Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | The Night I Got Lucky

The Night I Got Lucky
Laura Caldwell


Praise for the novels of Laura Caldwell
The Year of Living Famously
“Sharply observed, fresh and compelling, The Year of Living Famously is a captivating look into the cult of celebrity.”
—Leslie Stella, author of The Easy Hour and Fat Bald Jeff
“A stylish, sassy novel that shows the dark side that haunts the world of glamour and glitz. Laura Caldwell paints a sensitive picture of two ordinary lives thrown into turmoil by the pressures of fame.”
—USA TODAY bestselling author Carole Matthews
A Clean Slate
“Told with great energy and charm, A Clean Slate is for anyone who has ever fantasized about starting over—in other words, this book is for everyone!”
—Jill A. Davis, author of Girls’ Poker Night
“Weightier than the usual fare, Caldwell’s winning second novel puts an appealing heroine in a tough situation and relays her struggles with empathy.”
—Booklist (starred review)
Burning the Map
“This debut novel won us over with its exotic locales (Rome and Greece); strong portrayal of the bonds between girlfriends; cast of sexy foreign guys; and, most of all, its touching story of a young woman at a crossroads in her life.”
—Barnes&Noble.com (Selected as one of “The Best of 2002”)
“The author produces excellent settings and characters. It is easy to identify with her protagonist, Casey. We learn that maybe the rat race isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. This is a very thought provoking book.”
—Heartland Reviews

The Night I Got Lucky
Laura Caldwell


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Acknowledgments
Thank you so very much to my editor, Margaret O’Neill Marbury, my agent, Maureen Walters, and the crew at Red Dress Ink—Donna Hayes, Dianne Moggy, Laura Morris, Craig Swinwood, Katherine Orr, Marleah Stout, Steph Campbell, Sarah Rundle, Margie Miller and Tara Kelly. Thanks also to the amazing friends who read my work and help me shape it—Kris Verdeck, Kelly Harden, Ginger Heyman, Ted MacNabola, Clare Toohey, Mary Jennings Dean, Pam Caroll, Karen Uhlman, Jane Jacobi, Trisha Woodson and Joan Posch.
Most of all, thank you to Jason Billups.

Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Book Club Questions

prologue
There was so much more security at the Sears Tower than there used to be. Of course, the last time she’d been to the indoor observation deck on the highest floor, she was a freshman in high school. She and her girlfriend had locked arms and whispered about the upcoming dance, more concerned with scoring some Boone’s Farm wine than the panorama.
She was distracted today, too. She had a purpose.
She filed out of the elevator behind a group of gum-cracking, giggling kids, a few backpackers from Australia and two Japanese tourists gripping guide books like life preservers. She held the tiny object in her right hand, not wanting to lose it in her purse. If she could just get a second, just one second alone, hopefully she would be done with it.
A guide stood outside the elevator. She was a young black woman, wearing braided chains around her neck and skin-tight hot pants below her Sears Tower uniform shirt. She looked as if any minute she might grab a microphone and audition for American Idol. “This way,” the guide trilled, drawing out the last word.
The observation deck took up the entire top level of the Sears Tower, and was surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows. In the center were giant exhibits, touting the history of Chicago.
The groups scattered. She glanced over her shoulder at the guide and followed the Japanese tourists to the right. It was nearly the end of the workday, but because it was summer, the sunlight blazed inside from the west windows.
She wandered around the deck, from window to window. She pretended to be absorbed by the view of the Loop from the east, sight of Soldier Field from the south. But as she looped around again, she looked more closely this time, not at the vista of the city laid out before her, but at the center of the room. She hoped there was some access away from the observation deck other than just the elevator.
Finally, she saw what she was looking for—next to a display featuring Chicago architecture was a tall silver door with the sign reading Stairs. Emergency Use Only. But there was an alarm on the door that would sound if she opened it. She chewed at her bottom lip. She didn’t want to scare anyone. She just had to get rid of it.
The door was behind a rope, but that barrier would be easy to get around. She leaned against a nearby window and waited.
The pop star guide passed by at one point. “Enjoying yourself?” the guide asked.
“Oh. Yes.” She swung around and slipped a quarter in a telescope. She focused it in the direction of her Gold Coast apartment, wondering idly if she’d turned off her straightening iron this morning. The guide moved away.
She kept checking her watch. The observation deck would soon close. She tried not to tap her foot nervously. Now that she was here, she wanted desperately to do this. But would she get the chance? A better question—could she pull it off?
Finally, about fifteen minutes later, two workers clad in navy blue coveralls and carrying toolboxes undid the rope that stood in front of the stairwell door. One selected a key from his tool belt and put it in the alarm box. The other re-hooked the rope behind him. The door swung open, and they moved through it. As soon as it started to shut, she leaped over the rope and caught the door with her hand. She stood there a moment, frozen, hoping the guide wouldn’t come back. When she was sure the workers were gone, she slipped inside.
The door closed, and she blinked to let her eyes adjust. The stairway was dimly lit except for red exit signs, all pointing downward. But she went the other way. She went up.

As she stepped through the doorway and onto the roof of the Sears Tower, the wind whipped violently, nearly knocking her over. She caught the door before it slammed and wedged her purse in the frame so it wouldn’t lock behind her. Her hair was whisked straight back from her face. Her black skirt, newly purchased from a boutique on Damen Avenue, flapped against her legs. It was adorable and expensive and wholly inappropriate for the task at hand.
She was now in the middle of the flat roof, flanked by two giant antennas. She avoided them and cautiously made her way toward the edge. She clenched her fist tighter around the object in her right hand. She felt as if any minute the wind might whip her off the building.
The roof was gravelly and painted white. It made her feel even less sure of her footing. Still clasping the little object, she inched closer to the side.
Over the rooftop, she could see Lake Michigan glittering blue. She could see the cars on Lake Shore Drive whizzing past that blue. Her breathing became more shallow as she neared the edge. Only a few feet now. A gust swooped around her, seemed to push her sideways.
“Oh, God. Oh, God,” she said, but the wind was too loud to hear herself.
She froze then. Do it, she told herself. You’re so close.
But she couldn’t make herself walk any farther. She stood for a few moments until a burst of wind nearly picked her off her feet. Shaking, she hitched up her new skirt slightly, dropped to her knees and began to crawl. The graveled surface cut into her skin, made her knees sting with pain. The skin on her right knuckles scratched as she crawled on her fist.
The rim of the roof came nearer until at last she was there. Her body trembled as she peered over the edge. The cars on Franklin Avenue looked like shiny colored beetles, the people as teeny as gnats.
Balancing on her left hand, she lifted her right hand and, slowly unclenching her fist, dropped it.

