Chapter Three
Three
Ava’s painting her nails on the coffee table, pale lilac.
“What about conjoined hotel rooms?” she says, peering up at me with the brush in one hand. “We’d be safer there with a doorman than in a random rental house, anyway.”
Ava’s always worried about safety. Something she got from her mother, a notorious door lock triple-checker.
“Let me look.” I open a map of Miami and start clicking on beachfront hotels at random.
We’re in our living room, a half–exposed brick, half-drywall cube with one arched window overlooking Belden Avenue.
Lev’s still at the pharmacy, which doesn’t close until eight.
“It shouldn’t be too expensive if we do double rooms with a few girls in each. ”
“My thoughts exactly,” Ava says. She blows carefully on her left hand. “And then we’d only need two.”
We’re headed to Florida in December for Ava’s bachelorette party. As maid of honor, I’m doing most of the planning: corralling our friends from home and college and trying not to burn through every dime of my savings in the process.
“And if it’s too expensive, we just stay in Chicago,” she says, not for the first time. “A little staycation.”
I hold up my hand. “Don’t start. We’re going to the beach.”
It’s Ava’s dream: sun and sand and strawberry daiquiris. If anyone deserves a dream come true, it’s Ava.
“You’re an angel,” she says, and I look up.
Pancake’s curled against her side, asleep—the cat neither of us wanted and are now so enamored with she takes turns sleeping in our beds.
We’d been in Chicago for a couple months when someone posted about Pancake on our neighborhood forum: a two-year-old Scottish fold with teensy ears and the sweetest, saddest face.
Her elderly owner had passed away, and his kids couldn’t keep her.
She was all alone in the world—no parents, sort of like me.
The last thing I needed was a dependent, but I felt a pull to Pancake I haven’t felt before or since.
“Thank you, Mattie,” Ava says.
“Thank you for being born and tolerating me as your friend.”
It’s a bit, that we have to put up with each other. In truth, Ava’s my favorite person; and I was always hers, until Lev.
My parents didn’t get divorced until I was in college, but by then I couldn’t remember a time they hadn’t resented each other.
Our house half a mile from Ava’s was the quietest place on the planet: they didn’t yell at each other, only iced each other out.
I was always skittering precariously over the floe of their anger, keeping silent so I wouldn’t remind them of each other’s existence or the irrefutable evidence of it: me.
I knew I was the reason they stayed together and, it followed, the reason neither of them could be happy.
I was a conspicuous problem at my house, so I tried to be there as little as possible.
Ava had two younger brothers and parents who taught at the same high school; her house was full of not only children and books and crinkling snack bags but noise.
I’d sit in the middle of her living room and let it wash over me—Mrs. Zimmerman shouting the grocery list to her husband, his hollered Huh?
, Joey and Ezra slamming toy trucks into the baseboard of the hallway. All of it made my brain quiet.
Mrs. Zimmerman mothered me in a tactile, fussy way that my mom never did. She wiped ketchup off my mouth with her bare thumb at summer barbecues, and hugged me without a reason, and told me in no uncertain terms when I’d grown out of my first bra in the seventh grade.
She had a huge, commanding voice. Add an extra setting for Mattie, she’d tell the boys—a year apart, inseparable—as they slapped place mats on the kitchen table before dinner. I ate there more than half the time, and she accepted it without blinking.
I was loved, at Ava’s house. But I was always extra.
It wasn’t until we left for college and then, eventually, moved to our own place in Chicago that I knew what it felt like to belong somewhere without the constant pressure of needing to earn my place.
To be the quietest, or the politest, or the most talented, just so no one would look at me too hard and think: Is it time for her to go?
“I don’t know what I’m going to do without you for a whole month,” Ava says, now. “Who will bang the water pipe for me? Who will tell me when the outfit I’ve put together is an embarrassment to all of womankind?”
Who will be there for me, I think, when you’re gone? But I don’t say this, because it isn’t fair.
“I only go if we win next week,” I tell her, instead. “Very high probability I’m not going anywhere at all.”
“Please.” Ava’s done with her nails and leans backward into the couch, careful not to disturb Pancake. Lev’s fish tank burbles from across the room. “You and Dexter are the best there is.”
“Well,” I say. My voice is even, but I can’t quite look at her. “Campbell Porter’s also going to be there.”
Ava gasps, closemouthed, like a lawn mower wheezing to life. Her eyes are wide. “You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t want it to be real.”
