Bombshell Page 9

  “You believe her? You really think Colin would do that?” she asks.

  “I don’t know what I believe.”

  I recap my series of unfortunate events, including Nero’s near-death experience. Even I can hear the unspoken accusation beneath everything: I needed you, and you ignored me.

  As I wind up my tale of woe, I find myself getting more and more irritated. I’d assumed telling Wanda everything would make me feel better, but for some reason I feel worse. Normally I’m very careful not to demand more than Wanda has to give. She’s a free spirit—generous, mercurial, a little self-absorbed. I know from experience that guilt trips only make her defensive and combative. Tonight, though, the wine loosens my tongue, forcing my resentment out in the open. It bobs to the surface without my consent.

  “Didn’t you get my texts?”

  She avoids my eyes. “I had my phone off all day.”

  “Why? Where were you?” My words stab the air, sharp and accusing.

  “I had something going on.”

  “Why are you being so—?”

  “So what?”

  “Evasive.”

  She pushes her hair out of her face. “What difference does it make where I was? I’m here now.”

  “What difference does it make?” I leap up from the couch, suddenly unable to sit still. “Wanda, my cat almost died. I lost my job because of your fantasy matchmaking scheme.”

  She holds up a hand. “Don’t blame this on me.”

  “Oh, right. Because nothing’s ever your fault. You just do what you want, live your little girl-about-town life, spread your fairy dust here and there when you feel like it—”

  “That’s not true!” she cries with uncharacteristic venom. “I have shit to deal with just like you, okay?”

  “But you’re not going to tell me about it?”

  She sighs. “Look, make up your mind. Are you accusing me of having an easy life, or of abandoning you or of getting you fired or of keeping secrets? Because honestly, right now I’m having trouble keeping track.”

  “How about all the above?”

  She looks hurt. “I had a shitty day, too, all right? All I wanted to do was go home, order Chinese and take a very long bath, but I turned on my phone, saw your messages and came straight here.”

  “From where?”

  She clutches her forehead. “None of your business, okay?”

  I feel like she just slapped me. For a second I blink at her, disoriented and wounded. Then my defenses kick in. “Fine. Go home. Order Chinese.”

  “Rubes, don’t—”

  “Really. I’m okay here. Me and Nero will be just fine.”

  For a long moment we’re both silent. Only the sound of distant traffic and my downstairs neighbors’ laughter permeates the frosty hush that falls over us. We don’t dare look each other in the eye. It’s a totally foreign sensation, being in the same room with my best friend but feeling lost, cold and alone.

  Finally she gets up, puts on her shoes, slings her big purse over her shoulder and heads for the door. I follow her, ice running through my veins. I wrap my arms around myself, but it doesn’t help. Goose bumps stipple my flesh.

  As she opens the door, she turns back and draws a breath as if to say something. Nothing comes out, though. Our eyes meet, and I’m surprised to see hers glistening with tears.

  “Don’t drink that gin,” she warns, then closes the door softly behind her.

  Of course, I immediately pour myself a shot. “Just you and me now, Nero.”

  Nero rises from the couch and sets about studiously licking his ass.

  Not the supportive gesture I was looking for, but I guess it will have to do.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Revelations

  I wake the next morning feeling wretched. My head’s full of cotton, my throat’s scratchy and my mouth tastes like something curled up and died beneath my tongue. Nero’s nudging me impatiently, fully recovered and ravenous. Clutching my head, I drag myself from the warm cocoon of blankets and stumble across the apartment. I squint against the spears of morning sunlight. Why does the sun always have to come out when I’m hung over? Is it God’s way of punishing me for my wickedness? I grope around until I locate Nero’s kibble and drop a couple handfuls into his dish.

  “There. Now let Mommy sleep,” I order, “or else.”

  He’s too busy wolfing down his food to acknowledge my threat.

