Your Big Break (11 page)

“You're joking, right?”

He blushes.
Oh my God, he's not joking
.

“You watch
General Hospital
?”

“I might,” Sean huffs, averting his gaze.

I can't help giggling. “Since when?”

“Since I discovered how many fine chicks are on the show.”

“Fine chicks?” I repeat, leaning back in the booth.

“Hell, yeah.” He rubs his hands together in anticipation. “The girls on
GH
are so freaking hot. And they're always running around half-naked.”

“Isn't it set in a hospital? Shouldn't they be wearing scrubs?”

“You'd be amazed how often they end up in bikinis and lingerie. You should check it out, Dani. You'd love it.”

Oh, yes. Fine chicks in bikinis. That sounds right up my alley
. “Are the men cute?” I ask, being conversational.

Sean slurps his drink. “How should I know?”

“You watch it.”

Sean runs his hands through his shaggy, light brown hair. “Yeah, but I don't watch it for the men. Besides, I can't tell if a dude looks good or not.”

“Oh, come on.” I give him a look. “You honestly can't tell if another man is attractive?”

He shakes his head.

“So you couldn't say who was hotter: Tom Cruise or Tom Arnold?” I insist.

He drinks his Coke. “Nope. All men look the same to me.”

Why do guys always claim this?
“Then, how do you know whether or not
you're
attractive?”

He ponders this. “I guess I don't.”

“But you spend time primping in front of the mirror,” I point out. “Why bother, if you can't tell the difference between when you start and when you finish?”

“Dani, what the hell does this have to do with anything?” he says, setting down his soft drink. I've irritated him.

It doesn't. But it was a fun distraction. Now it's time to get down to business. “Okay, okay . . . back to the story.”

“Finally.”

I clear my throat. “You know how I work for a breakup service?”

“No!” Sean clasps his hand over his mouth in mock-horror. “And all this time I thought you were a Web mistress.”

Here's my opening. “Funny you should mention the word
mistress,
” I say, taking a quick sip of my Sprite. “That's sort of why we're here.”

“What, does Dad have some little number on the side?” he cracks.

“Yes,” I say flatly.

“Puh-
lease
.” Sean laughs. “Look who's into soap operas now.”

“It's no soap opera.” My voice drops. “I met her a few days ago. She's thirty-five. Her name's Gretchen Monaghan.”

“Yeah, right. You're off in la-la land, Dani.” He sits upright and peers around the restaurant. “Where's that waiter? I'm starving.”

“I'm serious, Sean! A woman named Gretchen Monaghan came in to Your Big Break Inc. on Tuesday and asked me to”—I pause, choking up at the memory—“to break up with
our father
for her.”

He stares hard at me, trying to decipher whether or not I've lost my mind.

“What the fuck,” he mumbles, raising an eyebrow.

I reach forward and put my hand on his arm. He jerks it away.

“Sean, I—”

In a classic case of bad timing, our lunch arrives at precisely this moment. Neither of us speaks while the waiter sets down our dishes. I stare at my plate, which is piled high with food. Why did I order chicken tacos with a side of fries? I'm not the least bit hungry.

Sean's appetite doesn't seem to be affected. He pours ketchup all over his fries and digs right into his burger with gusto. “You're so dramatic, Dani,” he says between bites. “Always letting your imagination run wild.”

I stare him straight in the eyes. “I'm telling you the truth. Our father's having an affair.”

“Dad couldn't pull something like that off. He's way too mild-mannered. Plus, he works all the time.”

I nod. “Exactly. Perfect cover.” I poke at my chicken tacos with a fork, scooting them around on my plate. “He pretends to be working long hours when he's actually out running around on Mom.”

“Did you ever stop to think Dad just might be a workaholic?” Sean asks. He wipes some ketchup off his cheek.

“Well, then how do you explain Gretchen?” I take a tentative bite of a french fry.

Sean considers this. “You're
positive
this woman was talking about Dad?”

I nod my head yes.

He pops some fries into his mouth and quickly downs them. “All right, tell me how this went down.”

I start at the beginning, and work my way through the entire story. I close by recounting the conversation I had with Father's assistant, Lorne, yesterday. “So, as you can plainly see, there's only one explanation,” I finish.

Sean, who has been munching quietly on his food the entire time, finally speaks. “There's an explanation, all right.”

I take a small bite of my chicken taco. “Dad and this Gretchen woman are obviously . . .” I pause, searching for the right word.
Dating? Too high-schoolish. Lovers? Too nauseating
. I settle on
involved
.

“Oh, I don't doubt they're involved,” Sean says. “You wanna know what I think?”

“Fire away.”

“It's payback.” He sets down his hamburger. “Dad's paying you back. Hell, Mom's probably in on it, too.”

“What are you talking about?”

“For the past year, you've been lying to them about where you work.”

I cringe and start to defend my actions, but he holds up a hand to silence me. “Somehow Mom and Dad found out the truth. So they decided to get even, to teach you a lesson you'd never forget,” he announces. “This whole thing's staged. Gretchen's probably an actress, hired for the occasion.”

“An actress?” I nearly choke on a fry.

“Sure. We played that same trick on my buddy M.J. a few years ago.”

I stare at Sean blankly. “You've lost me.”

“It was M.J.'s twenty-first birthday, and he had this big party at Callaghan's downtown. A couple of us hired this singing-telegram chick named Pregnant Patty to embarrass him. Man, it was great!” He smiles at the memory. “She came storming into the restaurant, decked out like a knocked-up hooker—thigh-high leather boots, fishnets, a pillow stuffed under her lacy dress.” Sean chuckles. “Pregnant Patty totally berated M.J. for leaving her alone with their unborn child. M.J. got all flustered and claimed he'd ‘never seen this woman before' in his life. Which, of course, he hadn't. Then she threw a drink in his face, flipped on a karaoke tape, and launched into a rendition of
These Boots Were Made for Walking
. Don't you see? That's what Gretchen is—a hired singing telegram!”

