Best Intentions (21 page)

He picks up the top picture, studies it as if seeing it for the first time and passes it to me. Deirdre in bed, sleeping, oblivious to the camera, her hair spreading out across the pillow like a darkened web, a sheet barely skimming her bare shoulders. Her lips are parted and there is a smudge of makeup beneath her eye, a study of flaws and vulnerability. I look at the next one: Deirdre, perched on the window seat, wearing only a shirt, hugging her knees as she looks down at the street below.

“What do you think?” Ben asks. I'm surprised by the question; he is by nature so unconcerned with others' opinions.

“They're very different.”

“From what?”

“The images I've seen of yours. They're so much less removed.”

“Yes, well, Deirdre and I do know each other rather intimately.”

I pick up the last picture: Deirdre caught midact in her nervous habit of picking up her hair, letting it fall, her beauty almost lost as her face takes on the asymmetry of anxiety.

“Do you know the most boring thing in the world to photograph?” Ben asks as he looks over my shoulder.

I shake my head.

“Perfection.”

“What is the most interesting?”

“Duplicity,” he says.

“To catch someone in the lie and lay it bare. To expose the difference between who people present themselves as and who they really are. That's the moment you wait for. The tricky thing is that you don't always know if you've captured it until you see the film.”

“Everyone has a face they present to the world. That doesn't make them a liar.”

“Maybe not,” Ben replies. “But it is a very thin line.”

I
have taken to walking to work most mornings now, hoping to exhaust some of the tension within, repeating to myself over and over, You can't quit, no matter what they do, you can't afford to quit. Sometimes I listen to that old Lesley Gore song “You Don't Own Me” on my iPod as I make my way through the midtown streets.

This morning, though, I dress carefully and put on heels. I have promised to meet Jack at lunchtime to go shopping for Deirdre. Though we haven't settled on a locale I assume it will be in the vicinity of Fifty-seventh Street or Madison Avenue, maybe Bergdorf's or Bendel's for a fantastically extravagant bag—alligator, perhaps, or a little something from Chanel, half a year's tuition fashioned into a quilted leather satchel. I'm not particularly looking forward to the expedition. It's not that I am jealous exactly, but the vicarious thrill of shopping for another woman goes only so far, even if Deirdre is my best friend.

“You look nice,” Sam says, coming up behind me as I put in earrings and kissing me on the back of the neck.

I feel my muscles tense.

I'm not sure if the flinch is an internal cringe evident only to me, like the rumor of lines one sees in the mirror months before they are visible to others, or if he senses it.

He steps away, answering my question. “I don't know what's up with you lately but this ice maiden routine is wearing pretty thin,” he remarks, irritated.

“Sorry.”

It is only slowly dawning on Sam, the marital war of attrition we seem to be engaged in: There is favorite cereal not replaced, the back turned just a split second sooner than usual. Like most men, he is terrified of female anger—so much less linear, so much harder to comprehend and combat. He assumes it will subside, particularly as he cannot pinpoint a specific cause. He thinks he can wait it out. He is clearly losing his patience, though.

I know that my avoidance cannot last forever, but for now it is all I have the will for. I am waiting for the moment when my anger outweighs my fear.

Halloween decorations are going up all over town; the cardboard ghouls and king-sized bags of tooth-destroying candy that even Claire hasn't outgrown dot every drugstore window. The girls have settled into school and neither has strayed again from course, at least not that I know of. Deirdre and I managed one breakfast last week, though it was rushed. She did not mention Ben at all—for the first time in their checkered history I see no evidence of longing or regret. She speaks only of the future: her future with Jack. Four days ago she called to say he had gotten the job in New York.

“What about Alice?” I asked.

“He told her.”

“Told her what exactly?”

“That their marriage is over. He's filed for divorce.”

“How did she take it?”

“Well, it wasn't exactly a surprise. She was having an affair for over a year, what did she expect? She's not going to contest it.”

“Did he tell her about you?”

“I don't know,” she says. “I don't really see what difference that makes.”

Jack is tying up loose ends, packing up his life in Boston, planning a fresh start.

Sam turns away from me and stuffs his wallet in his pocket. “You're sure you don't mind about tonight?” he asks. He has checked with me twice to make sure I don't object if he meets with a source about the story he is doing on a bank foreclosure cover-up. “I can see if I can switch the meeting.”

