Twenty-Six #3
He shakes his head and pushes the computer off his lap, letting me know he is about to have a serious talk with me. Another serious talk. “Missy, you can’t do this anymore. You’re the CEO and this makes it look like that damn piece was right. It’s
all about optics, and we can’t have any more pictures of you looking bleary-eyed at parties.”
I am suffused with sudden anger. “Are you kidding me? Do I look bleary-eyed to you? No? That’s because the only thing I have
been drinking tonight is mineral water. Do you not think I’m aware of the responsibility that’s been given to me? The last
thing I’m going to do is more damage to my reputation. Don’t attack me as soon as I walk in making unfounded allegations just
because you’re pissed that I wasn’t checking my phone and didn’t let you know what I was doing.”
I can see he is mollified slightly, but not ready to let it go. “Okay. I’m sorry that I accused you of being drunk, but even
if you’re stone-cold sober, we’re in a strange country. You can’t just go out until one thirty in the morning and not let
me know where you are or who you’re with.”
“You know who I was with. Preeti.”
“Right, and that in itself worries me.”
I was about to sit down next to him, but I stand stock-still. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I worry that she’s a bad influence on you.”
Now I start to laugh. “Because we once got drunk together at a party? Preeti is our business partner, and if we have a friendship
on top of that partnership, all the better.”
Jerome shakes his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. It’s never a good idea to bring friendship into it. It confuses things,
and blurs the boundaries. Be friendly, yes, of course. But not best friends. If the friendship blows up, that jeopardizes
the whole business relationship. This deal is too important to put in any kind of jeopardy.”
I snort derisively. “Jerome, you’re sounding like my father.”
“Good. Your father built ipryy and he knows exactly what he’s doing. If I’m doing things the same way, more power to me.”
“I didn’t mean that in a positive way. I meant that it isn’t how people do business in the twenty-first century. It’s all
about relationships—it always has been. Not to mention that I resent what you think about female friendships. Since when am
I the kind of woman to blow up friendships? My best friend is Lucy who has been my best friend for twenty-five years. You
have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t tell me I have no idea what I’m talking about.”
“Don’t tell me how to treat my business relationships. You’re my boyfriend, Jerome, not my boss and not my father. And frankly,
even if you were my boss or my father, I’d still tell you to shove it.”
I do not think of myself as someone possessing much of a temper.
When you have volatile parents, as I do, you go to one of two extremes: Either you re-create the model of your home, or you go to great lengths to avoid confrontation of any kind.
Anger frightens me. It always has. When my father turns, has one of his famous outbursts, I instantly regress to a scared child, wanting to make everything right, or get out of the way as quickly as possible.
I don’t react to people with anger. I am placid, and even-keeled, and more likely to talk things through, but tonight I am
so angry, I don’t even want to sleep in the same bed as Jerome.
“I’m going for a walk,” I say, slipping my sneakers on.
“What? Stop. You can’t go out. It’s the middle of the night.”
“I can’t stay here with you.” I walk out of the room and take the elevator down to the lobby, unsure of where to go, other
than to avoid the suite until I have calmed down.
I make my way onto La Croisette, still noisy, the parties only just getting started, and walk to the promenade. Jerome is
just hurt, I tell myself, and isn’t it human nature to want to lash out and hurt when you are feeling hurt yourself? Closing
my eyes, I focus on my breath, in through the nose, cool and sharp, out through the mouth, soft and warm. I open my eyes,
aware of a presence, and I turn to see Jerome next to me, looking contrite.
“I’m sorry. I was completely in the wrong.” I can tell he means it.
“I’m sorry too. I should have been in touch and let you know what time I’d be back. It was inconsiderate.” I take a breath.
“I worry that you don’t believe in me, Jerome. You think I’m too irresponsible, or immature, or something. That you even thought
that I would make the kinds of bad decisions you accused me of is something that really bothers me.”
“I do believe in you,” he says firmly. “I wouldn’t be with you if I didn’t.”
“And you want to be with me?” I don’t know where that comes from. I don’t even know what I’m asking. I’m saying the words out loud as if I’m asking Jerome, but I’m pretty sure I’m asking the question of myself.
“Of course I want to be with you. Come here.” He takes me in his arms, and I settle in, wondering why I still feel unsettled;
wondering whether, as I said to Preeti earlier, it might be time to shit or get off the pot.