Forgotten: A Novel (15 page)

When I look up again, he’s looking at me with a focused expression. Everything seems to slow down as Dominic lifts his hand and brushes my hair away from my eyes. We pause for a moment, and then we move toward each other. He stops right before his lips touch mine, when they’re close enough for me to feel his breath against my mouth. “You’re vibrating.”

My mind feels unfocused. “What?”

“I think your phone is ringing.”

I reach into the pocket of my dress. My cell phone is jittering about. I take it out and hold it close to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Emma?”

“Craig?”

Dominic frowns and drops his arms. A chill spreads through me.

“Emma, where are you? I can barely hear you.”

“I’m . . . it’s a long story. Hold on a sec.”

I raise a finger to let Dominic know I’ll be back in a minute and walk toward one of the side exits. In the quieter corridor, my ears have that loud-music ringing feeling they always have after a concert. My heart’s pounding and yet I feel oddly numb.

“Emma, are you still there?”

“I’m here. What do you want, Craig?”

“It’s New Year’s.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I know. It’s just . . .”

He goes silent. I can hear a loud jumble of voices, chamber music, and popping champagne corks through the phone. I have that sense of déjà vu again, only this time it’s Craig I’m dancing with and champagne I’ve been drinking.

Oh no, he isn’t . . . he couldn’t . . .

“Where are you, Craig?”

He sighs heavily. “Damn, Emma.”

And now I know for sure. He’s at our party. The party we always go to on New Year’s at the Turner Hotel, a black-tie event where we eat extravagant food and drink champagne until the world is all bubbly. And at midnight, we watch the ball drop and count down to our first kiss of the year.

Ten, nine, eight . . .

“Who are you at the party with?”

“Emma.”

“Goodbye, Craig.”

“Please don’t hang up.”

“What is it? What do you want to say?”

“I just . . . I miss you.”

I can’t believe he has the nerve to call me from
our
party, with Sophie probably waiting for him in the next room, her lips all moist and kissable. I can almost smell her perfume through the phone.

“Emma? Are you still there?”

“No.” I click off my phone, my hand shaking.

Goddamnit!

I kick my foot against the wall, then instantly regret it. High-heeled pointy shoes are not the right footwear for kicking concrete.

The exit door clanks open behind me. It’s Dominic, his face full of an expression I can’t read. Resigned, maybe.

“I’m sorry about that. I don’t know why he called.”

“That guy sure has some sense of timing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Stephanie’s looking for you.”

I scan his face, trying to figure out what he wants me to say, what I want to say. All I come up with is that neither of us is ready for whatever it was we were about to do out there on the dance floor.

And it’s this uncertainty that makes me reply, “We’d better get back in there, then.”

Chapter 14: Back in the Saddle

T
he Monday morning after New Year’s has me questioning why I ever wanted any part of my old life back.

I arrive at the office at eight o’clock on the dot. Under my new knee-length, black wool coat, I’m wearing a crisp white blouse, a navy suit with a flirty pleated skirt, and a pair of knee-high boots made of soft black leather.

The elevator doors ding open and I walk into the lobby. The quasi-twin receptionists have turned the page on Christmas—there’s not a trace of the tree, lights, or tinsel. It’s January 3 and back to business.

I ask them if they know where my new office is. They don’t, but apparently Matt wants to see me. With a fluttery stomach, I hang my coat on one of the wood hangers in the visitors’ closet. The last time I hung a coat in here, I was a second-year law student looking for a summer job. I felt nervous and out of place that day too.

I give the receptionists a bright (fake) smile and walk to Matt’s office. Almost no one is in yet. The air smells faintly of cleaning products, and I can hear the dim hum of the air-filtration system, a white noise that’s strangely calming. The air turns off at 8
P.M.
, its absence always a sign I’m working too late.

I pass my old office. Sophie’s in already, sitting with her shoulders square to the corridor as she types away at something with meticulous precision. The perfect fit of her black blazer leaves me feeling dumpy, like I’m wearing last year’s suit. She reaches a manicured hand toward her coffee cup. I jump away from the glass wall and out of view. The longer I avoid her, the better.

Matt’s sitting at his desk, his sleeves already rolled up to his elbows, deep into a pile of boring-looking documents. The sun rises across the wintry city behind him, reflecting off the tall, shiny buildings.

I knock gently on his door. He looks up and gives me a welcoming smile. “There you are, Emma.”

“Here I am.”

“Come in, come in.”

I take a seat in the black leather visitor’s chair that’s too low to the ground. Sitting in it always makes me feel ten years old.

“All rested and settled and ready to get back to work?”

“Absolutely.”

“Great. I put some files in your office, simple stuff really, but everyone has to start somewhere.” Matt’s face twists into an ironic expression. “Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”

I almost start to laugh. I’ve never seen Matt tongue-tied before.

“Forget it. I
am
starting over. No need to pretend otherwise.”

“That’s my girl.”

“Where have you parked me?”

