The Sweet Edge

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THE SWEET EDGE

Copyright © 2013 by Risa Peris
and Blue Bow Media

Cover art by Indie Author Services. Copyediting and interior book design by Blue Bow Media.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews – without permission in writing from its author.

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www.risaperis.com

Campbell flicked the cigarette ash into the night sky and watched as the white and gray embers twisted and turned in the cold wind. He was at the top of the skyscraper, which housed the corporate offices of Razor Edge Financial where he was a top broker. Razor Edge had exclusive use of the buildings highest open level. During the summers, the company hosted popular evening parties replete with musicians and bartenders. Campbell went to the last party of the season in the beginning of August. The air had been heavy with humidity but the drinks were cold and strong, the music loud, the food excellent, Manhattan glittering and the ice shavings from the ice carvers sprayed most of the guests with occasional cool gusts. Campbell had set on a divan under a light laden tree and sipped dirty martinis sullenly while his friends (business acquaintances really) laughed, talked about their cars and eyed women. Someone had invited models to the party. More than likely the CEO, Devin Roberts, had contracted with a modeling agency to lease a slew of women to attend the party. Devin liked beautiful women but, more importantly, he wanted the company to be the leader in swanky Manhattan parties and beautiful women were generally a requisite. The models were aware they were around wealthy men or potentially very successful men and were making the rounds with saucy looks and dollar hungry eyes. Models and wealthy men were as symbiotic as peanut butter and jam.

Campbell had just ended the day. His team had traded millions and netted the company close to twenty-five million in one day. It was a good day. He was set to clear a three million dollar bonus at the end of the year even in the recession plagued economy. But he wasn't happy. He was standing smoking his Dunhills and blowing smoke circles into the winter sky. It was three weeks until Christmas and a cold snap had settled across New York. Staring at the gray sky he contemplated where to spend the holiday. Going home was out of the question. Campbell was from South Boston and his parents, despite the influx of money he had funneled their way over the years, preferred to continue living in the white and green clap trap in Dorchester that he had called home for eighteen years of his life. It was a miserable looking corner home with a concrete backyard and a pathetic looking side garden that his mother unsuccessfully tried to grow roses in. The roses never seemed to bloom and their newborn pink petals quickly turned brown, shriveled and littered the ground. One of his chores was sweeping the backyard and Campbell struggled to sweep up the brown mess. He secretly cursed roses or plants of any kind as he saw them as a job to be ticked off before he could collect his paltry allowance. He had no plants in his Park Avenue condo though he could definitely afford to have a florist deliver plants and flowers and tend to them on a weekly basis.

Campbell grounded out the cigarette stub with his shoe. He shoved his hands in his coat and stared at the city. He considered Manhattan a beast. His Manhattan was not a carefree Manhattan. The city was hard and it took ingenuity, a strong work ethic, money and luck to survive it. When he arrived at twenty-five from Harvard Business School he was eager, driven and starry eyed. The infatuation with Manhattan quickly faded and all that was left was long days at the office, incessant construction sounds and the blur of sirens. But Manhattan was where you went to be the king of kings. It was simply not enough to be the King of Boston or the King of Cleveland. For true respect you had to be the King of New York. Devin Roberts was that King. He was worth one billion based on stocks alone and he was flown into the office each day by helicopter from Connecticut. He could have anything and he had the respect of everyone who met him. Campbell wanted that. Since he was a child he wanted Devin Roberts's life. He never asked himself why. It didn't seem unreasonable or even fodder for psychoanalysis to want that life when he grew up in poverty. His father was a butcher and his mother was a cocktail waitress. They were second generation Irish, and though they lived in better conditions than their parents, they were still poor and disrespected. Campbell still remembers, like an appalling toothache, when his high school girlfriend's parents had forbidden her to see him and had refused to allow her to attend the prom with him.  Her name was Skye and she was a beautiful red head with pale skin and freckles. She reminded him of a mermaid with her luxurious tresses and delicate features. Skye was careful where they went on dates and usually she preferred to sit in his Camaro and star gaze while they passed Boone's Wine back and forth. Campbell had convinced himself that she was discreet and shy but deep down there lurked a dark worm. Skye was ashamed of him and when her father found them in the car by the shore he could see from Skye's face that she was indeed ashamed of him. Her father, a police officer, had pulled Campbell out of the car by his ear. He then spat at Campbell and called him "trash". Skye sent him notes in school apologizing and claiming that her father was "mean and angry" and she couldn't possibly disobey him by continuing to see him. Campbell burned the notes and promised himself that someday he would find an even more beautiful woman. A woman to cause envy in lesser women. A woman who wanted to be with him despite his family. No shame.

