The Night I Got Lucky (8 page)

“Of course.” I kissed him.

“I love you, Treetop.”

“You too, Marlowe.”

A woman dressed in a stylish tuxedo jacket appeared at our side. “We can seat you now. Sorry for the wait.”

“Ready?” Chris asked me. He stood up and held out his hand.

I let the questions fal away then. I reached out and placed my hand in his.

T
he next day, I left the office around 4:00 p.m. I walked the crowded streets of Michigan Avenue and made my way up the steps of the Art Institute. At the top, I stopped for my traditional pat of the stone lion on the left.

I’d spent most of the last eight hours trying to pretend that my new job was exactly the way it had always been—everyone at work seemed to think so—but it was hard to keep up the facade when I had no idea what I was doing. Much to my chagrin, I found that budgeting was a big part of my new position as vice president. For each account I oversaw, I had to design the budget. When I was a mere account supervisor, I used to toss my hair and complain that I simply didn’t have enough money, but now that I was making decisions on how much to charge a client (and therefore how much money we had to work with), I realized how tricky it was. If you decided a client needed too large a budget, they might balk and take their business elsewhere, yet if you reduced it, you might not have enough money to execute the campaign properly. By the time 4:00 rol ed around, my head was aching and my eyes were exhausted from crunching numbers.

Inside the Institute, I flashed my annual pass at the ticket taker and wandered the cool marble hal ways. I gazed at the Etruscan pitchers made of bronze and the metal armor that seemed too tiny to hold a knight. I stared at the Cassatt and strol ed through a Manet exhibition.

Meandering through the Art Institute was an old trick of mine, something I’d discovered when I first started working. I loved the unhurried reverence of the place. And by taking in the beauty and the antiquity, it reminded me how smal my purported troubles were, how insignificant. I was able to laugh (or at least chuckle grudgingly) at my so-cal ed problems and forget what ailed me.

But it wasn’t working today. There was no way to overlook what had happened—the massive shift in al facets of my life that had occurred with no transition, no official proclamations and very little recognition of the change by anyone. It was almost like being a car accident victim, someone who had glanced down to switch the dashboard radio station and looked back up to find a tractor-trailer stal ed in their path. Life can change in an instant—we al know that—but in my case, I seemed to be the
only
one to know the change had happened.

Final y, staring at a miniature portrait of a woman with ruby-red lips, I decided to just get on with it. Embrace the new life, the new job.

And so I slipped my silver cel phone from my purse and cal ed Evan, stil at his desk, and asked him if he’d discuss budgeting with me over a cup of coffee. I couldn’t talk to him in the office, for fear that someone would overhear us and I’d look il -suited for the job.

“No coffee,” Evan said. “I need a beer. Sounds like you do, too.”

“Fine. Wrightwood Tap, I presume.”

“Baby, I love how you know me.” It wasn’t hard to guess that Evan would want to go to Wrightwood Tap, a DePaul University hangout. Evan had attended DePaul for his undergrad degree, and the Tap was stil his favorite watering hole. It probably didn’t hurt that the place was always ful of female coeds, sipping beers and hiking up their very low-waisted jeans.

At five o’clock, I met him at the bar, and we found a tal open table by the front windows. The place had a center rectangular bar, scarred wood floors and laminated menus boasting the usual bar fare.

We ordered beers—a Corona for me, Old Style for Evan. Despite being a VP and living in a slick, north side condo, Evan was stil very south side in his beer tastes. “It’s in the genes,”

he always said. Personal y, I felt that Evan was holding tight to something that would make him similar, in some smal way, to his father. Tommy O’Reil y, Evan’s dad, was a career plumber who wanted his only son to learn the business and eventual y take it over. Instead, Evan got a scholarship to DePaul and went into PR. He endured constant barbs from his father about how he must be a “fairy” to do such a job, but Evan stil went back to the south side on Sundays to watch footbal or basebal with his dad. And he stil drank Old Style.

“So what’s happening, hot stuff ?” Evan asked as our beers were delivered.

“It’s the budgeting. I don’t know how to do it. I mean, math has never been my forte, and now I’m crunching numbers al the time. I never know if the numbers I’m throwing out there are legit or if they’re total y off. And how do you decide on an initial figure? It’s so random. And—”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down. It’s no big deal. You’l get the hang of it.”

