40. Sara
40
SARA
M y palms push against the leather cushioned exterior of a door with a brass plaque that suggests I’m about to enter a billiards room. The door moves with a firm shove, and I step into a lounge lit with jade banker lamps and a grand piano next to a window as tall as a two-story building.
A pool table stands in the center of the room where two men bearing identical slicked back haircuts, circle and graze the mahogany edges, plotting and calculating their next play like their fates depend on it.
Beyond the table, I spy a bar.
Setting my eyes on the row of unclaimed barstools, I cross the room, the trail of my dress grazing over the maroon carpet and thick patterned rugs.
It wasn’t hard to break away from Justin and Reza after the shots came out. I’d made an excuse about finding the ladies room and before knew it, I was scouring the corridors, looking for somewhere I could be alone.
I gather the material while pulling out a tall stool in the center of the empty row, perch at the checkerboard countertop of the bar, and order a lemonade.
Had I been na?ve? Perhaps Drew had mentioned it and I wasn’t listening. There was always so much going on in the office, sometimes it was hard to keep up with every single piece of gossip.
Only this wasn’t gossip.
This feels different. Chest pain different. Something close to betrayal.
I bite my lip, because I’m not so inexperienced with workplace politics to understand the position was open to anyone in the office. I know for a fact that others have applied too.
The sting comes because of the secrecy. The careful planning not to let his intention slip. Surely he’d want to keep me onside since…
Oh God.
A dreadful thought occurs to me… Drew would be my new boss.
I let the weight of my head fall into one hand while the other sprawls dramatically across the bar.
Then a stool drags across the carpet and my nostrils are flooded with a musky fragrance coupled with the vague scent of tobacco. I hear the shuffle of feet, followed by a gravelly female voice,
“Don’t treat me like I’m in a stroller, I can get up here just fine.”
“Of course,” the nervous voice of one of the pool players comes from behind me. I don’t need to look around to guess what happened.
So much for being alone.
At least this guest isn’t someone I know .
Yet when I peek to my left, something about the woman perched next to me, is familiar. I note the midnight black hair, piled into a loose bun on top of her head. A silver ring decorates every finger, and deep blue nails match her navy velvet dress that drapes over her willowy frame.
She pins the bartender with a displeased glare. “Are you on the clock, or should I climb over there and make my own drink?” Without moving my head, I peek at the bartender to witness him almost trip over himself to reach the woman. “Same as before,” she says, pointing to a row of bottles behind the bar. He’s about to select one when the woman has another outburst, “I told you earlier, none of that blended crap, give me the single malt.” The bartender nods while rushing to choose another bottle.
“It ain’t his fault,” she says, angling her body toward me. “He’s been told to give away the cheap stuff unless otherwise requested. Rich folk are all the same. Cheapskates at heart.”
I cough into my lemonade, equally humored and shocked that anyone could have the nerve to attach the word cheapskate to the Hemmingvale ball.
The bartender places the requested drink in front of the woman before looking at me, his enquiring eyes perhaps wondering if I’m ready for something stronger than my lemonade.
“I’ll have whatever that is.” I point to the woman’s drink.
She breathes a wheezy laugh then turns to the bartender. “Pour it over her kids party drink.”
He raises an eyebrow but complies.
“You don’t think I can drink it straight up?” I sneer.
“Who’s picking you off the floor after? Not me.” She takes a sip of her own amber liquid, savoring it like it’s hot chocolate at a Christmas market. “It’s nasty stuff, and you seem like a sweet girl. ”
I glare at the woman, holding her stare for a few moments. “I’m not that sweet,” I say calmly yet low enough to ensure the words are laced with just enough seriousness to let her know I’m not a little girl who needs a chaperone.
Her small eyes narrow as she surveys me from head to toe.
“Good.” The faintest hint of a grin surfaces. “Besides, you don’t want a repeat of what happened to your friend at Midas.”
My eyes widen as the loose ends connect. “I knew I recognized you from somewhere.”
“Magdalena Nicolo. Press,” she says a little friendlier.
“Sara Kirby. I’m in Marketing.”
A few moments pass where we pay each other no attention, sipping on our drinks and listening to the piano chime out notes to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.
“Why aren’t you enjoying the party?” Magdalena asks. “When I was your age, I’d be using this time to figure out which rich jerk I could tolerate long enough to spend the night with.”
I’m smirking. “You think you’re too old to be doing that now?”
“I didn’t say I’m too old.” She eyes me sharply. “I just figured out I can’t tolerate them anymore. Not even for a night.”
I laugh. Then take a sip of the strange scotch and lemonade combination, which doesn’t taste as bad as I’d imagined.
I sigh. “I don’t suppose you noticed the entourage I was with at Midas?” I ask, not expecting her to recall everyone I was with that night.
She snorts, huffing out a laugh. “I remember.”
I suppose it was hard to forget the incident with Amber and the barstool, and then the argument between Jack and Drew.
“One of them was my friend.” I clutch the glass with both hands. “And he somehow got the job I’ve been breaking my ass to get promoted to.”
Magdalena’s eyebrows tick up and down. “You went after the same job?” She sucks in a breath. “That’s one way to test a friendship.”
I push the drink away. “He didn’t tell me he was going after it. He even said he’d help me prep for the interview.” I groan. “Anyway, I just found out tonight and I didn’t want to run into him before I had time to process the whole thing.”
I look down at my drink, but I can feel Magdalena’s eyes resting on me while her inky nails drum on the counter. “This friend of yours, does he have a name?”
I run a hand through my hair, desperate to put this behind me. “Drew,” I say, like it matters. “Big muscles, super white teeth, smiles a lot.”
“The one who got in Vandenberg’s face. I remember,” Magdalena says.
Then, she reaches for her bag, a black ostrich feather purse with bulbous brass clasps. Her aged hands rummage in the crevices until she produces a flip lighter.
She pats at her dress, cursing as she appears to search for something else. Finally, she retrieves a small pack of cigarettes from the long drapes of her dress, accompanied with a victory grunt of approval.
She slides down from the stool, removing a cigarette from the pack. “Well, Sara. Sounds like you gotta be more careful who you make friends with.” She taps the flat end of the cigarette against the countertop while I battle the urge to thank her for that groundbreaking advice.
When I think she’s about to leave, she looks at me over her shoulder. “You also might want to consider that if this Drew character was low enough to scoop that job out from under your feet,” she says tucking a long tendril of black hair behind her ear. “What makes you think he stopped there?”