"How long are you going to be out here?"

Campbell didn't turn around. He sighed. "Is HR gone?"

"Yeah. Just left. Do you want your messages?"

"Put them on my desk."

"You OK?" Margaret, Campbell's assistant, was standing in the glass doorway bracing against the cold wind.

"I'm fine Margaret."

"It was a good day, right?" Margaret squinted at Campbell as she patted down her blonde hair.

"It was a wonderful day." Campbell knew she was counting on a healthy Christmas bonus from him. Margaret loved good financial days at the office. He knew she noted every detail to justify, if she ever had to, her bonus worthiness. "You can go Margaret. I'm heading home soon."

"Alright. Have a nice evening. Remember you have a reservation at Lola's tonight."

"I know. Thanks Margaret." She turned and closed the heavy glass door.

Campbell sighed. He pulled out his iPhone and checked for messages. He had several work related texts, a few missed calls from unknown numbers and two new emails from Kristin. He opened them and read them.

Hey Cammie:

Do you mind if I use your credit card for a trip to Saks. I need a new coat and my actress salary isn't allowing such a splurge. You said I could use the card for emergencies and, well, I'm freezing my toned ass off.

TTYL, Krissie

Campbell deleted the email and read the next.

Hey Cammie:

Didn't get a response about the credit card. I figured you wouldn't mind. Bought a new coat. Fake mink but so wonderfully soft. You will love it. BTW, it was on sale.

Kisses, Krissie

Campbell stuck his phone back in his pocket. He was meeting Kristin for dinner. He didn't want to talk to her now. Campbell wanted to stay outside, staring at the city in the frigid weather. He could feel his face getting numb. He wasn't sure why he was brooding. He should be sipping champagne with his team. Campbell decided he wasn't happy. He wasn't sure why. He had everything he wanted. Money, a high powered job, a beautiful girlfriend, the ability to travel wherever he desired, respect of his colleagues and the residents in his co-op…there was no reason not to be happy. Campbell walked toward the edge and looked down. From the top of the skyscraper you couldn’t even see the sidewalk or the street below. He felt he was suspended over an abyss and had a sudden terrible fear.

"What if I jumped? Climbed the security gate and plunged to my death? What would I think of on the way down?" Campbell tightened his coat around him. "I wouldn't be a woman with regrets," said Campbell aloud. "I would think about missing a fine meal at Lola's."

Campbell retreated. This was his habit. Whenever he got too close to understanding himself, or thinking about life he pulled away and focused on basic things like food or sex.

Stella twisted her pearl drop earring and thought about sleeping. She sipped a cup of coffee that was sitting next to the reservation book. The manager didn't allow visible drinks for the staff. Usually you had to go to the kitchen and drink but the manager was out sick. Something about swollen ankles, which Stella found humorous.

"Who calls in sick with swollen ankles when you’re thirty years old?" wondered Stella.

Stella figured the rules didn't apply when the manager was gone. The Assistant Manager, Kelly Morrison, was in charge and she was a friend of Stella's. Not a close friend. A literary friend.  Kelly was in the same writing group as Stella. Kelly wouldn't attack Stella for drinking coffee in the open. Kelly would understand why Stella was tired. Spending the morning writing, then the afternoon transcribing in a law office and then the evening as a hostess at a restaurant could deplete anyone's energy.

Stella looked at the reservation book. They were full. It would be a very busy night. Stella sighed and continued twisting her pearl earring. The earrings had been bought in the Village on a triple markdown rack. They were pretty but heavy and they tugged at her ear lobes. She wanted to take them off but she knew they enhanced her outfit and Lola's was all about image. The restaurant required that she dress nicely and in all black, which for Stella meant rotating two outfits throughout the week.

The phone rang and Stella picked it up. "Hello, Lola's. How can I help you?"

"Oh, yes," said the haughty voice. "I would like to make a reservation for one. I would like to eat the balls of a bull. Do you serve that? I spent time in Spain and am simply mad about bulls balls."

"Ummm…I'm not sure the kitchen can prepare that."

The caller then guffawed. "It's me silly."

Stella relaxed her shoulders and smiled. "Really Jane. Don't you have better things to do than prank calling me?"

"Nope. Not at all. How's the J-O-B going?"

"Fine. Getting ready for a busy night which basically means I am gulping coffee."

"So Derek is having a shindig tonight. Please come. It's in his sister's loft. Not far from Lola's."

"I'm working."

"Come over when you get off work. Pleaaassseeee. You simply must come. There will be loads of artists and writers. Derek always invites interesting people. I'm sure the party will just be getting in high gear when you get there."

