"Hey," Sophie greeted me warily as she swung the door open wide. "How are you feeling?"
I shrugged. "Better now that I'm back at work."
She seemed disappointed by this response. I'm pretty sure she was still hoping to find a basket case on the other side of her front door. "You know," she warned in her motherly tone, "you can't just distract yourself until the pain goes away. Sooner or later, you're going to have to deal with it."
I rolled my eyes and walked past her into the living room. "I am dealing with it."
She pouted behind me. "Not in a healthy way, though!"
I plopped down on the sofa and crossed my arms over my chest. "Can we just look at the pictures already?"
Sophie sat beside me and shot me a disapproving look. "Okay, but I also have some wedding proofs to show you. The sunset shots came out really good, and they might even change . . ." She stopped the sentence abruptly in its tracks. I got the feeling she hadn't meant to say that last part aloud.
"They might change my mind?" I ventured. Although it wasn't exactly a wild guess, as it didn't take much effort to get to the bottom of Sophie's schemes. I'm sure she had spent the entire day fantasizing about flaunting her beautiful wedding and honeymoon photos, and then I would magically leave here a different person. A changed person. The kind of person who wants nothing more than to be married and have a honeymoon of my own.
"Sophie, you know I would love to see the proofs from your wedding, but I'm not going to change what I want out of life just because of a bunch of sunset snapshots. So don't get your hopes up."
Sophie slouched in her seat. "Fine. But I know you'll come around eventually." She stood up and nodded toward the kitchen. "Wine?"
I nodded eagerly. "Yes, please." It was the most promising thing she'd said since I'd walked through the door.
Sophie disappeared into the kitchen to get the wine, and I glanced around the living room, taking in the new decorations and presumable wedding gifts that had materialized since the last time I was here. "Where's Eric?" I called out to her.
Sophie emerged carrying two glasses and a bottle of Merlot. "He's working the late shift at the hospital. He won't be home until after midnight." She motioned to the wine in her hands. "Red okay?"
I nodded. "Yeah, red's fine."
Sophie filled each glass to the top and handed one to me.
"Okay," she said, positioning herself on the floor and pressing a button on the digital camera that was rigged up to the TV. "You are going to love these pictures."
The screen immediately illuminated with a picture of Sophie and Eric standing in front of a gate at LAX with the word Athens displayed on the destination sign behind them. "John said he might stop by later, too," Sophie informed me. "But I didn't want to wait for him. So we can just do the whole slide show again when he gets here."
I took a much-needed swig of my wine and smiled. "What about Zoë? Is she coming?"
Sophie groaned and shook her head. "No, she's off with her mystery man again. Of course, she didn't tell me that. I just assumed as much when her excuse for not coming was, 'I'm going to the ballet.' Like Zoë would ever be caught dead going to the ballet. I swear, ever since she started dating that guy, she's gotten really weird."
"Yeah," I agreed. "But I'm sure she'll tell us about him in her own time."
Sophie shrugged. "I guess." And then she caught sight of a photograph on the screen, and her mind instantly switched gears. "So, anyway, this is us boarding the plane." Her avid enthusiasm, in contrast with her blatant disapproval of Zoë's recent behavior was actually somewhat comical.
"The flight to Athens was superlong and boring," she continued animatedly. "Funny story, actually. So when we first got to the airport . . ."
Forty-five minutes later, we were just finishing up day two (of twelve) and I was already on my third glass of requisite wine. John had arrived shortly after me, and we were now both staring at a life-size photograph of a donkey's ass while listening to another winded narrative about their treacherous trek up to the top of some Greek mountain (evidently via donkey).
After about the tenth picture in a row of a house resembling a white sugar cube, John had had enough. "Okay, time for a break. Who needs more wine?"
He jumped off the couch and fetched another bottle from the kitchen. He popped the cork and diligently made his rounds to refill our glasses. I held mine up as he poured and attempted to make small talk. "So how was your first day back at work?"
