17. Hildy
Hildy
TWO AND A HALF YEARS AGO
NEW YORK—The phone on Hildy’s desk buzzed. She pressed the intercom button.
“What’s up, Olive?”
“There’s someone here to see you. A man.” Her intern’s normally chirpy voice was subdued.
“Is it a policeman?”
“No!” There was a rustling in the background. The next words were barely above a whisper. “It’s Walter Burns.”
Corinne must have tipped off the front office staff. Which was honestly insulting, because Hildy wasn’t going to make a scene at her own place of work. She saved that for other venues. Life, Styled was a serious enterprise, while also being fun and full of creative zing!
Hopefully, that would be evident to Walter from the reception area.
Maybe they needed a funkier front desk? Or a really cool floor lamp.
They could probably afford a few modest upgrades.
According to their financial analyst, now that the magazine had survived its first year, the odds of the whole thing collapsing around them would drop every quarter.
Surely that was cause for an extremely cautious celebration. Prosecco if not champagne.
“Hildy?” Olive whispered. “Do I need to call Corinne?”
“No! Tell Walter I’ll be with him in three minutes. I’m just finishing something up.”
“What are you—”
“Olive.” Hildy generally applauded her intern’s curiosity, but they had already had several conversations about when to ask follow-up questions and when to deliver a line as written. No one needed to know Hildy’s bathroom schedule.
“Right. Sorry.”
Hildy set down the phone. How would her office look to someone seeing it for the first time?
She didn’t have any plants, the biggest piece of wall art was a whiteboard, and the couch in the corner had been chosen more for comfort than aesthetics, since both Hildy and Corinne had been known to use it for the occasional power nap when they were at the office late.
But maybe it was okay that she didn’t have a designer showplace for an office, since she wasn’t a figurehead editor.
Walter, of all people, should appreciate a more democratic approach to office space.
This was a room where actual work happened, hence the clutter.
Instead of trying to straighten the mess, Hildy decided to use her remaining two minutes to check her hair and reapply her lipstick—and then blot it off so it didn’t look like she was trying too hard.
She was a journalist, not an actress playing the part.
Though there was no reason an editor couldn’t also be hot, as Meryl Streep had demonstrated in The Devil Wears Prada.
Dropping her mirror back into her purse, Hildy kicked the desk drawer shut.
What else? She’d been on the phone all morning, trying to get access to a temperamental young chef they were hoping to profile, but it wasn’t the kind of work that left a visible trace, and she needed Walter to know she wasn’t just counting the minutes until she could enjoy an expensive lunch on the company dime.
Footsteps approached her door. Olive was extremely literal about time, which was great for punctuality but less awesome when Hildy could have used a more generous definition of three minutes.
Grabbing one of the old proofs she used as scratch paper, Hildy flipped it over and started drawing red lines through the text at random.
There was a brief knock—Hildy was pretty sure she didn’t jump—and then the door swung open.
“That bad?” a much deeper voice than her intern’s asked.
Hildy’s head jerked up. She wondered what he’d told Olive to convince her he didn’t need an escort. It’s okay. We’re old friends. I’ve seen her half naked.
Her expression must have been confused, because Walter nodded at the page on her desk, now striped like a candy cane. “I didn’t realize you could read upside down.”
Damn. It took her a half second to rally. “And backward, but who’s counting?”
“Maybe you should just set it on fire. Hand back the burnt remains.”
“I’m not that kind of editor.” She slid the stack of papers that strongly suggested otherwise into a drawer. “What can I do for you, Walter?”
Did that sound suggestive, or was her imagination playing tricks? Hildy had once had an elaborate sex dream about Walter involving this very office, but that was a secret she’d take to the grave.
This Walter was a lot more polished than the imaginary version, and not just because Dream Walter’s pants had been around his ankles.
Had he dressed up to see her, or was this his new normal?
Because that was an expensive suit, and the fit suggested custom tailoring—thankfully not in the too-snug style popular among some guys her age.
The line between dress pants and leggings should be crystal clear, in Hildy’s opinion.
It was much classier to leave something to the imagination.
The drape of Walter’s navy wool trousers gave only the barest hint at what was underneath.
Then again, Hildy had already been up close and personal with everything his pants concealed, so she didn’t need a preview of coming attractions.
Although teen Walter had been a different animal than the man whose presence seemed to be sucking all the air out of the room.
“Take a seat,” she said, attempting to regain control of the situation.
He scooted the chair a little closer to her desk before sinking into it. “How are you?”
“Fine.” If he wanted to go through the charade of making small talk, she could play along. “You?”
“Same.” Walter white-knuckled the arms of his chair before deliberately placing his hands on his lap.
Hildy was burning with curiosity but equally desperate to hide that fact from Walter. “Can I help you with something?”
“Maybe.”
The plot thickened. “I assume there’s a reason for this visit?” she hinted, when he failed to elaborate.
“Call it a professional courtesy.”
She let the skepticism flash across her face like a neon sign. “You? Are being courteous? And professional?”
“Off to a great start,” he muttered, fiddling with his watchband.
“I’m just surprised. Did a trio of holiday ghosts recently visit you?”
“A job is a job, Hildy.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“I don’t have to.”
That brought her up short. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I gave my notice.”
“Really?”
He shrugged, not quite managing to sell it as a casual gesture. “It was time for a change.”
Hildy turned the words over in her mind, searching for a hidden meaning. “Tired of spreading scurrilous gossip?”
