Chapter 16
One week to go. Every second counts. And here I am, wasting far too fucking many of them trying to figure out what someone is supposed to wear to save their career.
I flip through the hangers on my side of the ridiculously small bedroom closet. More than half my stuff is in a storage unit across town. Whenever I get to unpack it, maybe it’ll all feel new again.
I think this leopard sheath dress could work. It’s only from Ann Taylor, but it’s probably the most stylish office outfit that I own, and Jordana loves an animal print. I’ll pair it with a black blazer.
When I emerge from the bedroom, Ian is on the couch, still in his gym shorts and the same goddamn UVA Law sweatshirt that he wears after working out almost every single day. Fritter is curled up next to him. “Wow,” Ian says, eyes skimming over me. “Big day?”
“Kind of. We have a lunch at the Viceroy, to meet the new chef there, and try some of the menu he’s planning to roll out later this month.”
That was a real thing I had on my calendar for Monday, but I saw in Outlook that Jordana took me off the meeting and added Beth in my place. Wonder what excuse they gave for my absence. Wonder if anyone missed me.
“Your job is so sweet,” Ian says, his gaze hovering at my chest. “You know, I’d love to get you out of that dress later.”
The lump of fury in my gut stretches out like some feral creature.
Yep, that’s what I do in a nutshell. All parties and food and fun for me, while Ian toils away saving Mother Earth.
Never mind that I manage most of our life.
I dig my nails into my palms and try to focus on how adorable Fritter looks when he’s asleep.
A tiny puff of air escapes his lips, displacing a piece of fringe on the throw blanket beneath him.
“Sure, babe,” I say, checking my watch, blood pressure spiking. “Natalie should be coming by to get Fritter in a couple hours. I really need to get going.”
Ian stands up to hug me goodbye. He squeezes my ass as he does, and his boner jabs me through the front of his gym shorts. I think I can hear my vagina vacuum-sealing itself shut.
“Okay!” I force a laugh and push him away. “I really have to run!”
I bend down to kiss Fritter on the top of his head and rush out the door.
When the elevator opens on Buzz’s floor, I don’t hesitate or stop to think.
I propel myself forward, through the entrance to our suite, past the fishbowl conference room and the mostly empty workstations, past my office, then Taylor’s—her red waves jostling as she does a double-take—directly to the all-glass corner kingdom occupied by Jordana.
Her chair is turned away from the closed door so that she faces out the window.
Even so, the way she’s motioning tells me she’s on the phone.
But I can’t just wait out here like a little kid who got sent to the principal’s office.
I need her to see me as confident and capable—mostly, as indispensable.
I knock on the glass.
She spins around and purses her glossy lips. Her collarbone lifts then falls; she holds up a burgundy-manicured hand and waves me in.
“I’m sorry, sweetie, I have to jump. But we’ll get a release drafted for you before the weekend, okay?” Jordana nods toward one of the ivory leather chairs in front of her desk and I sit. “All righty, thanks much. Ciao for now.”
She removes her earbuds and holds me in an icy stare. “Go on then. Tell me what you’re doing here.”
I cross my legs and straighten my back, self-doubt suddenly pinballing around in my chest. “I mean, I, um, came here to apologize to you, face-to-face. Over the phone didn’t feel like enough.
” I clear my throat, hoping my tone has hit the right balance of contrite and assertive.
Veering too far into the groveling end of the spectrum will only annoy her.
“I’m embarrassed that I let you down at The Bexley, and I know you’re too smart to buy that it was only because of food poisoning,” I continue, my voice steadier.
“I won’t bore you with the details, but our fertility issues have become a bit of a distraction lately.
Which is not an excuse, Jordana. I know that.
I just want you to have some of the context. ”
It’s subtle, but I think I see her face soften.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Margo.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it. But I don’t want to dwell on that.
I really, sincerely just want to tell you that I’m sorry, and that I hope we can move beyond this.
We have so much history together, Jordana, and I’ve learned so much from you over the years.
It would be a real shame, in my opinion, to throw that all away.
” I pause to let that last bit breathe. “Of course, I respect that the final decision is entirely up to you.”
Jordana’s never easy to read, but I think I sound pretty convincing. She rocks back in her chair and crosses her arms.
“I agree, Margo. That would be a shame.”
