“You okay?” she asked as my phone rang a second time. “Want me to get that for you?”
“No, I’ll get it,” I said. I shook my head and snapped myself out of self-pity mode. Fortunately, the cubicles in our office were so small and close together that I could easily navigate from Wendy’s office space to mine in time to answer the telephone. I wondered briefly why this morning’s raise couldn’t have come with an actual office. I made it around the corner after the third ring, diving for the phone.
“Claire Reilly,” I answered, breathless from my dive. I’d knocked a pile of papers on the ground, and I started picking them up, balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear. I was greeted by silence. Perhaps I hadn’t reached the phone in time. Great, now on top of everything else, I was missing business calls because I was immersed in self-pity. “Hello?” I said into the silence.
“Claire?”
My breath caught in my throat as I recognized the voice.
It was Tom. I stopped shuffling the papers and stood stock-still. I didn’t answer.
“Claire?” he asked again. His voice sounded desperate, searching. Or perhaps that was just me hoping that he missed me enough to sound desperate. “Are you there, babe? It’s Tom.”
I still didn’t answer. Wendy was standing up, looking at me quizzically over the cubicle. She knew something was wrong. I didn’t know what to do. What did he want? Should I answer him? Would he ask me to forgive him, to take him back? What would I say?
Still staring at Wendy, as if she could provide an answer to the questions I hadn’t asked her, I cleared my throat, but that was as far as I got. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to talk to him. I hadn’t thought about the possibility of him calling me at work.
“Claire? Are you there?” His voice sounded concerned. But I was too screwed up to deal with this now. I slammed the phone back down without saying a word.
“Are you okay?” Wendy asked, looking at me worriedly. I slowly sat down in my chair, forgetting about the avalanche of papers that had spilled around my feet. “Who was that?”
“It was Tom,” I said slowly, staring at the phone. I wondered if he’d call back. I realized suddenly that I wanted him to. I wanted him to work at getting back into my life. I wanted him to show me that I was worth that much.
Geez, I was pathetic.
I willed the phone to ring, but it stubbornly stayed silent.
“Good for you,” Wendy said warmly over the cubicle, apparently mistaking my grief for resolve. “You stay strong, girl. Good for you, for hanging up on him.”
“Yeah,” I said softly, still looking at the silent phone. “Good for me.”
*
I felt sick all afternoon and wound up alone in the bathroom at about four o’clock, finally vomiting in the toilet. I realized I was setting some kind of record. I’d thrown up twice in the last few days, which was strange for me, as I hadn’t thrown up since the eleventh grade, when I puked right in the middle of Mr. Dorsett’s American History class. Amazingly, I’d made it all the way through college without ever throwing up once—not even after keg parties, when I was surrounded by vomiting friends. And here I was, for the second time in three days. Someone call the Guinness Book.
I rinsed my mouth out in the sink and splashed water on my face, thankful that there were no witnesses to my sorry state. Looking down to make sure that I hadn’t gotten any vomit on my clothes, I noticed that my stomach was looking flatter than it had in months. Hey, maybe this was the secret to a slender body—have men break your heart and get rid of all the food you’ve eaten that day. Excellent. Weight Loss for Losers. Bulimia for the Brokenhearted. I could launch my own diet franchise.
I spit a mouthful of water into the sink, took a deep breath, and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked awful. My makeup was all gone, thanks to the water I’d splashed on my face. Without it, the dark circles under my eyes were more pronounced, and even my freckles looked pale and boring on my lifeless skin.
I was still assessing myself in the mirror when Wendy burst into the bathroom, a ball of energy, as usual.
“There you are!” she exclaimed as she bustled through the door. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Her face darkened as I turned to her. She looked me up and down for a moment. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, forcing a smile that I hoped looked cheerful. She looked at me doubtfully, but I knew she could read on my face that I didn’t want to talk about it. “What’s up?”
She looked at me with concern for another moment, then seemed to decide that the best course of action would be pretending that nothing was wrong. She smiled at me.