When he didn’t bite, she moved down the list of possibilities. “Are you dying? For the record, if this is a tragic-yet-vague deathbed confession, I will murder you myself. Although you don’t look sick. Or like you’re having a breakdown.”
“Try not to sound so disappointed.”
She hit him with her most penetrating stare. “You know I’m going to figure it out. Why don’t you save us both time and fess up now?” It came to her in a skin-tightening rush, like an allergic reaction. “Did you write a book?”
He shook his head.
The relief was short-lived, as a horrifying new possibility occurred to her. “Did someone poach you?”
He had the talent and the name recognition.
Hildy would have tried to hire him herself if their history were less fraught.
As things stood, Walter would assume she was recruiting him purely for the pleasure of laying him off the following week.
Also, Corinne would have her committed the second Hildy floated the idea of bringing Walter Burns on staff.
Weird how she couldn’t stop gnawing on an idea that was so clearly a nonstarter.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I got a new job.”
She watched him stand, gripping the back of his chair before pacing to the bookshelf, as if he had a sudden urgent need to inspect the framed picture of Hildy at her friends’ wedding on Oahu.
“Food service?” she guessed. “You’d rock a hairnet.”
“Journalism.”
She should have known he wouldn’t leave the news biz until they wheeled him out on a gurney.
Hildy picked up a stack of sticky notes, ruffling the edges with her thumb as she waited for Walter to spill.
When he stayed stubbornly silent, her annoyance levels climbed. “How exactly is that relevant to me?”
“I thought you’d appreciate a heads-up. We might be seeing more of each other.”
Surely he didn’t mean that the way it sounded. “If you started a lifestyle magazine just to spite me—”
“I didn’t,” he cut in. “Not sure how you think I would have bankrolled that.”
“Whereas I just fished the loose change out of my couch.” She brushed her palms together as if it had been that easy, as opposed to a yearslong campaign of pitching their business plan to potential backers.
“I guess I should be happy you won’t be spying on me from the shadows and following me around town anymore. Or digging through my trash.”
Walter sighed. “I never went through your trash, Hildy.”
“So you admit to the rest?”
“No, I—” He stopped himself there. “The attention doesn’t seem to have done you any harm.” Walter made a show of looking around her office.
She stifled the urge to throw a pen at him. How dare he suggest that Hildy owed even a fraction of her success to him? “Because I made it work. But that was never plan A. You forced me to play the game that way.”
“Sure. I’m the bad guy.” He dug a hand into his thick hair, rumpling the careful styling. “This was a bad idea.”
“Not your first.”
“Yeah, well, let’s hope it’s my last.” He paused in the doorway. “Sorry for wasting your time.”
“Wait, what’s the job?”
“I changed my mind.”
“About the job?”
“About telling you. Why spoil the surprise?”
“That’s not funny. Walter!” she yelled when he didn’t turn back. Leaping from her chair, Hildy ran after him, garnering a curious look from Olive.
The stairwell was empty. Hildy let the door clang behind her as she hurried to the elevator. According to the light-up display, Walter was halfway to the ground floor.
Fine. If the universe didn’t want her to catch him, Hildy wasn’t going to embarrass herself by tearing down the stairs barefoot, shrieking his name.
This was probably just Walter’s way of psyching her out—showing up at her magazine to act all mysterious and broody.
Hildy could do the same back at him … as soon as she figured out where he worked.
“Why are you running around like your hair’s on fire?” Corinne asked, stepping out of the break room with a bag of microwave popcorn.
Hildy stomped into her office, collapsing onto the couch. It felt like she’d just finished a ninety-minute barre workout. “Walter was here.”
Corinne bent to peer under Hildy’s desk.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking for blood and body parts. Or your underwear.”
Hildy rolled her eyes. “Allegedly he stopped by as a professional courtesy.”
“What did he really want?”
“To get in my head.”
Corinne huffed at that. “Waste of time.”
“I know, right? Like I’m going to let him mess with me again. Fool me once, etcetera.”
“It was a waste of time because he already lives there rent-free.” She tapped her temple for emphasis.
“I think I know why he showed up,” Hildy said, ignoring the unsolicited commentary. She frowned at her co-worker’s gargoyle impression. “What is that face?”
“Inside me there are two wolves.” Corinne pressed her fingertips to her sternum. “One doesn’t want to encourage this weird obsession, but the other knows she needs to be ready to stage an intervention. Let’s hear it.”
“Maybe it was a cry for help.”
“You think Walter Burns came to you for help? Out of all the millions of people in this city?”
“Yes, Corinne.” She needed to revisit the idea of getting a KEEP UP, PEOPLE T-shirt. “Of a certain kind. That only I can provide.”
“You know sexual healing is not a real thing, right?”
“I’m talking about forgiveness. What if he came to apologize?”
“Did he apologize?”
Hildy shook her head.
“Then that kind of undermines your theory.”
“It’s possible he was distracted.” Hildy brushed a stray crumb off the couch so she wouldn’t have to see Corinne’s expression.
“Listen. I’m all for the two of you sorting out your shit, but if it hasn’t happened by now, maybe it’s time to let go of that—” She paused, circling a hand as she searched for the right word.
“Vendetta?” Hildy guessed.
“I was going to say ‘dream,’ but sure. Let’s go with your version.”
Hildy knew when she was being humored, but decided to let it ride. She had always preferred her tough love in very small and occasional doses, like a vitamin C supplement for her common sense.
Maybe Walter was like chicken pox: one of those viruses that never really go away once they get into your bloodstream. The important thing was to remember she’d been inoculated against him a long time ago.