“You’ll love it,” my mother tells me in a no-nonsense, Mrs. Thatcher voice. “You’ve bought some goats for a village in Uganda to help the Msoze family become self-sufficient. I’ve sent them your name and address, I’m sure you’ll receive a lovely letter from them soon. Well, got to go—it’s eight in the evening and we want to get to the hotel in time for a late supper. I’ll call you next week to let you know how it went—bye, darling.”
In the meantime, Adam has just about made it out of the door and looks positively disappointed when I put down the receiver. Tough. He has some talking to do.
“You know how much I hate these things.” He tries to cajole me. “But work is work. Oh, review the Burgoyne file over the weekend, will you? See if you can come up with some ideas for the new advertising campaign—their CEO isn’t keen on the stuff we’ve already suggested. And I’ve left you a list of e-mails to be deleted from my computer.”
My mind clicks and whirrs with disbelief.
“I have to go, Emma, or I’ll miss my flight.” He smiles, his teeth positively glittering, and before I can draw breath, he disappears out of the door. See? See? Again
Emma
instead of
Emmeline.
And then he reappears again, two seconds later.
“Oh, and do remind your mother that personal calls during working hours are frowned upon.”
Trust Adam to turn the situation around and find fault with me.
“Yes, I know,” I tell him, finding my tongue. “But I think they’d make an exception for a girl getting an international call from her mother, on her thirtieth birthday. Don’t you?”
And his smile falters ever so slightly, and then he gives me the full beam of his perfect teeth.
“Well, I know that, silly.”
See? See? He’s just called me silly. He’s forgetting about work/personal life boundaries again. This is not good.
“I didn’t want to mention it because I thought you were a bit oversensitive about not being in your twenties anymore.”
Nice recovery, but I’m not buying it.
“Adam, I’ve talked about nothing else for weeks. Haven’t you been listening? What about our plans for dinner? What about my birthday party? Everyone’s expecting you to
be
there.”
Particularly me,
I think. And then another thought occurs to me.
What about that entry on his Visa statement?
“Keep your voice down,” he says, glancing furtively around the main office to check for eavesdroppers.
No one at work knows that we are an item. According to Adam, William Cougan disapproves of personal relationships in his workforce, although Jacintha Bridges from Human Resources and Guy Pirelli from Marketing have just got engaged, and William doesn’t seem to mind
their
personal relationship. In fact, I did hear on the grapevine that he’s offered them the use of his luxury home in the Bahamas for the honeymoon. But they don’t work together like Adam and me. I suppose that does make a difference, Adam being my boss and everything.
“Emmeline, your friends don’t like me,” Adam tells me in a reasonable tone, as if I am a fractious child making unreasonable demands, and this annoys me intensely because there is nothing unreasonable about me wanting him there for my birthday celebrations.
“Tom and Katy are touchy-feely hippies who think that anyone who votes Republican must be from Pluto. Rachel makes snide remarks, Tish barely even speaks to me, and David flirts with me, which pisses off Sylvester, who just scowls at me. Which makes me very uncomfortable.”
Is this true? I just thought it was because they didn’t know him very well. Although I do know that David thinks Adam’s a bit of a hunk, because he mentions this quite a lot.
“Anyway.” Adam glows brightly at me. “I’ll bring you back a beautiful little something from my trip.”
But I thought he’d already bought me a beautiful little something. From Tiffany’s.
“We’ll have a fabulous celebration at La Trattoria next week, to make up for me missing the fun. Because I’m not going to have fun, you know, it’s all business this weekend. Boring and humdrum. Well then, have a good time tonight—gotta dash. See you Monday night.”
And then he truly is gone.
And with complete incomprehension, I sink into Adam’s
lushly comfortable chair, inhaling the smell of the expensive leather and trying to make sense out of the strange conversation I’ve just had with him.
I am so miserable I can’t feel anything, so I pick up the list of business e-mails Adam asked me to delete and turn to his computer. He was so anxious to escape me, he has forgotten to exit his
private
e-mail. And despite the fact that I am numb with misery, I cannot resist the urge to peek at his private e-mail. And I discover two very interesting facts.
Oh God! What about the Tiffany’s box? It’s obviously for someone else.
It’s for another woman.
Adam’s telephone rings again and I nearly don’t pick up. What could be more important than my breaking heart? How could he do this to me? Why has he done this to me? Who is she?
And while my thoughts whirl chaotically, I pick up the receiver.
“Emily, this is Stella Burgoyne. Put Adam on.”