“You just had a bouquet of flowers delivered!” she said. “Let’s go see who they’re from!” I looked at her, puzzled.
“Are you sure they’re for me?” I asked. No one had ever sent me flowers. I know, that’s pathetic, right? I’m twenty-six years old and have never gotten flowers from a man. Not once.
In contrast, Wendy seemed to get them from various waiters at least once or twice a month.
“Maybe they’re for you,” I said.
“They say ‘Claire Reilly’ on the card,” Wendy said, smiling. “They are definitely for you!”
I looked at her for a moment, my mind spinning through the possibilities. They had to be from Tom. I’d hung up on him a few hours ago, and he felt so bad that he’d sent me flowers to apologize. The card would say, “I love you more than life itself,” or something equally devoted. He’d call later and tell me how sorry he was, how wrong he had been, how much he loved me. It would take me a long time to forget what happened, but I could make it work. I’d never even have to tell my disapproving mother that I hadn’t been able to hang on to yet another man.
“Well . . .” Wendy said, her voice trailing off. She opened the bathroom door. “Are you coming? I can’t stand the suspense.” She winked at me and I smiled.
“Okay,” I said finally. I followed her out the door and back through the narrow hallway toward the editorial room.
“Who do you think they’re from?” Wendy asked excitedly as we walked side by side.
“I don’t know,” I said softly. But I did know. I knew they were from Tom. I just didn’t want Wendy to know that I was thinking that way or that I cared. She thought that my hanging up on him earlier was a sign of strength, and I preferred that she see me that way. I didn’t want her to know I had spent the rest of the day fantasizing about how he’d apologize and beg me to take him back.
I looked at her sideways.
“Maybe they’re from Tom,” I said hesitantly.
“Are you kidding me?” Wendy asked sharply. “Tom has never sent you flowers. He’s a complete jackass. Are you delusional?”
“I don’t know,” I mumbled. But they were from Tom. I just knew it.
We rounded the corner, and I felt my breath catch in my throat when I saw the display on my desk.
It was the largest arrangement of flowers I’d ever seen. It was easily triple the size of the bouquets that landed on Wendy’s desk a few times a month. Three dozen white long-stem roses stood upright and slightly angled in a giant vase, accented with an immense violet ribbon. They were flanked by scores of perfect white lilies. As we approached, I could see a small white envelope on the end of a plastic wand protruding from the field of lilies.
“Wow,” I said involuntarily. It was beautiful.
“I know,” Wendy said in awe. “It’s the prettiest bouquet I’ve ever seen.”
“Wow,” I repeated. We stopped at my desk and I plucked the card from the plastic wand. Wendy waited eagerly beside me, bouncing up and down like a toddler about to receive a cookie. I held the card in my hand for a moment, staring at the flowers and imagining what Tom would say in the note. What would I do after I opened it? Should I call him? Or wait for him to call me?
“Open it, open it,” Wendy said eagerly. I looked at her in amusement. She looked ten times more excited than I was. I wondered how she?
??d react when she realized the amazing spread was from Tom.
Amanda and Gail, the two assistants who manned the copy desk, drifted over to look at the flowers as I held the card in my hand, letting my imagination run.
“They’re beautiful,” Amanda breathed, smiling at me. She reached out to touch one of the roses, then bent down to admire the vase.
“Who are they from?” Gail asked, also smiling as she gently fingered the baby’s breath.
“I don’t know,” I lied with a smile, forgetting that I’d just been sick mere moments before. Suddenly I felt fine, knowing that somewhere out there, Tom cared. “Let me open the card.”
Wendy and the two copy assistants waited eagerly as I slit the envelope with my index finger and pulled out the small note card inside. As my eyes scanned the few quick lines on the card, I felt the breath go out of me, my heart dropping in my chest.
“Who are they from? Who are they from?” Wendy asked excitedly. I looked up at the three eager faces clustered around my flowers. I plastered a smile on my face and tried to will my heart to stop racing. I wondered if they noticed the color rising in my cheeks or my suddenly shaky hands stuffing the card back in the envelope.
