The One That Got Away by Melissa Pimentel (32)

Then

Ruby was late, again. In the weeks that had followed Ethan’s visit, she’d found herself sleeping more than ever. If she wasn’t at work, she was in bed, or lying on the couch, in a facsimile of bed, with the covers pulled up to her chin. Jess had tried to rouse her at first – at one point, mid-afternoon on a Sunday, she’d even poured a glass of water in her face to wake her from her seventeenth consecutive hour of sleep – but lately, she’d given up. ‘You might as well grow a beard and move into a hollowed-out tree,’ she’d say as she sailed out the door, leaving Ruby to wave half-heartedly from beneath her blanket.

At first, it had just been in the evenings when her eyes would begin to pull down like blinds, but now it was creeping into her mornings, too. The alarm would sound, but she wouldn’t move. It was as if she were pinned beneath a ton of concrete as it slowly solidified around her. She started to press the snooze button. Once. Twice. Oh, fuck it, just turn it off. She’d called in sick twice in the past month, and Tara/Melanie had started giving her serious side-eye as she crept past their desks late every morning.

The drinking probably wasn’t helping. Even she had to admit that her previous bottle a night had stretched to two, the warm fug of red wine calling to her constantly with its sweet, sleepy siren song. But it was more than that. The tiredness wasn’t just red-wine-drunk, or the residue of a near-permanent hangover. It was bone-deep. She could sense the weather by it, like an arthritic knee. And, as it was December, it was pretty much always there.

She managed to stay on top of things at work, the fear-based adrenalin driving her through the daytime hours. In fact, the more uncertain she became about the rest of her life, the more competent she became at her job. Meetings were scheduled seamlessly, cabs ordered, flowers and anniversary gifts dispatched, coffees brewed and delivered without a drop spilled. Recently, the MD had correctly remembered her name and thanked her for picking up his dry-cleaning, which was a personal highlight. He’d even looked her in the eyes when he’d said it – or at least at the middle of her forehead, which was much better than her chest or ass. It was demonstrable progress.

As for the rest of her life, there wasn’t much progress being made. The city still terrified her. Her world was still small, and getting smaller. Jess had lost patience with her. As for Ethan – well, it was hard to tell what was happening with him. They still spoke every night, dutifully exchanging scraps from their day (hers often plumped up with an injection of invented glamor) and, at the end of every conversation, reciting the same words of longing and love that had come so easily at the beginning. The phone calls were no longer acting as a blanket, wrapping her up and sending her off to sleep each night. Instead, she would lie in bed, the beginnings of a headache pressing against her temples, and quietly unpick the words until they were just a loose tangle of threads. How can he love me when he doesn’t know me? she would wonder. And if he did know me, how could he possibly love me?

These questions trudged slowly through her head as she placed her bag beneath her desk and booted up her computer. She checked the clock on the monitor as it flashed into life: 9:47 a.m. They were meant to be at their desks by 9:30 a.m. sharp. Ruby found it vaguely offensive that the opening time was so rigid when the closing time was more pliable than a contortionist.

She sighed, popped an Advil and clicked open her emails, scrolling through and deleting as she went. Among the notices for sample sales she’d never shop at and bar openings she’d never attend was an email from her father and Candace’s joint account entitled ‘Christmas’. She groaned inwardly before opening it.

Ruby’s cursor hovered over the Reply button before finally clicking Delete. Who asks about Christmas when it was still weeks away? Though it was early December, and the big tree had already gone up in Rockefeller Center (she’d seen it on the morning news), nothing about her life was feeling festive. The idea of having Ethan and his father around for Christmas dinner felt akin to inviting a pair of aliens who just happened to be passing through Earth. It was going to be hard enough finding things to say to Ethan when she was home for Christmas, never mind trying to negotiate the landmine field that would be a joint family dinner. As ever, Candace meant well, but had gone a step too far.