chapter one
My name is Billy. Not B-I-L-L-I-E, like Billie Holiday—which would be a smooth-voiced, sensuous woman’s name—but B-I-L-L-Y, like a chubby little boy in a baseball uniform. Fact is my father wanted the boy in the uniform. He wanted boxers and brawlers and hunters. What he got was three daughters.
He gave us male names. (My mother claims to have been nearly comatose from the kind of potent childbirth drugs they don’t use anymore.) He named us Dustin, Hadley and Billy. What he thought this would accomplish, I’m not certain. Possibly he hoped for some genetic, postpartum miracle, brought on by the names, which would produce male offspring overnight. It almost worked with my sisters. Dustin and Hadley are tall, lean women who run corporations during the week and marathons on the weekend. They drink scotch, and they own at least two sets of golf clubs each. They’re the type to say to their respective husbands, “I don’t care what the drapes look like, just don’t spend more than ten thousand dollars.”
I thought about Dustin and Hadley as I sat in a meeting for a new business pitch. Roslyn Jorno, my boss at the PR agency of Harper Frankwell, stood at the head of the conference table. Roslyn was a small woman who almost always dressed in dove-gray. She didn’t look happy today, and we all knew that couldn’t be good. Roslyn lived for her work (in fact, it was rumored that she actually lived at our offices on Michigan Avenue), so when she was unhappy, the rest of us were soon to be miserable, too.
“This isn’t going to work, people,” she said, pointing to a board behind her. On it was a list of suggested headlines we might obtain for our client, Grenier’s Stud Finder, whose product used NASA-like technology to find wall studs. The headlines read: “Ladies Can Find Studs at Chicago Hardware Show,” “Studs Aren’t Hard To Come By Anymore,” and “Find the Stud That’s Right For You.”
“‘Ladies can find studs’?” Roslyn said mockingly.
I shot a glance at Alexa Villa seated next to me. Alexa, an annoyingly beautiful woman with dark hair and fair skin, had come up with that first headline.
“And ‘find the stud that’s right for you’?” Roslyn said. “Are we selling sex or hardware?” She crossed her arms and stared pointedly at me.
Apparently, she didn’t like my work so much either. I had to admit I’d written the other headlines.
“I believe that was Billy’s,” said Alexa Villa seated next to me.
“Elegant, people! I want elegant. Understand?” Roslyn always preached elegance, which killed me. We crafted publicity campaigns for everything from power tools to pharmaceutical drugs to local news shows, but none of those products or clients was particularly elegant. It wasn’t as if we were pushing the symphony orchestra.
Even though I rarely saw them, I thought of my sisters then because I was sure Dustin and Hadley not only owned stud finders with laser technology but knew how to use them. Yet Dustin and Hadley were both the epitome of elegance, the kind of women whose angular frames looked stylish in jeans and a man’s T-shirt while they wielded a power saw.
I, on the other hand, would take off a limb if I tried to use a power saw. I wouldn’t know a putter from a hockey stick, and the mere whiff of scotch makes me flinch.
“Elegant,” said Evan across the table. “Very interesting.” As if he hadn’t heard this thirty-three thousand times before. “You’re absolutely right, Roz.”
Since Evan had made vice president, he’d been calling Roslyn “Roz,” something no one else had ever attempted, and, Evan being Evan, he got away with it. I couldn’t help but grin when he turned his head and winked at me. Although I’d been married for two years, I had a little crush on Evan. Okay, more than a little. My friend Tess liked to call it the Everlasting Crush.
“Billy,” Roslyn said, “you do know that most of our target demographic is male, right?”
I glared at Alexa, then cleared my throat, and sat taller. “Of course, but the point is to grab attention. And these headlines, if we could talk the press into them, would grab anyone’s attention, male or female.”
“Well, let’s not alienate our male audience, okay?”
I hated Roslyn’s habit of speaking in questions. It made me want to do the same thing. It made me want to ask, Wouldn’t it help all of us if you got laid?
“No problem,” I said instead. I batted away the thought that it would probably help if I got laid once in a while.
“And Billy,” Roslyn said, “you realize this campaign is important for a number of reasons, right?”
If it were possible, I would have crawled under the table. Lately, Roslyn had been making ominous threats (always posed as queries, of course) that not only might I miss the VP promotion I’d been waiting for since the Mesozoic Era, but I might be demoted (or worse) if my productivity didn’t improve. And now this loosely veiled threat in front of the team let everyone know my ass was on the line. I saw Alexa suppressing a grin. Evan, God love him, looked miserable for me. The rest of the group shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. Should I quit now? I wanted to. I desperately wanted to. But the truth was I’d been putting out my feelers for months and the industry was in a lockdown. No one was hiring.
“I understand completely,” I said. With the last shred of dignity I had in my body, I looked right at her. There was a painful silence during which Roslyn and I stared at each other. No one muttered a word. William, the guy to my right, shuffled some papers. Alexa cleared her throat.
In my mind, a montage of photos from my career at Harper Frankwell flashed before me—first as an eager intern rising quickly to assistant and then account exec and so on. It seemed I was a natural at the job, and I adored it. I loved writing press releases, creatively shading words and drawing out sentences to make our clients appear more worldly or accomplished or cutting edge. I loved pitching those clients to the press, subtly hounding producers and editors until the victorious moment when they caved and agreed to cover us. It seemed right to everyone, including myself, that I was heading straight for a vice presidency. I’d been told by Jack Varner, my old boss, that it was a formality, merely a matter of months. But then Jack found God, or something approximating God, and followed that deity to California where he was now training to become an instructor of Bikram yoga. In came Roslyn and out went my thoughts of professional glory.
In the boardroom now, Roslyn and I still stared at each other. I could feel a bead of sweat collect under the waistband of my pants. I could feel the glances that the team members shot from one of us to the other.
Finally, Roslyn dropped her eyes to the pad of paper in front of her. She crossed something out, probably my future, and called the meeting to an end.

Evan waited for me outside the doorway.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said as we walked down the hall. He gave me a thump on the arm worthy of a linebacker.
In the PR world, which is populated by so many women and gay men, Evan was the token straight guy. The token straight guy who happened to have thick yellow-blond hair, mint-green eyes and dimples that creased his cheeks when he smiled. The linebacker pats were for the best, I knew. I couldn’t be tempted by someone who thought of me only as buddy material.
“Seriously, don’t listen to her bullshit,” Evan said. “Just do your normal stellar job, and maybe this will be the campaign that gets you the VP.”
“Right,” I said. I prayed he was correct. I prayed that Roslyn’s threats were really just tough love maneuvers designed to motivate me.
We reached Evan’s office, the one he got when he was named VP. The wall behind his desk was covered with an eclectic combination of Renee Magritte prints, Notre Dame football posters and framed handbills from the band, Hello Dave.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen those guys.” I pointed to a Hello Dave poster announcing a show at the Aragon.
Before Chris and I got married, Evan and I used to see Hello Dave together. We would drink way too much and dance until way too late. The music made my heart thump with happiness; it made my body feel light and free. The music seemed to separate me from myself in the most wonderful way. It made me bold enough to bat my eyes and drop some not so subtle hints, hoping Evan would make a pass. He never did. The next morning, we’d huddle around the pretzel tin in the company kitchen, deconstructing the set list, the people we’d run into, the women who’d given Evan their numbers. But then, I met Chris and my crush on Evan disappeared. Eventually, I stopped attending Hello Dave shows.
“They’ve got a gig this Saturday,” Evan said, sounding excited. “Yeah, it’s at Park West. You’ve got to come.”
“Maybe.” But I knew I wouldn’t go. My crush had returned sometime in the past year—residing back in my subconscious—and thinking about Hello Dave reminded me how hot and bothered Evan could make me. No need to torture myself, and besides, Chris and I were supposed to have dinner with my mother in Barrington.
“Oh, c’mon. For old time’s sake.” He smiled, and those dimples pleated his smooth golden skin.
“Who’re you bringing?”
“Shelly.”
“A new one?”
“Yep, and she’s hot. God, you should see her. You wouldn’t frickin’ believe how hot this girl is.” This was how Evan talked to me—again, like a fellow linebacker.
Strangely, many people in my life seemed to think I was a man, or asexual in some way. This now included Evan, and even my husband. We had gone from having sex at least twice a week prewedding to, if I was very lucky, twice a month postwedding.
“Who loves ya, girl?” Evan said as I neared the door.
I answered as usual. A listless, “You do.” Because Evan didn’t really love me, except as a close friend. That was enough, I knew logically—I was married, after all—but this little ritual often depressed me.
“You got it,” he said.

“Billy, honey, how did the new business meeting go?”
My mother knew entirely too much about my life. I’d mentioned once that such meetings usually took place on Monday mornings, and now here she was calling me, at precisely 11:00 on Monday.
“Not so great.” I put on my headset and clicked on the Internet. If I gave my mother’s daily phone calls my undivided attention, I’d never get any work done.
“What happened?” she asked. “Didn’t Roslyn like your stud finder ideas?”
Damn, had I told her about the Grenier’s campaign? That would add an extra ten minutes to this call.
“You should ask Dustin or Hadley about it,” she continued. “They probably know about those tools.”
This immediately saddened me. It was true that Dustin and Hadley knew something about hardware, but it was also true that they both avoided our mother, claiming busyness and time changes. My mom was only mentioning their names now to see if I’d spoken to them, to learn about the two daughters she didn’t know very well anymore.
“I got an e-mail from Hadley last week,” I said.
My eyes shot to the black-framed photo next to my computer monitor. In the picture, my mom and I, the short women in the family, are flanked by Dustin and Hadley, who rise over us, looking like twins. It was taken in San Francisco, right after Dustin moved there and a few months before Hadley was transferred to the London office of the investment bank she worked for. That was four years ago. I’d seen Dustin three times since then—once at her wedding, once at mine and once when I was out West for business. I’d only seen Hadley the one time at Dustin’s wedding. Hadley and her husband, Nigel, hadn’t been able to make it to mine. There was no great rift, no great drama, except for the little fact of what had happened twenty-five years ago—our father took off. None of us had seen him again. None of us had been the same since. It had wounded us each separately and we’d never been able to truly help one another. And so over time, Dustin and Hadley had drifted farther and farther away.
“What was in the e-mail?” my mother asked, her voice forlorn.
“Hadley is really crazy right now,” I said, hoping to assuage the melancholy in her voice. “The bank might be bought out, and so she’s in meetings all the time.”
Roslyn stopped by my cube and waved one of my press releases. “Can I see you?” she said in a loud whisper.
I put on a serious face and nodded. I pointed at the phone and mouthed, “Client. One minute.”
Roslyn sighed, gestured toward her office, then left.
“Is Hadley still trying to get pregnant?” my mom said. If it was possible, her voice became more heartbreaking. She knew little about Hadley’s procreative attempts, and since Hadley had sworn never to move back to the States. (“Why should I?” she’d said. “It’s more civilized here and people aren’t so nosy.”) We’d probably never see the result of those attempts, even if she were successful.
“I think so,” I said.
“Ah, well, I’m sure she’ll be calling to tell me soon.”
“I’m sure, Mom.”
I opened my e-mail program. You have 67 new messages, it said. “Shit,” I muttered.
“What’s that, Billy?”
“Nothing.” It was hard to cut her off, even when I had no time to talk. Somehow, I’d become my mom’s only daily social outlet. She had sisters who lived on the North Shore, but they hadn’t had much contact since my mom married my dad so many years ago. My aunts had foreseen what an utter schmuck he’d be, and my mother was too embarrassed to give them the satisfaction of admitting they were right. And since her second husband, Jan, died three years ago, she’d almost secluded herself, rarely visiting with the few friends she had in Barrington.
“What are you doing today, Mom?” I asked. “You should get out of the house.”
“I know,” she said simply. “I’ll try.” My mom kept saying how she wanted to move on—she wanted to get over Jan’s death and get on with her life, but her motivation seemed to have disappeared.
“So anyway, sweetie,” she said, changing the subject, “are you still seeing that therapist?”
I groaned and began reading my e-mail in earnest—one from Evan reminding me about the Hello Dave show on Friday night, one from my husband asking me to buy his flaxseed oil when I stopped at the grocery store on my way home. “Yes,” I said. “I’m seeing her tonight, actually.”
“And what will you discuss? You and Chris, I assume. How is he?”
“He’s fine, mom, and I’m sorry but I’ve got to go.”
“Maybe you can talk to her about your father, too. I was able to let that go when I married Jan. But you still need to work on that.”
“I know, Mom, I will. Love you. Bye now.”
“Bye, baby doll. And don’t forget to talk to that therapist about work, too. I think you’re angry.”

