Kill Me (4 page)

“I’m Vera, head of production,” she said, sliding a smile my way. Something twinkled in her eyes. It kind of felt like flirting.

I offered Vera my best ambiguous smile in return.

Across the table sat the Director of Sales, a confident thirty-something woman with a blonde bob and tailored clothing. Joni introduced her as Maggie, who nodded and smiled just as much as was polite, but no more.

The woman to my right, who was so quiet I’d barely registered that she was there, was introduced as Ophelia, the Director of Marketing.

“So, Claire did you have a successful first day?” Joni asked.

“It was a long one, that’s for sure.” I nursed my glass of Merlot. “My heels were an inch shorter by the end of the day.”

That elicited a round of laughs and I saw Maggie ease out of her all-business mode just a little.

“It was great though. I got to meet so many interesting people on my rounds,” I said.

We spent the next several minutes comparing our aching feet, the most interesting booths, and celebrity sightings. As a whole, the dinner was going well and we’d reached a point where we all began to relax and chat like old friends.

I listened as Cassidy told of standing in the lunch line behind Alicia Keys. Vera chimed in with her short conversation with Sheryl Crow while waiting in line for the restroom. The way her eyes sparkled told me I might be right with my impression of Vera; maybe she did play for the other team?

Perhaps it was the wine I’d started drinking, but my mind took a little vacation to ponder the mechanics of lesbian sex. I knew how things worked between a woman and a man, but without the obvious body part, what exactly did two women do?

I felt myself blush a little as I realized where my mind was heading and I snapped back to the conversation at hand. Vera was still waxing poetic about Sheryl Crow, and I could see how someone might find her charismatic and fun to be with.

Vera took that moment to wink at me, like she’d read my mind.

But that someone’s not me
, I thought, just in case she really could read minds.

Our food had been delivered and we spent the next little bit stuffing our faces and talking very little. Once properly sated, I pushed back my plate so the waiter would take it away with his next pass.

Maggie, the stoic sales director, pushed her plate away and looked pointedly at me. “So, Claire, do you play any instruments?”

I sipped my little glass of wine to by me a second before speaking. This company was all about women playing musical instruments; in fact their slogan was something along the lines of “Empowering female musicians since 1983.” I didn’t play a thing, and the violin incident earlier didn’t count. But I didn’t want to think about that right now.

“No, I don’t but I’ve been eyeing that pearloid, mint-green guitar, edged in chrome. It’s the motivation I need to learn how to play.”

“You should come by the booth tomorrow,” Vera chimed in, “We have that guitar on display. I could take it down and give you your first lesson.”

“That’d be great!” I didn’t really mean it. Somehow, I was sure that a guitar lesson wasn’t the only thing Vera wanted to teach me. “You can consider me another SheRawks! convert.”

“If you like the Mint Retro, you have to check out my newest line,” Cassidy started. “It’s like the Retro, but more sleek and sultry. We’re calling it the Siren, after the silver screen ladies.”

“It retails for a little more than the Retro, but quality always comes with a price tag,” Maggie said.

“Well, from a sales standpoint it’s always a good idea to have a wider range of price-points to offer consumers.” I said.

Maggie was clearly pleased that she’d found a kindred spirit, but Joni was looking decidedly less friendly. I needed to win her back a little.

“Although, I suppose you would need to be very careful not to alienate your existing client base that have become used to your quality instruments at a very fair price.”

Now it was Joni’s turn to look smugly at Maggie, her smile beginning to wilt. Now, time to bring the two together.

“Now, if I was working with Ophelia here,” I motioned to her but kept my eyes directed towards the real power at the other end of the table. “I would come up with a campaign to cover all your bases. You are a progressive company, so show it in your zeal for constantly raising the bar on your own products.”

I had everyone’s full attention, so I kept going, letting my sales pitch integrate into the topic at hand. Before I was done, I would land the account, I was sure.

