The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken (31 page)

Of course I chicken out. Marvin and I follow our asymmetrically blue-eyed boss down to the street and cram into the back of a cab for the stop and go ride to Wall Street. Maybe she’ll whip out her compact and fix her face in the car. No such luck. Instead she gets on her cell phone and starts barking nonsensical orders at some registered nurse unlucky enough to be looking after Carol’s infirm but not utterly incapacitated mother. Evidently the moldings in her room at assisted living offend Carol, and she wants them replaced. Today, naturally. Marvin and I listen to this for a good five minutes before I work up the nerve to mouth, “Did you notice her eye shadow?” When Carol looks out the window at the passing storefronts lining Fifth Avenue, I gesture frantically at my own eyelids.

“What can we do?” Marvin hisses at me.

I shrug.

“We’re meeting a bunch of straight men. They won’t notice,” Marvin says.

I’m not so sure, but before I can do more than shrug again in response, Carol claps her phone shut and begins rooting around in her purse. She’s muttering under her breath about the idiots at the old folks’ home, and that it’s no wonder people lose their minds while living there. As the cabbie accelerates to beat a yellow light, she holds up a full-sized bottle of Bulgari perfume, which strikes me as an odd thing to carry around in a $10,000 Birkin bag.

Before I realize what’s happening, she’s doused—not just spritzed, but fully drenched—both herself and me with the perfume. And while it’s a nice scent, it’s not a weak one, and I’m pretty sure it’s going to clash with what I was already wearing. Marvin coughs dramatically, and the driver starts cursing Carol in his native tongue. I can actually see the cloud of fragrance hanging in the air over the backseat. Marvin rolls his window all the way down, and hangs his head out like a dog, while the cold air rushes in.

When we finally pour out of the taxi in front of Silverblum Gatz, Carol tips the driver less than a dollar. Sometimes when she does that, and she does it almost all the time, Marvin will slip the driver a couple of bucks, but this meeting is too important. He can’t risk triggering a tantrum. The cabbie speeds off with an effusive and obscene hand gesture aimed in our general direction.

The offices of the most prestigious bank in the world are plain and unremarkable, compared to the lavishly decorated law firms we frequently visit. We go through a main reception desk to get to Walker Smythe’s secretary, an old battle axe of a woman in gray, whose breasts have sunken to stomach level and whose no-nonsense glasses perch on the tip of her pointy nose. She ushers us into a medium-sized interior conference room. That’s also not par for the course; our law firm clients love to show off their views, so we always get put in the best boardroom space available. The idea is that we’ll gush to the recruits about the real estate.

The secretary leaves us, only to return almost immediately with a tray of coffee and Walker Smythe and two other bankers in tow. We stand up to shake hands. Carol sucks in her non-existent stomach and shamelessly arches her spine so her boobs thrust forward as she greets Walker Smythe. If he notices, he’s enough of a gentleman not to let on. Which, come to think of it, would be a rare thing in a heavy-hitting finance guy. They tend to be a pretty crass bunch. I also assume, admittedly based on stereotypes of rich older males, that Walker Smythe is not the kind of man who’d notice a woman his own age coming onto him. Especially one whose eye make-up resembles something from Picasso’s blue period.

After brief introductions, one of the bankers looks pointedly at the clock on the wall. I surreptitiously study Mr. Smythe, whom Carol pronounced “dreamy” a few weeks back. He’s got a strong chin, deep set eyes, and an overall distinguished air about him. He also sports manicured fingernails and what appear to be tweezed eyebrows. I wouldn’t say he’s dreamy, or even handsome, but then, to Carol, power and money hold way more sex appeal than any particular physical attribute.

Marvin launches into the presentation. He looks capable and in control as he ticks off the firm’s successes. When he starts to explain how Broadwick & Associates goes about screening its candidates, Walker Smythe cuts him off. He produces a piece of paper from his inside coat pocket and slides it across the table to Carol, who has managed, while Marvin was extolling her professional victories, to unbutton her blouse one more hole.

