TWO
When the alarm goes off at five o’clock the next morning, I’m jolted from a disturbing dream about Mel Gibson leading a clan of burly kilt-wearing warriors into battle. There’s a lot of spears, screaming, and blue face paint, along with copious belching.
I grope for my iPhone on the nightstand, knocking it to the floor in the process.
“Mr. Bingley.” I gently poke the slumbering ball of fur on my chest. “Mr. Bingley, wake up.”
He lifts his head from his paws and blinks, then yawns cavernously, flattening his ears and displaying his canines. Then he lowers his head and promptly goes back to sleep.
“Mr. Bingley,” I insist, rubbing his cheek. “I have to get up.”
His answer is a gentle snore.
“C’mon, kitty, Mommy has to go to work so she can afford to buy you kibble. You don’t want to starve, right?”
Sometimes, like now, I wonder if his hearing is better than he lets on, because in answer to my question I get a tail flicked in my face.
“You leave me no choice.” I roll to my side, dislodging the cat. He leaps clear with a little disgruntled chirrup at my bad manners.
I fish my phone off the floor, then hold it an inch from my nose as I fumble to find the “Stop” button on the alarm. I grab my glasses from the nightstand and put them on, bringing the room into view.
Mr. Bingley sits at the end of the bed, giving me a look like I’ve offended his great ancestors.
“I know, I’m a disobedient slave. Let’s go get breakfast.”
I shuffle into the kitchen with the cat at my heels. I feed Mr. Bingley, then make myself a cup of coffee while waiting for last night’s leftovers to reheat in the microwave. I made meat loaf—my grandmother’s recipe, the best comfort food in the world—and listened to the party rage on across the hall. I was tempted to call the police, but that seemed snitchy, so I suffered through hours of screams and laughter until it got quiet around one a.m. because, I assume, everyone passed out.
Or whatever it is people do after a rousing game of strip poker.
I’m shoveling meat loaf into my mouth when a door slams out in the hallway. Curious to see who’s doing the walk of shame at quarter past five on a Saturday morning, I head to the front door with my plate and peer out the peephole.
There stands the Mountain across the hall, wearing a gray sweatshirt and matching sweatpants on his massive frame. He’s got a pair of earbuds in and is thumbing through his phone, swiping his finger across the screen like he’s searching for something. Music?
Is he going jogging?
No. That would be ridiculous. It’s December in New York City. The sun isn’t even up yet; I’d be surprised if the temperature outside is above freezing. And let’s not forget the boobs and beers of last night. He’s probably nursing a massive hangover, not to mention considerable chafing in his groin area. And he couldn’t have had more than four hours of sleep, tops. He’s probably just going to Starbucks.
He finds whatever he was looking for on his phone, tucks it inside his waistband, and starts to do stretching exercises.
You don’t need to stretch to go get coffee.
The man is stretching in a hallway at quarter past five on a Saturday morning after a long night of debauchery, in preparation for a predawn run in the freezing cold.
Clearly, he’s not human. And he’s crazy. He’s an insane kilt-wearing alien who enjoys dirty card games, big breasts, alcohol, and early-morning jogs around dangerous urban areas.
Fascinated, I watch as he does this whole elaborate routine of bends and flexes, warming up his muscles. By the time he’s done, I’m exhausted. I’m also finished with my meat loaf. Then the Mountain jogs off down the hallway, headed in the opposite direction of the elevators, which means he must be taking the stairs.
We’re on the nineteenth floor.
I wish I had Kellen’s phone number so I could find out who this psychopath is. But Kellen and I are only friendly neighbors, not friends who do things together, so I’m out of luck.
I shower and dress, then kiss Mr. Bingley good-bye and head to work. The morning air on my face is a freezing slap. It’s a half-block walk to the subway station, but it might as well be a half marathon for the way I’m sweating and wheezing when I get there, despite the cold. I’ve got a treadmill in my bedroom I keep promising myself I’m going to use, but its current main purpose is as a clothes hanger.
It’s another half-block walk to the office. I ride the elevator up to the thirty-third floor with Denny, the building’s head maintenance guy, who, for the past ten years has been telling me the worst jokes ever invented.
Invariably, they involve farts.
“An old woman goes to the doctor,” he says, starting in as always with no preamble. “She says to the doctor, ‘I have a really embarrassing problem. You see, I constantly fart, but my farts don’t smell, and they don’t make any noise, so it hasn’t bothered me all these years. I’ve even farted three times since coming into your office.’”
Denny looks at me to make sure I’m listening. I nod solemnly, wondering if perhaps I died years ago in some terrible accident and I’ve been living in purgatory ever since. Honestly, it would explain a lot.