“They’re from my mom,” I said quickly.
“Wow,” Gail said admiringly. “That’s amazing. My mom has never sent me anything like that. You’re really lucky.”
“Is it your birthday or something?” Amanda asked. Wendy was silently staring at me. She knew I was lying.
“No,” I said softly. “It’s not my birthday.” They were still grinning at me, so I kept the smile plastered across my face.
I shot a quick glance at Wendy, who was still looking at me suspiciously. “I, uh, have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
I stuffed the envelope into my pocket and rushed back down the hallway with Wendy trailing quickly after me. I took a quick look back and saw Gail and Amanda looking at us strangely, but I ignored them. I was sure they’d cluster around the flowers again and in a moment forget I was gone.
“Who are they really from?” Wendy asked, sounding almost accusatory, as we pushed into the bathroom. I silently bent to look under the stalls. Satisfied that we were alone, I took the envelope out of my pocket and handed it to Wendy.
I watched as she opened the envelope and quickly scanned the card. Her jaw dropped, and her eyes widened. She looked up and stared at me in shock. She looked back at the card, up at me, and then back at the card again.
“Dear Claire,” she read aloud finally, sounding incredulous. I blushed more as I heard the words read aloud. “I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble. You’re a wonderful woman, and I’m glad to have spent time with you, even if it was under less-than-ideal circumstances. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Call me if you need anything at all. Best wishes, Cole Brannon.”
Wendy looked up at me again, shock splashed across her face.
“Cole Brannon?” she squealed. “Cole Brannon?! COLE BRANNON sent you flowers?”
“Shhhh . . .” I hushed her quickly. “Please, I don’t want anyone to know.” Wendy ignored me.
“Cole Brannon sent you flowers,” she repeated quietly. This time, it was a statement instead of a question.
“Cole Brannon sent me flowers,” I confirmed softly, my heart still beating rapidly in my chest.
“And he thinks you’re a wonderful woman,” she breathed.
“I guess so.” I shrugged, feeling both embarrassed and somewhat elated. I quickly tried to quash the latter feeling, knowing it would do me no good.
“And you didn’t even sleep with him,” Wendy said. My eyes widened in shock.
“What? No!”
Wendy looked up at me again. She was holding the card in her hands like it was the Holy Grail.
“He likes you, Claire,” she said finally.
“No, no,” I protested, aware that my cheeks were growing ever redder. “That’s silly. He just feels sorry for me.” Wendy shook her head.
“Men who feel sorry for people don’t send flowers,” she said with certainty.
“Maybe men with millions of dollars to blow do,” I said quickly. This was ludicrous. This couldn’t be happening. At work, no less. What if someone—what if Sidra—saw the note?
“I don’t think so, Claire,” Wendy said. She finally handed the card and envelope back to me. I stuffed them both in my pocket. She was still looking at me with a strange expression on her face.
“It’s nothing,” I insisted, not really meaning it. My face was on fire, and I tried not to meet Wendy’s eye. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I think it means a lot,” Wendy said softly.
I tried not to acknowledge the fact that deep down, I hoped it meant a lot too. But it would be ridiculous and unprofessional to think that anything could ever happen between Cole Brannon and someone like me. Besides, Tom was out there somewhere, and I knew I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t at least try again to make it work.
Gossiping
I was up at 5:30 the next morning, the victim of another mostly sleepless night. When I had finally drifted off, I had nightmares about appearing with Cole in the pages of Tattletale, where Margaret would see me and instantly fire me, and Tom would refuse to even speak with me again.
My tossing and turning hadn’t been helped when Wendy stumbled in, tipsy and mumbling in broken French, just past 2 a.m., after a date with Jean Michel. She must have forgotten that I was sleeping at her place, on a twin air mattress wedged between her full bed and her tiny closet, because she tripped over the edge of the mattress and landed facedown on top of me as she tried to make her way to the laundry hamper in the corner.