“We want one of these guys,” Walker Smythe says. “So that should make it easy.” His two partners nod curtly in agreement.

Clients give us wish lists all the time, and most of the time it’s an awkward moment, because we have to explain that they’re aiming way too high. Carol sometimes tells them it’s like dating. You have to stay in your own league. That line hardly ever goes over well at first, but usually the clients admire her chutzpah, so it works out for us. But any problem with over-reaching is virtually impossible in Silverblum’s case.

Carol smiles her most confident smile and says, “I’m sure any of these men would be thrilled to get a call from Zoë, saying Silverblum Gatz wants to talk to them. She will get started immediately. Marvin will call your assistant with a status report by the end of the week, and if you want, you and I can discuss any changes you want made to the list then.”

“That sounds fine.” Walker Smythe rewards Carol’s smile with a business-like nod. Uh-oh. She’s not going to like that.

It may not sound like much, but
I’m
going to get to make the first round of calls on their wish list. This means—without question—that my boss trusts me enough to let me interact with some of the most senior, talented and influential people in her contacts list. Carol would never let me navigate a candidate through Silverblum’s fourteen-stage interview process by myself, and Marvin has earned enough battle scars to be the client relationship point person, but this is still a
big
leap for me. I fully expected to be relegated back to placement of junior associates after she made an exception for Niles.

Normally, the next phase of the meeting would be the most important, especially since I’ll be making the initial calls. It’s when the client explains the “sell” for the firm, so we know what to say when we talk them up, but that’s not necessary here. I glance over at Marvin, and he’s flipping through his notes, obviously wondering if he should just wrap it up. He opts to do so, and before we know it, we’re in another soon-be-be-underpaid taxi, heading back to midtown. Carol should be ecstatic. She’s holding a list in her bag that confirms she, and not any other headhunter, has won one of the city’s most coveted assignments, but instead she’s stewing.

“Marvin!” she barks. “Is he gay?”

“Is who gay?”

“Walker Smythe.”

“No, I don’t think he is.”

Wow. That’s brave of Marvin. If she’d asked me, I would have ventured a maybe. Marvin can afford to be bold. He closed a firm record of four deals last week, and was rewarded with a more ergonomically correct chair, plus immunity from persecution for at least two weeks.

“Then what’s his problem?” my boss demands.

Neither of us responds. We’re only in the forties. We’re stuck in here for twenty more blocks. One of us will have to speak. I’m sure she’s surmised his problem already. I’d wager almost anything that twice-divorced Walker Smythe dates significantly younger women. But I really, really,
really
don’t want to say this to Carol, even though it’s cruel of her to put her employees on the spot about her personal affairs.

“Zoë, what do you think his problem is?”

I take the wimpy way out. “Maybe he thinks it’s important to keep things professional. I mean, this is a big search he gave us, sorry, I mean, gave you.”

Carol scrunches her face into a childlike look of extreme concentration. I think she actually holds her breath while she processes my theory because when she exhales, it comes out as a thoroughly unladylike grunt. Her age might not be in her favor, but Carol’s frequently masculine body language sure doesn’t help her case, either. I would never say this aloud, though, even if drunk
and
questioned at gun point.

“I’m going to take him to lunch at Peter Luger and find out for sure,” she says, suddenly a picture of poise. Her ability to change her mood in a fraction of a second never ceases to surprise me, but this latest plan strikes me as flawed. At best. Carol may be petite and impeccably attired, but she’s like a piranha around a good steak. I’ve seen her devour a side of beef more than once, and it doesn’t make for an attractive tableau.

Obviously I smile and nod and say nothing.

