TEN
ESSIE
The Mendel, Goldstein and Hofstadter law offices take up the whole twelfth floor of the Holbrook Building. None of the admins have their own office. The main space is a large room where our cubicles and desks are set up. Each lawyer’s assistant has the desk closest to her lawyer’s door, while we legal secretaries are grouped toward the middle of the room. I’m the closest to the entrance, which means I also play sometime receptionist, too.
I’m sitting at my desk, going over the dossier I’ve prepped and plan to show Aidan Callahan—when and if he gets back to me. I keep checking my email, but no response yet. To anyone walking by, it would appear that I’m very busy, very engrossed in the papers I have before me. I’m sure it appears this way to Brandon Lukeman, one of our clients who’s just stepped out of the elevator.
He stands there with his hands in his pockets, alternating glances between me and his feet. He clears his throat. I look up.
“Hi, Brandon,” I say. At the acknowledgement, he comes right over to my desk. I close the file folder and slide it into a drawer. “How are you this morning?”
Brandon’s a client hiring one of our a junior associates on a limited assistance basis. He kind of reminds me of Vaughn, both in looks and demeanor. I don’t know if he’s picked up on this or not—maybe I’ve smiled once or twice too often at him—but I think over the past few weeks he’s developed a crush on me.
“Hey, Ess,” he says. “I’ve got a meeting with Alicia. I’m a little early, though.”
“I’ll let her know you’re here. You can have a seat if you want.”
He smiles but doesn’t make any move to go sit down.
“Are you holding up okay?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It’s not easy. I just want to do what’s best for Trish, but Lindsay’s making that really difficult. I don’t want to have to do any of this, but she’s on the war path.”
Trish is his five-year-old daughter. I nod sympathetically. Most of our clients here are corporate, but Alicia Barrett also handles family law. I see my fair share of divorces and child custody cases. No way will I ever get married. No way will I ever have children with someone. There’s just way too much risk, way too much that could go wrong.
Brandon got burned so badly by his ex, it’s a wonder he’s not sworn off women for life. “Hey. I’m really sorry,” I tell him. And I mean it. He’s a good guy.
“Thanks, sweetheart. I really appreciate how nice you’ve been.” His face is starting to get red. “Actually…I know this probably isn’t the time or the place, but…I was wondering if you might like to go out and get coffee some time?” He says this last part in a rush, his eyes glued to his feet.
Before I can answer, Alicia appears in her office doorway, eyes quickly scanning between the two of us. “Hey, Brandon. Ready when you are, okay?” She shoots me a warning glance—keep your hands to yourself, Floyd—and then vanishes back into her office.
Brandon knows that him leaning into my cubicle, flirting horrendously has just scored me a black mark with Alicia. He winces, straightening up and pulling his suit jacket down. “Sorry, sweetheart. Like I said. Wrong time, wrong place, I guess.” He doesn’t push for an answer from me. He’s even redder than before, even more embarrassed. Poor guy. I should just put him out of his misery and tell him I don’t think it would be appropriate, given the dynamic between us. That’s exactly what Alicia’s going to tell me when she comes by to ream me out later on, after all. Brandon must be able to sense it coming, though; he backs toward Alicia’s office, holding his hands up.
“Don’t break my heart just yet, Ess. Maybe wait ‘til after I find out how much I’m losing in the divorce first.” He winks, and then he’s gone.
Maybe in another life, buddy.
I’m about to get my Callahan dossier out again, but instead I decide to check my email. My heart speeds up when I see Aidan’s finally written me back.
I take a deep breath before I open the message. I suddenly find I’m doubting myself. What the hell am I going to do if this works? What the hell am I going to do if it doesn’t? What’s my life going to look like when I don’t have a purpose?
I sit there and read the message from Aidan several times.
Essie,
Thank you for your due diligence. I’d be very pleased if you could bring the documents by for me to sign. Three years is a long time to have paperwork incomplete.
I will be free tomorrow afternoon, should this suit you.
Regards,
- A. Callahan.
I’m a little surprised that he agreed to meet so readily. But then again, why wouldn’t he? It’s a totally plausible reason for me to request a meeting. And even if he had his suspicions and wanted to check up on me, all he’d need to do is call Goldstein and he’d tell him yes, I do work here. It’s not too far of a stretch of the imagination that I would have found some erroneous files and needed them checking off. My boss would potentially be irritated that I hadn’t handed them straight over to him, but it wouldn’t raise any red flags.
Still, I don’t tell anyone I’m meeting Callahan. The girls that work at Mendel, Goldstein & Hofstadter would freak out if they knew. Everyone with a heartbeat and a vaguely functional uterus is totally in love with the guy. And I get it—he’s a billionaire, he’s the boss, and he’s gorgeous. Many of the girls gush about how generous he is, how he doesn’t just see through people but acts like he actually gives a shit. None of that matters to me. He could be Mahatma Gandhi and I wouldn’t care. Wouldn’t deviate. Wouldn’t change my mind about him. To me, he’s still the devil incarnate.