“Yes, um, well, you know we couldn’t ask Sophie to move.”

“Don’t worry, Matt. I get it. Anywhere will be fine.”

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll figure out a way to make Sophie pay for all of it. The office, my files, Craig.

“I thought you’d be best off in the office next to me.”

My heart skips a beat. “I’m being put in the Ejector?”

No one who’s ever worked in the office next to Matt has lasted at the firm for more than three months. It’s like being perched on a shiny red Eject button, hence the name.

He smiles. “Are they still calling it that?”

I try not to sound panicked. “When I last checked.”

“You’ll have to give it a new name, then.”

“Sure. The Phoenix, maybe.” Matt’s phone rings and I stand to leave. “Anyway, I should get to it.”

He reaches for his phone. “I’ll come check on you later.”

That sounds nice, right? Only I never needed checking on before.

I leave Matt’s office, turn left, and walk into the Ejector. My old desk, made of teak and nicked in the left corner (I slammed my stapler against it after getting a particularly bad judgment a few years ago), is nestled against the window. My chocolate leather desk chair is tucked under it. Along the wall to the right of the door is my chaise longue, covered in a taupe chenille fabric that’s just right for a catnap. My law degree and a picture taken with Matt on the day I became a member of the bar are hanging on the wall above it. There’s a shiny new BlackBerry in a box in the middle of my desk. There’s even a tall ficus plant in the corner.

So, unlike Pedro, TPC didn’t throw my stuff away when they learned I was missing. Someone—Matt, probably, via Nathalie—had it packed away, waiting. And it’s likely that same combo that’s taken the time to make me feel welcome. But even an Extreme Makeover can’t change the fact that I’m starting my career over at thirty-four and three quarters in a career-ending eighty square feet of space.

Well, I’d better get to it.

There’s a neat stack of buff-colored case files sitting on my desk in front of an oversized silver Mac desktop computer. I open the first one. It’s an insurance defense file. This one is typical. Mr. Smith bought a washing machine two years ago. He left it running when he went out to dinner and returned to find his condo flooded. The insurance company paid out tens of thousands of dollars to repair the damage, and now it wants to sue the washing machine’s manufacturer to recoup its payout. Yawn.

I sift through the pile. All of the cases follow this fact pattern. Apparently there’s an epidemic of badly manufactured washing machines out there. Fantastic.

“E.W. Great to see you back!”

I swivel my chair toward the door. The Initial Brigade is standing there with bright grins on their preppy faces. I. William Stone, J. Perry Irving, and K. R. Monty, three associates in their early thirties who always seem to travel in a pack. Somehow, one of them found out my middle name is Wendy, and I’ve been “E.W.” ever since. They must get their suits in three-for-one specials, or maybe it’s just that all navy pin-striped suits look the same.

“How you doing, boys?”

“Same old, same old,” I. William drawls in his coastal accent. He has light-brown hair cut in a right-of-center part. He looks like an advertising salesman from the early sixties.

“I see they put you in the Ejector,” Monty says. He has washed-out blue eyes and medium-brown hair.

“Still pointing out the obvious, Monty?”

J.P. guffaws and slaps Monty hard on the back. He’s a head taller than the other two, and he doesn’t always know his own strength. He likes to assert his individuality by wearing suspenders. Today’s are bright red.

“Of course he is. Nothing around here ever changes.”

I try not to sigh. “Seems like some things do.”

I. William looks sympathetic. “I told Craig to stay away from that grasping bitch.”

“Careful, dude, Matt might hear you.” Monty’s eyes shift nervously.

J.P. lowers his voice. “If you need our help with anything in
that department,
you just let us know.”

“Thanks, J.P. I’m touched.”

“No worries. We’re tom-tomming for cocktails. You’ll get an email with the details later.”

“Sounds great.”

I. William glances at the files behind me. “Have fun slogging through the shit pile.”

I give them a little wave as they push off, on to the next stop on their morning tour. I know they’ll be back after lunch. I’m already kind of looking forward to it. None of their billable hours are what they should be, but they make up for it in entertainment value.

I begin dictating a model action for the stack of files so my assistant can plug in the details. The sooner I get through these, the sooner I can do more important things, like filing my too-long-delayed action against Pedro.

Speaking of which, where
is
my assistant? Or better question, who?

I walk tentatively toward the cream fabric divider that forms the walls of the Ejector’s secretarial station. All I can see are two long, spray-tanned legs that end in a pair of very high strappy sandals. The owner’s toenails are painted bright red.

I feel a little bubble of thankfulness as I peek around the divider, because it’s Jenny, chewing gum and squinting at her computer screen. She’s messaging with someone called PLAYR. I’ve never quite figured out how she manages to be as competent as she is while simultaneously carrying on at least three social-networking conversations at all times. Must be a generational thing.

“Hi, Jenny.”

Her baby-blue eyes drift up toward mine. “Hi, Emma!”

“What are you doing here?”