“I’d expand your marketing efforts.” I said, hoping not to offend the oh-so young Ophelia. “Up until now, most of your advertising falls into one of two categories: the young girl looking for her first guitar or the Indy musician hoping to take her performances up a notch with the dazzle of your guitars.”

I waited until one of the others was about to speak before I continued. “Picture an ad in Vanity Fair or Town and Country—a refined setting, with a model in her early thirties draped on a settee like a figure in a classical painting. She is stunning, elegant as she holds your newest guitar tenderly, fingers poised to play. Soft light pours in from a window, effectively spotlighting her and the gleaming guitar. She’s smiling, just a little, a’ la Mona Lisa.”

I sipped my wine, letting that thought marinate for a moment. I could damn near picture the advertisement myself, causing my flesh to rise with baby-fine goose bumps. Not from my advertising genius, but because I was picturing the model as the captivating Bette from my whole violin experience earlier. And she was naked.

“I love it!” Joni said with a satisfied smile.

Where the hell had that thought come from? I needed to know so I could send it back—pronto.
Focus
, I told myself. It was a time for business only, not to deconstruct my fracturing life or question my sexuality.

“It could work.” Ophelia added, with enthusiasm.

I was confident that I’d landed the account with my pitch and smiled at the prospect of flooring my boss with the news. The SheRawks! Company was one of the top five accounts that he’d coveted for years.

“Claire, how about we grab a drink at the bar before you slip off to another meeting?”

My stomach dropped. I felt like I was being called to the Principal’s office. Maybe dinner hadn’t gone as well as I thought.

I accepted the invitation and followed Joni to the bar. The others paid us no mind, so maybe it wasn’t all that bad and I was working myself up for nothing. Joni seated herself and ordered a Jack and Coke. I did the whole I’ll-have-what-she’s-having bit as I climbed onto my stool.

“That was impressive, Claire.” Joni started, “I can tell you’ve done your research and I like that.”

I sensed a “but” coming, so I spoke up quickly to cut it off.

“Actually Joni, I did do my research… but I had no idea about your new line. I dropped my original ideas the minute the new campaign formed in my head.” I was trying the honesty approach and I prayed that it didn’t backfire on me.

“In that case,” Joni started, “I’m even more impressed. Consider yourself part of our team now, and we’ll save the other ideas you scrapped for another time.”

“Sounds like a plan. Salud!” I said, raising my glass to her already uplifted one.

My euphoria lasted only a few minutes before I noticed a new text message from Pete on my phone. As I read the cryptic words “We need to talk” my bubble burst straight away.

Those words fell into a group of phrases that no woman ever wants to hear. “We need to talk” is akin to “It’s not you, it’s me,” and “I need to tell you something.” No good conversation ever started with any of those words.

Joni joined us at the bar, so I took another long swig of my drink and readied myself to wrap things up so that I could call Pete—which didn’t happen as soon as it needed to. For the next forty-five minutes, I sat on my left hand to prevent myself from fidgeting. My right hand helped me down another drink.

After they finally left, I read back through four text messages. The first message was the “Need to talk” one, followed by “Did you get my message?” and then “Don’t ignore me, I’m serious.” The last message had come in five minutes ago and made my stomach drop.

It said, “I’m done.”

Chapter 5

What the hell was that supposed to mean? It was just like Pete to assume I was ignoring him, just because I hadn’t jumped at his first text message.

Compassion for my husband wisped awake like smoke. Before he became unemployed, we were a typical family that enjoyed spending time together. We liked each other and things had been easy. Then Pete had been laid off.

At first, I’d felt bad for him. It really was unfair and I knew that he must be depressed. But I figured he’d come out of it eventually.

Then, despite the fact that he was home all day every day, Pete quit helping out around the house. Even the things he did before, like taking out the trash, he stopped doing.

He no longer searched for work. He looked down on me for being busy with my own job, yet he constantly held out his hand for slices of my paycheck. It made no sense to my logical brain. How does someone have more free time, but contribute less to the household and then hate me for taking up the slack?