A spark of relief catches inside me.
“But what happened to you yesterday?” she continues. “You practically hung up on me.”
“Right. That.” I sigh, offering just a hint of an exhausted smile.
“I was driving, and about to pull over so I could give you my full attention, when I got rear-ended. The guy was a huge jerk about it, and by the time I was off the phone with the insurance company, I just felt like it would be much better to come in today and talk to you in person, when I was in the right headspace.”
Jordana appraises me, twin creases appearing between her perfectly gelled brows. I fold my hands in my lap so she doesn’t see them shaking.
“I would recommend at least sending a text next time,” she says finally. “Not that there can be a next time.”
I give a small laugh. “Of course not.”
“I do have some good news for you, though,” she says. “Mythos Group signed a retainer on Tuesday, and they were adamant that you be a part of The Bexley’s ongoing representation.”
I’m not sure I heard her correctly. For some reason, I look over my shoulder. Maybe I’m expecting a camera crew, like I’m being punked?
“Um, wow” is all I can get out.
“Chef was thrilled about his little feature in the Post, and Serina was flattered that you asked her to show off for those reporters before the event,” Jordana says.
“Fortunately for you, I’m working on generosity with my life coach this month.
So I resisted telling her that the cocktail tasting was my idea. ”
“Thank you, Jordana, that’s amazing.”
“It is, isn’t it? Chef wants to do a seated media dinner soon, so you’ll need to start putting together an invite list and figuring out possible dates. We’ll need to book a photographer, too.”
I nod eagerly. “Absolutely, no problem.”
“Okay, well, congratulations,” she says. “Time to get back to work, I guess.”
She opens her laptop, my signal to leave. As I walk back to my office, it occurs to me that my job hasn’t been in jeopardy since Tuesday. Jordana let me sweat it out—for what? Her own amusement?
The lump stirs.
Taylor glares through the glass as I pass her again. I know she thinks she’s better than me. She always has. But I can’t get sidetracked with that nonsense now. I’m almost an hour behind schedule.
Tucked into my own office, I pull the list of Georgetown names from my work bag. I get up once more to double-check that my door is completely closed, and create a spreadsheet titled “Rivière Media Dinner” so I have something to click over to if Jordana drops by. Then I begin to dial.
I get lucky on the first call. Hunter Bennet works at a hedge fund in Connecticut. He answers from a treadmill in the company gym.
“Yeah, I took a couple classes with Professor Bradshaw,” he says, panting. “A lot of people thought he was kind of an asshole. Maybe your tipster is just bent out of shape over a bad grade or something.”
“Could be, but I really don’t think that’s it,” I say. “What about you? Did you think he was an asshole?”
“Nah. I liked the guy. He had some swagger, you know?”
“Right. And what do you mean by that, exactly?”
“He was just confident, had a lot of presence.” Hunter pauses. I hear the whir of the treadmill slow as he takes a gulp of water. “It made him easier to listen to when he was teaching.”
“Okay, I get that. Anything else specific that you remember about him?”
“Well, his dad’s a pretty big deal, but you probably already know that.”
“I do know a bit about his dad, yes. He’s in your same line of work, right?”
“Yeah, Professor Bradshaw got me an interview with him for an internship,” Hunter says. This revelation makes me sit up straighter. “It didn’t work out,” Hunter continues, “but I guess that’s another reason I liked the guy. He did me that solid, you know?”
“Uh-huh, and do you remember when that was?”
“Let’s see, that would’ve been second semester my junior year. So, spring 2018 sometime.”
I’m typing rapidly now to keep up.
“Great. And you interviewed directly with Curtis Bradshaw Senior?”
“Yeah, he was down in DC visiting his son, so we just met for coffee on campus.”
“Professor Bradshaw’s father was in DC?”
“Yeah, um, I’m sorry, is this really relevant to your story?”
“Oh, no, not really,” I say, dialing back the eagerness in my voice. “I’d just heard a rumor that they’d had a falling-out, that’s all. So it’s a little surprising to me.”
“Well, if that’s true, it must’ve happened more recently.”
“Yeah, must’ve,” I say. “Well, thanks so much for your time. You’ve been a big help.”
“Sure,” says Hunter. “All off the record, though, right?”
“Yep. Thanks again.”