"I'll think about it. I'm really tired though." Stella eyed the door. One of the waitresses rushed in. She was tying her black apron and kept her head down.

"You always say you're tired. You can sleep when you're dead."

"On that note, I'm going to hang up now."

"I'll text you the address of the party."

"OK."

Stella took another sip of coffee. She considered using the restroom and leaning her head against the stall to get a few blissful moments with her eyes shut but the front door opened and customers began filing in. It was 6:00 PM. Very early for a Manhattan dinner but Lola's was popular.

The night unfolded like any other busy night in the restaurant. Reservations were confirmed, canceled, take out was ordered, people were seated and menus passed out. Stella forgot she was tired a half hour into her shift. She had a few difficult customers and one slipped her a $50 dollar bill if he could get a center table. He objected to being seated near the kitchen.

"It's all about visibility," said the man in a crisp, dark suit. He was balding but Stella could see hairs poking from his ears and nose.

"What is?"

"Sitting in the center gets you noticed."

"So you want to be noticed?"

“Don’t we all?”

Stella smiled tightly. “Not all of us.”

“Well, I’m a movie producer. I have to be seen. Job demands it.”

“OK, well I will see about getting you that center table. Might have to wait a few minutes.”

“I’ll wait. I’ll wait.”

Stella shuffled some of the reservations. A $50 dollar tip wasn’t bad at all considering she rarely got tips. Occasionally the waiters and waitresses would slip her a tip but they weren’t required to so most of them didn’t.

“I think I found a way to get you that table. Ten minute wait.”

“Perfect.”

Stella sighed and checked the table in the center of the restaurant. The couple was finishing their creme brulee.

“How was your dinner?” Stella asked the couple.

“Marvelous. Thank you.” The woman spoke up. She had hair as black as a raven’s and winter blue eyes.

“Great. Shall I get you the check?”

“Oh, yes. Please.”

Stella signaled the waiter, David. He walked over to her. He was balancing a martini on a tray.

“Table wants their check. I need to turn it. We got a high roller. I see a big tip in the future for you.”

“Wonderful. I’ll scoot the couple out as fast as possible.”

Stella walked back to the hostess station. “Just a couple of minutes, sir.”

“You’re terrific.” The man was smiling.

“No problem.” Stella smiled and turned her attention to the man in front of her. Campbell looked at Stella expectantly. Stella noted he was tall, had dark hair and was pulling his cashmere coat around him. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“I have a reservation. Campbell Royce. I’m running late. My date is probably already here.”

Stella looked at the reservation book and then swiveled her head to look at the tables. “Your table is ready. I don’t believe your date is here yet.”

Campbell looked surprised. “Oh. Are you sure?”

Stella rolled her eyes discreetly. “Yes, I’m sure. No one is sitting at your table. Do you want to be seated?”

“Sure. That would be great.”

“Just follow me.” Stella led Campbell to a booth tabletop under a gilded mirror. Campbell slid across the black leather and snapped his napkin that had been sitting like a peacock on an ivory plate. “Here’s the menu. Our specials tonight are Ahi tuna tartar with seasonal vegetables and pan seared lamb with mint chutney and pilaf. The soup tonight is lobster bisque.”

“I need a drink.”

“Your server will be with you shortly.” Stella eyed the front lobby where people were waiting impatiently.

“Vodka tonic with Belvedere. Two olives and a lime.”

Stella stared at Campell.
Demanding ass aren’t you
? Stella thought. There were plenty of men like him in New York. Every day at least one had to ruin her day. Stella suddenly felt weary. Campbell didn’t make eye contact and was staring at his silverware. Inspecting, really. As if he was expecting them to be dirty.

“I’ll put the order in and then your waitress will be with you.” Stella smiled tightly and hurried to the computer terminal to put the drink order in. Stella looked around for Kaye and saw her emerging from the kitchen holding a tray aloft. Stella rushed over.

"Table 34 is a pain. I just put his vodka tonic in."

"Thanks. I'll grab it."

Stella turned and saw Kelly hovering at the hostess station. She didn't look happy. Stella hurried over.

"Where have you been?"

"I'm back. Customer wanted me to get his drink."

"Oh. We're really busy tonight. I really can't have you leaving for too long." Kelly hooked her blonde hair behind her ears.

"I didn't leave. I was just making a customer happy." Stella smiled tersely and focused on the guests in front of her.