Denny continues. “‘I see,’ says the doctor, and prescribes her some pills. ‘Take these three times a day, and come back for a checkup in a week.’ A week later, the woman storms into the doctor’s office. ‘Doctor, what have you done? Ever since I started taking those pills, my farts have become unbearably smelly! You’ve made it worse!’
“The doctor calmly replies, ‘Now that we’ve cured your sinuses, let’s start working on your hearing.’”
My smile is feeble. “Good one.”
“You think? I told my wife that joke this morning at breakfast, and she didn’t think it was funny.”
Denny has been married for about one hundred years to Phyllis, a woman I’ve never met but for whom I have great sympathy.
“Here’s my floor. Have a great day, Denny.”
“See you around, kiddo,” he calls as the doors open and I step off the elevator.
The reception area is deserted, as is the cubicle field. I take off my coat and scarf, settle into my chair, and have just removed the rubber bands from the manuscript Portia gave me when from the hallway leading to the executive offices a man appears, striding confidently down the hall with a mug in his hand. He’s in navy slacks and a crisp white dress shirt, the collar open and the sleeves rolled halfway up his strong forearms.
My heart stops dead in my chest.
It’s Michael Maddox, CEO of Maddox Publishing, the most perfect man who’s ever lived.
I’ve been in love with him for a decade. Inconveniently, he’s married.
It’s a strange fact that no matter his pace, Michael appears to me to be always moving in slow motion, with a gentle breeze stirring his hair, a golden glow around his head. To call him beautiful would be doing him a disservice. The man is glorious. Godlike. He’s a Michelangelo sculpture brought to life. Black hair, broad shoulders, a pair of blue eyes that could melt steel but mostly melt panties. He does, in fact, bear a striking resemblance to Superman.
And he’s headed right toward me!
My first instinct is to hide. But he’s already seen me, so my desire to throw myself under my desk until he passes will just have to suck it.
“Well, hello there.” He stops by my desk and smiles at me, and I swear I hear angels singing. “I see I’m not the only unlucky sod working on the weekend. How are you, Joellen?”
He’s originally from London, so he has this incredibly suave British accent, which is made even more incredible as it caresses the vowels in my name. That he remembers me at all makes me quiver all over.
“Good morning, Mr. Maddox.”
Thank you, God, for allowing me to sound like a human being and not the screaming playground of kindergarten children that I am inside.
He quirks his lips. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Michael?”
I nearly faint. Not only does he remember my name, he remembers having talked to me before. Sweet baby Jesus, Christmas came early this year.
“Michael.” I say his name with such reverence I’m surprised tiny confetti hearts aren’t spilling off my tongue. Don’t be weird! Stop staring at him! Close your mouth!
I look down, cheeks flaming, and realize I’m clutching the manuscript so hard my knuckles are white. I force myself to breathe, which is probably the most difficult thing I’ve done in years.
“I hope we’re not working you too hard.” Michael frowns at the death grip I’ve got on the manuscript.
I unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “Just a little catch-up. Trying to get ahead for next week.” Lies, lies, all of it lies. You are one big fat liar. I wonder if his hair is as soft as it looks?
“Jolly good! I love to see initiative.”
His eyes—the blue of summer skies over an undiscovered tropical paradise—smile along with the rest of his face. He has little crinkle lines around them, which somehow only add to his beauty. Unlike mine, which make me look haggard.
“Well, I do love to take the initiative.”
As soon as the words are out, I want to stuff my fist into my mouth so I won’t say anything else, because I somehow managed to take an innocent expression and make it sound like I was propositioning him for sex. Which is proven beyond a doubt when Michael’s perfectly sculpted brows lift.
“Do you now?” he murmurs, sounding amused.
Why am I like this? I silently beg the universe. Why can’t I be a normal person? When are you going to drop a piano on my head and put me out of my misery?
After an excruciating moment wherein Michael watches my face burn and my hands act like big pale moths fluttering helplessly around the manuscript, he takes pity on me.
“I’ll let you get back to it, then. Can I get you a cup of coffee? I’m just on my way to the kitchen for a refill.”
I shake my head, too embarrassed to speak or even look at him.
“All right. Cheers.” He lifts his mug in farewell, then heads off toward the kitchen.
As soon as he’s out of sight, I slump facedown on my desk and groan.
I shouldn’t be allowed out in public.
I don’t see Michael again for the rest of the day. He might’ve thrown himself out a window to avoid having to speak to me again for all I know. Not that I’d blame him. I’m such a loser, it’s probably hard for someone like him to breathe the same air as me.
When I leave, it’s dark and cold, like the inside of my heart. And a few other places in my body. I’m so deep in self-recrimination mode when I get off the elevator on my floor that I walk right past Mrs. Dinwiddle standing in her open doorway.
“Ducky! Ducky!” she calls in an excited voice.
I turn around and blink at her. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Dinwiddle. Sorry, I didn’t see you there. I’m a little spaced out today.”
