These Girls (28 page)

“It isn’t that,” she said.

A waiter approached to clear away their plates, took one look at their faces, and kept walking.

“What is it then?” His eyes narrowed. “Is there someone else?”

Abby closed her eyes. “No,” she lied.

He drove her home, and they talked for another hour in his pickup truck as it idled in front of the house. Pete kept circling her with questions, repeating them again and again, like a prosecutor trying to trip up a witness.

“You still love me,” he said. “Didn’t you tell me that?”

“I’m not in love with you, though,” Abby sidestepped.

He hit the steering wheel with both fists—lightly, but it was an angry gesture and she saw a vein throbbing in his neck. “When you called you said you wanted to see me tonight. You said you’d been thinking about me. Why did you say that?” Pete demanded.

“Pete, I’m so sorry.” Abby felt a catch in her throat. She’d
found fault with Pete because he didn’t sense her feelings, and yet here she was, tromping all over his. “I shouldn’t have called you. It was just an impulsive thing. I didn’t really think about it.”

“Just tell me why,” he said. “Give me the reason. Do you want to get married?”

Yes,
she thought.
But not to you.

When she finally reached to open the door, he slid across the bench seat and wrapped his arms around her. She turned and let him kiss her, but she didn’t kiss him back.

“Abby,” he said, tilting his forehead against hers. “I can’t lose you. I need you.”

It was probably the most passionate thing he’d ever said to her, but she could smell Thai food on his breath and suddenly she wanted to gag. She reached for the handle again and tried to open the door, but he leaned over and kissed her again, his lips crushing painfully against hers.

“Pete,
stop,
” she said, wrenching away.

“Come home with me,” he said. He was breathing hard as he grabbed her hand, and she tried to pull it free, but his grip was too tight. “Just for tonight. We haven’t been together in so long.”

Did he really think sex would solve this? Even if she hadn’t fallen for Bob, she never would have ended up with Pete. Her fingers were growing numb from his grip. “I have to go,” she cried. “Pete, let me go!”

He looked down and seemed surprised to find that he was holding her hand. He released it, and his broad shoulders slumped. The look on his face was so dejected that she added, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

It was the worst thing to promise—she knew she should have made a clean break—but she had to get out of the car.

“Abby,” he said. She looked back as she opened the door, but
she couldn’t read the expression in his dark eyes. “If it’s another guy . . . I’ll fight for you.”

She shut the door and tried to hurry away, but the heels of her boots sank into the soft earth of the lawn—as if it was on Pete’s side and was trying to hold her back, too. She finally made it to the front walk and followed it toward the house until she veered onto the side path leading to the basement entrance. As she did so, she looked up at Bob and Joanna’s bedroom window. She could have sworn she saw the curtains move, as if someone was standing there, watching.

Cate leaned toward the mirror, capturing her upper eyelashes in a contraption that looked suspiciously like a medieval torture device, while she thought about the night ahead of her. She’d arrived in DC a few hours earlier for the National Magazine Awards—fortunately Nigel had come in on a later train—but he’d texted her a few minutes ago to suggest she come to his room for a “pre-event toddy.” She’d quickly written back that she’d just gotten back from the hotel gym and needed to shower.

To tell the truth, she was already dressed in the blue-black satin sheath that had looked charmingly Audrey Hepburn-ish on the hanger. The saleswoman was so enthusiastic that Cate had ended up buying it even though she worried she might look underdressed because it was so plain. Plus—and here was something she’d never tell her magazine colleagues—she hated shopping. If she could, she’d live in jeans and soft, old T-shirts. She compensated for the dress by applying more makeup than usual, outlining her eyes in smudgy kohl, dusting a bit of bronzer on her cheeks, applying two coats of mascara to her curled lashes, and dabbing a soft pink gloss on her lips.

She studied herself in the mirror, then used a tissue to blot
away some of the eyeliner. She wasn’t a big fan of makeup, either, but she’d probably get drummed out of the magazine world if she revealed that. Or at least transferred to
Home & Garden.

She wouldn’t be able to escape from Nigel at dinner, and the ceremony was sure to stretch out for a few hours. Cate was suddenly gripped with the desire to call in sick and spend the rest of the night in her luxurious room at the W hotel, watching old black-and-white movies while she picnicked on the contents of the minibar. Cashews, M&M’s, and Humphrey Bogart had never seemed like such an alluring combination.

