The Opposite of Me (8 page)

Now Mason was shouting something into the phone, but the music was so loud I didn’t have a chance of hearing him.

“Everything’s fine,” Matt said, putting a warm hand on my shoulder. I hadn’t realized how cold I was. “He’s probably just talking to an insane client.”

“Ooh, looks like the food is ready,” Pammy said. “Yummy, pigs in a blanket. Should we go get a plate?”

“Let’s hang out another second,” Matt said, his eyes never leaving Mason. Now one of our agency’s founders, Mr. Dunne,
was hurrying across the room to Mason’s side. The two of them huddled together, gesturing frantically, and at the exact same moment, they both turned to look at me.

“What’s going on?” I whispered. Nausea rose in my throat.

“It’s going to be okay,” Matt said in a low voice, and I tried desperately to believe him. I felt like I was watching a horror movie and the heroine was about to descend a rickety staircase into an unlit basement. Cheryl was being too cocky. Mason looked too upset. Now Mason was passing the cell phone to Mr. Dunne, and he was talking into it. Something bad was going to happen; the killer was in the basement.

Oh, God, why were they walking over to Cheryl?

Mr. Dunne was shaking Cheryl’s hand, and she was smiling. Something about her smile . . .

“I need to—” I couldn’t get out the rest of the words. My stomach was bucking. I raced to the bathroom and flung open the stall door just in time. I hadn’t eaten much of anything all day, so the only thing that splashed into the toilet was champagne.

“Lindsey?” Pammy had followed me in. “Oh, no. You’re not really pregnant, are you?”

“I think I just ate some bad sushi for lunch,” I lied, flushing the toilet and closing the lid. I sat down on top of it. My legs were shaking so bad I didn’t trust them to hold me up.

“Can I get you some water?” she asked. “Maybe a few crackers?”

“That would be great,” I said hoarsely. I couldn’t imagine eating a thing, but it would get Pammy out of here and let me be alone so I could fight through my panic. I needed to stay calm; I was good at staying calm. I was good at fixing things, too. I could fix this, whatever it was.

What was happening?

Logically I knew there could be a million explanations. Maybe Matt was right; maybe a big client was being difficult.
Maybe Mason and Dunne had turned to look at me because they were thinking of handing him off to me but decided to give him to Cheryl. It was probably that. I was sure it had to be that.

It wasn’t that.

I knew it with a staggering, rock-solid certainty. Something big was about to happen, something awful. What had Cheryl done? My mind raced as I considered the possibilities. She couldn’t have messed with the agency vote; Mason had already told me I’d won the VP title. I had the job locked up.

Didn’t I?

“Lindsey, here’s your water,” Pammy said, entering the bathroom again. “That bald guy was looking for you, but I told him you were in the ladies’ room. I didn’t tell him you were throwing up, though. He’s making some speech right now, so he said he’ll talk to you afterward.”

I unlocked the stall door and stepped out, a giddy, hysterical hope rising inside me like a balloon. Could I have been wrong? Could the champagne have made me paranoid? Mason was giving his announcement; everything was proceeding on schedule. And he was looking for me. That had to be a good sign, right? I rinsed out my mouth and smoothed my hair.

“Thanks, Pammy,” I said, accepting the water and crackers she handed me.

I could hear Mason talking, but the bathroom walls distorted his words.

“Should we go out?” she asked.

“Give me one more second,” I said. I reached into my purse and put on a layer of Cherrybomb. I took a deep breath and stared at my reflection for a moment, marshaling my strength until I was ready.

“Hey!” Matt was standing just outside the door. He mo
tioned us over. Mason was up in the DJ’s booth, speaking into a microphone while everyone crowded together on the floor beneath him. Cheryl was near the front of the pack, a broad smile stretched across her face. Matt was standing a few feet to the side of everyone, so he had a view of both Mason and the crowd.

“What did I miss?” I whispered.

“Nothing yet,” Matt said.

Mason continued talking. “. . . really a tough decision for us, one of the toughest we’ve ever had to make . . .”

God, just get to it, I silently begged him.

“. . . exceptional work this year and every year since she joined our agency . . .”

“Did Mason say why he was looking for me?” I asked Matt.

He shook his head.

“How did he look?” I whispered.

Matt inhaled slowly and met my eyes. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Something seems . . . off.”

I shut my eyes and prayed a simple, fervent prayer:
Please
. The tension was unbearable. My stomach started to roil again.

“. . . she put the cherry on top today. Not only did Cheryl win the Gloss account, but she so impressed Stuart Fenstermaker that he phoned a little while ago and announced he is entrusting all of his advertising to Richards, Dunne, and Krantz. Not just for Gloss but for all seven of his companies. Cheryl brought in a fifty-million-dollar account this morning while everyone else was getting a latte. Not bad for a day’s work.”

No
.

“. . . pleased to announce Cheryl Davis is our new vice president. Cheryl, will you come up here . . .”

Matt was standing beside me. His hand was back on my
shoulder: “Deep breath,” he whispered into my ear. “Inhale slowly.”

I followed his directions like a robot. This was a bad dream. In a minute I’d wake up and I’d lift my head from my desk and see Donna’s note.