“It's fine,” I tell him. “I'll be home by seven to let Marissa go. I don't want you to miss your deadline.”

“All right. Thanks. I'll be home as soon as I can.”

He pecks me on the cheek and walks out with the girls.

As soon as I get to work I pull out the spreadsheets I should have brought home over the weekend but didn't. There is a budget meeting in forty-five minutes and I need to go over the billing and expenditures on my accounts, or what's left of them, one last time. I run my forefinger down the columns, rehearsing my explanations, and try to anticipate the questions I might be asked. Numbers are not my strong suit and Favata will do everything to make that painfully clear to everyone in the room. I have not taken a deep breath in weeks. Everything is tightening around me.

When my e-mail pings I'm tempted to ignore it, but I can't.

It's from Georgia: “You never got back to me with the estimated value of the Ben Erickson portrait session. We need it for tax purposes.”

Damn. I'd forgotten all about it. I call Ben's studio and he picks up himself on the third ring.

“You sound breathless,” I remark after we say hello.

“I know. It's insane. My flight's not till six p.m. but I still have a lot to finish up.
Vogue
keeps tacking on things they'd like me to shoot. They have a sudden penchant for orange. Anything orange. If I hear one more editor telling me what her vision is, I'm going to chuck the whole thing.”

“How long are you going for?”

“Just a few days.”

I tell him of Georgia's request.

“I don't care—put down whatever works for you,” he replies.

“The IRS will love that.”

“Okay, say ten grand. Fifteen if the person who gets it is an asshole.”

“Ten it is.”

I wish him a good trip and hang up.

At five minutes to ten, I gather my notes and, glancing back once to be sure I haven't forgotten anything, head out of my office. Petra still isn't in and as I pass by her empty desk I quickly rummage through the unsorted pile of invites, junk mail, magazines, letters and gray interoffice envelopes that were dropped off this morning. I am almost at the bottom of the pile when I come across a large white envelope addressed to me, with “Confidential” written neatly on the bottom.

I slide my thumbnail under the flap and open it, glancing quickly at the cover note. “No evidence of sex with donkeys but this is pretty major. Favata didn't just harass the woman, according to the police reports he beat her up pretty badly. This should be all you need. David. PS: I've been honoring your do-not-call edict but I hope you are well.” I pull out the next sheet just enough to see the official insignia of the Hospital of St. John and St. Elizabeth, London.

“Ready?”

I swivel to find Favata standing directly behind me.

I nod, hastily dropping the envelope back onto the pile of mail—as if the mere fact of my holding it will awaken his suspicions—and follow him to the conference room, where three men and two women, all with calculators positioned in front of them, are already seated.

For the next two hours, I listen as they go through each account's P&L. I am the highest-level holdover from Steiner and it is my job to defend what Merdale increasingly sees as an inexplicable quagmire of mismanagement and missed opportunities. This is made all the more unpleasant by my sense that, despite their tsk-tsking, they are enjoying their show of fiscal superiority. The only thing that makes it at all bearable is knowing that the white envelope from David is waiting for me. I look at their smug faces and for the first time in weeks I don't feel completely powerless.

While they rattle on, I fantasize about my next move, debating whether I should take the hospital records directly to Merdale and get Favata fired or use them as leverage to secure a large payout, though the idea of having to keep silent about what Favata did is disagreeable at best. My favorite option is to hand the whole packet over to the press and let them ruin him, which is exactly what he deserves.

When the torture session finally adjourns, I hurry out and head back to my office. Petra has at last arrived. “Morning,” she calls out cheerfully. It goes without saying that she offers no excuse or apology for her tardiness.

“Good morning.” I glance down. “Do you have the mail?”

“I sorted it and put it on your desk.”

I go into my office without another word.

I put down my notepad and begin to riffle through the stack of letters, slowly at first and then with an increasing sense of urgency.

The letter with the hospital records isn't there.

I take a deep breath. I must have missed it, that's all. I carefully go through the pile again.

Nothing.

Frantic, I look in my in-box, under my notebooks, on the floor beneath my desk.

The letter has vanished.

“Petra,” I call out.

She appears in my doorway. “Yes?”

“What happened to the rest of my mail?”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought I saw something earlier. It was marked ‘Confidential.'”

She shakes her head. “This was everything that was dropped off this morning.”

“You're sure?”

“Definitely.”