She pops up and gives me a quick hug. “We’re going to work together again! I
insisted.
”

“Hey, that’s great.” I pat her on the back a few times, and she lets me go.

“Is there anything you need me to do?”

“I’m dictating some proceedings. I’ll need you to issue them later today.”

She cracks her gum. “Of course.” Her computer emits a pinging sound. PLAYR wants to know if she wants to
hook up 2nite?
Her eyes trail toward the computer screen. She’s clearly itching to give PLAYR a meeting time. “But don’t you want to take it easy on your first day back?”

“I’m not sure that’s an option.”

“Gotcha.”

I close my door and sit down at my desk. I stare out the window at the urban landscape, feeling sorry for myself.

Shit files. The Ejector. Matt’s pitying looks. All I need to complete this crap fest is an altercation with Sophie, and Craig telling me he misses me again. Of course, now that I’ve put that out there, it’s probably what’s coming next.

Needing to hear a friendly voice, I call Stephanie. She agrees to meet me at the apartment after work. Feeling reassured by the normalcy of our conversation, I return to my files. At noon, I send Jenny out for a sandwich rather than face the curious stares in the cafeteria. True to his word, Matt checks in/up on me several times, always arriving with his arms full of files, saying something like, “I thought you could help me with this [fill in really boring task, like organizing exhibits or summarizing depositions],” or “You don’t mind doing some research on [fill in really basic research mandate that would normally have been given to a first-year].” By the late afternoon, my office is full of boxes, and I’ve got enough work to keep me occupied for months.

This is why no one survives the Ejector. They crumble under the stress of unreasonable expectations. The thought of having to spend a whole year, maybe longer, dealing with this kind of shit has me surfing the Internet for graduate school programs.

Just when I’m thinking of packing it in, there’s a soft rap on the door. I turn my chair with trepidation. Craig is standing in the doorway in a three-piece suit with a sheepish look on his face.

“Hi. Can I come in?”

Every bone in my body is screaming
no, no, no!
But a little part of my brain (probably the same part that agreed to come back to work under these ridiculous conditions) is curious about what he has to say.

“Yeah, all right.”

He closes the door behind him and takes a seat on the chaise longue, placing a thick file next to him.

“How’s your day going?”

“Fine.”

He eyes the overflowing boxes on the floor. “Matt give you something to work on?”

“A few things. Insurance files.”

“I guess that’s to be expected.” He looks around. “You know, they did a good job in here.”

“Sure. I guess.”

“It doesn’t seem right, though, putting you in the Ejector.”

“I can handle it.”

He meets my gaze. “I know you can, but still, it’s not right.”

I look away. “It’s no big deal.”

“You going to that drinks thing the Initial Brigade is organizing?”

“I’m not sure. I thought I might head out early.”

“Really? You?”

“It’s this thing I’m trying.”

He smiles. “Let me know how that works out.”

“Sure.”

He leans forward, his hands on his thighs. “Emma . . .”

Oh no, you don’t, buddy. You lost the right to “Emma” me in that tone when you started believing I was dead because Sophie told you so.

“Seriously, Craig? Is this what we’re doing now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Making idle chitchat like we’re colleagues who haven’t seen each other in a while? Like I’ve only been away on a long vacation?”

“I’m sorry. I thought it might be easier if . . . I mean, bringing up all that stuff, I don’t see where it would get us.”

It might get us closure. Or then again, it might get me arrested for attempted murder. At this point, it could go either way.

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Don’t you think it would be better if we started over? As friends?”

Someday, someone will explain to men that this is
always
the wrong thing to say.

“Imagine the possibilities,” I mutter.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. Just something Dominic said.”

“Who’s Dominic?”

“A friend. No one.”

His face clouds. “Is he that guy living in your apartment?”

“What does it matter?”

“Don’t say that. I still care about you. Very much.”

“Yeah, well, don’t, okay?”

“Emma, please—”

“No, I mean it, Craig. I really can’t handle this today.”

He sighs. “All right, if that’s what you want.”

He stands but makes no move to leave. Instead, he stares at me like too many people have in the last few weeks. Like I need saving.

And I’m so sick of that look, that pitying, “poor Emma” look.

I march to my door and wrench it open, possibly dislocating my shoulder. Two female students are standing outside, whispering. They look fresh-faced and curious.

“If you don’t want to end up in here next, I suggest you beat it.”

Their eyes turn panicked and they can’t get away fast enough.

I turn back to Craig. “You can follow them anytime you like.”

Craig puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“What’s going on here?” Sophie says.

Craig drops his hand as we both turn toward her. She’s standing in front of my door, looking pissed. And strangely, seeing her there makes the day feel complete somehow.

Completely fucked up, but complete nonetheless.

“It’s nothing,” Craig says in a conciliatory tone.

Her thin lips get thinner. “Having a little reunion, are we?”

“Sophie, we talked about this.”

Her eyes narrow and release. I can almost hear her mentally counting to ten.