Stella spent the next two hours hustling. That's what Kelly called it. Hustling. To Stella it just meant running around until her feet hurt. At 11:00 PM the flow of customers stopped and Stella locked the front doors. There were still several customers eating, drinking and chatting but her work was done. The beauty of being a hostess was that you didn't have to clean or break anything down. When the customers stopped coming in, the job was done.

"How do you think tonight went?" Kelly looked flushed.

"Everything went smoothly. Why?"

"Heard from a source that Jessica might be taking some leave. Some medical disorder."

Jessica was the stern manager who liked to hustle even more than Kelly. "You planning on taking her spot?"

"Planning. Hoping." Kelly smiled ruefully.

"Well, hope you get it. If that's what you want."

"It's what I want. Running a restaurant. That's what the fancy degree is for." Stella knew Kelly had attended Cornell. Stella was doubtful that an Ivy League education was needed to run a restaurant but in Manhattan you needed any edge you could get to survive.

"Well, I'm done. There's a party to go to but I'm ready for bed."

"You look frazzled. Get a drink why don't you. Can't beat half price drinks." Every employee at Lola's was allowed to drink at a discount.

"Not a bad idea."

Stella headed to the long, softly lit bar. "Hey, Carlos. Can I get a vodka and grapefruit?"

"Stella!" Carlos held his arms out and yelled.

"Very funny. If I had a nickel for every Street Car Named Desire reference…"

"I know. You would have ten cents."

"Ha. Try five bucks. Give or take." Stella smiled.

"You look beat. What kind of vodka do you want?"

"Doesn't matter." Stella nudged herself into the high, modern bar stool.

"The kind of vodka always matters."

Stella turned. "Oh, it's you. Mr. Vodka Tonic."

Campbell bristled slightly. "Yes, that was me. I'm working on Midori Sours now. But may I suggest a good vodka for your drink?"

Stella pursed her lips. "Hey Carlos."

"Yeah?"

"What's the cheapest vodka?"
"Smirnoff."

"Is it good?"

"Mediocre."

"I'll have that."

"One Smirnoff and grapefruit coming up." Carlos started whistling Singin' in the Rain.

"You're making a mistake." Campbell was staring into his glass.

"Well, I'm poor. Struggling writer. Cheap is good because it means I can pay my overpriced rent."

"I'm not poor." Campbell looked up and looked momentarily youthful.

“Good for you.” Stella ran her hands through her hair and took off the oversized earrings. Carlos set a squat glass in front of her, bottle green. Stella took a sip.

“How is it?” Campbell was still staring at her and Stella suddenly felt self-conscious.

“Perfect.” Stella took another sip and swiveled her body to the left, away from Campbell and his dagger eyes.

“No it’s not.”

Stella sighed. “I like it.”

“No you don’t.”

Stella felt her weariness and impatience snapping. “Who the hell are you and why are you sticking your nose in my business? I’m off work so I don’t have to be nice to you anymore.”

Carlos looked up, smiled and continued stacking silver shakers. Campbell looked back down at his drink. He looked chastised.

Campbell held up his glass. “Another one please.”

“It was last call 15 minutes ago.” Carlos looked at Campbell with a small smile.

“You served her.” Campbell jerked his thumb at Stella.

“She works here.”

“Double standards.” Campbell gulped the rest of the liquid in his glass.

“Just how many have you had?” Stella was curious.

“I don’t know. Eight, nine or ten.”

“Nine.” Carlos sat the bill in front of Campbell.

“What a bargain! It only cost me $146.00 dollars to get kind of drunk.” Campbell handed a black American Express to Carlos. “I suppose you’re going to want a nice big tip.”

Carlos slid the card on the cash register. “That would be nice. Yes.”

“Do you think you’ve earned it?”

Carlos hesitated. “Ye…Yes.”

“That doesn’t sound confident. Tell you what. I’ll leave what you think you are worth. How much should I leave you?”

“This is crazy.” Stella could feel anger rising in her.

“Tell me how much you’re worth?”

“Twen…”

“I couldn’t quite hear that…did you say twenty? So you’re worth twenty percent? You could have had fifty percent. If you had asked.” Campbell pulls a twenty out of his wallet and puts in on the bar ceremoniously, as if he were offering up an emerald.

“What an ass!” Stella stood up and glared at Campbell.

“Oh, yes. I am.”

“Well, at least you know it.” Stella rushed to the locker room, put on her coat and scarf, and changed her low heeled pumps to flats. She took a deep breath. “It’s OK. Calm down. It’s OK.” Stella took another deep breath and walked into the dining room. Campbell was gone and Carlos was carting dishes to the kitchen. Stella waved good bye. Carlos nodded his head in her direction. Stella walked out into the cold night.