  After I dive back into bed, though, sleep eludes me. My brain’s too busy. I replay my fight with Wanda, feeling remorseful, then indignant, then remorseful again. I think of Colin, his amazing hands, the way he played me like an instrument, making every nerve sing. I try to imagine him telling Felicity to fire me. I just can’t picture it, but I doubt I’m an accurate judge. What do I have to go on? One night of mind-blowing sex with fake names, one messed up conversation in a conference room, a brief night of dancing and making out in a back alley. Mmm...just remembering the way he pinned me against that brick wall gets my blood pumping. But then I see Felicity’s tight, patronizing smile; it hovers over me, ominous and infuriating. I think you’ve gone as far as you can go in this company. It’s time to move on. I wonder what the hell I’m going to do for money now that I’m officially unemployed.

  My thoughts go round and round like clothes in a dryer, relentlessly cycling from longing to worry to regret and back again.

  After half an hour of this, I fling aside the covers with a groan. Nero trots in and studies me, assessing the situation. He meows his best feed me meow. He probably thinks I’m too hung over and bleary-eyed to remember I already filled his bowl.

  “Nice try, buddy.” I reach down and scratch behind his ears.

  After a long hot shower, I decide to go for a walk. Craving exercise is out of character for me, but the prospect of moping at home today holds no appeal. My apartment, usually a cozy haven, feels stifling and claustrophobic. Sometimes the only prescription for a broken heart is cold city air, sunshine and movement.

  Once I’m outside, I know I’ve made the right choice. North Beach is fragrant with the perfume of fresh bread and espresso. My stomach growls. I promise myself I’ll grab a bite somewhere en route, despite the nagging voice in my head insisting I should save every penny. As I walk toward the bay, the rhythmic feel of my tennis shoes against the pavement soothes me. Out here, the world carries on, oblivious to my private disasters. UPS trucks tear around delivering packages, parents shuttle kids to school, shop owners work their registers and shake open paper sacks. Sometimes after a bomb’s exploded in your life, witnessing business as usual can be depressing. Today I find it weirdly comforting.

  I don’t even admit to myself that I’m going to Wanda’s until I find myself less than a block from her apartment. What can I say? I find I no longer care which of us was right or wrong last night. I just want my best friend back.

  My phone rings. I fish it from my pocket and smile when I see it’s Wanda.

  “I’m sorry,” we both say by way of greeting.

  “Jinx,” she says. “Tap-tap no backs.”

  “Grow up,” I admonish, even as I avoid stepping on a crack, though I could care less about my mother’s back.

  “Where are you?”

  “A block from your apartment.”

  “Oh, good!” she squeals. “I’ll make coffee! Grab some croissants at La Boulange.”

  “Be there in five.”

  * * *

  “I went to see Drew!” she blurts out when she opens the door.

  I blink at her, mystified. “Who’s Drew?”

  “Professor Bayliss. That’s why I smelled like pipe smoke.”

  Ahh...the plot thickens. I carry the bag of pastries into her kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee. “So that’s what you were up to.”
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  “I’m sorry I didn’t want to talk about it. Sometimes I just can’t deal with shit like an adult.” She bites her lip, looking like a little girl.

  I put my coffee down and pull her into a hug. “It’s okay. I’m sorry I was bitchy.”

  “You were kind of harsh,” she says, pulling back to look at me.

  “Have you ever had one of those days where everything falls apart and you really need to know who’s got your back?” I sigh. “My mom’s such a flake and Nana’s gone and...well, you’re my go-to girl. Know what I mean?”

  She nods, her smile radiant. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  Apologies out of the way, we set about feeding our faces and drinking way too much coffee. After a while, she stares down into her cup, twirling her spoon and looking pensive.

  “So, why did you go see Professor Bayliss?” I ask softly, sensing she’s ready to tell me.

  “Remember what you said the other day, about me avoiding guys who are smart?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I realized you were right. And I’m sick of doing it.”

  “That’s why you went to see Bayliss?”

  She nods, combing her fingers through her hair. “I needed closure.”

  “Did you get it?”

  “Sort of.” She lets out a short bark of laughter. “I realized he really was a dick, and it wasn’t my fault.”

