Chapter 16
Ihave a confession to make. No, not that one. It’s that my favorite part of sex is after it’s over. Which isn’t to say I don’t enjoy the act itself, because I do, very much—but what I really love is the holding afterward, the lounging, the supreme relaxation of That went well.
Sex with Kevin went mind-blowingly well, but it was our postcoital lazing that was the clincher for me.
We spent all of Sunday sprawled in his bed in our underwear, laughing, watching videos on his computer, and occasionally having more sex.
And the best part: we ordered from Seamless for every meal. Could I ask for anything more?
But before work on Monday morning, some of the anxiety was already creeping its way back in.
To combat it, I bought Robert a honey-glazed doughnut from the Peter Pan bakery and placed it on his desk.
Robert loved Peter Pan doughnuts. How in the world did Robert Barlow ever eat a hand-rolled doughnut from a tiny Polish bakery in Greenpoint, Brooklyn?
you might ask? Because I was stupid enough to bring him one once.
I should have known such a mindless act of kindness would lead to weekly text messages at six a.m. and my having to leave my apartment a half hour early to get to Greenpoint before work in order to deliver him this one random doughnut.
Emily once told me a story about how she knew a guy had cheated on her when he surprised her with a pink-frosted cupcake from Crumbs. The Cupcake of Guilt, she called it. I figured now the least I could do was bring my victim a Doughnut of Guilt.
But Robert was having a good day. Something in the islands had gone well, giving him an extra jump to his step, and a political scandal involving a sext had broken overnight, which brought him great joy.
This was how I liked Robert best, winning and un-scary, jetting around the office with the energy of a man half his age.
(Faster than a scalded cat. Busy as a hound in flea season.) Just watching him work, you knew this was a man doing exactly what he was born to do.
Robert loved the game. He loved the fight.
His wife called around noon, and even though he was in with Glen Wiles, I knew to interrupt him.
The one piece of advice I’d received from Robert’s previous assistant, a waif of a woman named Jeannie who lasted only three weeks, was: “Be really nice to Avery and, no matter what, always put her calls through.”
Jeannie apparently had not.
“He’s in a meeting with Glen, but I’ll get him out for you,” I told Avery Barlow. “I’m sure he’d rather be talking to you.”
She chuckled.
“I heard he took you in three straight sets last time you played,” I added.
She chuckled again. “He hasn’t stopped bragging about that all week. I’ll tell you it was worth it, losing to him so badly, just to have him in such a good mood for a change.”
“Hear hear,” I said. “Hang on just a moment, I’ll get him.”
Some days I was so damn good at being an assistant.
Around a quarter to six, I disappeared to the fitness-center bathroom on the fourteenth floor to make the most of the free amenities: toothbrushes, toothpaste, dental floss, mouthwash—basically it was an oral hygienist’s dream bathroom.
There I encountered Hannah Paley, one of Titan’s news desk assistants.
We exchanged a nod, then an eye roll when the two women behind the stalls, both producers, began conversing about their fabulous weekends.
“Were you in the Hamptons?” one of them asked the other.
“No, we have a house in Cape Cod.”
“Really? I prefer Cape May.”
“Oh? Do you have a house there?”
“My parents do. But we have our own summer rental in Amagansett.”
Flush.
Flush.
Hannah Paley pretended to gag herself with her complimentary toothbrush.
What sweet validation.
At one time I would have rushed out of the bathroom before those two emerged, to avoid the inevitable questions about my weekend.
And if they caught me before I could escape, I would have put on mock airs, claiming that I needed this weekend to “just relax and do nothing for a change.” Like nothing was the new something.
Or I would just make up something vague, like “I’m going to this great farmer’s market in Williamsburg.
” There’s always a great farmer’s market in Williamsburg to fall back on.
What was that about, anyway? Was I lying to allay their guilt?
To make them not feel bad about the fact that I couldn’t go away every summer Friday, that I could barely afford my Netflix subscription?
Or was it to trick them into believing that I was someone better than I was, someone more like them?