“Why is that man haunting you?” Ava demands. She sits forward, fingers splayed wide to dry. Behind her, warm light glows from beneath our ancient microwave. “Of all the agencies in Chicago.”
“Well, Wicksteed wants the best.”
“Which is you.”
“And Campbell.”
Ava rolls her eyes. “Says who?”
“Cannes,” I say, flatly. “Adweek. Should I go on?”
“Well, I think he’s nothing but a washed-up prep school jock who gets off on putting others down.” She lifts one hand, pointer finger extended. “And, he’s too handsome for his own good.”
I let out a great gust of a sigh. “That’s not exactly an insult.”
“It’s the truth,” she says. “You can’t trust anyone who’s that smart and that good-looking. Except us, of course.”
“So you think he’s smart,” I say, and Ava rolls her eyes again.
“I think you think he’s smart.”
It’s the worst thing about Campbell. That he’s always accosting me with how exceptional he is.
When I don’t respond, Ava pins me with a look. “You need to ignore him, Mattie.”
“That’s the plan,” I say, though even now I’m picturing Campbell’s face. Haunting me, indeed.
“I know how you get around him.”
I scoff. “How do I get around him?”
Ava hesitates, trying to spin up the word. Finally, she lands on, “Attack-y.”
“Attack-y?”
“You know what I mean!” Pancake stirs at the rise in her voice, looking up. The crocheted blanket on the back of the couch, a housewarming gift from Mrs. Zimmerman, slips onto her back and she bolts out of the room. “He distracts you, Mattie. Don’t let this become about him.”
I’m insulted she would suggest it, and I feel my face going hot. “He doesn’t distract me.”
“You don’t need to prove anything to him,” Ava says, gentler. “That’s all I meant.”
But I do need to prove something to Campbell Porter.
That I can do the one thing I’ve never done: beat him.
We bring two ideas to Iris the following Monday. She beckons us into her office over the lid of her salad bowl, still chewing.
“Sorry,” she says as we sit. “I haven’t had a chance to eat yet today.”
It’s three o’clock, but I don’t point that out.
“No problem,” Dexter says. He’s in a better mood now that we’re into the work. It’s what always happens: he dreads the project until he gets his hands around it and remembers how good he is at this. Once we have an idea he’s excited about, everything else falls away.
“We have two ways in,” I tell her. “And we can narrow to Friday’s presentation from there.”
“Perfect.” She points her fork at us, bunched up with kale. “You have slides or something?”
“Yeah, here.” Dexter unfolds his laptop and spins it so she can see our presentation.
He tabs through the ideas: The first, focused on exploring the full resort portfolio, with collectible passport-like stamps to encourage more visits.
The second, More is out there, focused on the resorts’ superior amenities compared to the rest of the luxury hotel category (also the only idea with a name yet; that one’s mine, and names always come to me first).
Iris hums and nods and tells us she’ll let us know how to move forward by morning.
“What do you think Slater will bring?” Dexter asks as we settle back at our desks.
“Ego,” I say, glancing back to make sure we’re out of Iris’s earshot. Dexter snorts.
“I’m glad you didn’t end up there.” He cuts his eyes at me, small hitch of his lips, before turning back to his computer. “For what it’s worth.”
Wicksteed Resorts rents a conference room at the Four Seasons for the pitch. They’re headquartered in Aspen and don’t have offices in the Midwest. It isn’t until we arrive that we realize they’ve scheduled all three agency teams for the same window: they want us to watch one another present.
“Unhinged,” Dexter says as we stand in the lobby, taking this in. He’s in a maroon suit and a bolo tie, his wild curls pomaded in place.
“It’s unusual,” Iris agrees. She picked Dexter’s idea, the passport stamps, and I let go of More is out there with just a little twinge of disappointment.
We’ve spent the past few days building out the full passport campaign: social media, in-person experiences, a write-up describing the idea that I can’t wait to read out loud.
“But Greg warned me Wicksteed likes to be collaborative.”
“Collaborative,” I repeat, my voice just a bit too brittle.
What I want to say is: There’s no collaboration between competitors.
What I want to say is that I was hoping to get in and out of here without even laying eyes on Campbell Porter, not to mention actively watching him present.
But I only clear the catch from my throat and add, “No problem.”
“It’ll be fine,” Iris says. “They probably want us to see what they’re working with so that when they cut someone, we understand what they aren’t looking for.”