She makes a sweeping gesture with the hand she’s holding her martini in, causing gin to slosh out and spray the wood floor. “I’ve got news!”
Penelope Dinwiddle is a retired stage actress from Yorkshire, England, who found her fame and fortune in a Shakespeare troupe that toured Europe during the fifties and sixties. Now somewhere north of eighty, she hasn’t lost a bit of her theatrical nature. She stands in her doorway wearing red lipstick and false eyelashes, a flowing lavender chiffon robe and matching negligee, a white feather boa, and all her jewelry, including the diamond tiara given to her by some minor prince of the Saudi royal family.
She’s been married eight times. Kellen and I call her the Elizabeth Taylor of SoHo.
Giddy with excitement, she waves me over. Somewhere in the apartment, her Filipino caretaker, Blessica, shushes the yipping trio of Pomeranians named Fee, Fi, and Fo.
“So you know Kellen went to Scotland for the holidays.” Mrs. Dinwiddle adds emphasis every few words because there’s nothing she loathes more than a dull delivery.
“No, I didn’t know that. I haven’t talked to him in a few—”
“And his cousin the rugby player is staying in his apartment! They traded off, you see?” She tries to clap but only manages to spill more of her martini.
I ponder this information. So the Mountain is a rugby player. And he and Kellen have switched apartments for the holidays.
Wonderful. Judging by last night’s performance, I’m in for weeks of hell.
“Blessica ran into him this morning when she went to walk the dogs, and he told her the whole story! You know how she can get anyone to talk. She told me he was this big handsome fellow, but her eyesight isn’t what it used to be, bless the poor dear. Then I saw him just moments ago, and my word! He isn’t simply big—he’s gargantuan!”
From a pocket of her robe, she produces a Chinese silk fan. She snaps it open with a flourish and begins to fan her face, rolling her eyes in ecstasy at the thought of a large, good-looking athlete living on our floor.
“Yes, he’s huge. And noisy. I could hardly sleep with all that commotion last night.”
The fanning ceases. She peers at me, perplexed. “Commotion?”
This is when I remember that Mrs. Dinwiddle starts drinking at one o’clock in the afternoon every day because that’s cocktail hour in London. Her entire life is still run on London time. By nine p.m., she’s anesthetized in a snoring dog pile with Fee, Fi, and Fo on her pink satin bed.
“Never mind. Anyway, I was thinking of making lasagna for dinner tonight.”
Mrs. Dinwiddle crinkles her nose. “Italian?”
I resist the urge to sigh. Because I’m pathetic and have zero social life, I always cook dinner for Mrs. Dinwiddle on Saturday nights, but unfortunately my first few suggestions are usually met with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Divas are notoriously picky eaters.
“How about shepherd’s pie?”
“Oh, lovely!” She brightens, batting me coyly with the fan. “I haven’t had that in ages. It reminds me of the time I played Lady Macbeth at the Piccadilly and I met this strapping stagehand who was studying to be a chef—”
“I’ll see you in an hour,” I interrupt before she can wax poetic about one of her boy toys of yore.
“All right, Ducky! Ta!”
“Ta,” I mutter, stomping down the hall, irrationally angered that an eighty-year-old woman has better memories than anything I could possibly conjure in my most prurient fantasies.
My sexual dry spell has been going on so long it’s less of a drought and more of a biblical pestilence.
I open the door to find the cat sprawled in the middle of the living room floor like he’s been shot by a game hunter. “Hi, Mr. Bingley.”
He doesn’t lift his head until the door slams shut behind me, then he leaps to his feet like someone poked him with a hot iron and looks wildly around. Spotting me, he then pretends nonchalance and starts to groom his tail.
“You don’t fool me, kitty. You’re not that cool. C’mon, help me make dinner.”
He follows me into the kitchen, but not too quickly, making sure I know it was his idea and not mine.
I feed him, open a bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips to snack on while I make dinner, then get all the ingredients ready for the shepherd’s pie. I preheat the oven, dice the vegetables, and put a pot of salted water to boil on the stove for the potatoes. I’m in the middle of browning lamb, garlic, carrots, and onions when the music starts up across the hall.
It comes on full blast abruptly, like someone’s been listening to earphones and yanked the plug out of the receiver—all hard, squealing guitar riffs and thundering drums, loud enough to rattle my windows. Then the chorus kicks in, sung by a man who sounds as if his hobbies are smoking crack and swallowing razor blades.
Got yo BACK, muthafucka
I be WITH ya, muthafucka
We be gangstas, muthafucka, for LIFE!
“He’s got to be kidding me,” I say to the cat, who blandly slow blinks in response, like, He’s obviously not.
I turn off the burner, set down the wooden spoon, and, for the second time in twenty-four hours, march my butt across the hall to knock on my new neighbor’s door.