But she was the features editor, and even if she was under-qualified and in over her head—
especially
because of those things—she needed to act professionally. She’d shake hands and mingle, collect and pass out business cards, smile and somehow get through the night. Then she’d figure out what to do about Sam’s article.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was good, which made her decision even tougher. He’d left in too many statistics, but he’d also broadened the personal story of the young polygamous wife, as Cate had demanded. She might be tempted to see this version of his story as a compromise, something she could work with, except that would mean her implied forgiveness for his delay in getting it to her on time.

The editing process would take at least another week. She wasn’t looking forward to the inevitable battles as she and Sam squared off over every tweak and cut. She should probably just kill the piece, and put in an evergreen article. If she didn’t take a stand, he’d keep trying to push her around, and he might end up shoving her out of her job.

The problem that she could barely admit to herself was that she doubted her own judgment. She wondered if the story
should
have more statistics. Had the polygamous-wife angle been overdone? She hated the fact that Sam was making her question herself.

She reached up and rubbed her neck; apparently the knot in her stomach had spawned a love child there. No matter what happened, the Reece Moss piece would be the splashiest story of the issue, and it would have to hold up the rest of the magazine. God, did she ever need Trey to come through with something spectacular.

She sighed, picked up her beaded clutch purse, slipped into her heels, and took one last look at herself in the mirror. Her hair was pinned up in a twist, and her earrings dangled halfway down to her bare shoulders. She tucked a credit card, room key, cell phone, and her Chanel lip gloss into her bag, picked up her wrap, then took the elevator to the lobby and climbed into a waiting taxi.

Fifteen minutes later, she was pulling up in front of the Marriott. She walked into the reception as a few photographers snapped her picture. Cate didn’t flatter herself that the pictures would ever be printed—the photographers were here to capture the certifiable stars on hand to present awards. She scanned the crowd and saw groups clustering around Barbara Walters, Brooke Shields, Aaron Sorkin, and Valerie Bertinelli. There was a big blond guy who looked vaguely familiar until Cate realized she’d just seen him on a TV show, and a character actress she recognized from the movies. Her torrid love scene flashed briefly before Cate’s eyes. It must be bizarre to expose yourself for a role and know that everyone you met from that moment on would have the same giggly, involuntary thought:
I’ve seen you naked!

Cate kept looking around the room, feeling her shyness cover her like a cloak. So many people, and they all seemed
to be locked in conversations. Two big bars, one at either end of the room, did a brisk business serving wine and martinis and Scotch, and waiters cut through the crowd with trays of ceviche shots, seared scallops, and miniature baked Bries with raspberry sauce. She forced herself to lift her chin and take a step down the stairs. She’d wander over to a bar and get a drink and hope she saw somebody she knew. Cate was at the bottom of the staircase when she spotted David, the
Gloss
photographer who’d pinched Renee’s behind that night at Trey’s party, back when Abby first came to town. It seemed like such a long time ago, Cate thought. She lifted a hand to wave at him, and he broke away from his group to come greet her.

It was the first nice surprise of the night.

The awards ceremony wasn’t nearly as bad as Cate had expected. She’d geared up for rubber chicken and speeches that were about as appealing, but her smoky chipotle crab cakes were creamy and tender, and waiters with trays of Grey Goose martinis kept circulating. True, she had to sit next to Nigel, but he was busy entertaining the big General Mills advertiser to his right, and Cate kept up a light chatter with the other staff member in between courses.

She politely applauded as
Vanity Fair
beat out
Gloss
for the general excellence award, applauded harder as
Gloss
won a profile-writing award, then nearly spilled her drink when Trey’s name was announced as a finalist for the reporting category for a story on a stranded hiker who’d fallen and broken an ankle in the middle of a hundred-mile solo trek.

Of course Trey was here—he’d probably been nominated each of the last three or four years. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought he’d won at least once before. She watched as he strode
onstage to collect the award—a big, metallic thing that looked like a weapon or an exhibit in a modern art museum, or possibly both—and she clapped until her hands hurt.