I hit my forehead with the base of my palm. The last thing I need is Stella Burgoyne, CEO of Burgoyne’s Fine Paper Products. Stella, the curse of the conference table. Stella “I-can-get-you-fired” Burgoyne. Definitely a man’s woman. This woman has met me no less than six times and she still
gets my name wrong, but I cannot afford to make an enemy of her and so I am nice (but ironic—just my little joke).
“I’m sorry, Stella,” I say, with saccharine sweetness, knowing full well that she prefers to be addressed as Ms. Burgoyne by minions such as myself. “Adam’s gone for the weekend. Can I take a message?”
And if she wants revenge for my having had the audacity to call her Stella, she could not deliver a more crushing blow.
“No, Emily,” she gushes, swiftly moving in for the kill. “I’m meeting Adam at the airport for our little rendezvous—I just wanted to be sure he left on time. The Bahamas are so beautiful at any time of year, don’t you think? Gotta run, or Adam will think I’ve stood him up.”
And with a tinkling little laugh, just to rub salt in the wound that is my bleeding heart, she hangs up.
I take a good look at myself in the art deco mirror. For once, no one would mistake me for being younger than my years because I am stooped and defeated, the air of world-weary misery surrounding me is palpable.
How did our relationship disintegrate so quickly?
If someone were to ask me now how Adam and I met, I would have to say that it started with a death.
And a pair of ripped pantyhose.
I wish it had started with something more romantic—like a kiss. Yes, a kiss definitely sounds much more appealing—a romantic tale to tell to our children and grandchildren in the years to come…
Oh, God, how
can
I tell our children and grandchildren in the years to come? Our love is
doomed
…I should have
guessed
that the death thing was definitely not a good sign. I should have
known
it could never work for us…But I was blinded by my image of the perfect boyfriend. Obsessed with my stupid list of what I thought I should achieve by age thirty.
And lust, of course.
This is what happened.
Adam came to work at Cougan & Cray a year ago (apparently a whiz kid, head hunted from Sezuma Advertising, our chief competitor). And the moment he sauntered into the office, with his blond good looks and Peter Pan boyishness (and immaculately cut Armani suit), the entire female workforce (and some of the male) fell as slaves at his feet.
Me included.
The second I set eyes on him, I just knew that I wanted him, that I had to
have
him. He was perfect. My dad and Peri
would love him. My friends would love him. Julia would appreciate his aesthetic, athletic male beauty and ask me if he was any good in bed.
So
I
would love him.
And besides, Adam was
the
perfect candidate for my Goals by Thirty list, and time was running out.
I fell hard.
And so the whispered speculation started. Is he married? Is he dating? (Is he gay?) Is there a significant other? Fortunately for me, because of my friendship with Tracey in Human Resources (she is the central point for all gossip and speculation), I was able to get the scoop on him.
Single.
And straight.
Y-e-s! Y-e-s!
Apparently, he’d been involved in a long relationship with some girl from a good Boston family, but she’d practically ditched him at the altar. She found true love with a street artist from South Street Seaport. (Word has it that he could juggle knives and eat fire like you wouldn’t believe. I think I saw him once.)
Stupid,
stupid
girl.
Poor,
poor Adam and his broken heart.
But
lucky
me.
I fondly imagined myself listening to his tale of heartbreak with understanding and sympathy. And then, when he’d talked out his grief, I would soothe his wounds with the balm of my kindness and beauty. He would forget all about his cheating, WASP fiancée and fall in love with me…
Adam was a dream come true—
my
dream come true. Tall, gorgeous, successful, sexy. And with a loft apartment in Greenwich Village, too.
Thank you, God!
From that day forward I made it my mission in life to look as fabulous as possible every day. You would not believe how much money I spent on new outfits to tempt him. Or how early I had to get up in the morning to get ready for work. I rode the elevator at the times I knew
he
would ride the elevator (after having carefully watched him to ascertain this information). I visited the coffee cubicle whenever I thought
he
would get the
urge for liquid refreshment. But it seemed that all, alas, was in vain. Although charming and polite whenever our paths happened to cross, he would smile and say, “Hello, how are you?” in the same manner as he would say, “Hello, how are you?” to the rest of the smitten workforce.
I was a desperate woman. So desperate, in fact, that I began to accidentally-coincidentally visit the ladies’ room at the same time as
he
got the call of nature. (Yes, I know this is sad, but I was getting to the point of losing hope.)
