The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken (16 page)

Oscar reaches for his coffee and I absentmindedly glance at his briefcase on the barstool next to mine. The leather looks as creamy and luxurious as if he’d carried it out of the shop brand new this morning. It’s so inviting that I reach over and stroke it. The bag is exactly the kind of thing Carol would urge Marvin to buy—a status symbol accessory whose price tag cancels out an entire commission check.

“How did you get the scratch fixed so fast?” I ask.

“I didn’t. I replaced it. The original was a graduation gift from my favorite professor and mentor. It killed me that I destroyed his present.”

“I didn’t realize you had such a soft streak.” I think I just fell for him harder.

“Yeah, well, it was a foolish use of my funds. One of these things is a waste of money. Owning two pushes the limits of decency.”

He shakes his head at himself and changes the TV channel. Numerous pundits are dissecting the O’Malley scandal, and Kevin’s performance. We watch until the commercial break. They seem to think the Councilman will weather this storm, not because he should, but because his opponent is basically a wing nut.

I’ve applied a seaweed mask that promises to arrest the aging process when I hear Kevin in our shared hallway right before eleven in the evening. He’s obviously had a long Sunday—he’s still in the suit he wore on TV. I rush out to intercept him in my pajamas and embarrassing hot pink slippers with poodles on them, that I’d never wear in front of Oscar. Before he can cut me off, I blurt, “I saw you on
Meet the Press
this morning. You did great!”

“Thanks.” His voice is flat and discouraging of further dialogue.

But I forge forward anyway. “I’m so sorry about the Councilman, but with all the publicity, I bet this thing could still catapult your career.”

“Wow. You have a powerful grasp of the obvious.” He turns the key in the lock. “Zoë, I’m sorry. I can’t talk to you right now. Have a good night.” He slips into his apartment and closes the door. I hear the television turn on. I stand in the corridor, stunned that he can still be mad at me, over something that’s stupid, necessary for my very survival at work, and clearly none of his business. Our other neighbor, a well-dressed but sour forty-something divorcee with severe eyebrows and no upper lip, emerges from the stairwell. She looks at me in my green face and flannel costume and sniffs before making a beeline to her door. Her glare jolts me into motion. I retreat to the safety of my own sofa before the tears flood down my cheeks and ruin my mask.

Against my better judgment, I flip open my phone and dial, not Angela, but Oscar. “What’s going on?” he asks. I can hear the TV in the background.

“Have you ever been dumped by a friend? Not a girlfriend, but a regular friend. A close one, though.”

I hear him turn down the volume. “I can’t say that I have.”

I press forward. “Have you ever had a friend be disgusted with you over something you’ve done, say at work, and over-react?”

“I’m in advertising. I’m sure much of my work offends some people.”

“You’re missing the point. Don’t you think it’s ridiculous for this friend of mine to get all worked up about me writing college essays for Carol’s daughter?”

“So we’re talking about Kevin. I don’t even know him, but I imagine he’s just had the worst career week of his life. Give the poor guy a break.”

“But he got mad at me before the Councilman’s news broke.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe the guy’s moody. I don’t see why you’re so worked up about it.”

When I say nothing, he adds, “I’m sorry. That was short. I desperately need a decent night’s rest. While you got your beauty sleep last night, I had to jump on a call with some folks in Asia.”

“It’s okay. I understand.” Though I’m not certain I do. I think it’s odd he didn’t mention the call before. It would’ve saved me hours of anxiety.

After we say goodnight and hang up I lie awake for a long time, even though I should be relieved he offered an innocent explanation for his late night conversation. Oscar not only seemed nonplussed by my current crisis, he deftly avoided sharing anything about himself when I invited him to do so. Maybe I need to know more about what makes him tick. I should at least acknowledge the
possibility
that sophisticated dates and incredible sexual chemistry might be an insufficient foundation for true intimacy.

Or maybe that’s not entirely honest. I had no problem with how things were going until the notion of another woman entered my brain this morning. It’s as if things are too wonderful, and I should steel myself against inevitable disappointment. On the other hand, he did say he wished I was there in bed with him, and he couldn’t wait to see me again. When I finally drift off, I’m wishing he was with me.

Angela leaves me a voicemail during the weekly Monday morning staff meeting, otherwise known as Carol’s favorite forum in which to single out some hapless employee for public humiliation. Once my boss finishes reducing New Girl to a trembling, weeping mess over her failure to properly log some seemingly irrelevant scrap of information into the computer system, we’re dismissed, utterly de-motivated, to go forth and spend the week eating our children—Carol’s favored shorthand for the practice of poaching our clients.

Angela’s message cuts to the point. Kevin is reeling from the weekend’s developments, she’s having a drink with him after work, he still doesn’t want to see me, and she’s going to “knock some sense into his useless male brain,” because she can’t stand her best friends fighting. If that doesn’t work, she wants me to apologize to him so we can all move on.

I’m not fighting. Nor should I be the one asking forgiveness. I didn’t do anything wrong. He had a hissy fit over something dumb and now he’s embarrassed.

Before I can stew long enough to get really upset again, disaster strikes. Carol comes blasting out of her office like a bullet train leaving its terminal and comes to a screeching halt over my desk. She stops so suddenly that she practically ejects out of her Ferragamo pumps. “Yale. Does. Not. Have. Janice’s. S. A. T. Scores.” She spits each word out between her teeth. The effect sounds like reptilian hissing but makes her look like she’s expelling watermelon seeds.

“SAT scores get sent directly by the student.” I am an idiot. I hear the words cross my lips and am powerless to stop my blathering, futile self-defense. “Janice would have done that herself when she took the test.”