“All right.”

Alarm pounds against my temples, constricts my throat. I must
not panic. This is fixable. Surely David wouldn't have sent me the only copy.

I dial his number.

“He is in a meeting. Shall I have him return your call?” his assistant asks.

“Yes, please.”

I look through every pile and paper on my desk one last time, furious with myself for leaving the letter on Petra's desk. I look through my trash, year-old files. Finally, already running late, I grab my coat to meet Jack.

He is waiting for me on the corner of Park Avenue South and Twenty-first Street when my cab pulls up. Though he has sworn me to secrecy, he has chosen a meeting spot dangerously close to Deirdre's store. I've racked my brain trying to come up with a shop that could have lured him here rather than to the Upper East Side but have come up with nothing. Then again, it is not outside the realm of possibility that even a newcomer to New York might know some hidden cache of luxury that I am not privy to. This thought does nothing to cheer me up.

Jack is rocking back and forth impatiently, his hands buried in his pants pockets. When he sees me, he breaks into a broad smile and kisses me hello.

“I'm a little surprised by your choice of neighborhood,” I remark as we stand together on the corner. “Is there some incredible little jewelry shop hidden on a side street here?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Did you have a plan in mind?” I ask skeptically. I want to get this over with and get back to my office as quickly as possible.

“You'll see.”

“This is supposed to be Deirdre's surprise, not mine,” I remind him.

“Come. It's just half a block away.”

I check my cell phone, telling Jack it's “just a work thing,” and follow him up the street.

We stop when we get to a newly minted apartment building with
the German starchitect's name written in a thin script across the entryway, branding the imposing glass tower and all who enter with its imprimatur of taste or insecurity or both.

I look at Jack questioningly. There is no store in sight.

“I bought an apartment,” he says, grinning. “I'm about to buy it, I should say. I wanted you to see it. I don't know all that much about Manhattan real estate. It's the first one I looked at but it seems perfect for us.”

“Are you out of your mind? You're buying Deirdre an apartment for her birthday?”

So much for thinking Chanel would be extravagant.

“No, it's not Deirdre's birthday present,” Jack reassures me. “Not exactly, anyway. Though I am thinking of having a surprise party for her here. Promise me you won't say anything.”

“Of course not. But Jack…”

“Look, I'm going to need a place to live when I start at Loring, Marcus,” he interrupts. “Of course, I'm hoping Deirdre will move in when she's ready. Her apartment isn't going to be big enough down the road. But I realize that might not happen right away and I'm okay with that. Just look at it with me, okay?”

I am only somewhat mollified.

We walk through the rather daunting lobby of glass and steel and the aggressive neutrality of ecru washed across the textured walls, the couches, even the lilies on the concierge's desk. Surely there is a dress code for the building's inhabitants, barring any hint of color or extraneous detailing. The real-estate agent has left keys for Jack and we ride up to the eleventh floor, where he opens the apartment door to reveal an enormous space of freshly painted white walls and parquet floors. Sunlight streams through the curved glass windows that take up the entire length of the immense living room, the spires of midtown Manhattan sparkling in the mid-distance.

“What do you think?” Jack asks eagerly.

“They must pay partners in corporate law firms a helluva lot of money.”

He smiles. “Let me show you around.”

He leads me through the chef's kitchen, with its Viking range and Sub-Zero refrigerator, to the master bedroom, with a view of Madison Square Park. He shows off the walk-in closets, the his-and-hers sinks in the bathroom, thoughtfully designed for parallel lives, obfuscating the need for messy overlap, a veritable luxury in a city where elbowing for space too often begins at home. I'm sure if more people had them Manhattan's divorce rate would plummet.

“I have major real-estate envy,” I admit.

“Come.”

I follow Jack into a spacious second bedroom, where he leans up against the window seat, perfect, no doubt, for a child curled up with a book.

“Well? Be honest. Do you think Deirdre will like it?” He fidgets nervously, alive with excitement and uncertainty.

I hesitate. It's not just how different this is from her downtown loft. I am suddenly alarmed by the too-muchness of it all, the pressure of such overweening expectation, all this space waiting to be filled with a future not yet secured.

“Lisa, what is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me,” he insists. “If there's a problem I want to know about it.”

“The apartment is fantastic, Jack. I'm just worried that it's too much too soon.”

“What do you mean?” he asks defensively.