Imminent steakhouse debacle aside, I want to grin from ear to ear, but I know better. Carol might read such a brash display of positive emotion as a mark of mental instability. How ironic. But the truth is, I’m feeling great about the morning. We got the account and I received a major vote of confidence from my employer, in front of an incredibly important client. As a kind of added bonus, Carol’s mood has been moderated by her fantasy about a lunchtime seduction. When I return to my desk, recharged and ready to tackle the Silverblum wish list, there’s an unwelcome, subject-less email from Oscar waiting for me.

It says, simply, “We need to talk.”

By eight o’clock, I have stopped puttering in my apartment, pretending to straighten up stacks of magazines, re-organize the contents of my medicine cabinet, and sort through a week’s worth of junk mail. Now I’m just spinning in my tiny kitchen. I called Oscar as soon as I saw his message, but he said he was swamped and he’d come by after work tonight. Which could mean anytime between half an hour ago to four hours from now.

We. Need. To. Talk. The four words most dreaded by the entire English-speaking female dating population.

Naturally, I spent the bulk of the work day obsessing about what could be on his mind. And I’ve assured myself, repeatedly, almost like a mantra, that it cannot possibly be the phone. If he knew I’d snooped, he would have said something on the spot, or at least over the weekend. Maybe there is someone else. Just because Olivia seems happily in love with her new husband doesn’t remove the possibility of cheating for good. Or maybe he’s decided it’s all going too fast and he wants to put on the brakes. I floated this theory by Marvin, my third choice sounding board, since Angela has bigger problems of her own and it’s too damned awkward to ask Kevin. Not that he’s in a position to offer objective advice anyway.

Marvin thought that men who buy real estate for women don’t usually decide to slow things down immediately thereafter. I grabbed onto his reassurances enthusiastically. Then he said, “Of course, he
might
have met someone else. He meets people every day. It’s a possibility you have to consider.”

I could have smacked him for stating the obvious so bluntly. But that has to be it. My insides are churning, and I feel my skin heating up, like I’m about to break a sweat. How could I be so stupid? How could I let myself fall so hard and fast for someone older, richer, way more experienced, and generally a shade or two more refined and therefore perhaps out of my league? Yesterday I was wondering if I could trust him, but now that there’s a real chance I might lose him, I can’t handle it.

When the buzzer sounds, I nearly jump out of my skin. With shaky hands, I turn my deadbolt and admit my (soon to be ex?) boyfriend as soon as he knocks. He scoops me right up in his arms and plants a big kiss on my lips before taking a step back and asking, “Are you feeling okay? You look a little green.”

“I think I ate something funny at lunch,” I fib.

He takes off his coat and hangs it on my overflowing row of hooks. He’s got his suit jacket on, but he’s removed his tie and unbuttoned his collar. “You have any wine open?” he asks.

Hmm. Either whatever he has on his mind is minor, and I’ve been worried for nothing, or it’s so major that he thinks I need a drink to stomach the news.

I grab a bargain bin bottle of shiraz from the counter and hold it out for Oscar’s approval.

“Looks fine to me.”

I pour two glasses and we move to the couch, because my kitchen really can’t accommodate two un-entangled adult humans at once. I curl my legs underneath me and he sits with his head propped on his hand, which is resting on the back of the sofa, and looks at me. It’s a relaxed pose.

“We need to talk about Thanksgiving.”

“What about it?” I ask, as levelly as possible. While part of me is relieved he didn’t say we need to discuss our entire relationship, if he’s about to bail on our first out-of-the-city outing, not to mention meeting my parents, I think I hear brakes squeaking.

My face must show my alarm because he adds, “I’m still coming to Florida with you. It’s just that I can’t stay the whole weekend, because of a business trip that just came up. I’ll need to fly out of Miami Saturday, instead coming home with you Sunday, like we’d planned.”

A little half-laugh, half-snort slips out before I can stop it.

“What?” Oscar looks confused. His forehead wrinkles and he tilts his head to try to get a better read on my face, just like a puppy dog does when trying to understand what the people are on about.