My mother was right. I did have some anger socked away. It had started small, somewhere in my rib cage. I’d trapped it there for a while, ignoring that tiny but festering wound, because I didn’t want to be one of those people who hadn’t a single good thing to say about their life. Yet that pocket of anger had grown over the past few years, despite my best intentions. I expected certain rewards from my life, I had worked to achieve certain milestones, and yet I’d missed the meeting when recognition and happiness were passed out.
The vice presidency was one issue. I’d earned it.
My mother was another. I loved the woman so much. She had raised three girls on her own, for years taking in stride the ridicule of a small Illinois town that gleefully watched as her rich husband escaped to the glitz of the west coast; a town that somehow enjoyed the carnage my father left in his wake. Much later, she finally moved to another suburb and found some peace with Jan, but he’d suffered a stroke while standing at the barbeque on a warm September day. Now she was alone again. Alone, and way too invested in my life. She needed one of her own.
On the other end of the parental spectrum was my father. I’d never gotten over him leaving. At seven, I was the youngest, and for some reason I’d always assumed it was his disappointment in me that had pushed him to flee. I wanted desperately to get over that notion. To be done with him.
My husband was the remaining piece of the anger puzzle. My clichéd attempts at seduction were too painful to recount—feel free to insert stereotypical woman wearing lingerie waiting with cold dinner image—and so I’d given up trying to entice him, trying to figure out what was wrong with him. With us. With me. We were roommates now. Roommates who occasionally, very occasionally, scratched an itch.
When I was in one of these black moods, there were two things that would help—throwing myself into work or hitting a bar and seeing some good, loud live music. The Hello Dave show was coming up, but Chris didn’t like seeing bands as much as I did, and we’d committed long ago to visiting my mom. I hated to disappoint her. So work would have to be it.
I went and spoke to Roslyn about my press release. When I came back, I opened the computer file that read Odette Lamden. Odette was a local chef who occasionally went on the news shows as their cooking expert. Odette’s restaurant, Comfort Food, was one of my favorites, because it served just that—comfort food, stuff like mac and cheese (with four cheeses), overly buttered mashed potatoes, bread pudding, gooey with caramel, and fudge sundaes as big as your head. I’d met Odette on a TV set one day when I’d gone to visit a publicist who’d enlisted us to handle extra work. Two days later, Odette hired me, or I should say hired Harper Frankwell, to publicize her cookbook, also called Comfort Food. Her own publisher had done little to promote it, and she wanted to get the word out there. It was the type of client I loved—someone who needed help with a product I truly liked.
But Roslyn had been less than thrilled. “It’s not even ten thousand dollars worth of work,” she’d said, scrunching her mouth disapprovingly. This was Roslyn’s main complaint with me, and why she asserted I wasn’t ready for a vice presidency—I wasn’t pulling in any big fish, and I was wasting the firm’s time on the small stuff. “It could turn into something big,” I said.
“Doubtful,” Roslyn answered.
“I think we owe it to the community to help certain people once in a while. People who can’t afford big campaigns.”
“We owe it to this company to make money, don’t we?” Roslyn looked down at her desk, my cue to leave.
I understood her protests, but I believed in the smaller clients I brought in. There was something rewarding about helping shed a little media light on products and people you believed in. And Odette and I had such fun working on her cookbook. I’d stop by the restaurant after she closed early on Sunday nights, and we’d huddle in her colorful office, eating leftovers and brainstorming about how to get her on Oprah. Odette, a forty-five-year-old black woman, whose family originally hailed from New Orleans, had become a friend as well as a client during this process. I wanted to get her book the best possible PR, no matter what Roslyn said.
But I wouldn’t think about Roslyn now. I wanted to work on a press release for Comfort Food, one that would land Odette interviews with newspapers and spots on radio shows. I started writing. Sick of the Atkins Diet? How about the South Beach Diet? Tired of eating boiled chicken breasts and dressing-less salad? Renowned Chicago chef, Odette Lambden, owner of the acclaimed restaurant, Comfort Food, introduces a cookbook to soothe us all.
Once I’d begun, I barely noticed the beige walls of my cubicle that had seemed tighter and more constricting lately. I ignored the ring of my phone, the beep from the bottom of the computer announcing an instant message. Instead, I tapped away at the keyboard, waxing poetic about Odette’s book. I reread sentences, mulled over words and dialed up certain sections. This was what I loved about my job—generating excitement about a product or person, the imaginative use of words to reflect a given tone. The ability to create.
I was just rereading the press release for grammatical errors, feeling pleased with myself, content with my job, when Alexa appeared, leaning on the frame of my cube.
“Hey, Billy,” she said. Alexa always said, “hey,” never “hello” or “hi.” She looked like a prep school princess, but she didn’t always talk like one.
Alexa was one of those timeless women who could have passed for any age between twenty and thirty. Although I assumed she was twenty-seven or so, about five years younger than me, she possessed a haughtiness and a coolness that made her seem older. I supposed it was this confidence that had swept Alexa through the ranks at Harper Frankwell; unfortunately, with her cutthroat attitude and with her nipping on my heels, I couldn’t appreciate it. My fear was that she would make vice president before I did, causing me to die of shame and jealousy.
My contented mood waned. “Hey,” I said back, drawing out the word.
Alexa gave me her patented you-are-such-a-fool smirk. “What are you going to do about the stud finder headlines?”
“What am I going to do?” This was a team project, after all, and she was on the damned team.
“Well, Roslyn seemed to want you to handle it, so I just want to respect that and ask you where you’re going to start.” She smirked again.
“It’s supposed to be a team thing, Alexa. And let’s make sure we take credit for our work, okay?”
I usually got along great with other women, but since the day Alexa had started, wearing her black cashmere twinsets and high, patent leather pumps, she had irked me. Her arrogant condescension got old quick. I’d tried to show her who was boss, so to speak, but I wasn’t really her boss—just ahead of her in the food chain—and Alexa couldn’t be shamed into submission. If anything the pressure made her more confident. If I had liked her even a little, I might have grudgingly approved of her don’t-mess-with-me attitude.
“Oh, I’m not suggesting that you handle this project on your own,” she said, laughing a little. “God, no.”
See what I mean?
“What then?” I said, my voice flattening.
“Well…” She trailed off and crossed her arms. She was wearing the sleeveless part of one of her usual black cashmere twinsets. Since it was May, the cardigan would be thrown over her chair, waiting for the moment when the booming air-conditioning system kicked in, but meanwhile her movements showed off lean, sculpted arms. Alexa and I were around the same height—five-four—and we were both relatively thin, but her body was more toned, her skin more smooth, her black hair as shiny and pencil straight as my sisters’.
“I know this project is important for you, Billy,” she said, the condescension as thick as fog.
I crossed my arms now. “What do you mean?”
She laughed again. I was beginning to think that if she laughed once more, I might launch Odette’s cookbook at her head.
“Well, you know,” she said coyly. “You’re not getting any younger and you’re certainly not getting promoted…” She shrugged.
And you’re not getting any cuter and you’re not getting married, I wanted to say. Instead, I remained silent, fixing her with a steely stare.
“So anyway,” Alexa went on, “I was thinking, why don’t you try rewriting the headlines, then e-mail them to me, and I’ll go over them for you.”
“You’ll ‘go over them’ for me? That’s so nice of you.”
“I thought so.”
The truth was, I’d rather do the headlines on my own—I actually liked that kind of work. It was the meetings and the busy paperwork I disdained. But I wouldn’t let Alexa get away with a monumental buck-passing.
“Fine,” I said, “but I’d like you to make the media list.” In our world, making the media list—the roll call of different targets for a PR blitz—was a bottom-of-the-barrel job, something an intern usually did.
Alexa let out a little puff of exasperated air and seemed to be ready to protest, but I knew she wouldn’t. She was smarter than that. She had passed off work to me, but she’d have to handle something on this project or Roslyn would figure it out eventually.
“Fine,” Alexa said, mimicking me.
I uncrossed my arms and swung back to my desk. I wished desperately I was a vice president right now. Not for the professional splendor of it all, but because if I was a VP, I would have an office and if I had an office, I would have a door. And if I had a door, I would slam it hard in Alexa’s darling little face.

chapter two
Chris was at our condo when I got there, which was surprising. He’d already gotten his big promotion—partnership at one of the city’s top law firms—but he worked harder now than he did before.
As I dumped my bag on the wood floor of our foyer, I saw that he was working, sitting in front of the computer, which we’d set up on the dining room table. (We rarely had people for dinner anyway, and we usually ate on our own or in front of the TV.)
“Hi, Bill,” he said, when he heard me come inside. He didn’t turn his tall frame from the computer. His big hands kept clacking awkwardly at the keyboard.
“Hello, Marlowe.” Marlowe is Chris’s middle name, after the playwright Christopher Marlowe. His parents, a couple of academics from the University of Chicago, are staunch proponents of the theory that Marlowe was the real author of Shakespeare’s plays.
I patted Chris absently on the shoulder, a pat very similar to the one Evan had given me that day. “I got your flaxseed.”
“Thanks.”
“How was work?” I asked. “What’s going on with that health care merger?”
“Nothing much.”
I ruffled his short brown hair.
And that was about it. That was the extent of our marital affection. Not so different than any other day.
I went into the kitchen and put Chris’s flaxseed oil in the stainless steel fridge. When we’d bought this place shortly before our wedding, we’d filled it with top-of-the-line appliances, gleaming granite countertops and shiny hardwood floors. It was as promising as our relationship. Now, God knows why, the only things luminous were our furnishings.
“I’m going to see Blinda,” I called to Chris.
This made him twist around from the computer. “You’re still seeing her?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you said the therapy wasn’t doing much.”
“It’s not.”
“So—”
“So, I’m giving it a shot.”
He nodded. “Well, that’s good.”
“How about coming with me?”
“Billy, you know…” He turned back to the computer, and I couldn’t hear the rest of his words.
Chris didn’t believe in therapists. He believed, like his parents, that William Shakespeare was a myth, but he didn’t believe in therapists.

