Chapter 4
It’sa gorgeous warm Tuesday morning in Greenwich Village. Green leaves are budding on the boulevard trees and everywhere New Yorkers hustle in shorts and short sleeves, happy to be released from the claws of winter for another year.
I should be enjoying it. I should delight in the weather. I should be packing away the all-you-can-eat seafood brunch and bottomless mimosas that Mickey’s Tinder date last night had recommended. But all I can think about is how I should have slapped Nick Madison right in his smug, handsome face.
“Have you tried the lobster rolls?” Mickey asks.
“No,” I say glumly, taking a soft bite of shrimp cocktail. “I’m not in the mood for lobster.” In fact, I’m not in the mood for seafood. It just reminds me of the ocean, which in turn reminds me of cruise ships, which… Well, you get the picture.
Mickey chews her lobster roll quietly. I can tell she wants to talk, but I can barely meet her eye, much less comment on the food or weather. I’ve been in a state of depression since the disastrous meeting yesterday morning.
At least when I’d called the office in Boston Dan was very understanding of my failure, even more so after I’d explained Nick Madison’s asshole tendencies and pointed disbelief in my abilities. I’d told Dan that I wouldn’t be offended if he wanted to send an older executive in to pitch my same idea, but he’d quickly shut down the idea.
“It was your idea, your pitch,” he said. “If this Madison jerk doesn’t want you then we don’t want him.”
At least I can count on Dan.
Mickey has also been trying to cheer me up with varying levels of success. She’d offered to do a girls’ night out (or in, depending on how I was feeling) last night, but I’d encouraged her to go on her date instead. I was in no mood to party and didn’t want to bring her down. So instead she ordered me a much appreciated pizza and gave me some space.
Now I can tell she’s trying to find some comforting words, but there’s nothing she could say that would make me feel better about what happened.
Last night I’d soaked in the giant hotel bathtub with a glass of wine and a piece of pizza, coming up with comebacks to Nick’s every barbed insult.
Where do you get off telling me that I’m not good enough to do my damn job?
You can’t be much older than thirty-five. Where are your credentials?
What gives you the right to run a damn company if you can’t even let someone a handful of years younger than you run an ad campaign?
As satisfying as it is to win the argument in my mind, back down here in reality I have to admit that there is no hope of beating Nick’s bullshit argument. Why? Because it’s bullshit. Nick doesn’t care about my age. It’s me he doesn’t like. I suppose he would like to fuck me; I could get that from the way he was looking at me. But anything more than that? A normal working relationship? Apparently it’s too much for him to handle. Just because I’m not a douchebag like him. Or maybe because I had the nerve to call him out to his face.
“Want to talk about it?” Mickey ventures. I snap back to the present and realize I was so lost in my thoughts that I was one step away from outright mouthing the argument to myself.
“No,” I say, trying to smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be bringing brunch down.”
Mickey waves me off with a crab leg. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
I give her a look.
“Okay,” she relents, “I’ve had more exuberant meals. But technically this is still a work trip, and I’d rather have a sad brunch than be sitting in the office any day of the week.”
“You’ve got a point,” I admit.
“Of course I do,” she says, grinning. “Now come on. My whole job is to provide support. Lay it on me. Get it all out.”
I puff a sigh. “It is all out.”
Now it’s Mickey’s turn to give me a pointed look that says bullshit.
“Okay, am I a little annoyed that it went down like that?” I say. “Yes, of course. Would it have been easier if he just didn’t like the pitch? For sure. But I think it actually worked out for the best.”
Mickey puts on her best front of pretending like she believes me. “Yeah,” she says. “It is good. You wouldn’t want to uproot your whole life to move here anyway.”
What life? I don’t voice that dour thought though. But I do say, “No, not because of that. I mean it would have been a nightmare to work for Nick Madison. Could you even imagine? I’ll bet he’s incredibly demanding. Probably always scowling over whatever you’re working on.”
“Or screaming about things not being up to his unrealistic expectations.”
“Or breathing down your neck if you’re not moving as fast as he wants.”
“Or strutting around in those hot suits.”
I grimace, trying not to picture said “hot suits” in my crystal-clear memory.
“We’re supposed to be listing negatives!” I exclaim. I’d almost worked myself into a state of apathy about Nick’s sex appeal, but then Mickey had to rip me back to reality.
“That is a negative,” she insists. “Personally, I like the fact that Dan is old enough to be my dad. Keeps me from getting distracted.”
“It doesn’t sound like age has exactly stopped you in the past,” I tease.
“Shut up. Okay, I guess I mean I’m happy that Dan looks like a Band-Aid. No offense, Dan,” she calls over her shoulder as if he can hear us.
I laugh, squeezing my eyes shut. For all his great qualities as a boss, Dan does have the exact same pallor as a Band-Aid.
“Regardless, Nick isn’t even that hot. I’ve worked with way hotter guys in Boston,” I say.
