The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken

THE

HAZARDS

OF

HUNTING

WHILE

HEARTBROKEN

a novel

MARI PASSANANTI

for Julian

Many thanks to my amazing editor, Jennifer Fisher, whose keen eye and ability to see the forest and the trees at the same time made
The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken
a much better book.

Thank you to my cadre of earliest readers, and especially to Annette Widener Stafford and Lisa Mogan, who read draft after draft, enthusiastically and without complaint. Thank you also to Wendy Walker, for her relentless encouragement, and to Sharon Bially and Lauren Belliveau, who basically forced me to think outside the box.

Thank you to Anja Passananti for her insights into the world of the young, cosmopolitan and fabulous. Thank you to Regina Starace—I love the cover.

Deepest gratitude to my parents, Riitta and Vincent Passananti. Without their support and encouragement, this book wouldn’t have made it out of my laptop and into the world. I’m grateful beyond words to Maria Porto—without her I’m certain this book never would have happened. Finally, thank you to Rick Howes, for putting up with all my ups and downs with good humor and more than a little panache.

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

No kid dreams of growing up to become a headhunter. It doesn’t rate up there with astronaut, veterinarian or firefighter, especially in the minds of the young and unstoppable.

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to travel, paint huge canvases and study the old masters at some Italian art institute whose name I can no longer recall. My parents urged me to aim “higher.” They dreamed of their only daughter studying medicine, or at least law, and preferably at an Ivy League school. We compromised. I won a scholarship to Princeton and declared myself an art history major. With a decade elapsed between me and college, I’m not remotely near where I expected to be by now, even though I’ve tried to do everything right. Maybe that’s part of my problem. It’s amazing how often “right” is mere shorthand for “safe.” I am one of those women who is always doing what she’s supposed to be doing, even though I see my closest friends taking chances, following their dreams and reaping the rewards.

Ten years ago, I was sure that by my late twenties, I’d manage or perhaps even co-own a prestigious gallery. I’d be married and devoted to my best friend, with whom I’d make an adorable baby at some hazy date in the medium-term future. We’d entertain interesting people in our fabulous but unpretentious loft. None of those things happened, even though I’m now two years, seven months and four days beyond thirty, single and earning my living by meddling with the careers of others. Yet I’ve never stopped and asked myself,
Zoë, is this the life you want instead?

At least not until now.

Maybe it’s bad karma to complain, since there are millions of people in this world worse off than I.

But still. I cannot believe this is my life.

__________

In the middle of our routine pre-interview phone call, Niles Townsend informs me, “So they wanted me to, uh, you know, in this plastic cup, right there in the doctor’s office, and the special room they use is so close to the nurse’s station that I got stage fright.” I have no idea how to respond. Niles interprets my silence as permission to continue his tale of woe. “And then Susie, my wife, got hysterical, since they needed the sample, because she was ovulating.”

I glance down at the street as some woman about my age, who probably has the
exact
life she wants, steps into Valentino, her designer dog firmly secured under her arm.

“So that’s why I need you to cancel my meeting tomorrow morning, Zoë,” Niles says.

The word “cancel” snaps me back to the task at hand. I try to spit out a generic yet thoughtful response. “Niles,” I say gently. “We’ve been through this. Cutler and Boone was really excited about you, and more importantly, I think you’d be very happy there. But honestly, they’re beginning to find you a bit unreliable. If you make me cancel tomorrow’s meeting, that’ll make three times you’ve put this off. We need to make them feel like
you
want them. It’s kind of like dating that way.”

Niles sighs loudly into the phone. “I hear what you’re saying, but Susie’s eggs can’t wait. She actually called the doctor yesterday and asked if I should, err, bring my own materials tomorrow. You know, in case I get stage fright again. She thinks it might help, and her nurse actually suggested this magazine that...”

“Niles,” I snap, “Too much information!” What I want to say is, I’m not your therapist, I’m your headhunter, so kindly limit your remarks to your job search. But of course I can’t say that, because, as my boss frequently chirps, “That would upset Niles Townsend. And Niles Townsend is too important a client to be upset in that manner.”

I hear his mobile phone ring in the background. “I need to take this, Zoë. Go ahead and re-schedule this thing, okay? Thanks.” He’s gone before I can beg him to re-consider.