After disentangling from her and listening to her soliloquy about the virtues of French men in general, and Jean Michel in particular, I stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about Tom, Cole, or Tattletale until dawn began filtering in through Wendy’s window.
It wasn’t hard to stay awake, despite the fact that I was exhausted. Wendy’s snoring was enough to prevent me from drifting off. Besides, every time I closed my eyes I saw Tom and Sidra’s sister together in my bed. As I counted down the minutes until daybreak (not nearly as effective as counting sheep, by the way), I grew more and more worried that Sidra’s revenge would come in the form of a Tattletale article that would forever cost me my reputation. By the time I got up at 5:30, I was sure of it.
I dressed quickly and grabbed my things. Tattletale would be on the newsstands already, and I wanted to see it as soon as possible. My heart was pounding as I ran some lipstick quickly across my lips, gave myself one last look in the mirror, and dashed downstairs. There was a newspaper stand two blocks up from Wendy’s apartment, and I jogged all the way there, desperately spinning through the possibilities of what I’d find between the covers of the gossip rag.
“One copy of Tattletale, please,” I panted as I arrived at the newsstand, breathless from my dash. The vendor was still in the process of cutting the plastic cords binding the stacks of magazines and papers that would soon land in organized piles and displays around his cart. I quickly spotted today’s Tattletale in the corner.
“We’re not open yet,” he said, without turning around. I took a deep breath.
“Please,” I begged. “I’m desperate. I’ll give you . . .” I paused while I rifled through my wallet. “I’ll give you twelve dollars for it.” I quickly counted my change. “And sixty-three cents.”
The vendor finally turned and looked me up and down.
“You’re going to give me twelve sixty-three for a tabloid that will cost you a dollar when I open in thirty minutes?”
“Yes, please,” I said hurriedly, thrusting the money at him. The vendor stared at me for another moment, shrugged, and took the cash from my hand.
“Fine with me,” he said. “Why do you need this so badly anyhow?” He looked at me critically, his box cutter poised over the pile of magazines. I forced a smile.
“Just an importan
t article, that’s all,” I said. He stared at me for another moment. I could no longer stand it. “Please!” I begged. He rolled his eyes.
“Women,” he muttered under his breath. He finally slashed through the cords, and they fell limp on the sides of the stack. He slowly lifted up a Tattletale and stared at the cover before he handed it to me. I was practically bouncing up and down now, trying to restrain myself from reaching out and snatching it from him. “Harrison Ford and Calista Flockhart Have Lovers’ Quarrel?” he asked, reading slowly from the cover. “Is this what’s so important?”
“No, no!” I exclaimed. “Please! Just give it to me.” The vendor smiled, and I realized that he was enjoying torturing me.
“Clay Terrell Dishes About Tara Templeton’s Booty?” he asked slowly, reading another headline. He looked up at me with an arched eyebrow and laughed.
“No!” I exclaimed again. He looked back at the magazine, and I knew he was about to read another headline. I snatched the magazine from his hands before he had the chance to do so. “Thank you!” I said over my shoulder, ignoring his startled expression and walking away. I had paid twelve dollars and sixty-three cents for a copy of a gossip rag I hated. I didn’t need to listen to the vendor’s commentary too.
I waited until I’d rounded the corner out of the vendor’s sight to rip open the magazine. I leaned into the side of a building and flipped quickly to the table of contents. My heart sank as I read the fifth item in the highlighted “Reads of the Week.”
“Cole Brannon’s Women: Who’s That Girl with Hollywood’s Hottest Hunk?”
“Shit,” I said out loud as I flipped to page 18. “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” I mumbled under my breath, desperately flipping, wondering why pages always stuck together when you needed to see something. It must be Murphy’s Law of Magazines. “Shit, shit, shit.”
I finally flipped past pages 16 and 17 and took a deep breath. This was it. One more flip of the page and my life would be over. There would be pictures of us together and quotes from Sidra. Hell, maybe they’d even found our star-struck cab driver and paid him to tell his story. I took a deep breath and turned the page.