Clem stormed out of Frank’s office with the same force he entered and with his ego still seriously bent out of shape.
One floor down on Clem’s side of the building, Fitz strode past Justine into Clem’s office carrying a folder.
“He’s meeting with Mr. Bergenson,” she called out as Fitz kept walking.
“That’s fine. I’ll leave this on his desk.”
“Leave it with me,” Justine called out but Fitz was already in Clem’s office. She quickly got up from behind her desk and hurried in to see Fitz standing behind Clem’s chair and staring down at his desk. His eyes darted across the various papers neatly laid out like a lizard hunting a scurrying insect.
“Looking for anything in particular?” Justine asked pointedly, standing in the doorway and blocking his exit. Fitz quickly averted his gaze and glanced up at her.
“That’s okay, sweetie. It can wait.” Fitz flashed her a smile as he walked slowly towards her. Justine stood her ground. She wanted to keep Fitz right where he was in Clem’s office until her boss returned.
“Clem will be back any minute.”
Justine didn’t trust Fitz one bit and wanted to keep an eye on his every move. Fitz brushed his body against hers as he slowly squeezed his bulky frame passed her. He stopped and pinned her against the doorjamb with his chest pressed firmly against her breasts.
“Nice. Are those puppies real? They feel pretty natural.”
Justine pulled herself away from him and the doorjamb. “I could report you to HR for that,” she scowled.
“Oh, please. Get a life,” Fitz scoffed as he strolled off down the corridor.
CHAPTER 3
Clem’s silver Mercedes sped out of downtown Minneapolis and along Interstate 62 towards Eden Prairie. He checked his watch. It was late and he hadn’t had a chance to call Tara. It had been a strange day and he was feeling drained. He flicked the hands-free button on the steering wheel and made a call. A voicemail picked up. Clem left a brief message.
“I need to see you again. Thursday. Seven o’clock. Call me to confirm.” He hung up and glanced at the car’s clock. It was 10:34 p.m. He wanted to call his wife but didn’t want to wake her if she was sleeping. He kept driving.
Back on Dunkirk Crescent, Tara got into bed and switched off the bedside lamp. She wasn’t going to wait up for Clem. She’d done that too many times before, though she knew she wouldn’t sleep either, worrying about where he might be. Tara leaned across the bed and turned the light back on. She grabbed a bottle of Tylenol PM from the bedside drawer.
By the time Tara had woken from her silent slumber the following morning, the other side of the bed was still empty, though the ruffled sheets revealed that Clem had finally come home last night. Tara sleepily ambled downstairs and wandered into the kitchen wearing only a long t-shirt. Clem was fully dressed and standing, eating his breakfast cereal. His eyes fixed firmly on the morning’s emails popping up on his laptop in case one of them might have another inflammatory attachment that he would have to defuse.
From Tara’s point of view, he was annoyingly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for someone who seemed to be burning the candle at both ends. Tara headed straight for the La Pavoni, yawning on the way.
“I wish you’d call if you know you’ll be coming home that late. I was worried sick,” she mumbled.
Clem kept reading, not bothering to look up. “I know. I’m sorry. We’re working on the first round of creative for Rebakor. Damn nightmare,” Clem answered, still engrossed in his emails.
“Should’ve called,” she repeated. Tara wasn’t going to hide how ticked off she was as she put a mug under the espresso spout. She opened the fridge door and grabbed the milk, deliberately making as much noise as possible with her every action to show her annoyance. If it bothered Clem he didn’t show it.
“Didn’t get a chance,” said Clem. “I was too distracted trying put out another fucking fire.” Clem hit the eject button on his laptop and a CD popped out. He carefully tucked it in a plain CD case and placed it next to his laptop. “Hey, d’you pick up my shirts yesterday?”
Tara ignored the question and fired back with one of her own.
“Did you get my message about dinner at McCormick’s with Lorraine and her new boyfriend for Friday night?”
“Yeah, no way that can happen.”
“Figured.”
“It’s just too nuts with this first round of Rebakor creative coming up,” Clem explained. It was nothing more than Tara expected. Nonetheless she was still disappointed.
“Clem, it’s a Friday night. We have no social life anymore.”