Heads were swiveling around. Were they looking for me, to see how I’d react? I instinctively took a step back, behind Matt.

Cheryl accepted the microphone from Mason and stood there beaming while applause rained down like confetti all around her. The disco lights shot tiny rainbows of color on her bare, golden shoulders and upturned face. She’d never looked more beautiful.

“Mason’s heading this way,” Matt said. He spoke slowly and gently, like you do to someone who’s been in a car accident:
Do you know your name? Do you know who you are?

“Do you want me to get you a drink?” Matt asked.

“Thank you so much,” Cheryl began.

“Don’t leave me,” I begged Matt.

“I’m right here,” he said.

“Cheryl’s the vice president?” Pammy said, wrinkling her nose. Her voice was too loud, and it reverberated inside my head. “Are you both vice presidents?”

My mind slowed down like a mechanical toy whose battery was running out. I could barely understand what everyone was saying. Their mouths were moving, but their words made no sense.

“Lindsey.”

It was Mason. He stood in front of me, still running his hand over his head.

“God, I’m so sorry. Can we just move over here and talk for a second?” he said. I nodded mutely. It took every ounce of my concentration to lift up my feet one at a time and follow him to a corner. It was the same corner where he’d told
me I’d won the vice presidency. The same beanbag chairs. The same Lava lamps. How could it all be the same, as if the world hadn’t folded in on itself and flipped everything upside down?

“Fenstermaker called fifteen minutes ago,” Mason said. He was looking at my left shoulder instead of into my eyes. “He offered us all his business. Cheryl must’ve really done a number on him. Then Cheryl threatened to jump to another agency and take his accounts with her if she didn’t get the vice presidency. She forced our hand, so we had to have an emergency vote. She beat you out by one vote.”

I nodded again, like it all made sense.

“You deserved this,” Mason said. “You still had my vote.”

He was trying to make me feel better. He was throwing me a few extra fries.

“You still have a good future with us,” Mason said. “A great future. A few years down the line, who knows?”

I tried to croak out a word, and couldn’t. My throat had closed up.

“I need to get back up there,” Mason said. “Will you be okay? Can I get you anything?”

I shook my head. I was fine; I was just so cold.

“We’ll talk more later,” Mason said. “Let’s go out for lunch tomorrow. We’ll figure something out.”

He stepped away, and that’s when I saw it: The faces of my colleagues were turning toward me, just a few at first, then more and more joining in, like fans at a stadium doing the wave. Cheryl had finished talking, and Mason was still walking toward the stage. His motion had attracted everyone’s attention. I was as exposed as if I’d been standing there stark naked. Everyone was staring at me, curiosity and pity on their faces. Everyone knew I’d failed, that I wasn’t good enough.

I looked around wildly and saw a red exit sign. I’m not even
sure how I got there, but I must’ve run, because suddenly I was bursting through the door, out onto the sidewalk, where a panhandler sat on an overturned milk crate rattling coins in a plastic cup, and people lined up in the doorway of a restaurant, and a car skidded through an intersection just as the light turned red. Where life went on as usual, even though mine had just exploded into a million jagged shards.

Four
 

 

MY NEW SHOES RUBBED raw patches into my heels and the cold night air cut through the thin material of my dress, but I kept walking. I’d left my purse and coat at the bar—I vaguely remembered my purse slipping off my shoulder and scattering its contents across the floor as I ran toward the exit—but that didn’t matter. How could things like my wallet and cell phone and my business cards, the ones I’d carried in a silver monogrammed case my parents had given me for Christmas, matter anymore? The only thing that mattered, the single most important thing in the world, was that I focus every ounce of my concentration on walking. If my body kept moving, maybe my mind wouldn’t.

I no longer felt nauseated or scared or devastated, but I knew those emotions were lurking close by, like animals in a cage, coiling their strength until the lock turned and they could unleash themselves. I had to keep walking; I had to keep the animals at bay. Besides, I had nowhere to go. I couldn’t bear to go back to the bar and face everyone. I couldn’t go home without my keys. I couldn’t go to a hotel without a credit card. The only thing left for me to do was to keep turning aimlessly down streets and up
boulevards, crisscrossing the city as evening commuters with their overcoats and briefcases were replaced by couples heading out on dates and rowdy groups of people going to bars and tourists on their way to the theater.

“Hey, baby!”

I’d been walking for what felt like hours when a thin, blond guy lurched toward me, holding up his hand like it was a stop sign.

I stared at him as if he was speaking Sanskrit. He was wearing a suit, but its collar was badly frayed and his right dress shoe was missing its laces.

“Want to get a drink?” he asked. His yellow teeth seemed like they belonged to a different man, a much older one. When he smiled, I noticed his incisors were pointed like tiny little fangs.

“Or do you want something else?” He sneered, his expression flipping from friendliness to anger like a coin. I looked around. I didn’t know this neighborhood. A thin dog sniffed at a Dumpster, and the storefronts were shielded by black accordion gates that were covered with graffiti. I didn’t feel fear or anger; I didn’t feel anything except the bone-numbing cold. I didn’t know if I ever would again.