Carol looks stunned for a split second, as if she can’t comprehend that I’ve dared to speak. Out loud, even. “The minutiae of the process could not interest me less, Zoë. The fact is Yale needs the scores and they don’t fucking have them.”

I have no idea how to go about ordering Janice’s SAT scores, but I am smart enough to know she doesn’t want to hear anything from me except, “I’ll straighten this out immediately. I’m sorry you’re disappointed, and I take responsibility.” This line is copied almost verbatim from a post-it affixed to my computer screen and everyone else’s. It’s what we’re supposed to say when a client is pissed, whether it’s our fault or not. It throws them off their game more reliably than a profuse apology.

Carol, who coined the exact verbiage of the speech, is affected enough to give me a stay of execution. “Thank you.” She grinds one heel into the carpet, pivots a hundred-eighty degrees and storms off at a statelier pace than her advance mere moments ago.

Marvin sticks his head over one of the grey dividers that demarcate my cube. “What the hell was that about?”

I motion towards the hallway. Once we’re across the street at Starbucks, away from the Town Crier’s bionic hearing, I spill the college admissions story. I’m embarrassed, but Marvin is unfazed. “I thought if you had to drag me across the street to tell me, it would have been much juicier than that.” He frowns into his
grande
nonfat cappuccino with an extra shot.

“Sorry to disappoint.” It comes out with more sarcasm than I intended.

“But let me tell you something.” Marvin’s been around two years longer than me, and he not so secretly relishes the opportunity to assume the old, wise, mentor-slash-oracle role in our relationship. “You’re navigating dangerous waters. If Janice gets skinny letters, Carol will fire you in two seconds.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Of course you know it. I just doubt you’ve internalized it. All I’m saying is that you might want to devise plan B for yourself
before
the Ivies start making their decisions.”

I hadn’t stopped to think of it that way. I’ve already been earmarking Carol’s “incentive payments” in my head, mainly as an excuse to put off a decision about moving or finding a roommate, but also, at Carol’s urging, for bags and shoes. Marvin’s absolutely right. Just when I was beginning to think I might have a long and fruitful career working for Carol, it hits me that I probably need to start in terviewing. With the economy giving everyone except the city’s litigators indigestion, it might be a lousy time to explore the job market, but maybe I should put resume revision on my list of pressing things to do. I can itemize that right under finding a cheaper apartment and patching things up with Kevin.

At six o’clock in the evening, the U.S. Attorney announces he will charge Burt Smealey, who happens to serve as O’Malley’s campaign fundraising chief, with trafficking in child pornography. The Councilman holds an almost simultaneous press conference to disown the guy, an old friend and managing director at one of the city’s most venerable financial firms. He goes on about how “saddened” he is by the news, how the films in question are truly stomach-turning, and how he will not rest until the children of New York—and indeed the entire world—are safe from exploitation on the Internet. I wonder if the Councilman knew about his aide’s involvement. Could he be dumb enough to keep someone with such a seedy side in his inner circle?

There’s also a report that one of the girls, who has since turned eighteen, has agreed to be interviewed on television. Angela calls four minutes later to say, predictably, that Kevin cancelled on her.

When I meet her at Per Se an hour and a half later, Angela looks stunning in black over-the-knee boots and a bright pink swirling cape by Emilio Pucci that very few women could pull off. Her eyes are smokier than usual, which means she blitzed through the beauty department on the way out of the office. As I make my way to the bar stool currently occupied by her fresh-from-Italy Fendi bag, I register no less than four men watching her. We air kiss hello, and before I can remove my coat, the bartender appears and tells us that the gentlemen at the end of the bar want to buy us a round.

“Two cosmos. Cointreau and Stoli O, with a twist,” Angela pronounces without pausing to solicit my input. “And please tell them thank you.”

She must have something on her mind. It’s unlike Angela to use a barman as a messenger service. She normally thanks her admirers and benefactors in person, but she hasn’t even bothered checking these two out. I take a speedy inventory. They’re youngish, under forty. Italian suits that might disguise the very beginnings of a paunch. Tired eyes. A few grey hairs at the temples. Drinking scotch. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re litigators fresh off a trial. It’s too early on a Monday night to see Wall Street types or their corporate counsel out and about.

The bartender returns with our drinks. I lean over to take the first sip before daring to pick up my martini glass. Angela raises her cosmo to the men who paid for it. They toast back, but thankfully make no motion to get up. I should be thrilled to meet lawyers in bars. It works for Marvin. He’s made many lucrative contacts in dark places. But I’m not in the mood to banter about the legal scene and feign interest in some guy’s practice.

Angela cuts to the chase. “Has Kevin called you?”

“No. But I didn’t expect to hear from him today.” This is true, and I can almost kid myself into thinking it’s because he’s in the midst of a career meltdown.

“Bastard. I told him he should.” Angela takes another sip of her cosmo. “Maybe you should just fall on your sword so we can all move on.” Her BlackBerry buzzes. She checks the caller I.D. and silences it. “Damn Reiner. I’m going to have to change this number.”

I decide to ignore the aside about her discarded Bavarian suitor. “It might be easier for me to fall on my sword if I knew what the real problem was.”

“Um, where did you go to school?”

I look at her blankly. And then I start racking my brain for a reason Kevin could be so pissed off.

“It should be obvious. I mean, it’s been obvious to me for
years
.”

“What’s been obvious?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be coy.”

“I’m not.”

“Seriously? You don’t see it? Are you blind? He’s crazy about you.”

“Kevin?”

“Duh.”

“Since when?”

“Probably since forever, but really, truly, since things with you and Brendan started to cool off.”

“You mean when Brendan exploded out of the closet.”

“Nope. Way before then.” Angela re-crosses her legs. A woman in an indescribably dull St. John suit looks at them with what she hopes is disdain but is really envy.