Blinda’s office was on LaSalle, only a few blocks from our condo. I’d never noticed the place until one day while I was walking back from the gym. The building was a brick three-flat that appeared to house luxury apartments, like so many on the block, but that day I saw a small black sign with gold letters in the window of the basement unit. Blinda Bright, M.S.W. the sign read. For Appointments Call 312.555.9090.
I’m not sure why I stopped and stared at that sign for as long as I did. It was nearly April, a capricious time in Chicago, and although it had been a lovely sixty degrees the day before, it was in the forties. Despite my optimistically light coat and the fact that I’d begun to shiver, I stood in front of that brick building, staring at the gold lettering and the gold light that glowed from behind the curtains. M.S.W. meant masters in social work, right? So this Blinda person must be some kind of therapist. I committed the number to memory.
I had considered therapy for a while. I knew I was messed up about my father, I knew Chris had pulled away from me after we got married and I knew it was wrong that I coveted my coworker. Over the past few months, I’d collected referrals from friends, and I had five therapists I could try. But it was that sign in the basement window that, for some reason, made me realize now was the time and she was the one I should call.
At the initial appointment with Blinda, I decided to attack one issue at a time. I explained that the main reason I’d come to see her was, as I put it, “to get over the abandonment issues I have with my father.” I thought this sounded rather intellectual and valid. Wasn’t there a reverse Oedipus complex or something? But Blinda didn’t approach it quite like that.
“He just took off, huh?” she said, shaking her head like she was pissed off. I told her what I knew about my father and how he’d left our house one morning and never came back.
“At first he told us that he had business in L.A.,” I said. “He was an importer of goods from Germany, and he had a brother who ran things from overseas.”
“What kind of goods?”
“Tiles, pots, earthenware.”
“Ah.” She sounded disappointed.
“Anyway, he said he had to go to Los Angeles for business, only he never came back. My mom spent lots of money looking for him and trying to enforce child support decrees, but he kept disappearing.”
“Bastard,” Blinda said under her voice.
I blinked a few times, studying her. Where were the sage comments about the father/daughter Oedipus complex or whatever it was?
“Right,” I said. “Well, my mother eventually realized she had spent more money trying to find him than she’d likely ever get from alimony, so finally she just had to make do. Before he left, we had a great house with white columns. I always thought it looked like a wedding cake. We lived in this little town about an hour and a half northwest of Chicago.”
Blinda smiled at the image.
“But she couldn’t afford it anymore, so we moved into an apartment behind the old hospital. My mom had one bedroom and my sisters had another, and they put a cot for me in the half room by the washing machine.”
Blinda nodded for me to continue. I hadn’t talked about this for so long—maybe never—and now I felt like I couldn’t stop. I told her about how we went from being one of the richest families in town to one of the poorest. I told her about how Dustin and Hadley were taunted at school about our deadbeat dad and how they became tough little girls, always getting into fights, coming home to proudly display black eyes and bloody noses. I explained that my mom got a job working as a receptionist at an auto plant, and that Dustin and Hadley had to get scholarships and put themselves through college. I told her about Jan and how it was he who put me through school and who took my mom out of that apartment behind the old hospital, out of that town and into the beautiful house in Barrington where she still lived.
Blinda chuckled at that point, although I didn’t think I’d said anything particularly funny. She caught my inquisitive look. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just ironic that your father considered himself such a man’s man, enough to give you girls male names, and then your mother marries someone named Jan—a rather womanly sounding name—and he makes her happy again.”
I laughed then, too. I think that’s when I knew for certain that Blinda was going to be different from the therapists I’d heard about.

This was our sixth visit, although I felt in some ways as if I’d been seeing Blinda forever. I knew to hang my sweater on the antique brass rack inside the door. I knew to pour myself a cup of the jasmine-scented tea from the cracked Asian pot on her sideboard. I knew that I could just start talking whenever I wanted, that Blinda was always there with a nod of her blond head or an empathetic cluck of her tongue. I knew the routine, but I didn’t necessarily feel any better for it.
“It’s not that much to ask for,” I said now.
“You want your husband to pay attention to you, is that right?” Blinda asked. I had moved from the topic of my father to my other issues—failing marriage, heartbroken mother with no life of her own, inappropriate crush on Evan, inability to get promoted.
“Well, yeah,” I said. I shifted around on her woolly red and orange love seat that looked like it was purchased in a Marrakech marketplace. On either end sat bamboo tables with lit yellow candles and boxes of recycled tissue. Those boxes were always different, replaced, each time I came. It seemed I was Blinda’s only client who didn’t cry constantly. I was the only angry, irritated one. “Yeah, I want Chris to look at me like he used to when we were dating, but I want more than just that,” I said.
“What else?” She leaned forward, her straight, blond hair swinging. I could not figure out Blinda. She looked like an aging beach bum, someone who would smoke a lot of pot and live in her parents’ basement, and yet hanging on her wall were a plethora of framed diplomas, photos of Hindu Temples and two pictures of her with a robed, bespectacled man who looked very much like the Dalai Lama.
I sighed. I’d told her all this already. “I want to get the vice presidency. I want my mom to get her own life. I want to get over my dad. And I want Evan to want me.”
She raised her eyebrows at that last one.
“Not that I’d do anything with Evan,” I said. “It would just be nice if he had a thing for me.”
“I see,” Blinda said. “Billy, what have you actually done to get these things you desire for yourself?”
“Everything!”
She raised her eyebrows again.
“It’s true! I’ve been campaigning for the VP job forever. I’ve asked Chris to go to therapy with me, but he won’t. I’m talking to you about my mom and dad. I mean, I feel like I’ve been trying.”
“At the risk of repeating myself, I’ll tell you to look inside for your happiness.” She put her hands together in a prayer position and put them against her T-shirt clad chest. On it was written something in French.
I stopped short of rolling my eyes. “I have.”
Blinda studied me. “If you get those things you want, would you be happy then?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “Absolutely.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. As I said, I don’t think I’m asking for that much.”
She crossed her legs and rearranged her colorful, flowy skirt. “Billy, I’m going out of town for a while.”
I opened and closed my mouth, surprised at the shift in topic and the concept of Blinda leaving. “Where are you going?”
“Africa. I’m going to visit the village where I lived when I was in the Peace Corps.” She smiled beatifically, and I got an image of blond Blinda surrounded by native villagers doing tribal dances, praying for water. Immediately, I felt chagrined at my list of “needs.”
“I’d like to give you something,” Blinda continued. She stood up and crossed the room to an old wood hutch with glass doors. Opening one of them, she reached inside. When she turned around, she held a small green object in her hand. “Here you go.”
The object was made of a glittery, jadelike material, and it was shaped like a frog on a lily pad. The frog’s hind legs were rounded little haunches, his eyes tiny jade spheres. His mouth was a long slash that ran under the eyes.
“Well, uh…thank you.” What was I supposed to do with it?
“In ancient Chinese culture, this icon was thought to bring good fortune to the owner.”
“Right. Great.” But what I was thinking was, Of all the New Age crap….
“I’ll let you know when I’m back in the city, but in the meantime, keep this. I hope it brings what you wish for.”
“Thanks, Blinda.” I glanced at the ivory clock on the coffee table. My hour was up. I’d now have to cut her a check for a hundred dollars, and all I had to show for it was a crappy piece of green rock.