“Brutal,” Dexter says, shuddering. I tug at the hem of my dress. Black wrap, black hose, black block heels. You look like Morticia, Dexter said when I showed up. Ninety-five percent of my wardrobe is black, formal attire being no exception. “As long as it’s not us.”
“It’s not going to be us,” Iris and I say at the same time. And then Campbell Porter steps into the Four Seasons.
I hear him before I see him, that voice I’d know anywhere.
He has a backpack slung over one shoulder and he’s wearing a suit—blue, tailored, too bright.
Clean-shaven, the scatter of freckles over his nose sun-darkened and striking here at the end of summer.
I picture him on the L platform in January.
His brown eyes meet mine, and it feels like a burn.
“The Art Room,” he says happily. That’s the thing about Campbell: he’s jovial.
“Campbell,” Iris says, extending a hand. She met him at Cannes; Dexter, too. “Good to see you again.”
But it’s not good. Being around Campbell makes me feel like I’ve stepped behind an X-ray machine, like my bones are exposed. I think of Ava, last week, in our apartment. There’s no denying it: all at once, I do feel attack-y.
“This is Soraya,” Campbell says, gesturing at the woman to his right. She’s a vision in navy slacks and a silk blouse. “Art direction.”
“Me, too,” Dexter says, and they shake hands. “Dexter.”
“And, French,” Campbell says, his eyes moving over me, “you know Nolan.”
Nolan Reeves—cold and misogynistic and right there behind Campbell’s shoulder, his gaze lighting on mine.
The creative director I liked least from my summer at Slater Faust. When I’d told him at our intern send-off party that I had an interview lined up at the Art Room, he’d looked at me over his wineglass and said, Of course you do.
It’s our job to make you a marketable writer other agencies want.
Like all the credit was his, not mine, for my work there that summer.
Now, he nods curtly in my direction before offering his hand to Iris.
“Feeling ready?” Soraya asks. Her accent is British. “I know we were a bit surprised to learn we’d all be here together.”
“Us, too,” Dexter says, adjusting his bolo. “Has anyone seen the OverComm team?”
“Here already, I imagine.” Nolan speaks softly, like a threat. “They tend to be early.”
“Should we head up?” Iris asks, checking her watch. “The conference room’s on the second floor.”
Nolan gestures toward the staircase. “After you.”
In spite of my extremely concerted efforts, Campbell and I wind up ascending the stairs side by side. I catch a waft of his cologne—light and linen—and want to sprint to the second floor to gain distance from him.
“You look nice,” he says, eyes sweeping over my dress. I wonder if he pities me, now, after that night at the L stop.
“Don’t flatter me,” I whisper. Dexter and Iris are chatting ahead of us, Soraya and Nolan bringing up the rear.
He laughs, a husky sound. The last time he saw me in a dress, in France, he’d said the same thing—though I hadn’t believed it then, either.
“Mattie French,” Campbell says. “Never could take a compliment.”
“Campbell Porter,” I mimic. “Never could give one from the heart.”
He puts a hand over his chest. He still wears that gold signet ring on his right pinky. “You wound me.”
“I’m sure that’s not possible,” I say, and then we step into the conference room.
It’s enormous and distinctly bridal: padded white chairs with rounded backs, billowing drapes clouded around floor-to-ceiling windows.
People must get married in this room all the time.
It makes standing here next to Campbell feel even more jarring.
“There’s OverComm,” Campbell says, though when I glance at him he’s tipped to speak into Soraya’s ear, not mine. She nods, her dark eyes unblinking and perceptive.
There are folded place cards set at tables in three corners of the room—OverComm, The Art Room, Slater Faust. The fourth corner is arranged with a podium, a projector, and a long, panel-style table.
“We should prepare,” Nolan says, nodding to Campbell.
I watch Campbell turn to me in slow motion.
I’ve spent so much time dreading him—so much time listening to people talk about If Not You, so much time wondering what I could’ve done to win that Lion, so much time being furious—that finally sharing a physical space with him makes me feel delirious.
I could just as easily slap him or burst out laughing.
“Good luck,” he tells me. His blond lashes lower, turning his eyes copper. Everyone else has dispersed to our assigned tables, so it’s only Campbell and me squared off by the door like chess pieces.
“Don’t need it,” I say.
Campbell grins. The asymmetric slash of it, smug as ever. Again, he says exactly what he said at Cannes. “May the best man win.”
I respond the same way I did then, too. “Woman.”