Mickey raises an eyebrow. “Okay I know we’re not supposed to be trumpeting the guy’s attributes, but name one.”
I must be feeling a bit better because I steal the other half of Mickey’s lobster roll and stuff it in my mouth, chewing so I have a minute to avoid her question.
There have to be some hotter guys in Boston. Nelson Hardy has a frat-boy charm about him but doesn’t have the maturity. And Steven Holt looks really good in a suit, but he never shuts up about his boat. Maybe Kent Carlyle?
I mentally put the finance executive next to Nick. Carlyle is distinguished, clean-cut, a Harvard graduate with an easy smile and a Bugatti to boot. But picturing him beside Nick makes the guy shrink down to the size of a postage stamp. He just doesn’t have the gravity of presence that Nick has. I couldn’t picture a room going quiet when he enters it. And I’ve been able to sit through innumerable meetings with him without imagining what he looks like naked.
Still, I put Carlyle’s name forward, just to say something. “What about Kent?” I ask. “You know, the guy who was lead director for that credit union in the North End?”
Mickey whistles. “Good choice,” she says, but ultimately it takes her little time to start shaking her head. “Kent’s good-looking, but he also looks like he’d freak out if his latte was made with 2% instead of whole.”
“No way,” I giggle. “You know for a fact that Kent only drinks oat milk.”
Mickey rolls her eyes playfully. “And you’re making my point for me.”
“I think your original point was that Nick is bad news. Not sure you’re convincing me.”
She lightly smacks her forehead and then peers into her nearly empty mimosa glass. “What the heck is in these?”
Leaning casually back in her chair, she continues, saying, “Hold on, I can work it around. Okay, yeah. The problem with a guy like Nick is that sure, he doesn’t care about the milk in his coffee or if his favorite sports team didn’t make the playoffs. You’ll never see him shotgun a beer or paint his face in his team colors.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Is there a negative coming?” I ask.
“Yes!” she insists. “As irritating as most guys are with their douchebag tendencies. As incomprehensible as baseball and canned light beer is to me personally, at least they’re predictable. You know what Joe Average is going to be up to on a Friday night. But Nick Madison? What does he care about? What’s going to send him over the edge? Who knows?” Mickey shrugs. “Maybe I’m being overly dramatic, but personally I think it’s for the best that you’re not having to tiptoe around this guy for the rest of the summer.”
Mickey’s not wrong, but she’s also not fully right. Brent was a completely average guy and he still managed to catch me off guard in the worst way possible. That being said, I’ve had my fill of surprises from asshole guys. I don’t need to spend any more of my time getting yanked around.
Still, I can’t stop myself from wondering just what Nick Madison gets up to on a Friday night. A completely unwanted image of toe-curling, headboard-rocking, orgasmic bliss flashes before my eyes. I bat the thought away and try to relax my core.
I take another bite of my shrimp cocktail. “You’re right. But that being said,” I say, pointing at her deliberately with the tail of a shrimp, “I’m never dating another guy who wears body paint to a football game.”
Mickey cringes. “Did Brent do that?”
“Constantly,” I say. “He’s an agent and his clients are all athletes. So he gets season tickets to every major stadium. I’ve been to soooo many embarrassing games with him and his asshole buddies. One year they spelled ‘Fuck the Yankees’ on their chests, and we all got kicked out of Fenway.”
Mickey groans at the image. “Bet you’re glad to be free from that shit show.”
I grin and raise my mimosa. “You know what?” I say. “I am.”
We clink glasses and relax into thoughtful silence, enjoying the weather, the vibrant city life moving around us, and the delicious seafood. As I watch a bike messenger speed past a man in a suit and sneakers walking a terrier, as the sun reflects off the buildings and dapples through the trees, I wonder if maybe I don’t need the excuse of this contract to make a change in my life. Maybe once I get back to Boston I’ll start looking for jobs in New York. There’s no reason for me to stay in Massachusetts now, and I suppose the upside of being too young to be taken seriously is that at least I’m also young enough for a new start.
On the other hand, what if moving to the city finds me a cynical asshole in five years? The thought is enough to make me want to run straight back to my native suburbia.
“Uh oh,” Mickey says. “What’s that face?”
“It’s nothing,” I say. “I’m just tired of things not working out.”
Before Mickey can respond, my phone rings.
It’s face up on the table and we both look over, reading the name of who’s calling at the same time: Jackass.
My mouth drops. My stomach isn’t far behind. Shit.
“Is that your ex?” Mickey asks at the look on my face.
“No,” I say. “It’s Nick.”
She hisses and makes the sign of the cross, like Nick is a vampire arising from hell to suck our blood and steal our souls. “What are you going to do?”
“I have to answer it. Right?” I look to her for help but Mickey just throws up her hands.
Suddenly I’m struck by the ridiculousness of my reaction. Why am I flustered? It’s just a phone call. And he should be the one who’s embarrassed after how he’d behaved, both on the train and in his office. Besides, it might not even be him. It’s just his office that’s calling.