“Sorry, honey. But you’ve got all day to have a social life. I’ve got this thing called a job, remember?” Clem snarked. Now Tara was really getting pissed. This was familiar ground and she was getting fed up with it. Clem shut down his computer and dumped his empty cereal bowl in the sink.
“So how did you get that big red welt on your back?” Tara asked him, changing the subject and throwing a curve ball. Clem blinked. He looked at her for the first time that morning.
“Welt? What are you talking about?” Clem looked puzzled. Tara calmly put the milk back in the fridge and closed the stainless steel door.
“The one on your back. And there’s another one on your shoulder,” she said, more calmly this time, though very surprised Clem wasn’t aware of his injuries.
“Didn’t know I had any,” Clem muttered as he bagged his laptop.
“Seriously? How can you not know? They look painful.”
“Oh, yeah. I got dinged a few times last night playing squash courtesy of Jack Perkins,” Clem suddenly remembered. Tara leaned against the counter and folded her arms.
“And since when did you start playing squash?”
“I played a bit in college. What’s the big deal?” Clem blew off Tara’s questions as he checked his reflection in the mirror and tightened the Windsor knot in his tie.
“Jack plays squash?” Tara asked, doubting the truthfulness of Clem’s explanation.
“Badly. Gotta go.” Clem grabbed his suit jacket and picked up his computer bag.
“So, you’ve got time to play squash. Huh. No time for dinner with your wife and friends but you’ve got time to play squash,” Tara voiced sarcastically.
Now it was Clem’s turn to be irritated. “Tara. I’m not really playing squash, I’m playing
politics
. Jack’s an alibi, I mean, ally.
“Alibi?” Tara jumped.
“You know what I meant. I meant ally.”
“Rather Freudian.”
“What? Look, I don’t have time for this, Tara.”
“What’s new? You don’t have time for anything anymore. It’s all work, work, work with you these days.”
“Like I said, Jack’s an
ally
and I need all the friends and support I can get now that Fitz has decided to go to war.”
Clem headed for the garage. Tara was not alert enough for a full-scale argument so early in the day. Anyway, Clem was not playing ball this morning.
“I’ll tell Lorraine we can’t make it then,” she shouted out dejectedly, conceding defeat.
Minutes later, Clem was on his usual rush hour route into downtown Minneapolis driving along Interstate 62. And, as always, the sheer volume of traffic slowed his commute to barely a crawl. This was Clem’s time to think in relative peace. No company bullshit, no nagging wife, no meetings. Okay, so Tara wasn’t really a nagger but she was really starting to bug him. He didn’t need to be questioned every time he didn’t call, got home late or had a small red blemish on his skin. Clem’s focus was plainly on the financial security, the prestige and the kudos of Frank Bergenson’s job and Kurt Fitzgerald was now Hell bent on derailing him. He needed a strategy. Winning such a huge account could have a negative effect on the agency’s current roster of business. Clem knew clients got jealous if they felt they weren’t getting the same care and attention they once enjoyed. Every client had now taken a step down the pecking order and there was probably a lot of backchat and politicking going on that he didn’t know about.
Clem had to be careful not lose the respect and support of the company’s other larger clients. There were three that billed over $50 million annually. Not close to Rebakor’s size but still important clients to keep sweet. Clem wasn’t sure how much influence they might be having or if any personal agendas were factoring into Frank’s decision-making process.
Clem had to find out what these guys were thinking.
God, this company politics bullshit was so damn time-consuming.
It was an ego war. Clem’s jaw started to clench.
The traffic started to pick up and the wheels of Clem’s S600 began to turn quicker. Yes, a strategy was needed: Plan A with a solid Plan B backup. Maybe a Plan C too, come to think of it.
But what about Fitz? Which board members was he in bed with?
That sneaky bastard could be pulling any kind of stunts behind Clem’s back. Maybe Fitz was merely a puppet being manipulated from above. Shit, maybe Fitz could meet with a mysterious accident and
die an ugly fucking death.
Clem’s mind started to race faster as his car gained momentum. He had to stop thinking like this. It was annoyingly distracting from his hectic work schedule. He needed to focus on the Rebakor account but his mind couldn’t get off the subject of why Frank was pitting Fitz against him on such an important piece of business. Clem had to stand back and get a perspective on what this really meant. He realized that if he didn’t deal with Fitz, he might not have a Rebakor account to concentrate on at all.