‘Atlas, you look like you’ve just smelled something really terrible.’ Ruby looked up to see Jefferson smiling down at her. He lifted an arm and took a tentative sniff. ‘It’s not me, is it?’

She broke into a fit of nervous giggles. ‘Of course not! I mean, I can’t smell anything bad, least of all you.’

‘Phew! That’s a relief. I just spent two hours with a client over breakfast, so I’d hate to learn now that she’d been holding her breath the whole time.’

Ruby felt a prickle of irritation at the thought of him having breakfast with an unknown, presumably glamorous, woman. She knew that this was irrational, but that didn’t help to abate the feeling. ‘Which client?’ she asked, reasonably casually.

‘Tracy Hornbridger from Ises – you know, the discount sportswear people? Sorry, the “active lifestyle brand”. She’s a total ballbuster, spent the whole time telling me that the entire campaign should be scrapped because she thought the print ads were the wrong shade of plum. They do a nice croissant down at Briar Street, though, so it wasn’t all bad.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ Ruby said. ‘About Tracy Hornbridger and the croissant.’

‘Both are equally important,’ he said. ‘Actually, no. The croissant is definitely more important.’

‘Duly noted. Do you need anything from me today?’

He smiled benignly at her. ‘No, you’re fine, kid. Thanks, though.’

‘Okay, well, just let me know if you do!’ Ruby could feel her cheeks beginning to flush and the rapid tap of her heartbeat in the base of her throat. Four months on and somehow she still wasn’t able to interact with him without threatening cardiac arrest.

‘Actually,’ he said, turning back towards her, ‘there is one thing you could do. I’ve got to go to this networking thing tonight – some new media bullshit drinks in SoHo.’

‘What time do you want the cab?’ she asked, hand already on the phone.

‘No, it’s not that, it’s just – Tara was supposed to come with me, but she can’t make it now, so I thought maybe you could come along and keep me company. It shouldn’t be too long, and these things are always so boring on your own. Plus, it might be a good way for you to meet some people from the industry. A few fellow rising stars.’

Ruby’s face was now almost unbearably hot. ‘Sure!’ she said, too enthusiastically. ‘I mean, if you want me to, I’m happy to come along.’ She looked down at her ancient H&M sweater and faded black pants slightly fraying at the seams. ‘I’m not sure if I’m really dressed for it, though . . .’

‘You look terrific. Besides, I promise you no one’s going to be noticing your outfit.’

Ruby wasn’t sure how to take this, so she just nodded. ‘If you think so,’ she said.

‘Great. We’ll just grab a cab outside at around eight. Sound okay to you?’

‘Perfect.’

He gave her one of his crinkly-eyed grins before turning to leave. ‘Looking forward to it,’ he called as he walked into his office.

‘Me too,’ she said, though she wasn’t sure that was exactly how she’d describe it.

The hours crawled by. Morning briefing. Burrito cart lunch. Several pensive trips to the ladies, where she stared into the mirror and wondered how she could possibly make it through a networking event. At four o’clock, a rush of emails flew into her inbox and she spent the next few hours chasing them back out again. And then, at a quarter to eight, she retreated back into the bathroom with her bag and proceeded to slick and blot several layers of too-bright lipstick onto her mouth. She remembered vaguely that Jess had once said that lipstick made every woman more confident, and she hoped – very dearly – that this was true now.

At five past eight, Jefferson opened the door of the taxi for her and ushered her in. She sat ramrod straight in the back seat next to him as the taxi careened downtown. She was desperately aware of every too-quick breath she took, every creak of the vinyl seat beneath her, every inch she slid towards him when the driver made a sharp right turn. For his part, Jefferson chatted blithely on, telling her about some recent humiliation of Martin’s involving a drag queen and a pair of Jimmy Choos. She heard herself laugh, or at least make a sound approximating a laugh, but she felt as if she was floating above, pressed tightly against the duct-tape-striped roof of the car, and watching them below.

The car pulled to a screeching halt and she slid off the seat, reaching out a hand to stop herself from hitting the Plexiglas divider.