“They don’t have a fucking clue,” Hannah Paley said under her breath. Then she scooped up all the remaining boxes of sample-size Crest Whitestrips from the counter and dumped them into her bag.
It was a good day.
So I was caught completely off guard when I returned to my desk to find Robert waiting for me, skulking around my files.
“Do you need something, Robert?” I asked.
“Sit down,” he said.
I sat.
He brought one of his brogues up on top of my drawer stand and leaned in. This gesture made all the men in the office extremely uncomfortable since it effectively brought his ball sac in line with his subject’s chin, but as a woman I was accustomed to this compromising position.
“You know how I feel about you, don’t you, Tina?”
“I think so.”
“I’ve always felt comfortable with you. Since the first time you walked through that door, I felt I could trust you. That’s why I hired you.”
I heard myself gulp.
“Now, let me ask you something. Are you familiar with Margie Fischer from Accounting?”
I hesitated.
“Big lady,” he said. “Talks too loud.”
“Yes,” I said. “I know who you mean.”
“Has she been bullying you in any way?”
“Bullying me?” I swallowed down the acid making its way up my throat. “No.”
“No?”
“Uh-uh.” I shook my head like a toddler. “I hardly have any contact with her at all.” Though the Titan security-camera feed from the previous weeks would have reported otherwise.
“Good,” Robert said. “If she does start bothering you at all, asking you questions, anything like that . . .” Robert stared deep into my eyes, still with his leg up.
“Because you know there are a lot of people out there who would like to see me hurt, so I can only surround myself with people I can trust.”
“I don’t want anything to do with Margie Fischer,” I said. “I’ll come to you immediately if she—”
“Good.” Robert stepped back and took his balls out of my face. “That’s all I wanted to hear. Now go on home.” He turned toward his office.
Finally, I exhaled. What the hell was that about? I shut down my computer and prepared my escape from the building. At least it wasn’t Emily he was asking about—or anything I’d done. But, still, whatever had prompted that could not be good for any of us.
I checked for my keys, wallet, phone; glanced one last time at Robert, whose eyes were glued to the many flashing flat-screens in his office; and headed for the elevators—and by the time I reached them, an idea had formed: Could I pin all this on Margie Fischer and get out unscathed? And even if I could . . . could I?
It was me and Dillinger heading down in elevator C, but all we did was nod at each other and then stare dead-eyed ahead.
How much would I allow this situation to change me?
I wondered. It seemed to have changed me already, but in many positive ways.
I was becoming more assertive, figuring out how to be in charge of stuff—but was there a point of diminishing returns?
Was I about to cross over into being a truly hardened criminal, a Tony Soprano, a Walter White, a Martha Stewart, willing to take out anyone in order to save myself?
The elevator door opened and Dillinger let me exit first. No man who worked for Robert would ever exit an elevator before a woman. It was both gallant and totally annoying.
No. I came into this a halfway-decent person, and that’s how I’d leave it.
Margie Fischer didn’t mean much to me, and she did harass Emily and me that day at Michael’s, and she’d told Lily about us, and there was that one time she scolded me for sniffing the cafeteria half-and-half, but I couldn’t just throw her to the dogs.
She was doing the best she could, like everyone else.
She meant well, just like me. I meant well, didn’t I?
On the way down the escalator to the main doors, I tried to calculate how many more weeks we had before I’d shut everything down.
A complicated equation filled my mind: 3 of us contributing (me + Ginger + Wendi) + 1 signing/approving (Emily) + 2 who it was safe to assume would keep their mouths shut from here on out (Margie + Lily) = X.
The sun and heat of the outside struck my face.
X = Approximately four weeks. Also known as one month.
One month, thirty days, the amount of time it takes for the moon to complete its lunar cycle; for rent to be due again; to form a new habit (according to The Oprah Magazine).
But I wouldn’t let it be enough time to turn me into a sociopathic, amoral misfit.
I had no interest in becoming an antihero—or a villain, for that matter.
Even if Martha Stewart had somehow managed to find her way back.