“Turn right at the next corner,” Matt instructed the driver as we neared the club.
“You ready for this?” he asked me.
“Absolutely,” I lied. My heart was pounding again, and I felt light-headed, probably from skipping lunch. You’d think missing all those meals would be great for my waistline, but I heroically managed to make up the calorie deficit when I got home at night. Now, though, it was more than an empty stomach that was making me feel like I was about to pass out.
“It’s going to be fun,” Pammy chirped. I smiled at her and tried to shake off my anxiety. She really was adorable; all sunny and petite and friendly. And did I mention petite? I’d work really hard at overlooking the fact that both of her thighs could fit into one of my pants legs.
“You can let us off here,” Matt said, and he paid the driver while Pammy slid out.
“She’s cute,” I whispered.
“You think so?” Matt asked me while the driver painstakingly counted out change. It’s my theory that most cabdrivers take their time giving change in the hope that hyperactive New Yorkers will shout, “Oh, for Christ’s sake, just keep it!” and race away.
We slid out of the car, Matt took Pammy’s witty-bitty little hand in his, and a bouncer stepped aside and pulled opened the door to Night Fever. A blast of music hit me and almost propelled me back a few feet. Ah, now the name of the club made
sense. A Bee Gee was wailing in what could’ve been misery but just as easily could’ve been ecstasy, a waitress with Farrah Fawcett hair and love beads passed by with steaming red-and-green-colored drinks on a tray, and even Mason was wearing bell-bottoms. Welcome to the seventies, because apparently we didn’t get enough of them the first time around.
“Matt, great to see you!” Mason shouted, detaching himself from a knot of people and walking over to us. “Lindsey, can I borrow you for a second?”
Without waiting for my answer, he pulled me past a giant TV screen that was suspended from the ceiling. It was airing our top commercials of the year in a continuous loop. Every two feet or so, a waiter wearing John Lennon glasses or platform shoes was passing around a fresh tray of drinks, which meant new and inventive combinations of colleagues would hook up tonight and spend the next year suffering violent coughing fits and looking at the floor whenever they bumped into each other in the office hallways. In the weeks after our holiday parties, it always sounded as though our office had been hit with a record number of cases of bronchitis.
Mason motioned toward a corner, where oversize beanbag chairs were clustered in a semicircle under a disco light.
“Any word from Fenstermaker?” I blurted, eyeing a chair and deciding that, if I sat down, I’d never be able to get enough traction to stand back up again.
“Not yet,” he said. “It may take him a few days to decide. Look, there’s nothing to be nervous about. I wanted to tell you that you’ve done a great job for us this year. A great job.”
Mason was slurring his words ever so slightly; those holiday-colored drinks must have been potent. I made a mental note to order a seltzer with lime that could masquerade as a gin and tonic.
“Thanks,” I said. “That means a lot.”
He leaned closer and whispered, “I shouldn’t tell you this, but we voted this afternoon.”
Time shuddered to a stop. I could feel each individual hair on my arms stand up.
“What?” I croaked.
“You’re the new VP creative director,” Mason said.
I closed my eyes as relief crashed over me, making my legs weak and unsteady. I’d done it; I was the youngest ever vice president creative director of Richards, Dunne & Krantz. All the vacations I never took, the movies I’d missed seeing, the weekend mornings when I got up to work while everyone else slept in or curled up with the
Times
or went hiking in the sunshine—they had all culminated in this glorious moment. Now I could buy my apartment. I could celebrate by splurging on any restaurant in the city, and even take a car service there instead of a cab. Maybe I’d make a grand gesture at Christmas and hand my parents plane tickets to Europe. I’d get a bigger office, one with an amazing view. I’d get my own monogrammed company stationery! I couldn’t wait to get to a phone and call my parents and Alex. Inside I was exploding in joy, but I kept my face calm and professional.
Mason grabbed a passing waiter. “Get this lady a glass of champagne.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” I started to say, but Mason interrupted me.