“It
is
a big deal.”

“Why?”

“Hel o? Because I’l get fired if I can’t do this job correctly.”

“So, you’re afraid someone wil do to you what you did to Alexa?”

I silently fiddled with the label of my beer bottle. I’d been trying not to think about Alexa al day. I’d avoided her now empty cubicle. I’d sent her file back to HR. But I couldn’t stop seeing her shocked face when I’d told her, and I couldn’t stop hearing the sound of those lyrical y vindictive Spanish words.

“Thanks for the reminder,” I said at last.

Evan shrugged innocently.

“Al right, yes,” I said, “I’m afraid I’l get fired or demoted or whatever. You know how hard I worked to get here, Ev.”

“Sure, I do, but no one’s going to fire you.” He reached across the table and patted my hand. Actual y, it was more than a pat. It was something like a rub. His hand was very warm.

I felt a crazy desire to grasp his hand, but instead, I pul ed away and made a show of glancing at the menu. “C’mon, Roslyn wil demote me or fire me in a heartbeat if I don’t pul my weight.”

“No, she won’t.”

“What do you mean? Remember Chad from two years ago? She fired him after he’d made VP. And she just okayed me to fire Alexa, so she obviously doesn’t have a problem with axing people.”

“Yeah, but that was Chad and Alexa. She’d never fire you.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Evan’s mint-green eyes squinted for a second, as if searching for something in a bright room in his mind. “She just wouldn’t. You’re supposed to be a VP. So it doesn’t matter what you do.”

I was reminded of Chris last night, when I raised the topic of why we were suddenly getting along so wel , tel ing me it didn’t matter. I got a flash of that green frog on my nightstand.

“Look, Ev, just help me out, okay? Tel me how to do this.” I pul ed a manila envelope from my bag, the one holding Odette’s account, which was up for rebudgeting. I wanted to be able to do so much for her, but I knew she had limited funds to pay us.

“Anything for you.” Evan dragged his stool around so we sat side by side. Our arms touched as he pul ed Odette’s file from the envelope.

“Okay,” he said, holding out the old budget. As he did this, he put his other hand very lightly on the side of my thigh. It seemed an innocent enough gesture, but I could feel the warmth of his hand on my leg, and for a moment, my Everlasting Crush turned on with ful force.

Evan began talking about the different figures on the page, about the results we’d gotten for Odette thus far and what that meant in terms of revising her budget. I tried to focus, but the numbers swam. His hand now felt heavy and hot. I had a brief flash of longing for that hand to move higher.

A moment later, he took his hand away to search for something in the file, but I could stil sense it, as if he’d left a handprint, one that seared through my skirt, into my skin. Even after I’d thanked him, paid for our beers and began walking home, I could stil feel it.

I cal ed my sister Hadley the next morning.

“Bil y! How are you?” she said, voice booming through the phone. In London it was the end of the day, but she sounded as chipper as if she’d just arrived at her office after ten hours of sleep. The truth was, Hadley was one of those people who required only five hours a night.

“I’m great, Hads. How are you?” I took a seat on a bar stool in our kitchen, my morning Diet Coke in front of me.

“It’s insane around here. You know how it goes.”

“Sure,” I said. But real y, I had no idea what it was like to be a top asset manager at an investment bank, nor did Hadley ever tel me. Although we e-mailed occasional y, this was the first time I’d spoken to her on the phone in months.

“What about you?” Hadley asked.

“Wel , I just made vice president.”

“That’s amazing!” Hadley might not have come home for my wedding, but she appreciated corporate ladder-climbing.

“Yeah, thanks. Hey, have you been in touch with Mom? I got a postcard that said she’s in Milan.”

“I saw her last night.”

“You did?” I tried to keep the shock from my voice. Not only was my mother at the fashion shows in Milan, but she’d traveled to London, too? “Is she okay?”

“She’s great,” Hadley said. “She was so nice about the—” she cleared her throat “—baby stuff.” The “baby stuff” was what Hadley cal ed her infertility problems.

“How’s that going?”

“It’s not. I think maybe I waited too long.” Her voice was lower now, and it made me sad.

“God, I’m sorry, Hadley. This must be so hard.”

“Oh, it’s okay. Nigel mentioned to Mom that we might look into getting a surrogate, since I seem to be the problem, and when Mom heard that, she offered to do it.”

