Authors: Tara McTiernan
By the time the woman reached them, the temperature of the room seemed to have risen ten degrees and with the heat came a tickling watched feeling. Sharon glanced around the bar and saw the source of second sensation: many pairs of eyes gazed sideways or openly stared in their direction. She blinked, gave her head a little shake, and turned toward the source of this phenomenon.
"Hi Bianca! Oh, I'm so psyched you could come out tonight!" Chelsea said, bouncing again, the red liquid in her glass dangerously close to spilling. "Oh, this is Sharon? From work? She's so cool! You're going to love her!"
In spite of this excitable reception, Bianca remained unruffled. Her large dark heavy-lidded eyes remained at half-mast. Her full lips spread into an amused smile. "Chelsea, you are a sweetheart. Hugs," Bianca said, reaching out one arm. Chelsea giggled, switched her drink to her other hand so that she could reach out her corresponding arm, and half-hugged her friend.
Looking at them side by side, Sharon was surprised at how different Chelsea looked when juxtaposed against Bianca. Chelsea had always seemed very glamorous and model-beautiful to Sharon, but now she looked cheap, chubby, and somewhat plain-looking, the makeup she wore cartoonish war-paint designed to give the illusion of beauty.
Released from their brief one-armed embrace, Bianca turned her gaze on Sharon. "Sharon, how wonderful to meet you at last. So glad you could join us. Though, I understand from Chelsea you're not one for the club-scene." Her lips twisted with humor at the last, a glint of merriment sparkling in her eye. Bianca's look said more than her words - it said: I understand completely. And agree.
Sharon hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until she burst out with a little laugh seeing that look, simpatico and warm. It was odd, but she felt almost...attracted to this woman. "You can say that again. Not my scene. Chelsea talked me into it tonight and I've already had reason to regret it."
"What? What!" Chelsea begged. She turned to Bianca. "Something happened before I got here and she won't tell me what."
"Maybe she'd rather forget," Bianca said and shot Sharon a wise look.
"Yes. Let's," Sharon agreed, grateful for Bianca's backup and liking her more and more by the minute.
"Oh!" Chelsea said, making a tsking sound.
Just then the first pair of male strivers, of whom there were to be many that evening, made their approach. "Hello, ladies. How are you doing tonight?"
Bianca received their attentions like a queen while Chelsea alternated between acting bubbly and nonchalant. Sharon, knowing the strivers weren't there to talk to her, rolled her eyes and looked around, taking in the scene. Her head turning toward the bar, she felt someone staring at her, and, assuming it was another gaze trained on Bianca, she looked back at the man.
It was Dean. He shook his head and mouthed, "I'm sorry."
Sharon quickly turned her head away and lifted her glass to her lips before realizing it was empty. She lowered it, feeling the anger bubbling up again. He was sorry, huh? She’d see about that. Tonight when the screaming started she wouldn’t roll over and cover her head with a pillow. Tonight she wouldn’t hesitate for a minute.
He’d be sorry all right. When the police showed up. She hadn’t unleashed that battle cry; Dean had thrown down the gauntlet himself. And she wasn’t going to just let it lie there.
Chardonnay
Lucie’s mind was so caught up in her Erin-problem as she hobbled toward the restaurant where Chelsea and her friend were waiting, she forgot to be nervous. She’d heard that Ibiza was the hottest new bar in Stamford: the place to see and be seen. Just exactly Chelsea’s type of place - and exactly the kind of place that exhausted Lucie. But she'd agreed to meet there because of the large pile of freshly printed business cards currently residing in her wallet, just waiting for the kind of clientele that frequented hotspots like Ibiza.
When choosing a venue for pure leisure, Lucie preferred quiet restaurants and quaint tea rooms. Savoring and lingering over a meal with friends was one of her favorite pastimes. Places like this one rushed you through your meal and the food was often subpar yet grossly overpriced. To top it off, she thought the snobbery and poor service common to fashionable local dining establishments to be pitiful and somewhat ridiculous. Americans always criticized the snobbery of the French, yet their own brand was just as abominable!
She laughed at herself. It was strange at times, being the child of two cultures. Her mother had never shed her Frenchness, even after living in America for the entirety of her twenty-three-year marriage. Her father, though obviously once enamored with France and Claire Fournier - the pastry chef he met in Paris while traveling through Europe after college - had remained resolutely American in all ways in spite of having married and built a home with a Frenchwoman. It had been a battle between them, a battle that tore them apart in the end.
Lucie finally reached the block of the restaurant and then Ibiza itself, having parked several streets away where she'd snagged a vacant metered spot. The front of the restaurant was one giant window and, in the fading pastel light of that early spring day, the interior was on display. The mostly black-clad crowd was posturing and lively, necks craning to look at other patrons, hands raised to lean in and whisper in ears, heads thrown back to laugh at things that were probably not that funny. Lucie felt her shoulders rising with tension and forced them back down as she reached the door and pulled it open, unleashing the roaring chatter from within. After the cool freshness of the air outside, the air within was heavy and rich with musk and spices, making Lucie breathe deeply through her nose to taste peppercorns and saffron.
She stretched her neck to look for her friend, which only took a minute. Chelsea was easy to find in any crowd. Her long light blond hair was like a gleaming beacon in the low light of the candlelit bar. She was standing next to a dark-haired woman whose back was to the door and talking to a swarthy Italian in a jewel-blue silk shirt. Of course. Chelsea loved to socialize and was always on the prowl when it came to the opposite sex. It was too bad that nothing ever seemed to work out for her romantically, though. Chelsea had inexplicably horrible luck with men.