“What’s that?” Chris said. He was in bed already with a little light reading—a book called The Second Carthaginian War.
“A frog.” I put in on my nightstand next to my clock and set the clock for seven-fifteen. “Blinda gave it to me.”
“Why?”
“I’m not entirely sure.”
Chris laughed. “Sounds like a top-of-the-line therapist.”
I put a hand on my hip and gave him a look.
“Sorry,” he said, still laughing.
I looked at the frog again. It seemed so little and Asian and out of place on my contemporary maple nightstand, next to my sleek black clock that played ocean and rainforest sounds in addition to the radio. And then I couldn’t help but laugh, too.
“Come to bed,” Chris said with a smile, and I wondered if tonight was going to be one of those few nights we spent in each other’s arms. There used to be many of them.
I remembered the evening I’d met him at a northside pizza place. We’d been set up by Tess, my high school girlfriend, and her husband, Tim, who worked with Chris. Chris was adorable that night in his navy suit and tie, his brown leather loafers shiny and uncreased as if he’d just bought them. He was eager to meet me, unlike Evan, who never seemed to notice me, and unlike the other guys I met, who had to be oh-so-cool all the damn time. We bonded at first over two small, strange things—our birthdays were only one day apart and our parents had given us weird names.
“Billy’s not so bad,” Chris had said. “Think about my middle name. I mean Marlowe, for Christ’s sake. It’s so pompous, but it really means something to them. If you meet my parents, don’t ask them about it. They will never shut up.”
I smiled, wondering if he really thought I’d meet his parents one day. “Well, if you ever meet my sisters, don’t challenge them to anything. They’re fiercely competitive, and they play to win.” I told him about my previous boyfriend, a guy named Walter with the ghastly nickname of Wat, who made the mistake of telling Dustin that he was an ace chess player. The two times they met each other, Dustin and Wat huddled over the chessboard. And both times she won.
Chris and I talked all about our families, barely noticing Tess and Tim, who sat across the table with pleased smiles. When we left the restaurant, he walked me the eight blocks home, even though it was the opposite direction of his place.
It was seamless. It was as if we were dating right from that night. I loved his big hands, his tall lanky body. I loved how he tilted his head a little to the side when I talked, like he was fascinated with my words. We went to Cubs games—Chris’s passion, despite the fact that he’d grown up on the south side. We saw quirky foreign films at the Landmark Theatre, then went to the bookstore across the street. We spent weekends at his apartment on Eugenie Terrace, where the decor had no apparent theme. The place had books all over and a huge comfortable chair under the windows where I sat and read while Chris cooked. I liked how he used odd little vegetables I’d never heard of before. I liked how he went across town to a gourmet delicatessen to buy a cheese his mom recommended. And I liked what happened when we went to bed at night.
But after we were married—or was it during the planning of the wedding?—Chris gradually stopped listening intently the way he always had. When I spoke, he barely looked up from his computer or his book. He agreed with my suggestions without contributing. He stayed on his side of the bed. When I brought it up, he said he didn’t know what I meant. He was busy, I was busy, and that was all there was to it.
But it seemed Chris was in the mood tonight.
“I’ll be right there,” I said, giving him a smile. With a spark in my step, I went into the master bath—white and gray granite in there with maple cabinets—quickly brushed my teeth and gave myself a spritz of perfume. I opened the door and began undoing the buttons of my blouse in what I hoped was a sexy way, but I could tell I’d already lost him. His nose was buried in the Carthaginian War again, the covers pulled up to his chin.
When I slid in bed he squeezed my hand for a brief moment. “Love you,” he said absently, not taking his eyes away from his book.
“You, too,” I said, which was true. I still loved my husband. I turned over and looked at the frog one more time before I shut off the light.

chapter three
There were people in my bedroom, and they were talking. Laughing. Too much laughter.
I squeezed my eyes shut. I burrowed under the blankets. More chortling, more talking. The woman’s voice sounded vaguely familiar, then the man’s voice became more clear. I heard the words “traffic” and then “coming up.” And then I remembered who these people were—Eric and Kathy. They were DJs, and they were on my radio, which meant it was time to get up.
I have always wanted to be the kind of person who awoke refreshed and lovely at the first hint of daylight. I’d even thought I’d become such a person after years of work, but alas, I still felt like a college kid who needed to sleep until noon. Chris was worse than me. He required two alarm clocks and three snooze button hits before he’d rouse from the bed. As a result, I was usually showered and out the door before he got up.
Eric and Kathy were laughing again, talking about some reality show. I rolled over and shut off the radio. And then I flinched. What was that thing on my nightstand? I opened my eyes more fully. The frog from Blinda, that was all. It seemed bigger this morning, more green. The spherical eyes gleamed, the haunches appeared ready to leap, and that slash of a mouth was turned up at the edges. The thing was smiling.
I turned the frog around so it wasn’t looking at me and dragged myself out of bed and through the dark bedroom. I stopped at the window and pulled back the tan linen drapes. Outside, it was hazy wet and gray, the air thick with fog. The tree trunks bore a deep charcoal sheen. Chicago looked like a misty Scottish bog.
In the bathroom, the lights blazed on like a fast-food joint. I glanced in the mirror, running my hands through my dark hair, unruly now from sleep—parts curly, parts flat, parts electric and standing on end. This was my typical morning do. But I looked different somehow. I leaned closer to the mirror. Eyes still blue, lashes still long. I stepped back and surveyed the rest of myself—one shoulder was slightly higher than the other, same as always. My hips were still too broad for my taste, my breasts a little too small. Nothing had changed.
“Get going,” I muttered to myself. Enough vanity. I turned on the shower and on second thought, flicked on the steam component. When we moved in, we expanded the shower, installing four different showerheads and a steam function. It was one of my favorite spots in the house.
The steam kicked on, making the stall as misty as the weather outside. I took a deep breath and let the heat seep into my body. I soaked my hair, picking up a bottle of shampoo. And then I heard a creak. A footfall came next. Then a shuffling sound. The door of the shower was yanked open, and I yelped, clutching the shampoo bottle to my chest.
“It’s me, hon.” Chris stepped fully inside the shower, the steam parting for him.
“What are you doing?”
“I thought I’d join you.”
“Oh.” It was all I could think of to say. We’d never been in that shower together, despite the fact that I’d had a number of fantasies about how to use the tiled bench.
“Let me do that for you.” Chris took the shampoo from my hand. He turned me around and began soaping my hair, massaging my head gently with those large hands of his. He went on like this for a few minutes, then he whispered, “Close your eyes,” and he tilted my head under the water to rinse it.
When he was done, Chris drew my head back and kissed my neck. He nibbled on my earlobes. The water beat down on my belly now, and I heard myself moan softly. The steam was thick. I don’t know if I could have seen Chris if I opened my eyes, but I could feel him. He stood behind me, and I felt his broad, wet chest against my back, his lean legs behind mine. And then I could feel something else. Chris might not have been in the mood last night, but he certainly was this morning.

Afterwards, we stood nuzzling in the steamy bathroom.
“I’ve missed that,” Chris said.
“You have?”
“Yeah. Hell, yeah.”
I used a towel to dab some water from his forehead. “Me, too.”
“C’mere.” He pulled me by the hand, back to our bed, its gray-green sheets twisted and rumpled.
“We’ll get the bed all wet,” I said.
“Who cares?”
“Not me.” I hopped into bed and threw off the towel. Chris and I nestled into the still warm sheets, and, nose to nose, started talking like we hadn’t in years.
“What’s going on at work?” Chris said. “What’s the status of getting you into a VP office?”
The reminder of my failure to be promoted should have disheartened me, but I was too content and snug with my husband to be affected. I happily filled Chris in on all the work gossip and on Alexa’s condescending attitude.
“That little bitch,” Chris murmured, and I snuggled closer, pleased to have someone on my side.
“And did you and Evan get that press release done?” Chris asked.
I paused a moment. Chris had no idea about my crush on Evan, at least I didn’t think so, but the mention of Evan’s name from my husband’s lips startled me.
“Um, yeah. We did.”
“How is Evan?”
“He’s fine. Good.” I searched my mind for another topic, but finding none, I elaborated about Evan. “He’s got his promotion, and he’s bringing in business, so Roslyn loves him.”
“And is Roslyn still tough as nails?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Not like you, Treetop. You’re soft and sweet.” Treetop was Chris’s nickname for me, based on my maiden name, Tremont. I hadn’t heard him use it in a long time.
I shifted closer to him, and Chris kissed the tip of my nose. It was an intimate gesture, in some ways more intimate than what had gone on in the shower, and the sweetness of it nearly made me cry.
He grinned at me, really looking at me like he used to, and I smiled back.
“So enough about me,” I said. “What’s going on at the firm? Any news?”
“Well, you know that health care merger?”
I nodded. I didn’t remind him that when I asked about it last night he hadn’t seemed willing to talk about it.
“It’s a complete mess,” Chris said. “I’ve got to go to court this morning.” He lifted himself up and glanced over me to my alarm clock. “But I’ve got time.”
This made me flip around. The angry red lights of my clock said 9:04 a.m. And that damned frog—somehow it was turned around and facing me again. No matter, I was late. Really late.
“Shit, Chris,” I said, leaping out of bed. “I’ve got to go.”
He groaned. “Another ten minutes.”
“No!” I laughed. “You’ve got to be in court, and you know how Roslyn is about me being on time.” I’d been reprimanded more than once about my inability to get in before nine.
I tore open the closet doors and rifled through my pants. I threw on a pair of wide-legged chocolate-brown trousers, trusty old favorites. I grabbed an ivory silk blouse and buttoned it up as fast as possible. I added a chunky silver necklace and grabbed my makeup bag and my purse.
“Okay,” I said to Chris, who was still lazing in bed, “I’m out of here.”
“Give me a kiss.”
I halted my frantic scrambling. “Of course.” I leaned over the bed. Chris sat up and stroked my face with his hand. Then slowly, slowly, he kissed me.
“What’s gotten into you this morning?” I asked.
He laughed. “I don’t know. Something good.”
I had to agree.