I hit reply and write a message back.
Noon is good. I’ll see you then.
I hit send then sit there for a few minutes, thinking. It’s happening. The ball is rolling. This is for you, Vaughn, I think.
******
I leave at lunchtime and go meet Julia at a little café near the yoga studio she teaches at. I think Julia and I are friends because we’re opposites in every way imaginable. She’s tall and blonde. She’s about the kindest person you could ever meet, and she believes in the ultimate power of forgiveness. Somehow, our relationship works, though. It has for the past four years.
Julia’s already inside with a mug of herbal tea. She’s wearing her yoga pants and a long-sleeved cotton t-shirt—the poster child of good health and well-being. Next to her, I have no doubt that I look pinched and uptight.
“What’s going on with you?” she says after I sit down with my cup of coffee. “You look very excited about something.”
I take a sip of my coffee, which I drink black. I don’t particularly like the taste of it, but it keeps me on edge. I need that. “Nope. No excitement here. I’m exhausted,” I lie.
“You really should work less. Come to one of my classes this weekend. The gentle stretching class, even. You’d be amazed how much better you’ll feel.” She leans forward and scrutinizes my face. “But you’re lying to me. You are excited about something, Ess. You meet someone?” Her eyes light up. She’s been number one cheerleader when it comes to the idea of me in a stable, long-term relationship, and not participating in one night stands or friend-with-benefits situations.
“No. I haven’t met anyone.”
“Well…what then? I have a hunch. Don’t feed me another line, or I’ll mess up your chakras even more.” Thing is, Julia’s hunches are never wrong. We both know it. I don’t want to tell her about Aidan, though. Not yet, anyway. Probably not ever—I know how much she’ll disapprove. She’ll beg me to come to her yoga classes or get a Reiki treatment. Have me signing up for one of those remote weeklong retreats, where you’re meant to concentrate on healing every single hurt you’ve ever had.
One of the girls behind the counter calls Julia’s name, and she leaves to collect her salad. They call my name a few minutes later and I go collect the BLT club I ordered. I’ve just picked up the plate and I’m turning away from the counter when a woman steps directly in front of me, barely an inch of space between us.
“Whoa, excuse me.” I make a move to step around her but she steps with me. I look more closely at her face; she’s no one I recognize. “Is there a problem?”
We’re about the same height, so when she steps right up to me, closing the gap between us, her steely eyes are at the same level as mine. “There is a problem,” she says. “I know who you are.”
Over her shoulder, I see Julia looking at us, worried. A few people at nearby tables have also stopped their conversations and are watching.
“Um. Awesome? I’m sorry, but I—.”
“My name is Ellen Campbell.”
I stare at her. “That’s not ringing any bells.”
She sneers. “Let’s try it this way then: I’m Mrs. Matthew Campbell.”
It takes a few seconds, but then it clicks. Ah. Matt Campbell. We’ve slept together a few times. He’s an investment guy at the bank across the street from the law offices. It was strictly sex—he said his wife just wasn’t interested in doing it anymore. He also told me that he and his wife were separated because of that fact.
“Sometimes, I just want to get laid,” he told me. “A good old-fashioned fucking. But for my wife to get in the mood, it was a week-long preparation. Take her out for dinner. Buy her something nice. Go see a movie or a play or go hear someone do a reading. It couldn’t just be sex. It’s like it was my reward for enduring all that other shit. But sometimes I just didn’t want to deal with all that. Sometimes, I just wanted to fuck. She didn’t understand that. She just didn’t get it, so I left. Was it wrong of me to just want to be spontaneous every once in a while?”
“Of course not,” I’d said. “Spontaneous sex is the the only kind I have.”
We’d had a few marathon sessions at his place. He’d even managed to make me come a couple of times, which was saying something. It was fun, but nothing more. Or at least for me, it wasn’t. “My wife never made me feel even half as good as you do,” he’d said the last time. “When can I see you again?”
There was something different in his tone then, and I knew a line had been crossed. I get it—when someone makes you feel good, it’s difficult not to associate those feelings with that person, and to think they’re now responsible for making you feel that way. I could’ve been anyone, though. Or rather, anyone could have made him feel that way. His wife could have. She just had certain criteria that needed to be met first, criteria that he was unwilling to meet, and therefore they’d gone their separate ways.
I stopped returning his texts, his calls, ignored the emails, didn’t go into the bank. That was a couple of months ago, and I haven’t heard from him in at least three weeks. I figured he’d got the message. But now, with his wife staring me down, I’m not so sure. It’s clear he’s lied to me. No ex-wife would be this mad about her ex getting laid. No, this is current wife territory. I don’t know what to say. I may be a crazy person who wants to ruin a man, but I’m not a monster. I’ve always drawn the line at screwing married men.
