Chapter 3 A Company Party #2
Hannah nods. She senses a tension in the air but can’t be sure of the source of it.
That is one of the big downsides of my covering for Nick’s absences.
It hurts Hannah less to believe that her dad isn’t at fault when he doesn’t show up, but then she blames me for the hostility that’s lingering between us.
Someone has to be the bad guy, and when I let Nick duck the responsibility, there’s only one parent left.
“So where’s your hotel, Nick?” Abby asks pointedly. Bless her.
Nick looks between us, rubbing the back of his head. “Yeah, I have to book something. I was so caught up in trying to get here…”
“Yep. Sounds like you have to,” Abby agrees, nodding.
I step forward, bolstered by Abby’s firmness. “I’m sure we can find something nearby. Let’s let Nick order some dinner and I can do a quick search for hotels.” Abby shoots me a grin, proud of me for not offering him my couch to stay on.
The next morning, while Abby packs her bag and then strips her sheets from the sofa, she reminds me that I should go to my work cocktail party on Saturday. More quietly, she tells me that I better “have sex with someone in the bathroom.”
“That’s how I met Nick,” I tell her.
“Ugh, then forget it.”
Hugging Abby good-bye feels like losing the stable foundation in my universe yet again. I have to get better at accepting that she’s always there for me but no longer here for me.
It’s a good idea to go to the party, though. I confirm with Nick that he can watch Hannah while I go to a work event; I suggest that he take her to the aquarium and then to dinner so that I can slip out without them noticing that I’m dressed for a party.
No such luck, though. Hannah isn’t feeling well on Saturday, which means that Nick and Hannah are sitting on my sofa watching a slightly problematic 1980s action film when I head out the door a little before 5 p.m., my hair in a French twist and my wine-red cocktail dress clinging to my body.
“Sorry about this. Professional obligation,” I tell Nick as I tuck my lipstick in my purse.
He looks me over, a strange heat in his eyes, and then nods once. “Sure. Have a good time.”
I feel unsteady as I walk down the hallway. We are divorced, I remind myself, and he is spending time with his own child. He is a grown man, and he can handle the realities of what being divorced means.
Why do I feel guilty?
The company cocktail party is being held in an elegant atrium room and outdoor patio that have been reserved for the evening in the conservatory of the New York Botanical Garden.
We are surrounded on all sides by trailing walls of flowers and dangling vines, the room decorated with sparkling lights and attractive servers proffering wandering trays of canapes and crostini.
A DJ plays a collection of instrumental versions of the old jazz standards.
As I step into the space, I left myself drift on the current of magic for a few moments.
This is my glamorous life as a New Yorker, I tell myself—nights out, warm breezes, elegant people in expensive shoes.
I let myself feel sophisticated, polished, confident.
Then the first person I spot is Brant, predictably, approaching me with a glass of wine in hand.
“Doing the making an appearance thing?” he asks.
I nod. “Looks like it.”
He glances at my red dress. “Quite an appearance.” I can’t tell if he means it as a compliment or an insult.
“Well, I don’t get out to grown-up functions that often, so I probably overcompensated.”
He smirks. “Kara is probably out on the town in stilettos every time I have the kids for a weekend, but I try not to think about it.”
“Mmm.”
He casts his eyes around. “Well, I guess I’ll go circulate, see if I can get a little more info from the V.P.s about the outlook for next year. There was buzz last quarter about layoffs, but if that comes up, I will make sure they know you’re an employee of seven years, not a new hire.”
“Thanks, Brant.”
I move away as quickly as I can while trying to look like I’m casually wandering, not subtly slipping away from him.
The glass conservatory looks staggeringly romantic in the last glow of sunset…
or so I gather from the three separate couples I see making out behind different vines.
It makes me wonder what the new inter-office dating policy should look like.
The current rule is that you can date anyone, as long as they aren’t a direct supervisor, but the company will act like your grumpy old aunt who doesn’t particularly approve.
Several marriages have started by disappointing the delicate sensibilities of Murano H.R. , as Vivi likes to point out.
I’m making a sharp right-hand turn to avoid another couple when Vivian appears from behind me.
“He likes you.”
I spin around to face her. Vivi looks gorgeous, as always, in a sleek black dress and with her hair in a fresh cut that swings just below her chin. “Brant?”
“Oliver. I asked him about you, and he said—”
“I told you not to tell him I was interested!”