“You earned it,” he said simply, smiling at me. How could I ever have thought Mason was an alien? He was the warmest, kindest man alive. A beautiful, beautiful specimen of a man. He should be an exhibit in MoMA.
“I’ll announce it in about an hour,” he said. “I want you to say a few words, too.”
“Absolutely,” I said, a giddy grin spreading across my face.
I took a gulp of champagne to hide the fact that I was blink
ing back tears of joy. It was sweet and delicious against my parched throat. God, I loved champagne. Why didn’t I drink it more often? I should drink it every day. I should
bathe
in it.
“Enjoy,” Mason said. “I’ll signal you when it’s time.”
He walked away, and I hurried over to Matt and Pam, who were watching a copywriter attempt the hustle on the orange-and-avocado shag carpet.
“I’m declaring a new law for company holiday parties,” Matt announced. “No one should ever see their coworkers dance or wear bathing suits.”
“Oh, God, that’s funny!” I said, laughing hysterically.
Matt took a closer look at me as I wiped the giddy tears from the corners of my eyes. “Are you pregnant?” he asked.
“Mattie!” Pammy chastised him. But she cast a discreet glance at my stomach as I instinctively sucked in. “You should never ask a woman that!”
“Either you’re pregnant or you just got named VP,” Matt said. “Because you’re glowing brighter than those Lava lamps.”
I couldn’t help the huge grin from spreading across my face.
“You did it, didn’t you?” Matt said, tapping his glass against mine. “Like it’s a surprise.”
“Congratulations!” Pammy squealed. “You’re a vice president?”
“Keep it a secret,” I begged them both. “Mason’s not going to announce it for another hour.”
“You look really happy,” Matt said. “Good for you.”
“It’s kind of overwhelming,” I said. “But I am happy. Really happy.”
“Happy about what?” Someone stuck his face so close to mine that I could smell his lime-scented aftershave. I twisted to the right and found myself staring at Doug, one of the copywriters on my team.
Doug’s gorgeous, if you like your men big, rawboned, and
as subtle as sledgehammers. Every woman in the office has a secret crush on him, and he seems intent on fulfilling all of their fantasies, one at a time. Or two at a time, if you believe the stories of what went on after last year’s holiday party.
“And who’s this?” Doug asked, turning to Pammy with a smile. Matt put an arm around her and pulled her closer.
“Pammy,” Matt said tightly. “My girlfriend.”
Doug held up his hands as if to say:
No harm, no foul, man—plenty more where that one came from.
“Why so happy?” Doug asked me. “Are you the new VP yet?”
Matt saved me: “No, we were just talking about Lava lamps. Lindsey loves them.”
“Seriously?” Doug said. “That’s cool. So can I get you a drink, Lindsey? Pammy?”
“I’m good,” Pammy said.
“Why not?” I said. Forget the seltzer; what harm could there be in downing a couple of glasses of champagne on the best night of my life?
“Hey now,” Doug said, his head whiplashing toward the front door. Cheryl was making her grand entrance. She was still wearing the nonshirt she’d had on at her pitch for Gloss. The shirt hadn’t gotten any bigger; if anything, it had caught the flu and lost a few pounds.
Doug was off like a shot to greet her.
“You may have to wait awhile for that drink,” Matt told me.
“You think?” I said sarcastically. By now three other guys were vying for airtime with Cheryl.
“I should go on over and wish her luck on the Gloss account,” I said. It was customary for competing creative teams to wish each other the best, much like boxers tapping mitts before beating each other to a pulp.
“I’ll get the drinks,” Matt said, and he waved down a waiter
as I headed toward Cheryl. God, this was turning out to be an amazing day. My exhaustion was gone. Now I felt like I could stay up all night.
I was only a few steps away from Cheryl when my BlackBerry vibrated in my jacket pocket. I pulled it out and looked at the message:
You’ll never believe where I am and who I’m with. Call me.