I shrugged. "Pretty calm. I thought it was going to be hectic, but one of my associates did an awesome job of stepping in and taking over for me while I was gone."
"Uh-huh, uh-huh, that's nice. So what's the latest? Tell me all the juicy gossip."
My face was deadpan. "There is no juicy gossip."
But John wasn't having any of it. "There's always juicy gossip in your line of work."
I surrendered a sigh. "What do you want to know?"
John pondered my question gravely, as if his answer were going to decide the fate of a nation. "Hmm. Just tell me about the juiciest assignment you've seen lately. Besides the one where Jamie showed up."
"John," Sophie warned, tossing him a look. "Besides, I don't want to hear about cheating spouses. It's depressing."
I flashed her an empathetic look. "Tell me about it."
John stomped his foot like a petulant child. "Come on. You know I live vicariously through you!"
I leaned back against the couch and shook my head with a laugh. "Fine. Katie just got done posing as a nanny in someone's home because the client was certain that her husband had slept with all their former nannies. How's that for juicy?"
John arched one eyebrow and took a sip of his wine. "This is good. This is very good. Katie is the cute blond one, right?"
"Yes."
"Got it. Keep going," he urged.
But I shrugged. "There's really not much else to say."
He grunted, clearly irritated. "Details, Jen. Give me details! Did he fail?"
"Yes," I admitted reluctantly. "He did fail. But I won't know any more details until tomorrow."
"Ha!" John practically celebrated in his seat. "I knew it. They always fail."
"That's awful!" Sophie whined. "John, these are real people, not TV shows. His wife is devastated right now. Show some respect."
"What?" John replied defensively, feigning innocence. "It's not like I know her." Then his head jerked toward me. "Do I know her?"
I shrugged and sipped my wine. "Probably not. But you might know him. Apparently he's some kind of celebrity."
As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. It was like slicing my finger open in front of a hungry shark. John was immediately thrown into a tizzy, jumping up on his knees and leaning toward me menacingly. "Oh, my God, you have to tell me! I promise I won't tell. I swear to God, Krishna, Buddha, whoever!"
"No."
"Jenny!" he groveled shamelessly. "Please!"
"No."
Sophie giggled. "Okay, now I'm a little curious."
"See," John insisted, pointing at Sophie. "Even Prude Pants over here wants to know."
I set my wineglass on the table and crossed my arms over my chest. "If I tell you his name, John, you cannot tell anyone."
He drew an X over his heart. "Cross my heart and hope to die."
"Not your mother, not your shrink, not your gay lover of the week. No one."
He nodded. "I got it. Not a soul."
I sighed. "His name is Dean Stanton. He's the head of New Edge Cinema. And apparently, he sleeps with his nannies."
I half expected John to explode right out of his skin. But when I looked over at him, he was unusually quiet and pensive.
"What?" I teased. "Not the big celebrity you were hoping for? I'm sorry it wasn't Brad Pitt. Next time I'll try harder to impress you."
But he just shook his head absentmindedly and continued to stare off into space with a disturbing look on his face. "When did he fail the inspection?" he asked, h
is voice suddenly calm and serious.
"Friday," I replied, keeping a wary eye on him. "Why?"
But John just shrugged. "No reason."
"John," I stated in a warning tone, "what's the matter?"
He let out a little snort and looked at me as if I were going crazy. "Nothing."
"You're going to keep your word." It was more of a threat than a confirmation. "Because if this ends up in the tabloids next week, I am going to kill you, you know?"
He laughed at this. "I'm not going to tell anyone. Relax." And then before I could question him further, he turned to Sophie and said, "So are we going to finish these honeymoon photos or what?"
Sophie was more than willing to oblige and immediately launched into day three of Operation Honeymoon. But it was hard for me to concentrate on the photographs that filled the screen or the verbose stories that accompanied them. I kept stealing subtle glances in John's direction, trying to figure out what was going on in that scheming little brain of his. But I knew it was a pointless undertaking.