I was so anxious to make some sort of breakthrough with him, and so mesmerized by his handsome face, that on one occasion I nearly followed him into the men’s room. When he paused at the door and turned to me, I thought,
Hel-lo, here we go,
and gave him my best beaming smile (all the while mentally thanking my dad for insisting on expensive orthodontic treatment). But instead of asking me out for dinner, he pointed at the
MEN
sign on the door, smiled right back at me and said, “You sure you want to do this?”
God, I nearly
died.
From that moment on, I left him to ride the elevator, drink coffee, and visit the bathroom alone, ashamed and embarrassed that I’d been such a fool. Plus, my face would flush strawberry red whenever he was near, and this is not a good look for me. So I avoided him like the plague.
And just when I’d completely given up on ever making any progress with Adam, Lady Luck smiled on me. My boss, Johnny Cray Senior, did, in fact, die.
Now this may sound very hardhearted and callous of me, feeling lucky at the death of my boss, but Johnny Cray Senior lived a full and active life. He passed away while having a
very good time
on honeymoon with wife number four (a pretty, blonde, twenty-eight-year-old ex-cheerleader, Babette). And although I was (obviously) sad to learn of his passing, Johnny Senior was eighty-four and died of a mid-orgasmic heart attack. Apparently, in his excitement, he’d forgotten to take his heart medication. But still, what a fabulous exit!
If I had to select my own time and method of death, I would
choose
this particular fashion to depart the mortal coil. Can’t you just see my obituary?
Ms. Emmeline Beaufort Taylor (women’s rights activist and campaigner for Human Rights and World Peace), age ninety-eight and spinster by choice, departed this life while cruising the Greek islands with her close, personal friend, Hans Schwarz (male model), age twenty.
“She vas ze most beautiful woman in the world—ze best lover I ever had,” said the distraught Mr. Schwarz, as he sobbed over her grave.
It is rumored that Ms. Taylor will posthumously receive the Nobel Peace Prize for her many humanitarian works.
Of course, I
was
very sad about poor Johnny. I’d been his secretary for two years and had developed a tolerant fondness for the way he could never remember my name (he called me babe—he called all women babe). Yes, I remember
well
the affectionate way he would pat my butt whenever I forgot that he liked to do this and got too close when taking him coffee…
So how can this possibly have any relevance to my romance with Adam? This is what happened next.
It is the day of Johnny’s memorial service and all the staff at Cougan & Cray are expected to attend. Because Johnny was a prominent member of the community, it’s taking place at St. Thomas’s Church on Fifth Avenue (opposite Nine West). I am wearing a simple black shift dress (Jones New York), with a black blazer (also Jones New York).
This is a very good look for me.
The black brings out the blonde highlights in my short, artfully tousled hair. Plus, my grandmother’s pearls, at my neck and in my ears, enhance the creaminess of my skin. I’m also wearing my favorite shoes—Manolo Blahnik four-inch
heels, to give me added height and to enhance my small but well-formed ankles.
William Cougan, CEO, has ordered limousines to transport us all to the church as a mark of respect for the late Mr. Cray (one of the founding fathers of our esteemed company). These limousines will arrive in approximately three minutes. Nearly everyone else has gone downstairs and I have just discovered the most enormous rip in my pantyhose.
I cannot attend a somber, serious service while inappropriately sporting a run large enough to accommodate the entire New York City Fire Department, and although I have emergency spares in my desk, I have no time to make a quick trip to the ladies’ room to change. My only options are to either (a) change at my desk (not good if some last-minute straggler walks by), or (b) slip into the late Mr. Cray’s office and do the deed in there.
Plan B is good. I swiftly check the vicinity and slip inside, closing the door behind me.
Just as I have my dress up around my waist and the new pantyhose half way up my legs, the door opens. I freeze as I see Adam in the doorway, and he freezes as he sees rather more of me than he expected. And then I remember the panties that I am wearing today. Tish gave them to me as a joke. They are (obviously) clean. They are also black, with large red letters that say
PRESS THIS BUTTON
, with an arrow pointing down in the unmistakable direction of my clitoris. These panties are my way of wishing good old Johnny a final
bon voyage,
since he was so very fond of my butt. But I hadn’t intended to share the joke with anyone else.
So what do I do now? Do I apologize? Do I ask to be excused? Do I continue my mission as if nothing has happened? Do I wait for him to do the gentlemanly thing and leave? In the end I do nothing. I am like a statue, immortalized in this very unattractive pose, because my heart is pounding right out of my chest and I’m sure my whole body is flushing bright red.