I cracked up at the image of my nearly sixty-year-old mother with a ripe, pregnant bel y, but it didn’t surprise me that she’d offered to do something scientifical y impossible. My mother would do (or at least attempt to do) anything for us. Particularly since my father had left. At the fleeting thought of my dad, I waited for the usual pang to hit my psyche, the feeling of utter disappointment, a sick wondering of
why.
But nothing happened. I made myself think of him again. Wonderful y, nothing.

“So when is Mom heading home?” I asked.

“Not sure. She’s back in Milan as far as I know. Hold on.” Hadley began talking to someone in her office, rattling off stock prices and cal orders.

“Hads,” I said, “I’l let you go, but do you know where Mom is staying?”

“The Grand Hotel. You want the number?”

I grabbed the pad of paper sitting on our granite bartop and jotted the phone number.

“Congrats about the promotion, Bil y,” Hadley said. “You deserve it.”

“Thanks.” But her words somehow failed to register.

As I dialed the Grand Hotel, Chris came into the kitchen, looking handsome in an olive suit and gold tie. I expected him to dash past me with a kiss on the cheek as usual—especial y after we’d fooled around half the night, both of us only getting a few hours of sleep—but he stopped and hugged me from behind, nuzzling my shoulder.

“Good morning,” I said slowly, thinking that if I could start out every day with a hug and a nuzzle from my husband, I’d be a very satisfied girl.

Chris growled. “Come back to bed.”

I giggled and pointed at the phone. “I’m trying to find my mom. What do you have going on today?”

Chris nibbled my earlobe, mumbling, “Nothing important,” before he disentangled himself and began taking eggs and turkey bacon from the fridge.

“What are you doing?” I said as the phone rang at my mother’s hotel.

“Making breakfast for you.”

I sat there, surprised. “That’s sweet, but I don’t eat breakfast. I don’t like it.”

“You just think that.” Chris slipped off his suit coat and turned up his shirtsleeves.

“No, I real y don’t like breakfast. And you know it, too.” I could eat a big lunch with clients, I could inhale a fat bowl of pasta from Merlo for dinner, I could consume a large buttered popcorn at the movies, but I could not eat breakfast. There was something repulsive about eating first thing in the morning. It was as if my stomach hadn’t yet woken up with the rest of my body.

Chris shook his head and gave me a knowing smile as he went about cracking eggs.

I was about to reassert how much I didn’t want breakfast, but cooking for me was such a kind gesture, so Chris-of-old, that I hesitated, and then a cultured male voice answered with a string of melodic Italian words, two of which were “Grand Hotel.”

“Katherine Lovel ,” I said.

“One moment,” the man said, switching to English. “I’l connect you.”

I listened to the tinny ringing of a phone while I watched my husband sauté onions and some kind of exotic mushrooms. I put my hand over the phone. “Chris, honey, seriously,” I said, shaking my head at his culinary goings-on, but he only winked and waved me away.

“Pronto?”
my mother’s voice cal ed into the phone.

“Mom, it’s me!” I sounded like a seven-year-old.

“Baby dol ! How are you?”

“I’m great. How are
you?
”

“Oh, just wonderful.”

“What are you doing there?” I asked.

“Wel , the shows are almost over. I was
so
disappointed at first. I mean, honestly, I missed most of the shows, and do you know how hard it is to get in to the rest? If I hadn’t met Claudia, I’d stil be sitting at the hotel bar. But then I did get in, and yuck! The Trussardi stuff was just plain boring. Final y, yesterday, Claudia and I found the most to-die-for suits in this delicious celadon-green from Trevi.”

“Who’s Claudia?”

“Just someone I met over here. She and her husband have taken me under their wing. I swear, they’ve got me out to shows every day and some party or another every night.”

“Oh,” I said inanely. I felt a pang of jealously toward this Claudia.

“So anyway, this celadon is just perfect. I’ve ordered that, and we’re going to the Caval i and Strenesse shows today. Fingers crossed!” My mother prattled on about a pink coat she’d seen at a Pucci show and a white suit with a fur col ar by Lancetti and a party that night on the Canals, while I tried to fol ow it al and stil absorb the fact that my normal y reclusive mother had a very hectic social schedule in Milan, of al places.