  I cover her hand with mine. “Just because he didn’t get how brilliant you are, that doesn’t make it any less true. You’re incredibly smart and capable. You can do anything you want.”

  “You really think that?” She looks so fragile, suddenly, vulnerable and uncertain. I’m used to seeing her as invincible; I sometimes forget she’s human like the rest of us.

  “Of course I do.”

  “I’m thinking about going back to school,” she admits.

  “That’s fantastic! You totally should.”

  “I’ll be the class cougar.”

  “Awesome!” A new thought occurs to me. “Wait a minute. This sudden need for closure and weaning yourself off dumb-but-cute boys...it doesn’t have anything to do with Ethan, does it?”

  She flashes a secretive smile. “Maybe.”

  “I knew you liked him!”

  “Moving on,” she says, clearing away our breakfast debris.

  “Hold on! I want to hear all about—”

  “Nope! Not yet. Too soon.” She starts loading the dishwasher, her confessional moment vanishing as abruptly as it appeared. “Besides, we need to talk about you right now.”

  “What about me?” I pour myself more coffee, even though I know I’ve had, like, three cups too many. The only remedy for one indulgence is another, right? Hangovers love caffeine. It makes you way too hyper to realize you’re in pain.

  “We need to formulate a plan,” she says. “This whole thing with Colin and Felicity is bullshit.”

  I sip my coffee. “I don’t have any options, Wanda. She fired me. End of story.”

  “The Stick is a power hungry beeyatch, and she should pay for her crimes.”

  “I agree, but how can we possibly make her...?” I stop, a crazy vision suddenly popping into my head.

  She starts the dishwasher. When she glances up and notices the look on my face, she starts to giggle impishly. “You’re getting an idea, aren’t you? A wonderful, awful idea?”

  “I am...”

  “Ooh! I love it when you get ideas!”

  I stare past her out the window, trying to decide if it could possibly work.

  “What are we going to do? Key her car? TP her apartment? Break into her place and put hemorrhoid cream in her toothpaste?”

  “What are we, twelve?”

  “Tell me!” she whines.

  I raise an eyebrow. “I have to warn you: this is completely insane. There’s at least a 90 percent chance we’ll end up totally humiliated. We might even get arrested.”

  She claps her hands. “How exciting!”

  “Okay then.” I grab a pad of paper and a pencil from her junk drawer. “You better make another pot of coffee. We’ve got less than twenty-four hours to work some serious miracles.”

  “This is so Charlie’s Angels,” she gushes, pulling more coffee beans from the freezer. “Kapow!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dangerous Curves Ahead

  When I walk into Wright, Milton and Sykes Wednesday afternoon, more than a few of my ex-colleagues do double takes. Luke even spits his coffee, which I thought only happened in the movies. Their attention has a strange effect on me. Once upon a time—like...day before yesterday—I would have been horrified to have every eye fixed on me. Now, though, I find it gratifying. After all, they have reason to be shocked.

  For one thing, I’m sure they all know I don’t work here anymore. For another, I’m dressed to kill. My usual beige pantsuit and ponytail ensemble has been replaced by serious office-minx attire.

  Wanda and I pawed through Nana’s old clothes for over an hour before we found the perfect outfit. Since Nana’s professional life began and ended in nightclubs, most of her wardrobe was way too slinky. Then I remembered the old trunk I’d stored in the crawl space above my bedroom. Inside, amid the beaded purses, mink stoles and satin gloves, we found an amazing little number: a classic wool moss-green pencil dress with a slit in the back and an adorable little cropped blazer to match. When I put it on with my silk stockings and patent leather stilettos, I made Mad Men’s Joanie Holloway look positively frumpy.

  Now I walk through the office with my head held high. I might be going down, but I’ll go down in style. I’m a weapon of mass distraction. Operation Office Minx is all systems go.

  * * *

  We’ve timed our mission carefully. As I waltz into the conference room, all eyes swivel in my direction. For half a second my knees go wobbly. This plan is completely insane! It’s too late to turn back, though. I can only hope my smile belies my nerves, that my walk says I’m a badass creative genius and not I’m about to fall on my fucking face.