Taking the supportive route hadn’t done any good, so I tried the tough-love track. Only that just made things worse to the point that I was just waiting for the moment that my marriage crashed and burned. It seemed that moment was now.

But quitting via text? I didn’t see that one coming at all. I didn’t think he’d be so callous as to do it over the phone while I was miles away from home. Add that to the list of things I hate about my husband— he’s a coward.

Since I’d worked myself up from being wounded to being outraged by his behavior, I figured it was a good time to call him back. Hell hath no fury and all that.

Of course Pete didn’t answer his phone. That would have taken
stones
that my husband no longer had.

I walked back to my hotel through the sticky night air. Normally the blanket of stars overhead, broken only by the occasional palm tree, would set my mood to whimsical. But not then, not after that message.

I left Pete a voicemail telling him that I was booked up with meetings for most of the evening and I’d call him in the morning. Really, though, my anger had already waned and I didn’t feel like talking to him anymore.

Back at the hotel, in the dark and crowded bar, I sat in a corner booth. I switched to beer because it would take me longer to drink it, every bitter sip becoming a test of wills.

While drowning my sorrows, I flipped through photos I had stored on my phone. Just stewing over my crappy marriage wasn’t enough punishment; I had to suffer through it in Technicolor.

I started at the beginning of us. Images of the young, naive couple that hadn’t had a clue what real life was all about. I realized how far we’d deviated from those initial feelings and it saddened me. It was like looking at pictures of someone deceased, knowing that you can never get them back. Those days, those people, were long gone. Seriously depressing, and cause for another gulp of my beer.

Next were the pictures from our first year together. Hopefully newlyweds, expectant parents with slightly terrified looks on our faces. It had been a time of adjustment and change, but we’d weathered it together as a new family.

That was the difference between then and now. We weren’t on the same team anymore. Hell, we weren’t even playing the same sport.

Pictures of Quinn as a wrinkly newborn, then as a chubby toddler. One picture in particular stabbed at my heart. Quinn was about four years-old and she was clinging to Pete’s neck as he held her above the water’s edge. The picture had been taken on the last vacation we’d had, before everything had gone downhill. Pete and Quinn were in crystal-blue water with a dozen manta ray’s circling around them, fins flapping. The look on both of their faces was pure joy.

Tripping down memory lane made one thing painfully obvious: my marriage was officially over. It didn’t even matter if Pete tried to redact his spineless texts. The pictures from a better time reminded me just how bad things were. Irreparable damage was done.

There was no fixing me and Pete, not anymore. The best that either of us could hope for was to hobble away with duct-tape holding on the broken parts so that one day that we would both pass for whole, undamaged individuals.

I hadn’t considered the logistics of a separation yet, but one thing was for sure, I had to minimize the damage done to Quinn. I still held the tiniest thread of hope that I could avoid a messy divorce, for my daughter’s sake.

I sighed and tossed the phone on the worn table.

I’d been wrong to blame all of our troubles on Pete losing his job though, I could see that now. We’d gotten complacent, lazy even, and started leading our own lives long before then. It had made us weak as a unit and at the first bout of trouble the cracks had widened into a canyon.

I finished off my beer in two swallows and signaled the waitress for another round, one more to still the thoughts bouncing around in my head. Then I’d head up to my room and sleep it off. I had another full day of work ahead and even though I’d landed the account earlier, I still had other companies to court.

The waitress brought my beer over quickly. I made a mental note to tip her well because despite being slammed, she was attentive and friendly. I’d been a waitress as a teen and I knew just how hard that could be sometimes.

“When you get a chance, would you mind bringing my bill?” I asked.

She smiled and shook her head. “Not necessary, you’ve been taken care of.”

The waitress motioned to the corner of the bar before flitting off to the next table. Great, someone had paid my tab. That usually meant that I’d look up to find a middle-aged, balding man winking at me from across the room.

As-if
.

I didn’t care if I was almost single. I’d had enough of all that. I’d rather end up eighty and living with a house full of cats.