“Sorry,” I muttered to anyone who might be listening as I hustled out of the elevator and down the beige-carpeted hall to my beige-walled cube. A look at my watch told me it was 9:39. Not good.
“Hi there, Billy,” the receptionist said as I sped past her.
“Hi, Carolyn.”
“Billy, I have messages for you!” she yelled after me.
That stopped me. Carolyn took messages for no one but the VPs and the higher-ups. The rest of us had to make do with voice mail. The only reason Carolyn might have a message for me is if Roslyn wanted to talk to me. Roslyn, who no doubt wanted to kick my ass, or my career, for being late again.
I took a few tentative steps toward her and held out my hand. There were three slips, which couldn’t be good. Possibly the owner also wanted to fire me.
“There you go,” Carolyn said. “Have a nice day.”
Was she mocking me?
I flipped through the messages as I retreated from her desk. Two were from clients. It was curious that she’d taken those. Maybe there was some kind of emergency. The last one was from Roslyn.
Please see me, was all it said.
I felt something quake inside me. Not at all good.
But what really made my stomach rattle was the sight of my cubicle. It was empty. Completely empty.
The photo of me with my mom and my sisters was gone. Odette’s cookbook, my haphazard stacks of press releases, a stage bill from a musical Chris and I saw during our first year together—all gone. I cleared my throat. I tried to think of a logical reason why this might be happening. Had I missed a memo about a move? I looked around. No, the other cubicles were still full of people and their possessions. There could be no other reason other than the obvious one—I’d been fired.
I considered simply going home. Roslyn had made her message pretty clear. Why should I now sit in her office so she could run down the list of reasons that Harper Frankwell was letting me go? But the more I stood there, gazing at the empty beige walls, the more incensed I became.
I marched up the hallway toward her office. I was clomping my feet so hard my toes began to cry for mercy in my stylishly pointed shoes; I almost welcomed the pain.
“Hey, Billy,” Alexa said, passing me, wearing another black cashmere top. Obviously she hadn’t heard the news of my firing yet, because she walked by quickly, not even bothering to gloat.
I didn’t say anything in return. I kept my focus on Roslyn’s office at the end of the hall. Then something distracted me.
I stopped and turned slightly to my left toward one of the VP offices—one of the better ones—which had been empty for a few months. I stepped closer and peered inside. Obviously someone had been promoted; the place was occupied now. Two broad windows faced Michigan Avenue, so it was warm and white with the morning sun. There was a pine credenza, left behind by the previous occupant, one with fleurs-de-lis and scrolls carved deep in its sides.
And atop the credenza sat the photo of my mom and sisters, right next to Odette’s cookbook.
I opened and closed my eyes a few times, still trying to focus on the credenza. Was this some kind of freak joke? I glanced at the desk and saw my Northwestern Wildcats cup filled with my pens. There was my orange notebook, the square leather box where I kept my CDs, the yellow mug I bought years ago at Old Town Art Fair.
Startled, I stepped back outside the office. And there, on the wall next to the door, was a gold nameplate that read Billy Rendall, Vice President.
“Oh, my…” I said, my breath coming fast. It had happened! That was why Roslyn wanted to see me—she’d finally given me the job!
“Billy.” It was Roslyn’s voice. I turned to see her head sticking out of her office. “Can I see you?”
“Absolutely!” I trotted down the hall, beaming at everyone I passed. This was the validation I’d been waiting for—the official proclamation of my worth. And how sweet of Roslyn to move all my things!
When I reached her office, she was seated and signing letters, her assistant standing near her desk. I beamed some more, ready to hear rounds of congratulations. But Roslyn barely looked up.
“Billy,” she said, sounding distracted. “Are you free for lunch with Lydia?”
“Lydia Frankwell?” I had never been invited to break bread with the firm’s owner.
“Of course.”
“Any special occasion?” Aha, I thought, they were going to officially announce my vice presidency at lunch. Again, such a thoughtful gesture!
“No, no. We just need to go over a few things, mostly the budget for the Teaken Furniture account. We’ll have salads brought to the conference room.”
“Oh…okay.” Should I raise the fact that I’d seemingly been promoted overnight?
Roslyn’s assistant gave me a benign, fleeting smile that seemed to say, Morning. Nothing new here.
“Lydia is flying in from Manhattan, so we’ll do a late lunch,” Roslyn said. “I’ll see you at 1:30, all right? I’ve got to get these letters out. You know how it is.”
“Sure, okay.”
My walk down the hallway was slower this time. I expected someone to jump out of the shadows at any minute and yell, “Surprise! Congrats!” but everyone was going about their work as if this were any other day. As if I had always been a vice president.

The leather chair behind my new desk was the color of red wine. I sank into it, but it was too low, too cushy. I spent ten minutes trying to adjust the damn thing, but even when I’d raised it, I felt like a little kid in a big La-Z-Boy. It was too deep, my feet barely touched the floor. I found a Chicago Yellow Pages, the shape and weight of an anvil, and put that under my feet. I took my camel sweater off the hook behind the door and balled it up behind my back. Now what?
I turned on my computer. Everything looked the same there. I clicked on my e-mail account, scanning a note from an old college friend who was coming to town. There was also an e-mail from Odette suggesting new ideas for how to promote her book. I made notes on a pad of paper, reading Odette’s e-mail slowly. The last line said, If you don’t have time to call, don’t worry, just have your assistant, Lizbeth, give me a buzz.
I put my pen down and sat back in my big chair. Who the hell was Lizbeth?
I looked at the phone—a sleek black model with typed speed-dial names. One of them said “Lizbeth.” I stared at that a second, then slowly lifted my index finger and brought it down on the button.
“Hiya, Billy!” A chipper voice shot through my phone. “What do you need?”
“Uh…” I considered my possible responses. A lobotomy. A clue. “Lizbeth?” I said, the word alien on my tongue.
“Yeah?”
“You’re my assistant, right?”
A peal of girlish laughter. “Of course.”
I sat back in my chair.
“Billy?” I heard through the phone.
“Yes. Uh… Lizbeth, what day is it?”
“May 5th.”
That sounded right to me. “And it’s Tuesday, right?”
“Yeah. Is something wrong?”
What could be wrong? I’d had fabulous sex with my husband that morning, and I’d been promoted overnight. The only problem was I didn’t seem to know anything about that promotion. Then I got an idea. I knew who could help me.
“No, everything is fine,” I said. “Have you seen Evan today?”

Evan looked up from his desk, his green eyes sparkling, his dimples crinkling. “Hey there! I’m glad to see you.”
He came around the desk and hugged me tight.
“Whoa,” I said, pushing him back a little. Evan and I might hug when we saw each other out at night (me being the one holding him a tad too closely) but we never embraced at work. It wasn’t that kind of office.
“God, it’s weird, but I missed you,” he said.
“You missed me since yesterday?” Wasn’t it yesterday that I’d gone to the team meeting, that I’d been humiliated by Roslyn, that he’d mentioned the Hello Dave show?
“Yeah.” His hand, still on my arm, felt almost like a caress.
“I’ve got to ask you something.” I slipped away and closed the door.
“Sure.” He gestured to one of the chairs that faced his desk and went back to his own.
“What’s going on around here?” I said, taking a seat.
“You look sexy today,” he said.
“Do I?” I took a quick look at my brown pants, my ivory blouse. I’d worn the outfit to work no less than fifty times.
“You do.” His eyes dragged down my body, then back up again. “God, what is it about you today?”
“I don’t know.” Maybe it’s the fact that I just got steamed an hour ago? “Look, Ev, focus for me, okay? What in the hell is happening around here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why do I have a VP office?”
He laughed. “Because you’re a VP, baby. Get used to it.”
“Why did it happen so quick?”
“What do you mean? You deserved it for a long time.”
“I know,” I said, irritated. “But why did they just move me in there overnight?”
“What are you talking about? You’ve been VP for a while.”
“A while? How long?”
He ran a hand through his blond hair—the kind of gesture that normally made me sigh with desire. “I can’t remember.” He scratched his head. “Huh. That’s strange. Well, anyway, it doesn’t matter. Are you tense?”
“What?”
“You seem like you’re tense. Let me give you a neck rub.” In a flash, he was around his desk and behind me, his hands massaging my neck.
My eyes drifted shut for a moment, then snapped open. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you work out the kinks.” His voice was low, thick, the kind of voice I was sure he used with his girlfriends in bed.
“Okay, okay.” I stood up and spun around. “Is this a joke? Seriously, this is unbelievably cruel if it is.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My VP office! And—” I pointed at him, unable to find the words “—you, acting like this.”
“Sorry.” A confused expression. “That was inappropriate, wasn’t it?”
“Uh…yeah.”
“Geez, what is with me?” He shook his head. “Are you all right? Is it tension in your lower back? Here, let me work on that.” He moved forward, his muscled arm slipping around my hips.
“All right, I’m out of here,” I said. With a nervous laugh I headed for the door.
“Want to get lunch?” Evan said, looking like a child left behind on the playground.
“I’ve got plans.” Odd. It was the response he usually gave me.