  On one side of the table, the top executives from Gioioso sit with polite, expectant smiles. There are three of them. I know they’re Italian at first glance; the olive skin, dark eyes and impeccable clothing give them away. On the other side of the table Colin and Dylan wait patiently for Felicity to show. I happen to know Gopal has temporarily removed The Stick’s Gioioso file from her computer. Once we set that disaster into motion, Wanda worked on distracting her further. She phoned The Stick’s office five minutes ago, posing as a journalist for Cosmopolitan. She told Felicity she wanted to include her in an article titled “America’s Sexiest Executives.” So far, so good. Felicity is definitely late.

  By the time she gets here, she’ll either have to make a scene or go along with my diabolical plan. I’m hoping she’ll choose the latter.

  “Hello! Felicity’s tied up, so I’m going to get us started,” I announce in what I hope is a smooth, even tone.

  Colin and Dylan gape at me, flabbergasted. I risk eye contact with Colin long enough to mentally telegraph: Go with it. I know what I’m doing.

  The subtlest of amused grins ghosts across his face. When he addresses the Gioioso execs, he sounds totally unfazed. “Gentlemen, this is one of our top copywriters, Ruby Sugars.”

  “So nice to meet you,” I gush, shaking hands with each of them before walking over to the computer monitor. Briskly, hoping they won’t notice my trembling fingers, I pop in my flash drive. “I’m so thrilled to present this campaign. Rarely have I had the opportunity to work with a product I believe in so thoroughly.”

  Nino Foppiano, the youngest and handsomest of the three, lets his gaze move over me with obvious appreciation. “You are clearly a woman who appreciates fine clothing.”

  “Why thank yo
u! And, if you’ll pardon my audacity, I believe I’m also in your prime demographic—namely, women who love beautiful clothes and aren’t afraid to show off the shape God gave them.”

  A chuckle ripples across the table. Score! My confidence increases a few notches. Wanda and Simon coached me for hours yesterday, helping me develop a saucy yet sophisticated persona. We researched Gioioso thoroughly—their execs, their history, their products. As we developed my pitch we also tried to imagine the perfect woman to present the ideas: a woman who blends old-world charm with new-world moxie in one seamless package. If I were my usual self right now, I’d be a puddle of insecurity. As my new and improved minxy self, I’m a force to be reckoned with.

  “Dylan, can you get the lights?” I say, pleasant but authoritative. I flick on the projector.

  Dylan obeys, crossing the room to turn off the lights. His face is still frozen with shock. I have to stifle a giggle.

  The first image of my presentation flickers to life on the big screen at the front of the room just as Billie Holiday begins to croon. It’s a color-saturated photo of a woman in a low-cut dress, artfully blurred. She’s leaning toward an old-fashioned microphone, her cherry red lips parted slightly. We can’t see her eyes—only the gleam of her hair, the white of her teeth. What’s more noticeable, though, is the hourglass shape of her body, the alluring line of her cleavage, the swell of her ample hips.

  “What do women want?” I pause, letting the question sink in.

  I flip to the next image, a variation on the first. They’re all of me, taken by Wanda with the gear left over from her “fantasy photography” phase. Well, they’re sort of me. Simon helped us disguise them with Photoshop, changing the color of my hair and exaggerating my curves. The background is all smoky nightclub lighting and red velvet—very 1950s. I think Nana would be proud of the mood we’ve invoked. It’s classy yet dangerous, sexy but restrained.

  “Women of all shapes and sizes want to feel desired.” I pitch my voice low, husky. “It may not be politically correct to admit it, but it’s true.”

  Another round of chuckles. The temperature in the room seems to be steadily rising. There’s a thick miasma of testosterone in here. I glance at Colin. Our eyes meet, and for a second I know we’re both thinking about his hands caressing the length of my body for the first time, feeling every inch of me as if he intended to memorize the topography of my curves.