I smiled. The message was from my old buddy Bradley Church. I hadn’t talked to Bradley in weeks, maybe even a couple of months. I’d call him later tonight, I promised myself. Getting his message made me realize how much I’d missed him. Bradley and I had officially become friends in the second grade when the class bully tripped Megan Scully in our school lunchroom, making her fall splat on top of her tray of mystery loaf. As she sat there groping for her glasses and crying, Bradley had quietly uncapped the bottle of ketchup on our table and dumped some into the bully’s glass of orange juice. The bully went to swig his juice and ended up spitting it all over his white shirt.
When the bully started clenching his fists and looking around for the culprit, I tiptoed over and slid into the seat next to Bradley’s and pretended we’d been chatting the whole time. We’d stayed pals ever since that moment, even going to our senior prom together as friends, but we didn’t see each other much these days. Bradley still lived in our old neighborhood and worked as a photographer for
The Washington Post
. His portrait of a nine-year-old girl sleeping on her living room floor with the fireplace lit up for warmth while her mother stared at a stack of unpaid bills had just won an award.
Bradley was still sticking up for the underdog, I thought, smiling fondly as I visualized his face.
I’d call him right after I phoned my parents and Alex, I decided as I approached Cheryl and fought my way through the crowd of guys jockeying for position around her.
“Cheryl? Just wanted to wish you luck,” I said, putting out my hand.
She looked down at it for a long moment before shaking it.
“Thanks,” she said. She dimpled up as one of the account executives handed her a red drink that exactly matched her lip color.
“I doubt we’ll hear anything for a few days, so I guess we can relax,” I said. Now that I was going to be VP, I’d have to try to make peace with Cheryl. She’d be working for me, after all.
“Oh, I think we’ll hear a lot sooner than that,” she said, taking a sip of her drink and holding our eye contact above the rim of her glass.
Something about the gleam in her eyes sent a shiver down my spine.
“Really?” I asked, trying to affect a careless giggle that somehow came out like a Woody Woodpecker laugh (men
love
this, I’m told—it probably accounts for my runaway success in dating).
“What makes you say that?” I asked Cheryl. “Mason said Fenstermaker hadn’t decided yet.”
Cheryl stared at me for another beat and licked her shiny red lips as I forced myself to hold her gaze. It was a power play; that’s all it was, I told myself. She was trying to throw me. Even that predatory lip-licking thing was probably a move she’d seen on Animal Planet and rehearsed in front of the mirror.
“Oh, just call it a feeling,” she said and turned away from me.
I stared after her, trying to shake the sense of unease creeping over me. I felt like a deer in the woods who has just caught the scent of a hunter. Something was wrong.
Cheryl knew I had the promotion lined up; she was just playing her usual games, I told myself. I had nothing to worry about.
But . . . why the hell did she look so confident? She should be kissing up to me.
I started to walk slowly back across the bar to Matt and Pammy. Trust Cheryl to try to put a damper on the best day of my life. She was just jealous. I needed to forget about her and start planning my speech. I glanced at my watch for the umpteenth time: Mason should be making his announcement soon. I’d keep my comments short and sweet, I decided.
“Here’s your drink,” Matt said when I reached him.
He handed me a fresh glass of champagne, and I took a gulp. It didn’t taste quite as good as it had a few minutes ago. When I looked up at Matt, he was frowning. He wasn’t looking at me, though; something across the room had caught his eye. I followed his gaze.
He was staring at Mason.
“What’s up?” I asked.
Matt didn’t answer.
I turned to get a better look at Mason. He was pacing in a corner, jabbing buttons on his cell phone. He ran his free hand over and over his bald head, like he was trying to soothe a jittery dog by stroking it. Gone was his happy, tipsy vibe. He looked like a man in a panic. His big eyes were roaming the room, but when they met mine, they dropped to the floor.
As if he couldn’t bear to look at me.
“Matt?” I said, feeling the floor shift under my feet. My voice came out kind of strangled.