After a few more speeches, it was over. People began to stand up from their round tables, and the giant video screen at the front of the room, which had been lit up with the names of nominees and winners, went dark. The night Cate had been dreading had been anticlimactic. She began to look forward to going back to her room. It wasn’t terribly late, and she could take a hot bubble bath with the Bliss products she’d spotted in her bathroom, read a bit, and get a good night’s sleep. She’d wake up early tomorrow and go for a jog. She’d run down to the Washington Monument and follow the geometrical paths around the elliptical garden to the Capitol. Maybe there, in the intricately planned architecture in the heart of the city, she’d find clarity about Sam’s article.

Then Nigel leaned over, and she smelled sour whiskey and cigarettes on his breath. She recoiled, but he didn’t notice. “We’re having drinks in the bar off the lobby,” he said.

The big General Mills advertiser was listening for Cate’s response, and so was his wife.

“Great,” Cate said, plastering on a smile.

She followed Nigel out of the ballroom and across the wide expanse of the lobby to the bar. It was surprisingly dark, as if someone had created a cave just off the brightly lit entrance area of the hotel. There were low tables with little leather cubes for seats, but Nigel led them deeper in, to a booth. He stepped aside to let Cate slide in first, putting a hand on the small of her back as she did so.

Cate felt her skin crawl. His hand rested there for only a few seconds, but she could feel the imprint it left behind. Nigel left to get a round of drinks from the bar, and the advertising executive—a beefy, red-cheeked guy named Ron—turned to Cate.

“We barely got a chance to talk in there,” he said, loosening his necktie. “Tell me again what you do for the magazine?”

“I’m the features editor,” Cate said.

“That’s amazing,” said Debbie, Ron’s wife. She was small and dark-haired, with a throaty voice and a ready smile, and Cate liked her instantly. “You’re so young!”

Cate had no idea how to respond to that—should she order a Shirley Temple?—so she spun the conversation around in a new direction.

“Do you live in New York?” she asked.

“New Jersey. Maplewood,” Debbie said. “Ron travels so much that, even though he has an office in the city, he’s only there about one day of the week. And this way, we get a friendly neighborhood and a big garden and yard. And we have four teenagers, so trust me, we really need that yard.”

“It sounds nice,” Cate said, and she meant it. A house full of kids, a garden full of flowers . . . someday she wanted that life, too.

Nigel came back with the drinks. “Gin and tonic?” he asked, passing it to Cate.

“Actually, that’s mine. You had the vodka cranberry, right?” Ron handed her the drink, and as he reached for the one she was holding in her other hand, she noticed his big silver class ring. She stared at it a beat too long.

“Ohio State,” he said, following her gaze. “Our twenty-fifth class reunion is coming up in the spring.”

“How did we get this old?” Debbie said, laughing. “That’s how we met. In college.”

“Really?” Nigel sat down next to Cate, and she inched over, increasing the space between them.

“It’s actually kind of funny—” Ron began.

“I hated him the first time we met,” Debbie interjected with a familiarity that indicated this was a well-loved story.

“But by the end of our first date she was putty in my hands,” Ron joked, as Debbie rolled her eyes.

Ohio State. Cate kept her face impassive. Nigel wouldn’t remember where she’d gone to college, would he? Maybe she should say something now, just in case he did remember and thought it was strange that she didn’t bring it up. Ron and Debbie were more than a decade older; their worlds would never have intersected with Cate’s. And Timothy wasn’t even teaching back then. He was a student himself—oh, my God. He might’ve been in their class. Could they have known him? Would the gossip about what had happened to him have traveled from classmate to classmate, hopscotching its way to Ron and Debbie?

No, she was being silly; it was a huge school. Still, she needed to get them off this topic.

“Sounds like an interesting story,” Nigel said, sipping his drink and stretching an arm across the top of the booth. He wasn’t touching Cate, but the gesture still seemed too intimate. Her skin was itchy and she could feel her cheeks flaming. She was trapped against the wall in a corner of the booth, inches away from Nigel’s armpit, with Ron’s ring glinting at her every time he picked up his drink. She picked up her own cocktail and took a healthy sip. If she finished it quickly, maybe everyone else would follow her lead and they could wrap this up fast.