I pick up the phone and vow that this time I’ll keep my composure. This time I’ll be calm and collected. This time Nick won’t get to me.
It’ll help that I can’t see him.
I take a deep, calming breath and answer on what has to be the tenth ring.
“Hello?” I say like I have no idea who’s calling and hopefully also like I’m lounging in a bathtub drinking champagne that was delivered to me by my horse-hung lover.
“Ms. Davis.” My name curls off his tongue, long and low.
I shiver despite the warm weather and struggle to keep the nonchalance in my tone. “This is she.”
There’s a half second of silence on the other end of the line and I hope to god it’s because he’s annoyed that I don’t recognize his voice.
“It’s Nick,” he says and I want to punch the air because yes, he definitely sounds irritated.
“Nick?” I say. “Nick who?”
I regret it as soon as I say it. Any upper hand I had in the conversation goes right out the window because it’s completely obvious that I’m full of shit.
“I think you know who,” Nick says.
“Nick Madison?” I fully commit to the bit, making my voice overly surprised. “Oh you should have said so. What could you possibly want?”
Nick refuses to play my game and answers honestly. “Kara Kon.”
I pause. “The DJ?” I ask.
“I want her to play the Seafarer’s maiden voyage,” he says.
Oh really. I coolly examine a fingernail, wait a beat, and say, “How lovely. Though I’m not sure why you’re calling me in the middle of the workday to tell me about it.”
I can practically hear him grinding his jaw. He really needs to stop doing that before he messes up his teeth.
“I’m calling you because you said you could get her. Is that true?”
I hesitate. I hadn’t said I could definitely get Kara Kon. My “contacts in the industry” consist solely of a former college roommate who’s now a radio DJ in Boston. But would it really be that difficult? I’d just have to book a meeting with her agent and offer the right price.
“You’d have to pay her a lot,” I say. “She’s hot right now. She has her pick of projects.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
Yeah, I wouldn’t think so. I get the impression that money is (and never has been) a “problem” for Nick.
“But,” I say, “you don’t need me to book her for you. Send any one of those supermodels you have working for you to do it.” I bite my tongue hard. Why did I have to call them supermodels? I mean, they are, but pointing it out definitely sounds spiteful.
“I know that,” Nick says, thankfully not commenting on my slip.
“So then why me?” I ask. “Someone convince you that my youthful inexperience isn’t going to sink your ship?”
Mickey cocks her head and mouths what are you doing? at me, but I ignore her.
Yes, I have been praying for this job to work out for weeks.
Yes, I am poking at him just as he’s trying to give it to me.
No, I absolutely don’t care if he retracts the offer.
Everything Mickey said before he called had been correct, and I’m not just going to abandon my dignity because he’s dangling the golden carrot. I deserve to be treated with some damn respect. And if we’re going to work together I need to set some ground rules.
I don’t expect an apology and I don’t get one. Instead Nick just says, evenly, “I’ve changed my mind. I want you to lead the campaign.”
I try to keep my tone as level as his. I don’t entirely succeed. “After everything you said yesterday, I’m not sure I want to.”
“If you’re expecting me to grovel, you’re speaking to the wrong man,” Nick says shortly.
“I think I know exactly what kind of man I’m speaking to,” I say. “And I don’t expect you to grovel. What I want are some assurances.”
“Such as?”
“That these games you so enjoy will stop. I may be young, but I know how to do my job. I won’t be yanked around on this project. I need to be heavily involved in every aspect of the launch. We’re going to be on a tight schedule if the Seafarer is going to be heading south by August. So that means I need information when I ask for it. I need access to the ship when I say so. And if I work on a presentation or a design, I’m not letting your secretary confiscate it at the door. Anything else would just be a waste of both our time.”
Nick is silent and I picture him behind that giant desk, looking out over the city. I picture him rubbing his chin, choosing his next words.
Finally he says, “You’ll get your access to the Seafarer. I’ll tell my people that you’re to have everything you ask for. But as for what you call my ‘games’? I’ll tell you now, Ms. Davis, that I’m not a man who does anything needlessly. What you call games, I call necessary. The purpose may be mysterious to you, but trust me in the knowledge that there always is one. I will not be on the hook for your judgment of my business practices.”
Good enough? It’ll have to be. “Fine,” I say. “You have a deal. I’ll come to the office first thing tomorrow.”
“No,” he says. “Come to the Seafarer. It’s docked at Pier 90. I’ll meet you there at 10.”
“I’ll be there,” I promise.
He hangs up without saying goodbye. I look wordlessly at Mickey. She can only gaze, wide-eyed, back.
What have I just gotten us into? All my prayers have been answered, I’ve been given a second chance. But at the same time I can’t help but feel like I’m swimming out into dangerous waters, ignoring all the warning signs.
And that Nick Madison is a shark circling just underneath.