Back in my office, I climbed into the chair, and with my feet on the phone book, let my eyes sweep the room. All my stuff was there—no doubt about it—and everyone seemed to think I was a vice president. But it felt surreal, having it just happen like that. I wanted a party, maybe a cake with Congrats Billy! on it in pink frosting. I wanted someone to say, “You deserve it.”
I needed my mom. She would ramble and rave; she would make me believe this was real and I had earned it. I slid the phone closer and perused the speed dial buttons. There it was. Mom.
Two rings went by, then three. I knew her machine would pick up on the next ring, and I’d hear the message, “Sorry we can’t come to the phone. We’ll call you back.” My mother hadn’t changed the message since Jan died, and so it still sounded as if he were running around town with her, about to head home and check voice mail.
The answering machine clicked on, and surprisingly I heard something new. Tinkling piano music in the background, then my mother’s chipper, “Hello! I’m not here right now. I’d love to phone you back. Just leave your number. Ta ta!”
Ta-freakin’-ta? She sounded like Joan Collins on Dynasty. “Mom, it’s me,” I said. “Nice message. Give me a call as soon as you get in.”
I put the phone back on the receiver. What to do now? Work, I supposed, but it seemed I might have a different role now, one I was unclear about.
“Hello, Miss Billy.”
I looked up and saw Gerald, the elderly black man who ran the mail office at Harper Frankwell and personally delivered everyone’s mail each morning.
I greeted him, and waited to see if he commented on my new office.
“Have a lovely day now.” He handed me a stack of mail. He turned and left, whistling an aimless tune.
I flipped through the envelopes—letters from clients, one from a TV station in Dallas, where we’d been trying to get coverage for a new product. And then there was a shiny lacquered postcard. The photo on the front showed a multispired white building. I flipped it over and looked at the printed words on top. The Duomo, it said. Milan.
Below that, in my mom’s tiny, perfect penmanship, there were three lines: The collections are surprisingly tedious! The Trussardi stuff—particularly stale. Love, Mom.
I flipped it back and looked at the front. I turned it again and read the lines a few more times. It appeared that overnight my mother had transported herself, by herself, to Milan and the fashion district. My mother adored fashion. She was always decked out in the latest, and she’d always talked about going with Jan to the shows in Milan, but when he died, so did that dream. Until now. If this postcard was legit, my mother had a real life, something I’d been hoping for her for so long. And if it was true, then she’d gotten over Jan, and in a much shorter time than it took her to recover from the loss of my father.
With that thought, I noticed something different inside myself. Deep inside me, where there was usually a space for wonderings about where my father was and worries that his abandonment might somehow have been my fault—or his disappointment in me—was empty now. Those wonderings and worries were gone. I could remember the pain, the longing, the sadness that used to reside there, but I didn’t feel it any longer. Like reminiscing about a distant love affair, the emotions had vanished.
I took a breath. There seemed to be more room in my lungs now, more room in my head, too. The hours with Blinda must have taken hold. I’d broken the reverse Oedipal thing, and I was free of him.
I smiled to myself in my new office. I felt lighter, happier. Not only had I gotten over my dad, but I’d had a wonderful morning with my husband, I’d been promoted and Evan had flirted with me. Even my mother had begun her own fabulous life. I had no idea how it happened, but in one night I’d gotten incredibly lucky.
I thought of my visit with Blinda last night and the frog she’d given me. Could they have anything to do with this? Intuitively, I answered yes! but that seemed entirely illogical. Yet either way, it didn’t matter. I’d gotten everything I’d wished for. And I was going to enjoy it.

chapter four
When Evan made VP, I had pumped him for every bit of information he possessed about the perks of the promotion. He’d gotten a new computer and cell phone, ditto for new office furniture, and there were no longer limits on client lunches and entertainment, the way there were for the non-VPs.
I rubbed my hands together at my desk now. Time to spend some company money. Then it occurred to me—maybe I had already done that, somewhere in the yawning chasm between my today and my yesterday.
I hit Lizbeth’s button again.
“What’s up, Billy?” she said cheerily.
I still hadn’t seen the girl, and I supposed I’d better “meet” her now so that I didn’t run into her in the hallway and give a blank stare. “Can you stop by my office for a second?”
A moment later, a woman in her early-twenties appeared in my doorway. Her sandy brown hair was worn in artful waves about her very round face. She had wide, startled eyes and a rosebud mouth shellacked with cotton-candy pink gloss.
What’s going on?” she said, taking one of my visitor’s chairs.
“When I made vice president…well, maybe I should say, do you remember when I made vice president?”
“I got hired right after, so I don’t remember the exact day, but yeah.” She looked at me oddly.
“Sure, right. And when was that? I mean when did you get hired?”
She laughed wryly, as if this were an easy question, but then she scrunched up her shiny mouth and looked at the ceiling. “Gosh, when was that?” She looked back at me with a stumped expression. “I can’t remember.”
Just like Evan, I thought. Everyone seemed to assume I’d been in this position forever, but I knew different. It made me feel as if I were playacting. It made everything unreal.
“Billy?” Lizbeth said. “Did you want something?”
I shook away my thoughts about the strangeness of it all. No sense fighting a good thing, I told myself. “What I really wanted to ask you was if you remember some information I got about furniture and technology stipends.”
“Yeah, I think it was in that packet of material from Ms. Frankwell.”
“Great, great. And where do I—I mean we…keep that?”
“You told me to file it at my desk, remember?”
I made a big show of snapping my fingers. “Right! That’s right. Could you grab that for me?”
A few seconds later and she was back with a stapled set of papers, headed New Vice President Information Packet.
“Thank you, Lizbeth. And can you find out for me where the firm buys our computer equipment?”
I leafed through the packet while Lizbeth trotted off down the hallway. The terms were the same that Evan had received. Perfect.
Lizbeth soon buzzed me with the name of a computer dealer we used. Five minutes after that, I was on the phone with one of the salesmen and browsing their Web site for different computers and monitors. I finally settled on a sleek, flat-screen monitor and a top-of-the-line computer that had tons of memory and would allow me to burn my own CDs and download lots of music. Not that I knew how to do that. Not that I even owned one of those cute MP3 players. But then maybe that was different now, too. I’d gotten what I wanted overnight, and I’d always wished I could be one of those iPod people. It might all just flow from my hands as soon as I got the new computer.
When that was done, I buzzed Lizbeth. “I’m going to look for new office furniture,” I said. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Don’t forget about your 1:30 lunch meeting.”
I looked at my watch. It was 12:00. “No problem.” I clicked the intercom off, and sat staring at my watch for another minute. It had a large mother-of-pearl face and a burnt orange leather strap. My mother had given it to me for Christmas last year, and she’d selected it carefully. Was she now selecting dresses and skirts from a runway in Milan?
I knew where the company-approved furniture store was because I’d been there with Evan. Outside our building, I fought the tourists for a cab and headed to the intersection of Ohio and Franklin.
The showroom was a loft space with brick walls and high ceilings. I found a salesman and told him I needed a new desk and chair, explaining that I already had a pine credenza I planned to keep.
The salesman, a short, balding man in a suit, clearly saw a purchase ready to happen. He practically clicked his heels together before whisking me around the showroom, pointing out various styles of desks.
“You know, maybe I should just focus on the chairs,” I said after a few minutes. Who knew how ridiculously expensive desks could be? And my stipend wasn’t that large.
The smile on the salesman’s face dimmed a little, but he gave me a pert nod and began showing me chairs. All of them seemed to be black leather—black leather with chrome bases, black distressed leather, shiny black leather with buttons.
“These are all so—” I searched my mind for the word “—typical,” I said at last. I thought of the wine-colored chair in my office. It was entirely too huge but at least it was a little different. Maybe I should stick with that.
But then I saw it. Across the showroom, next to a mod, curved desk was a small, butter-yellow leather chair. I quickly made my way and sank into it. The chair hugged me like an old, comfortable sweater, yet it was stylish and sleek.
I glanced at the price tag. One hundred dollars more than my furniture stipend, but I could pay that out of my own pocket. “I’ll take it.”
When I got back to the office, I called Chris. “I have some news.”
“What?” He actually sounded excited.
“How about dinner tonight and I’ll tell you?”
I waited for him to “cry swamp,” as I called it—I’m so swamped with this merger, I’m swamped with my billing statements, I’m swamped with this deposition. But to my surprise, he said, “Absolutely.”
“How about Spring at six?” Spring was a restaurant in Bucktown where Chris and I first started talking about getting married. We’d been giddy that night with our plans for our future. For some reason, we’d never been back.
“Perfect,” I said.
“I’ll make the reservation.”
Just then Lizbeth buzzed me. “Your meeting is about to start.”