“He told me you’d left him,” I say, keeping my voice level. “He told me you weren’t together anymore.”
Matt’s wife blinks at me, her face a mask of hardened emotion. She doesn’t believe me. Doesn’t want to believe me. Women are always ready to castrate their husbands when they discover they’ve been cheating on them, but if they find out who the woman is? That’s even better. That’s another person to scream and yell at. Occasionally, a woman will choose to believe their husbands were seduced by some slutty temptress, and that the whole thing is the other woman’s fault. That way they can flip out, slash all of his shirts with a pair of dressmaker’s scissors, go key the woman’s car, and then let their man move back into the house after he solemnly promises never to do it again.
Yeah, right.
Either way, I have no idea what the hell I’m meant to do. She’s caught me completely off guard. Do I apologize for what I’ve done and assure her she’s the one her husband loves? How did she find out it was me, anyway? And Matt, that lying motherfucker…
“It was just sex,” I say.
Her eyes widen. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? How many times was it, anyway?”
“A few.”
“Where? Where did you do it?”
“Does it matter?”
Her eyes flash in anger. “You’re goddamn right it matters. Did you do it in my home? In my bed?”
We didn’t actually do it in the bed. Just everywhere else. I shake my head.
“You’re a bitch,” she says. “He’s a married man. He has a family. You’re a home wrecker, d’you know that? You probably prey on married men. You’re one of those women who can’t be happy unless they’re sabotaging someone else’s happiness. I don’t even have to know you to be able to see that. Well, it’s all over. D’you hear me? It’s over. If you ever try to get in touch with my husband again…”
She doesn’t finish the sentence, as though the implied threat is so bad it’s better left unsaid. “I’m just trying to eat my lunch,” I say flatly. “I’m not trying to ruin anything for you.”
Mrs. Ellen Campbell is shaking her head. “I don’t care about your lunch,” she snaps. “I don’t care about you at all. But I knew that something was going on with him. I just knew it.”
“So you were right. Does that make you feel better or worse?”
“Being able to find you and look you in the eye and tell you what a cunt you are actually does make me feel better. I’m sure my husband isn’t the first married man you’ve slept with. I bet none of the other women have had the nerve to tell you what a piece of shit you are. If you had any respect for yourself—or anyone else—you wouldn’t do this kind of thing. You obviously think you’re worthless. And you know what? You’re right. Women like you never find someone to be with long term. I feel sorry for you.”
She shoots me one last venomous glare and then turns on her heel and leaves. Most of the people in the café are looking at me. I feel strangely devoid of anything—I’m not embarrassed, or ashamed, or humiliated. In a way, I feel as though Ellen Campbell has just spoken some fundamental truth about myself that I didn’t want to see. I am a piece of shit, and I am worthless. Maybe that’s why I feel completely unaffected by what she just told me—because I know it’s true.
******
The Callahan Corporation’s located in an intimidating glass-and-steel skyscraper that literally does seem to touch the sky. When I was a teenager, I always thought the building looked pretty cool. So shiny and new, reflecting great panels of sunlight over the city.
Now, I think it’s the most obvious phallic object ever constructed by the hands of man. Hey, Chicago, check it out. My name’s Aidan Callahan and I have the biggest dick in this entire state. Don’t stare at it too long or it’ll take your damn eye out.
I’ve never actually had to step inside the place until now. For some reason, I feel nervous. I’ve played this out down to the most minute details, but now that it’s actually happening it suddenly feels surreal. What if it doesn’t go as planned? What if he somehow knows exactly what I’m up to? I wouldn’t rule out that possibility. It’s very likely I could walk in there and he’ll tell me the only reason he agreed to meet so readily is because he knows what I’m going to say and he wants to confront me.
He’s a powerful man, it’s true. I’m sure he has many friends in high places. Who knows what he’d do if he thought his company is in jeopardy. Is it possible that I’m putting myself in some sort of danger?
A tiny voice in my head keeps telling me that I should just turn around, I should forget about all this. Perhaps a part of me has heard what Julia’s been saying over the years. A part that does want to forgive, to move on. I know that’s not true, though. I’m just not capable of that.
I step into the elevator with a throng of people. On the outside it might appear as though I know exactly what I’m doing, but my palms have started to sweat, my heart rate racing out of my chest. The elevator stops at the tenth floor and people get out. I could get out with them—get out, hop on the next elevator going down and skip out of here. I’m beginning to feel like I’m way out of my league.
But then an image of my brother flashes through my mind. My brother who is no longer here, my brother who I will never see again. He sacrificed everything for me. I can do this for him.
I take a deep breath.
I can do this.
I can do this.