I peel off my headset, rub my temples and swivel in my chair. I flinch at the sight of Carol Broadwick storming through the bullpen towards my desk. She opens her mouth to say something, catches herself and asks me how I’m doing in a put upon tone, as if I’ve insisted on diverting her from important business. Carol views pleasantries and small talk as a complete waste of time, but she’s been making a limited effort since her latest consultant advised her to take an interest in her employees.

She does not care that I spent Saturday night eating chocolate in front of an infomercial for a handheld trouser press, until my friends stormed my apartment to drag me out. So I say, “Fine. Thank you for asking.”

Before I finish getting the words out, she launches into a tirade. “I just hung up with the managing partner of Cutler and Boone. He wanted my assurances that Niles Townsend would be there tomorrow. Frankly, they were much hotter for the little creep before he started acting like the process was all about his
needs
. So I want you to remind him that it wouldn’t hurt to show up a couple of minutes early and look like he’s interested. But you know what to do.” She gives me a fake smile and starts to turn on her Chanel heel to stomp away.

I decide to confess. If she hears it from me, she won’t be blindsided by a call from a pissed off client. Which would put her in a fouler than normal mood, which in turn would wreck everyone’s week.

“Wait a second,” I say. “I actually could use your advice on this one.”

She rotates back to face me, and I realize I’ve said the magic words. Carol’s fearsome, especially if you don’t know how to handle her, which normally involves the right cocktail of competence and deference, garnished with carefully timed reliance on her inestimable experience.

I give her the short version of my conversation with Niles. When her eyes begin to narrow, I reassure her that I did my level best to impress upon him the extreme importance of showing up.

“Let’s call him together, and that way you can learn to sort these things out for yourself,” she suggests with an indulgent smile. Ganging up on Niles over his procreative problems sounds unwise, but based on the garish way Carol has applied her eye shadow and lipstick this morning, she is going to have a manic day.

I’m not stupid enough to rush her inevitable meltdown. Or direct it at myself.

Instead I follow her couture clad form across the bullpen into her office. She installs me in one of her imitation Louis XVI chairs and I watch in mixed horror and admiration as she calls Niles and formulates a plan to save both his interview (as well as the company’s six-figure commission) and his marriage. She makes it look so easy. Though she’s unbearable most of the time, there’s a reason why she’s the unchallenged doyenne of the city’s recruiting world.

“Niles, we think you’re great,” Carol explains indulgently. “Everyone you met during the first round at Cutler thought you were great. Your client list is enviable, without question. But here’s the thing. Cutler doesn’t hire a lot of laterals. And you can’t swear on a whole stack of Bibles that all your clients will go with you. I know it says here you have $6 million in portable revenues a year, but realistically, I’m looking at this, and I think it might really be closer to $2 million. So I’m thinking it might be better to not piss them off. And by that I mean you ought to act like you give a fuck.”

She drums her manicured nails on her desk and I watch the overhead light sparkle off her huge diamond rings. Carol wears one on each hand, in honor of each ex.

The speaker phone crackles but Niles says nothing. Probably because Carol isn’t wrong. Niles represents big banks that go through lots of mergers and take government money. It’s not the most stable roster of clients.

Which is why he ultimately agrees to Carol’s proposal. “My wife will hate it,” he grumbles.

“She’ll like the seven figure salary you’ll bring home once you start at the Cutler firm. Zoë will be there tomorrow at 8:30,” Carol announces triumphantly. She hangs up without giving Niles a chance to regroup.

The taxi pulls up in front of 311 Park as it starts to drizzle. I check in with the concierge and ride the elevator to the floor right below the penthouse. Niles is waiting, fully dressed in his suit—thank God—but pacing the Oriental carpet like a caged animal. “Good morning,” he says, without making eye contact.

I remind myself this must be more embarrassing for Niles than it is for me. Not that it helps much. I can’t bring my gaze off the floor as I hand over his fetish magazines—the ones I was foolish enough to purchase at my regular newsstand this morning—and the sterile cup I procured for $1.99 at CVS last night.

Niles tells me to have a seat in the den off the main foyer. I park myself in the nearest chair and whip out my BlackBerry. The walls are lined with books, many of which might fascinate me under normal circumstances, but not today. I don’t need to nose around and risk inviting elective conversation. Even before today, I was afraid of saying the wrong thing to Niles. He’s one of those men who holds forth with no filter, but acts annoyed if anyone beneath him, such as myself, presumes to question his narrative.