My brother is insane. “You can't be serious.”

“As a heart attack.” The waiter brings Sean a refill and he heartily gulps it.

“You think our parents hired some novelty act . . . named, I don't know, Gretchen Guy-Getter . . .”

“Hey! That's pretty good,” Sean says admiringly.

I ignore him. “And sent her out to play a practical joke on me?”

“If the shoe fits.”

The shoe so does
not
fit
. “I met her. Trust me, she wasn't an actress!”

“Be logical!” Sean exclaims.

He's
telling
me
to be logical?

“Of all the breakup services in Boston, what are the odds of Gretchen picking yours?” Sean asks.

“Pretty high, considering Your Big Break is the only breakup service in the entire state of Massachusetts!”

“Whatever.” Sean rolls his eyes. “My point is, it's too coincidental that Gretchen came to see
you
. It's got to be a setup.”

Maybe he's onto something. I hadn't really considered that option. “I suppose it's possible. . . .”

“It's not just possible, it's probable,” he insists. “I still live with the 'rents, remember? If Dad were having an affair, I'd know about it. There'd be signs.”

“But how do you explain his weird behavior? The breakfast meetings that last all day? The family dinner cancellations?”

“Dad's a busy man. Remember all those boxes he brought home the other night? He's right in the middle of some huge project, and he's working long hours to catch up.”

I'd forgotten about the boxes. That's a good point. No, make that a
great
point! “So you don't think we should tell Mom?”

“No way,” Sean says, chowing down on the last of his burger. “Let me investigate it, get to the bottom of what, if anything, is going on. Then,
if
I come across any definitive proof, we'll go to Mom.”

The more Sean talks, the better I feel. Maybe, just maybe, the situation isn't as bad as I initially imagined? Maybe it
was
payback. Maybe my family is going to be okay after all. By the time our waiter deposits the bill, I'm feeling refreshed, relieved.

“We'll get to the bottom of this,” Sean promises, “figure out what's going on.”

“You really think it's one giant misunderstanding?”

“Definitely. But just to be on the safe side, I'll check into it, do a little poking around,” he says, waving his fork at me. “If Dad's up to anything—anything at all—I'll find out.”

“Thanks,” I say, and I genuinely mean it. I vow to put it out of my mind until Sean finishes his investigation.

 
 
When I get back to the office after lunch, there's a message from Sophie Kennison on my machine. I hit the playback button.

 
“Great,” I mutter, sinking down in my desk chair. If I can't figure out a way to get Sophie off Evan's back, I'm going to be screwed. Evan will be furious, and he'll undoubtedly call Craig to complain. Craig will come down hard on me for messing things up—again!—with our biggest client. He's already pissed off enough about the Jason Dutwiler situation. And what if Craig discovers what a slipshod job I've been doing since discovering my father's affair?

I've got to act swiftly, get all my ducks in a row.

It's time to devote myself fully to Your Big Break Inc.

11

The Dearly Deserted

I spend the next few days figuring out how to break Brady Simms's heart.

Poor guy.
He has no idea what's about to hit him. I need a well-fleshed-out plan. I'm going to cushion the blow as best I can. What will Brady need to help him pull through? I jot down a short list.

 
I look over my list. What concerns me most is that Brady may need some kind of professional counseling. I'll put a list of local grief counselors in his Breakup Recovery Kit.

The second one's pretty tricky. Right after the breakup happens, Brady will need a night out on the town to cut loose and forget his troubles. I jot down a few options:
Sports. Beer. Junk food. Strip clubs.
The tricky part is, I don't know any of his friends, and I don't think it would help him if he completed these on his own.

Number three's also going to be tough. Making Breakup Recovery Kits for guys is always hard. If it's a girl, you can give her chocolates, chocolates, and more chocolates. Guys . . . not so much.

Plus, Erin's thirty-five dollars won't allow me to put together a stellar Breakup Recovery Kit. In fact, for thirty-five dollars I could barely put together a lame Breakup Recovery Kit. I could spend a little of my own money, maybe throw in a mix CD, some humorous magazine clippings. I brainstorm for a few minutes and come up with a few other cheap options: a journal for his poetry, a handmade sympathy card, some Blockbuster gift certificates that Sean can get me at a discount, a giant-sized bottle of hand sanitizer to “wash away the germs of your old relationship.” I laugh at that last one. Is it too tacky? Nah, I decide to go for it. I'll pick up the items for Brady's Breakup Recovery Kit this weekend. I want to make it extra special. Brady's been through a lot lately. I want to do whatever I can to help him heal.

By far, the hardest thing to accomplish will be finding Brady a rebound girl.

I'll have to give it some serious thought. He needs someone sensitive, someone understanding, someone who's been through a terrible breakup herself, like my breakup with Garrett. For a brief moment, I debate taking him out myself, but I quickly push the thought out of my head. It's not like I could go do it. That's totally against company policy.

In the meantime, I might as well work on my other project: reuniting Jason Dutwiler with his ex-girlfriend, Lucy Dooley. Talk about a pair of bad last names. I scrawl
Lucy Dooley-Dutwiler
on a piece of scrap paper.
Yikes
. No wonder she wants out.

I've been putting this off long enough. I look up Lucy's phone number on my computer and then pick up the phone and give her a call.

“Dooley residence,” a voice says.