I grabbed my purse from under my desk, patted powder on my face and swiped lipstick across my mouth. Ready. I ditched my purse again and looked at my watch. One-thirty exactly. I felt a rush of nervousness. I’d insisted for years that I was cut out to be a VP, but I wasn’t sure what to expect from the role.
In the conference room, a long thin space with an oval glass table, Roslyn was studying a file and silently munching on a plain green salad.
“Hi, Billy,” she said, glancing up. “You prefer Caesar, don’t you?”
“Um…yes, I do.” Had I ever told Roslyn that? I couldn’t ever remember discussing my favorite books or movies with Roslyn, much less salads.
I moved to the sideboard and picked up a Caesar. A second later, Lydia Frankwell swept into the conference room, filling the place with the scent of Chanel No. 5. She was a very well-preserved woman somewhere in the age range of fifty to seventy. Twenty years ago, she’d started the firm with Bradley Harper. Rumor had it that she and Mr. Harper had been having an affair while at their previous firm, an affair that continued when they started Harper Frankwell. Mr. Harper died eight years ago, right before I’d joined the firm, leaving Ms. Frankwell at the helm. I’d always found her a bit flighty. Not that she wasn’t business savvy, but she seemed more of a figurehead, a yes-man who schmoozed clients around the country while Jack, and now Roslyn, ran the real show.
“Roslyn. Billy,” Lydia said. I watched her, ready for a Congratulations on your promotion! but nothing came.
Roslyn murmured a greeting. I paused a moment, debating the use of first names versus my usual “Ms. Frankwell.” I must have paused too long, because both she and Roslyn looked at me strangely.
“Afternoon, Lydia,” I blurted out. I held my breath.
Roslyn looked back at her file. Lydia gave me a serene smile that barely lifted the corners of her heavily BOTOX-enhanced eyes, then headed for the remaining salad. I sighed internally as I took a seat.
“All right,” Roslyn said when Lydia was seated as well. “Let’s discuss Teaken Furniture.”
“Mmm, good,” Lydia said. I was unclear whether she meant the salad on which she was now munching or the Teaken Furniture account. It was an account we’d had forever, and one I’d inherited from Evan. They were an old-school Chicago furniture business who’d been running the same advertisements for years. There was really nothing new about their products, and therefore very little that we could get decent PR on, but the owner was friends with Lydia and so we worked with them year after year, begging magazines to write about their Frank Lloyd Wright look-alike chairs and their design team.
Roslyn launched into a discussion of the Teaken budget for the next six months. Lydia asked a question or two. I tried to do the same, but I found myself with little to contribute. It wasn’t just that I was new to budgets and these types of meetings. I was, quite simply, bored.
This surprised me. I’d always spied on Evan in such meetings, walking by the open door at frequent intervals, trying to eavesdrop. It seemed so glamorous—meeting with the owner, coming up with the budget for some large account—but now I could barely keep my eyes open.
“Okay, that’s done, isn’t it?” Roslyn said at last. “Lydia, anything you need?”
“Hmm?” Lydia said. She was fiddling with a paper napkin. “Oh. Well, I should mention that I’m going to be in New York again for most of the next month. If there’s anything you have to discuss with me—personnel issues or such—we should do it now.” She made it sound as if she were going to the Antarctic instead of the Ritz-Carlton in Manhattan.
Roslyn frowned at her for a second, then gave a slight shrug. “Well, there is Carolyn.”
Lydia lifted her eyebrows, or at least it seemed she was trying. “Who?”
“Our receptionist,” Roslyn said, as if talking to a five-year-old. “She’s been here for two years and keeps asking for a raise. Frankly, I think she deserves it.”
“Fine,” Lydia said. “Anything from you, Billy?”
I was about to say no. I’d been a VP for all of five hours, so what personnel or other issues could I possibly have? But then I thought of one. Alexa. I saw her smug face. I heard her voice say, Oh, I’m not suggesting that you handle this on your own…God, no. I heard her condescending laugh over and over.
So I said her name. “Alexa Villa.”
Roslyn frowned. I was about to do a U-turn and say there was really nothing wrong with Alexa, it was just a mistake, but Lydia sat straighter. “Ms. Villa, yes,” she said. “Tell me about her.”
“It’s just…” How to put this? I hadn’t officially formulated anything about Alexa in my head, I’d just stewed internally about it for years.
“Yes?” Lydia said with an encouraging nod. “Go ahead.”
And it all began to spill from my mouth.
I told Roslyn and Lydia exactly what I thought—that Alexa was constantly pushing off work on other people, that she didn’t respect authority, that she was rude and patronizing and very difficult to work with.
Roslyn looked a little troubled, and I wondered if I’d overstepped my new boundaries. I pushed salad around on my plate. The conference room was silent.
“I might be mistaken,” I said, about to take it all back and head for the hills. No need to screw up my new position by bringing up Alexa.
But then Roslyn spoke again. “I suppose I have noticed some of that. I just didn’t realize it was so bad.”
“Has this been documented?” Lydia asked.
“We’ve had a couple of issues with her,” Roslyn said. “A few years ago, there was a complaint from a client about a comment she made.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Lydia murmured.
“And then of course there was the incident with Miss Martha’s.”
“Good Lord, that’s right,” Lydia said.
Miss Martha’s was a famous Chicago bakery, and they’d enlisted us to promote the fact that they’d been chosen by the Today Show for having the best chocolate chip cookies in the country. Alexa was in charge of approving and sending out the press kits to media all over the United States. The title of the kit was supposed to be, “Miss Martha Sacks the Competition!” but Alexa failed to check the final copy properly, and the kits went out reading, “Miss Martha Sucks the Competition!” Needless to say, Miss Martha was no longer a client of Harper Frankwell.
“That was a grave error,” Roslyn said, “but I believe she’s improved greatly since then.”
“Has she brought in business?” Lydia asked.
“No,” Roslyn said, “but—”
“Well, you know the policy,” Lydia said. “It’s been in place since Bradley was here.” She gave a wistful smile at his memory. “If there are two written warnings in someone’s personnel file, that person can be terminated.”
I froze at the word “terminated.” Fire Alexa? I really just wanted her to get a corporate slap on the wrist, maybe a little demotion.
“Billy, you’re her immediate superior for the team,” Lydia continued. “If you truly believe she’s undermining our employees’ ability to do good work, then something should be done. Isn’t that right, Roslyn?”
Roslyn still had that slightly troubled look, but she nodded. “It’s your decision, Billy. But if you decide to do anything, that’s your responsibility, too. You’ll have to be the one to tell her.”
“Me?” I gulped. I had never handled any personnel issues before, much less fired someone. “Oh, I don’t know…I just—”
“Billy, it’s your responsibility,” Roslyn repeated.
I felt power surge through me. It scared me, and yet I loved it. “All right,” I said. “I’ll consider it.”
I went back to my office and mulled it over. I thought about how impossible Alexa was to work with. If I found her so difficult, others must too, and if that was the case, then wouldn’t it be easier for everyone if she wasn’t here? The firm wasn’t overloaded right now. We could spare her until we found someone else.
I went down the hall and spoke to our Human Resources director. Alexa, she told me, was entitled to severance due to the number of years she’d been at the firm. There was no employment contract, but according to our guidelines, it could be anything from two weeks severance to three months. Since she was being terminated for cause, it was my decision, she said. A rush went through my body.
I thought about Alexa blaming her bad work on others and the way she taunted me with not being promoted. “Two weeks,” I said with what I hoped was an authoritative tone.
An hour later, the power surging even stronger through my veins, I phoned Alexa and asked her to come see me.

“Hey,” Alexa said, appearing in my doorway. She crossed her arms casually and leaned on the frame, but her expression was suspicious.
I said hello, and asked her to sit. My body was nearly twitching with nervousness, excitement and shock at what I was about to do.
Alexa glanced around my office as she slipped into a chair. “Nice place,” she said. She shook her head a little, her face saying, I can’t believe you’re a VP. That look irritated me—like everything about Alexa—but I could hardly believe it myself.
“I need to talk to you about something.” My words faltered then. How, exactly, did you go about firing someone? I’d read the company HR manual. I knew the few key phrases I was supposed to say and how to explain what would happen to her benefits and such, but with her sitting in front of me, I couldn’t think of how to start.
“Is it the Channel 7 News account?” she said. “You probably need help with the budget recommendations. You’re not exactly proficient with that.” Her mouth twisted into a smirk I was all too familiar with. “I’d be happy to review the figures for you.”
And with that, the words rushed into my brain, all waiting like soldiers in perfect formation, ready to march. “It’s not the news account,” I said. “It’s you.”
Alexa tossed her hair over her shoulder, her eyes wary. She said nothing.
“You see,” I continued, “your attitude has become a problem.”
“Is that right?” Still, the smirk rested comfortably on her mouth.
“Yes, that’s right.” My voice became stronger. “You tend to be condescending. You push projects off on other people. And your attitude makes it very hard to work with you.”
“Really? Well, I’ll try to improve on it, okay? Thanks for the chat.” She began to stand.
“Alexa, please sit down.” My voice was still strong.
She sank back into the chair and sighed as if she were barely tolerating me.
“Alexa, I have to tell you that we’re letting you go.” My skin tingled with the words. I was firing her.
The perma-smirk disappeared. “What?”
“Yes, I’m sorry, but as you know, you already have two warnings in your personnel file.” I made a show of looking at the piece of paper where this was documented. “First, there was the comment you made to the president of Ryder Sports Network when you said—” I glanced at the paper again “‘—go fuck yourself.’”
“He grabbed my ass.”
I blinked. I hadn’t known about that. I would have said the same thing. “Yes, well…” I nearly faltered. “I’m sure you could have handled it better.”
Alexa’s eyes were steely now.
“And then there was Miss Martha,” I said.
“Clara was the one who was supposed to check the last copy.”
“Clara was working under you, correct?”
Alexa said nothing.
“So, that was your responsibility,” I continued, the rush surging back. “Due to these past problems and those I mentioned with your attitude, we’re letting you go.”
“What?”
“You’ll get two weeks severance.”
“That’s it? That’s insulting.”
“I’m sure you’ll find another position during—”
“I want to talk to Roslyn,” she interrupted.
“I’m sorry, Alexa, but the decision has been made. It’s done.” The words sounded strong, confident, managerial.
“You’re not sorry.” The anger in her voice startled me.
She was right. My whole body was humming from the experience, so I kept talking, filling her in on the termination of her benefits, how she would have twenty-four hours to clean out her desk. She sat rigid, looking at me with what I could only assume was intense hatred. I talked faster and faster. Finally, I asked her to sign the severance agreement.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/laura-caldwell/the-night-i-got-lucky/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.