

“It's your job to control that kind of crap,” Rita insists.

It's your job not to pull crap like that in public, I think. “Celebrities don't get in trouble for bad behavior, they get in trouble for confusing fans with extreme personality shifts,” I explain. “If Martha did it, people would just shrug, but you are the anti-Martha.” More like the Antichrist, but whatever.

She glares and doesn't say a word.

“We have a plan,” I continue.

“Go on,” Barry prompts.

I begin to outline the strategy we devised after three brainstorming meetings with various breakaway groups within the firm. We have lined up soup kitchens in seven key media markets that have all agreed to have Rita lead celebrity cook-ins. Four prominent politicians and one ex-president are already interested in using it as a platform to discuss the homeless situation.

“Rita is not political,” Barry interrupts.

“No, of course not. But she is charitable. Or at least she will be when we're done with her.” It takes so much energy to smile, to appease, to spin when sometimes all you want to do is slap your clients silly.

Barry looks over at Rita, who nods imperceptibly.

There is some talk of timing and possible sponsors before the meeting comes to a close. After seeing them out, I sit at my desk staring at my computer, depleted. I look up to see Petra standing in my doorway.

“Yes?”

“Carol wants to see you.”

“Can she wait a minute? I need to make a phone call.”

“She seemed pretty insistent.”

“All right.”

When I walk into her office, Carol is seated on her couch, her thin, bare legs crossed at the ankles. A Band-Aid is peeking over the edge of her new black pump where a blister is forming on her heel. “Have a seat,” she says, smiling with an uneasiness I can't quite place. “How did it go with Rita?”

“Fabulous. As long as she doesn't spill boiling soup on a homeless mother of three, we're good.”

Carol nods distractedly, hardly listening. Her face seems particularly taut. Maybe too much Botox. She clears her throat. “You know how incredible I think you are,” she says.

I look at her blankly. I have no idea where she is going with this.

“I couldn't have done this without you. Your contributions have been invaluable,” she continues.

These are words that no employee wants to hear. Like a man who begins a relationship talk with “You know how fantastic I think you are,” there is sure to be a
but
that will break your heart. I race backward, looking for something I might have done wrong, an expense report error, a phone call promised but not placed.

“I don't know if you've noticed, but for some time now I've lost the thrill,” Carol continues. “Maybe it's burnout, maybe I just need a new challenge.” She looks down, suddenly engrossed by a piece of lint on her skirt. “Lisa, I've sold the company to Merdale Communications.”

“What?” Merdale is one of the largest PR firms on the East Coast, known for its large war chest and its conservative ethos. It is impossible that I have not heard anything about this. So much for thinking I'm connected. “Aren't they based in Philadelphia?”

“They have decided to create a toehold in New York.”

“That's what we're going to be, a toehold?”

Carol ignores this. “This will be great for you. People make the mistake of writing them off as provincial but they're huge. The company will have scale. You'll have room to grow.”

Scale—that great clarion cry of the city, you can hear it echoing through streets, boardrooms, corporate pep rallies, in schools, media companies, banks. Scale is survival. Scale sells. Of course, it can also swallow you whole. I suddenly feel dizzy, weightless. “I thought scale was passé, right up there with synergy,” I mutter.

“Scale is never passé.”

I look over at Carol but she is already someplace else. I am what she is leaving behind.

As soon as I get back to my office, I shut the door and try to reach Sam, but there is no answer at any of his numbers.