Instead of leaving, Adam smiles a wolfish smile as he gives me the once-over.
“Hel-lo,” he says, as he leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms over his very manly chest, and I’m not sure if I should be embarrassed or pleased, because it’s obvious that he likes what he sees.
“Need any help?” He grins, and I realize that I am
still
standing here half dressed and making no move to finish donning my new pantyhose.
“Pantyhose can be such a pain, don’t you think? I prefer stockings.”
Does he, indeed? I make a mental note of this to file away for future reference. He’s definitely interested. I would have to be blind not to notice the way he is eating me with his eyes.
“Er, did you want anything in particular?” I ask.
Like me, for instance? On the desk? Now?
But obviously I don’t say that.
“Maybe later.”
This man is flirting with me. At least I think he’s flirting with me. Y-e-s!
“The limousines are here. Everyone is downstairs. I thought you’d got lost so I came to find you.”
He came to look for
me?
For
me
in particular? Better and better. He noticed I wasn’t with everyone else. Y-e-s! This is
excellent.
“Oh, good,” I say, mentally kicking myself for sounding like an idiot, as I pull up the pantyhose and smooth down my skirt, in what I think is a very slick, matter-of-fact motion. “That was very thoughtful of you.”
Yuck. Can I really not find anything more scintillating to say? I have an English degree, for God’s sake. Surely I can put together a couple of relatively coherent sentences?
“All finished?” He raises a Sean Connery eyebrow at me and I have to brush past him to get through the door, because he makes no move to get out of my way.
“Nice panties,” he breathes in my ear as I pass, and I can barely stop myself from shuddering with sexual heat.
“Thank you,” I tell him, primly, because it’s not good to sound
too
eager. And then, because I can’t resist, “It took me ages to choose just the right ones this morning.”
I feel his eyes on me as we walk down the hall to the elevator. They are burning into my back. I imagine them watching my ass, so I immediately sashay in what I hope is an alluring fashion.
“Shall I press the button?” he innocently asks as we get into the elevator, and I blush, because there is no way I can possibly miss his meaning.
“I miss this,” he says, as he presses
G.
I have no idea what he means.
Sex?
He misses
sex?
Oh, I can certainly help him out with this. I instantly have this very erotic image of Adam pressing
my G.
Ooh.
“Riding together in the elevator.”
Oh, not sex. He misses me in the elevator! He did notice, then.
Yes!
All was not in vain, after all. All that time I thought he didn’t see me, he was watching me, waiting for the right moment…
“You don’t call, you don’t write…” he tells me, leaning right in toward me, and I can’t help a girly giggle.
“Actually, I came to find you so that we could talk,” he tells me, taking a step back as the elevator doors open. “We’re going to be working very closely together. I’m taking over from Johnny Cray.”
Oh, this day just gets better and better. It’s like winning the
love
lottery. Although everyone thought Grady Thomas would get promoted…
“Adam Blakestock,” he says, holding out his hand.
Like I don’t already know this? I know rather a lot more about you, Adam Blakestock, than you think (thanks to Tracey in Human Resources). But I don’t say this, of course. I just stand there like a goldfish opening and closing my mouth before I remember that he’s still waiting for me to shake his hand.
“I’m—” I hold out my hand.
“Emmeline Beaufort Taylor,” he finishes for me, looking right into my eyes as he takes my hand in a much warmer way than boss/secretary requires.
“But everyone calls you Emma. I think I’ll call you Emmeline. Goes with the sexy English accent,” he says, and winks at me in a way that suggests “later.”
He’s my boss. And he knows my name. (Although I’m not very fond of Emmeline, it’s really sweet he wants to have a special name for me.) He thinks I’m sexy and he obviously can’t wait to get inside my panties. Hallelujah!
And while I mentally thank Mr. Handel for his chorus, I find myself being gently led to the waiting limousine with Adam’s hand guiding my trembling (lust-induced) elbow.
The service is very moving. The church is packed, and I hope that as many people come to my memorial service. I am sitting right at the front of the church because Adam, as the new Director of Advertising, is sitting at the front. And he insisted that I sit with him. I have, after all, just lost my boss of two years and am therefore practically a family member.
As we sit on the pew, mere feet away from Johnny’s (thankfully sealed) coffin, I am breathlessly aware of Adam’s proximity as his thigh brushes frequently against mine, and as his arm brushes frequently against my breast. This is very bad of me. I should not be thinking lustful thoughts while sitting in the House of God. And this is, after all, a funeral. I glance around to take my mind off Adam.