Eventually, I relinquished the battle and downed the rest of my wine, quick to pour myself another as Sophie reached day four. I swiftly finished that one off as well. And by the time the final Athens skyline flashed off the TV screen, I was completely inebriated and in no condition to drive.
John and Sophie helped me out of my business suit and into one of Sophie's T-shirts and a pair of ratty nineties-style sweatpants that she'd had since college. John headed home, muttering something about having work to do, and Sophie set me up with a pillow and blanket on the sofa. She kissed me tenderly on the forehead as if she were tucking in a child who'd played too hard on the playground that day and was now utterly exhausted and barely coherent.
Sleep came quickly for me that night, and I was relieved. Thankful that I no longer had the alcohol tolerance of a professional whiskey shooter. A year ago, that much wine never would have knocked me out like this. And I was grateful for small favors.
I knew there was no way I'd ever be able to admit to myself that I'd drunk too much on purpose. But I was happy nonetheless to be sleeping on someone else's couch for a change.
24
the blue pill
"Okay, first things first," I said, sliding into my chair at the head of the conference table the next morning. "I'd like to welcome back Katie from her extended tenure as the Stantons' live-in nanny."
Katie popped her strawberry bubble gum loudly. The smell of it wafting through the air was somewhat nostalgic. "Thanks, boss lady. It's good to be back. Did you miss me?"
I laughed politely. "Yes, you were definitely missed. Now why don't you tell us what happened at the Stantons'. I assume everything went smoothly since the last time we spoke."
"Yes," Katie replied confidently. "The nanny has officially left the building."
I smiled. "Good. What happened, exactly?"
Katie quickly launched into a long, dramatic telling of her nanny diaries and was careful not to leave out any excruciating detail about the "demon spawns" that she had to deal with on a daily basis and her expert opinion on how not to raise children.
"And so then Friday night," Katie was recounting, "Mrs. Stanton went to some charity fundraiser event, and Dean claimed that he was feeling a little bit under the weather and opted to stay home. So after I had put the two monsters to bed, succumbed to all their demands for water, night-lights, action figures, and trips to the bathroom, I was just heading into my room when Dean asked if I wanted to watch the Netflix movie that had arrived that day. Of course, I accepted his invitation and joined him on the couch, praying that he would finally make a move so that I wouldn't have to be there when the demon spawn woke up the next morning. And I guess my prayers were answered because about fifteen minutes into the movie—which was a really bad independent film, might I add. Just because you have access to a camcorder doesn't mean you should be on Netflix," Katie paused a moment to grimace at the memory of her cinematic experience. "Anyway," she continued, giving her shoulder-length blond hair a toss, "about fifteen minutes in, I noticed he was starting to subtly inch his way closer to me. And I had to struggle not to laugh because it was seriously so eighth grade. Then he kind of just leaned in and kissed me, and not long after that, he was climbing on top of me."
I nodded patiently as she spoke, all the while taking detailed notes so that I could report the entire story back to Melissa Stanton when she undoubtedly paid me a visit this week. "Okay, so then how did you end it?"
Katie just shrugged. "I didn't have to, actually. She did."
I stopped writing and looked up at her. "What do you mean, 'she did'?"
"I mean, Mrs. Stanton came home and caught us in the act."
And immediately I stopped writing and put down my pen. Apparently, I wouldn't have to relate the details of the evening to her after all. She had already come face-to-face with the hard truth herself. "Really?"
Katie chomped ferociously on her gum and pulled her knees up onto the chair. "Yep. Personally, I don't think she even went to the charity thingy. I think she was just tired of paying to keep me around when I clearly knew nothing about child rearing and was giving her husband the opportunity to do what she already knew he would do. She was probably waiting outside the window the entire time. A little creepy, if you think about it, but hey, whatever the client wants, right?"
I glanced around the room. Everyone was fully engaged in Katie's story. Even Teresa had set down her latest issue of Vogue to listen in.
"So what happened after that?" Cameron asked, looking riveted.
I turned back to Katie. "I'm assuming you packed up and left at that point."