Lucie made her way through crowd slowly, grateful that the press of bodies camouflaged her limp among these potential clients - she had learned that people could be judgmental about it. They might think it affected her catering abilities, which it most certainly did not. Just as she was steps away from Chelsea, a woman who Lucie faintly recognized and who looked out of place in the chichi crowd wearing jeans and a cotton work shirt walked up to Chelsea and tapped her on the shoulder. Chelsea startled and turned to the woman. The man, cut off mid-come-on, glanced at the woman and subtly rolled his eyes to the side.
The woman said to Chelsea, "Hey, sorry to interrupt, but I'm going home. Thanks for inviting me. Oh, and say goodbye to Bianca for me. I don't want to bother her too."
Chelsea slouched and dropped her arms by her sides, "No, we're just starting to have fun! Sharon! We haven't even gotten anything to eat! And you haven't met Lucie yet!"
Sharon shrugged and shook her head. "Sorry, but this isn't my kind of thing. I've had enough. And I’m tired."
"Oh!" Chelsea cried, shaking her arms and flapping her hands in aggravation.
Lucie recognized the look and sound of stage one of a Chelsea poor-me fit. And she knew why. Hearing the woman's name, everything slipped into place: it was Sharon, Chelsea's newest work-friend and Lucie's replacement in her friend’s daytime socializing at TMB. Back when Chelsea and Lucie first hit it off, Chelsea immediately started insisting on dragging Lucie out to the bars after work and Lucie had gamely gone along. Lucie had never been one for the party scene, but as every day at TMB was a day-from-hell, she found herself desperate to go out, have a drink, and try to forget her woes. And in the end it had worked out for Lucie in more ways than one. Even though she never grew to appreciate the whole bar scene, she’d gotten lucky: one night four months ago Ryan was in one of those bars and a conversation had started between them. It never ended.
Recently, Chelsea had been complaining bitterly that Sharon refused all her invitations to go out. Yet somehow, today, she had talked Sharon into it, and once Chelsea had you, she wouldn't let go without a fight. Even now that Ryan and Lucie were living together and it was obvious that Lucie was enjoying a quieter settled kind of life, Chelsea moaned over and over that Lucie didn’t come out often enough, that she missed her wing-woman, that things weren't the same without her.
Lucie saw her opportunity to fix things before the downward spiral of Chelsea's funk took her to a bad-mood-of-no-return and stepped forward, "Hey, who's talking about me?"
Chelsea turned and, seeing Lucie, brightened, "Lucie! Yay! Oh, I'm so glad you're here. Please talk to Sharon. She's talking crazy-talk."
"Crazy talk?" Sharon said, "I just-"
"I know exactly how you feel," Lucie said and smiled at Sharon. "I'm a homebody, too."
"Hey, I know you," Sharon said, tilting her head.
"Lucie Scott, I used to work at TMB. HR admin? Only a little while."
“Oh, you poor thing,” Sharon said. “It’s amazing you’re still alive. Did Molly chew you up, or what?”
Lucie sighed happily. Someone who understood! Even Chelsea was blank-faced when Lucie tried to explain how bad it was, or had been. “Yes. And spit me out.” She shivered a little as Molly's last words echoed in her mind.
“That’s IR for you,” Sharon said, shaking her head.
“IR?”
“Inhuman Resources?”
“Hold on, are you the one that made up Too Much Bullshit? Chelsea’s always taking credit for that,” Lucie said, nudging Chelsea with her elbow.
“Hey!” Chelsea said, “I could’ve thought of it! Wait, where you going?” Chelsea called after the retreating back of the man she’d been talking to, who had evidently gotten tired of being sidelined and was moving away through the crowd without looking back.
Sharon put her hands out, palms up, “Guilty as charged. And it continues to live up to its name. They announced another round of reorgs today. Will they ever learn?”
Lucie grinned and shook her head in wonder. “Never. Actually, Molly kicking me to the curb worked out for the best. It gave me the push to start my own catering business, something I've always wanted to do.”
Sharon’s eyebrows shot up, and she nodded, looking impressed. “Really? Wow. That’s great. What kind of catering? Weddings?”
Just then, the dark-haired woman standing with her back to Chelsea turned around to face them. “Honestly, I love the way Italian men look, but they're all the same. It's fine if
they're
married, but if
you
are - quelle tragedie! So, what have I missed?” she asked, turning her heavy-lidded eyes on Chelsea before glancing around, her gaze finally falling on Lucie.
Lucie felt a sparking hot shock run through her arms and legs before racing up her spine. It was her.
That
Bianca. When Chelsea had mentioned her old friend, Bianca, from time to time, Lucie knew it had to be a different girl with the same unusual name.
That
Bianca would never be good friends with sweet child-like Chelsea, who, though she could act like a disappointed two-year-old when she didn’t get her way, was essentially a good person.
Bianca was definitely and certifiably not.
Lucie had met her in her late-twenties when she was still happy being an executive assistant, one with a solid track record and excellent references - back in the good old days before a black and stormy cloud had descended over her career. She’d been working at a hedge fund company on Greenwich Avenue with all the usual perks, over-the-top benefits, and a fat salary to match. To top it off, she liked her boss. Bill Sanders was one of the good ones: a straight shooter who expected the best of those who worked for him, never micromanaged her, and regularly praised her work.
When Bianca started working there, as an executive assistant to the CEO, Al Miller, there had been a bit of a stir. Although all of the admins working at Pinnacle Funds were at least mildly attractive, none looked like Bianca, who was startling in her beauty. And she turned out to be much more than just a very pretty face: she was smart, hard-working, and had the kind of innate style and poise that reminded Lucie of Parisian women.