“And he said…” She pauses dramatically, one finger poised in the air like an orchestra conductor. “He said he knew who you were, and you were gorgeous.”
“Oh my God.” I cover my face. “This is like high school.”
“No, it is like eighteenth-century England, where your married friends take control of your love life and you communicate with suitors by flipping your fan. But my point is that right now, at this very moment, he is waiting in the courtyard for you, and you are going to take a turn around the garden with him while I watch from an appropriate distance as chaperone.”
“Chaperone? I have four tattoos.”
“Really?” Her eyes scan my shoulder to where a small Japanese dragon tattoo peeks out from under my dress. "I only know of three. Please tell me the other one is a tramp stamp of an Eagles quote.”
“It’s Tweety Bird holding a bong.”
She snorts as she takes my arm. “He’s waiting.” She gives me a little shove.
I step out of the conservatory and into the breezy open-air courtyard, my heels wobbling on the uneven paving stones.
Sure enough, Ollie stands all alone near a tinkling fountain, his hair glowing redder than usual in the last touches of sunset, his eyes staring into his drink like there’s a goldfish swimming in it.
He has dressed down from his usual three-piece suit and is in a crisp white shirt and blazer and he looks…
not sexy, exactly—he’s a little too buttoned-up for that—but deeply appealing.
I take a breath and walk forward. He catches my eye and then takes in my dress, and his eyes widen a little.
“Hello,” he says with a half-smile.
“Hi.” I hope my cheerful tone acknowledges how weird this all is. “I’m Laura.” I thrust out my hand. “I’m one of the accountants. And you are…”
“Ollie. Tax law.”
“Hot,” I say, jokingly imitating a gum-snapping teen on TikTok, and then I immediately regret it. What if he thinks I actually talk like that? But he’s smiling.
“Yeah, I always tell people it’s a very sexy field,” he says, “but I’m not sure they buy it.” He smiles a little more. His eyes catch my tattoo, widening slightly.
“So what are you—”
“So how are you—”
We both stop talking.
“So,” I say.
“So,” he says. This really is like high school. Neither of us seems to remember how to talk. He continues after a moment. “I guess we’ll be serving on that committee together. I read the list of invitees and saw you on there.”
“Oh, that’s exciting,” I say, like I hadn’t noticed it myself. Exciting?
“Nothing like committee work to make you feel alive.”
“Get enough accountants in a room and it’s basically an orgy.”
He coughs on a laugh, and I panic.
“Sorry, I just meant—”
“I’ll try to prepare myself for that,” he says.
“Were you away for a while?” I try desperately to switch topics. “Someone said that you were in the Toronto office?”
“London, then Toronto.” An emotion crosses his eyes and then is gone.
“Are you from there? I thought you might have an accent.”
“Australia. My family moved here when I was sixteen. And you have a daughter, right?”
I’m touched that he remembers after two years.
“Hannah,” I say, nodding. “She’s eight. I’m divorced, and my ex-husband is…
he’s not in the picture… I mean he’s watching her today, but only because he managed to finally show up halfway into her school vacation after promising he’d watch her the whole time. He lives in Atlanta.”
Ollie nods, taking this in. Wrong topic, I sense.
“But you were so amazing with the kids,” I say, desperate for a topic change. “You were like Mr. Rogers if he handed out recreational party drugs.”
He chuckles. “I prefer to think I was spurring their natural enthusiasm for accounting. I mean, who wants your parents to have a boring job like police officer or firefighter?”
“Someone has to inspire the next generation of office drones.”
“Yeah, that day was…” He trails off. Of course he does, because I brought up probably the worst day of his life. Nice work, Laura.
“So are you back permanently—”
“Would you like to…”
We both stop talking.
“…get coffee sometime?” he asks.
“I…I mean yeah, sure. If you…”
“Because I…”
“Sure. Yes. Yes.”
“Great.” He is smiling. It’s a nice smile. There may even be dimples under the beard, which feels chronically unfair. We stare at each other for another moment.
“Would you be willing to give me your phone number?” he asks.
“…Sure. Right.” I blink at him like phone numbers are a foreign concept I am just beginning to grasp.
He takes his phone out of his pocket and hands it to me.
What is my problem? I wonder as I type my phone number. I used to be good at flirting. People have slammed tequila shots off my stomach. I used to be cool.