Putting himself in Frank’s shoes, Clem figured there could only be one logical reason, though in Clem’s mind it was totally illogical: it was too dangerous to leave a $200 million account in the hands of one man. But Frank had no reason in the world to think that Clem could ever betray him.
Why would he think that?
If it truly was the case then that really pissed him off. Clem was a loyal employee who’d worked his tail off for the agency. He’d never try to steal away any Bergenson account. Sure, plenty of fledgling agencies had started life doing just that. After all, that’s a sound business move if you want to start your own shop but not Clem. There was no way he’d stab Frank in the back, and all the other employees at Bergenson, by running off with Molinaire’s business. That’s the kind of move Fitz would pull in a heartbeat but then that man had no shame. Fitz was very good at taking credit for the work done by colleagues. And he was very good at manipulating those below him and schmoozing those above him. Nosiree
,
it wouldn’t be above Fitz.
What was galling to Clem was that if his theory about Frank was true then it showed a serious lack of trust from the old man.
So did that mean Frank Bergenson trusted Fitz more?
That was a ridiculous idea. Clem was the blue-eyed boy, the chosen one, the heir apparent. Kurt Fitzgerald was a conniving bullshitter. Surely Frank Bergenson must have garnered some inkling that Fitz was a prick after working with him these past two years.
Clem’s mind was a jumble of thoughts, fears and ideas. He just had to keep his eye on the ball at all times from now on though the real issue was just how many balls did he need to keep juggling before something hit the floor hard?
On the sun-drenched patio at D’Amico’s restaurant in Edina, Tara and Lorraine sat with menus open though neither was looking at any of the culinary offerings. They were deep in conversation. Lorraine looked particularly perturbed.
“So Clem said he can’t make dinner tonight because he’s too busy?”
“Apparently. But I’m not surprised. He’s always busy. I’m sorry. I was really looking forward to hanging out with you and Curtis.” Tara felt guilty, as if it was her fault.
Lorraine snapped shut her menu and slapped it down on the table. “And what’s more important than taking his beautiful wife to dinner for once in a blue moon?”
“I agree, Lorraine. But he’s got a business dinner somewhere with someone else,” Tara answered flatly.
“What? Are you serious? Did he name the restaurant?” Lorraine was annoyed that Clem had screwed up her dinner plans with such an ambiguous excuse.
“No.”
Tara closed her menu as a smiling young waiter approached.
“Are we ready ladies?” Lorraine and Tara spoke in unison as they handed their menus back to the waiter.
“Caesar salad.”
“Coming right up,” the waiter took their menus and departed.
Lorraine frowned at Tara. “No name of the person he’s dining with or which restaurant he’s going to?” Lorraine huffed. She was unimpressed with Clem’s lack of divulgence but now Tara was also getting irritated.
“Oh, Lorraine, I don’t know. Some new client. Who cares who it is? Look, I’m sorry we can’t make it. How about the week after, maybe?”
“Tara, you need to get a clue, girlfriend.” Lorraine pursed her lips and was starting to get herself wound up. Tara had seen that face before.
“He’s busy. What can I say?”
“Well, it’s pretty fucking obvious he’s
busy
. Who’s he getting
busy
with? Huh? That’s what you ought to wonder about. When was the last time you and Clem got down to business?”
Tara looked confused. “You mean had sex?”
Lorraine rolled her eyes. “No, Tara. I mean played fucking checkers. Of course I mean sex!”
An elderly couple on the next table turned around and glared over at Tara and Lorraine. Tara felt embarrassed. She hushed Lorraine. “Shhhh….been a while I suppose. Couple of months ago, I think.” Lorraine sat back in her seat in disbelief.
“You
think?
Are you serious? You know guys have a real hard time going a few days without getting any. He’s nailing that personal assistant – Jessica - or whatever her name is,” Lorraine boomed at a decibel level way too high again for Tara’s comfort.
“Justine? No. She’s very sweet,” Tara whispered back.
“Oh, she’s sweet all right. Clem doesn’t need you if he’s balling her!” The elderly couple gave their table a second glance. “I think you’ve been sniffing too much of those cleaning solutions, girl.” Lorraine was on a roll now. “Stop cleaning your damn house and start getting Clem to clean up his act,”
“Oh, Lorraine you don’t trust any man. You think they’re all secretly up to something,” Tara shot back.