Katie smiled deviously. "Yes, and I wasn't the only one."
"She kicked him out?" Lauren joined in on what had now officially morphed into an interactive post-assignment review.
Katie nodded, enjoying the attention. "Yep. He's staying at the Chateau Marmont as we speak." Then she looked at me and quickly added, "And the only reason I know this is because he whispered it to me as I was walking out the door, as if I might actually be interested in joining him there. I still don't think he knows it was a setup."
"Okay, then. I suppose that's that." I picked up a crimson folder from the stack in front of me and handed it to Katie. "Here's something new for you for this week."
"Let me guess," she conjectured sarcastically. "You've got me working at a doggie day care for the next six weeks."
I smiled. "Sorry to disappoint. It's just your run-of-the-mill happy hour this time. Adam Bennett likes to go out drinking with his male colleagues after work instead of coming home to his wife and kids. Meet him at their favorite bar tonight and find out what these so-called work functions consist of."
Katie breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God. Something normal for change."
I continued around the room for the next ten minutes, taking detailed notes on the outcomes of all the previous assignments and distributing folders with the details for the next ones.
For Shawna, I had scheduled the bachelor party of Graham Hawkins, a financial analyst from Arizona, who was getting married in two weeks and celebrating his last night as a single man with his closest friends in Hollywood this weekend. Lauren received an assignment in Toronto, Teresa was headed for the Hamptons, and Cameron was scheduled to start attending the same yoga class as Nick Warren's bored housewife.
By the time the meeting was over, I had successfully distributed all of the case files in front of me . . . with exception of two.
These I had saved for myself.
After everyone had filed out the door and I was left alone in the empty conference room, I sat with the two glossy folders in front of me, fingering the tops of their smooth surfaces with my thumb.
"This is my choice," I said quietly to myself, picking up one of the folders and holding it between my fingers. "This is what I want to do. What I've always wanted to do."
I sat there for a few minutes, perfectly still, perfectly quiet, feeling t
he weight of my decision in my hand.
Then I got up, gathered my things, and headed out the door toward my office.
"Um, Ashlyn?" I heard Hadley's voice behind me, and I turned around to see her jogging to catch up with me. "There's actually someone here to see you."
"In my office?"
"No. In reception." She nudged her chin back in the direction of her desk. "She didn't have an appointment, so I told her she'd have to wait out here until you got out of your meeting."
I backtracked toward the reception area, genuinely intrigued. Mostly because when I'd passed by a second ago, I hadn't seen anyone out there except Hadley.
And I soon realized why.
The person who was waiting for me wasn't as tall as most of the visitors who entered this office. In fact, her head barely cleared the top of Hadley's desk. It was no wonder her four-foot-ten-inch frame had gone unnoticed when I'd stepped out of the conference room.
"Lexi Garrett . . ." I sighed as she stood up to greet me. "So nice to see you again." I made no attempt to inject my words with sincerity.
She shifted the weight of her backpack on her shoulders. "You're a bad liar, you know that?"
I nodded. "So I've been told. What are you doing here?"
She held up a tiny square piece of blue plastic, no bigger than a guitar pick. "I told you I'd be back when I had proof."
"A piece of plastic."
She rolled her eyes and let out an impatient sigh. "It's an SD card. I stole it from my dad's phone. Well, after I transferred his schedule for this weekend onto it." She looked mighty proud of herself as she described her Nancy Drew escapades. "I was trying to get to all of his scandalous midnight text messages, but apparently he's too smart to leave those on his phone. But he's going to Palm Springs with his friends this weekend for a 'golfing trip.'" She drenched these two words with so much skepticism, it almost sounded as though she doubted the authenticity of the words themselves. As if "golfing" and "trip" probably weren't even in an official English dictionary.
She slung her backpack off one shoulder, unzipped the top compartment, and pulled out a single piece of white paper, placing it atop the stack of items in my arm with a firm pat. "I printed out a copy for you. It's the perfect time and place for my dad's fidelity inspection."