‘Take it easy, man,’ Jefferson said, hitting the glass with his fist, and the driver turned around and gave an ambivalent shrug.

‘Nine fifty,’ he said, gesturing towards the little hole in the partition.

Jefferson peeled a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it through. He opened the door and slid out before turning back and offering Ruby a hand. ‘You ready?’ She took his hand nervously, registering the cool dryness of his palm and the clamminess of her own. Together, they faced an unmarked door, the thump of bass faintly audible from inside.

‘Jefferson! Is that you? You sonofabitch, how’ve you been?’ They turned to see a slick-looking man charging towards them in a too-shiny suit, hand already extended several paces away.

‘Scott!’ Jefferson said, taking the proffered hand and allowing his to be pumped enthusiastically. ‘How the hell are you?’

‘I’m good, man, I’m good. Making money, making money.’ The man’s face was unnaturally tight, and Ruby wondered briefly if he’d had work done.

‘Good for you,’ Jefferson replied, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced.

‘I hear you’re at Diamond Age now! What the hell is that about, man?’

‘Well, you know.’ Jefferson looked suddenly uncomfortable, and Ruby screwed up all of her courage (or maybe it was the lipstick) and decided to intervene.

‘Hi,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I’m Ruby.’

The tight-faced man looked her up and down and gave her a wolfish grin. ‘I bet you are,’ he said. ‘Scott Tripper, at your service.’ He did a low, swooping bow before raising her hand to his lips. They felt hot and too-soft against her skin, and she fought the urge to pull away. ‘I see you’re not once bitten, twice shy,’ he said, reaching over and clapping Jefferson on the back. Both men’s eyes were fixed on Ruby. ‘You two heading in?’ he asked, nodding towards the unmarked door.

‘No, actually,’ Jefferson said. ‘We were just on our way out.’ Ruby glanced up at him in surprise, but his face was calm and unreadable.

‘Too bad. I guess that means there’s more fish for the big shark to eat! Later!’ The tight-faced man fist-bumped them both and disappeared into the bar, a blast of R & B welcoming him in. Ruby and Jefferson were left blinking and stunned on the sidewalk in his wake.

‘What a fucking asshole,’ Jefferson said, and then, with a sideways glance at Ruby, ‘sorry.’

‘Don’t be. He seems like a total asshole.’

‘He’s a media buyer. I used to work with him before I made the shift to creative.’ They stood in the middle of the sidewalk, two still points in a sea of office workers and partygoers flooding past in the icy evening air. ‘Look, I’m sorry I made you bail on your very first networking event, but I promise you it’s just filled with pricks like him.’

‘In that case, you definitely don’t need to apologize.’

‘Let me at least buy you a drink.’

The relief that had been flooding through Ruby ever since Jefferson had said they weren’t going into the bar suddenly made a hasty retreat. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s a Tuesday night, so I should probably be getting back.’

‘Come on, it’s early! And you’re young! I know this great little cocktail bar a couple of blocks over.’

Ruby pulled her coat tightly around her. ‘I guess I could have one,’ she said, plunging her hands in her pockets.

It had snowed the night before, and the streets were banked with blackened piles. Ruby’s boots – cheap from TJ Maxx and decidedly not waterproof – skidded in the slush, and Jefferson held her elbow to steady her as they walked. It was a moonless night but SoHo was still bright from the shop-front windows and street lamps hanging above. Their breath formed little puffs in front of their mouths, like empty speech bubbles.

‘Here we are,’ he said, opening yet another unmarked door. This one led down a narrow set of stairs and into a small parquet foyer. A deep-red velvet curtain hung at the other end, waiting to be parted.

‘Are we going to a bordello or something?’ Ruby asked.

‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll like it.’ He held the curtain open for her and she slipped through. Inside was the most beautiful room she had ever seen. The walls were painted a burnished gold, and the floors were laid with intricately patterned tiles that sparkled in the dim light. A long polished-brass bar hugged one wall, manned by supernaturally attractive bartenders, each locked in concentration on whatever potion they were mixing. Small wooden tables were scattered across the floor, candles flaring and guttering on each, and beautiful people held hands across them and spoke in low, intimate voices that came together as a collective satisfied sigh.

Ruby felt instantly ill at ease.

‘It’s cool, right?’ Jefferson said, nodding hello to the maître d’ (a dead ringer for Gwyneth Paltrow) and weaving his way to an empty table in the far corner. ‘Is here okay?’ he asked, taking her coat and pulling out her chair without waiting for a response. ‘I come here pretty often, so they keep it free for me.’

‘That’s . . . awesome,’ Ruby said, and she meant it in the literal sense. At that moment, she was filled with awe: for the place, for the people, and for this man – her boss – who was currently raising a finger and signaling a passing waiter.

‘Hey, George, how you doing? This is my friend Ruby. She and I would both like two gin martinis – Old Raj, please, and with a twist.’

‘Of course,’ the waiter said with a wink. ‘The usual.’

‘You do like gin?’ Jefferson asked after the waiter had floated away to the next table. He said it more like a statement than a question, so Ruby took it as one and smiled. ‘Great, great. Even if you don’t, you’ll like it here. Best martinis in Manhattan.’

‘Cool,’ Ruby said lamely. She fiddled with the cuffs of her sweater and looked nervously around the room.

‘You okay?’ Jefferson asked, reaching across the table and touching her gently on the forearm. She reacted like she’d been stung by a particularly vicious wasp.

‘Fine!’ she said, too loudly. The couple next to them glanced over curiously. ‘Sorry,’ she said, more quietly. ‘I’m fine.’

The waiter reappeared and placed two chilled martini glasses in front of them, both filled to the brim. Jefferson lifted his in a toast – not spilling a drop in the process – and took a sip. ‘Perfection,’ he said, and then gestured towards her glass. ‘You’ve got to drink it while it’s still ice-cold.’

Ruby lifted the glass to her lips and took a nervous gulp. The gin was cold and crisp and slightly pine-scented, and reminded her vaguely of New England winters spent sledding as a child. She felt the warmth as it slipped down her throat and the not-unpleasant burn as it hit her empty stomach. She looked up and saw him watching her intently. ‘It’s really good,’ she said, and then took another sip as if to prove it.

‘Good. I thought you’d like it. You’ve always seemed like a woman of discerning taste.’

Ruby wasn’t used to being called either discerning or a woman by an attractive man who was (presumably) twice her age, so she smiled and took a third sip in response. The alcohol was working its way through her bloodstream now, and she felt a fizzing in her fingertips and a haziness settle in her brain. She placed the glass on the table carefully and surveyed the room again. ‘So you really come here all the time?’ she asked.

‘Most nights,’ he said. ‘I like to come here after work, blow off a little steam. I’ve got a place up on Seventh Ave and 60th that I crash at some nights when I can’t face the train back to Westchester. My wife hates it, but . . .’ He gave a shrug as if his wife hating something he did was irritating but inevitable, like a winter cold, or a mosquito bite.

‘You’re married?’ Ruby asked. She felt her shoulders loosen: somehow, in that moment, being in a dimly lit bar with a married boss seemed less threatening than an unmarried one. ‘But you don’t wear a ring.’

‘Metal allergy,’ he said. ‘Makes me break out in hives. Anyway, enough about my dull life. I want to hear more about Ruby Atlas. How are you finding life in the big city?’

To Ruby’s horror, she found her eyes filling with tears. ‘Oh, you know,’ she said. ‘It’s okay. The job is great.’

He sat back and let out a low whistle. ‘Jesus, things must be bad if you think your job is great.’

She shook her head, but couldn’t manage to squeeze out a single word.

‘Hey,’ he said, leaning across the table and placing a tentative hand on her forearm. ‘You can talk to me, you know.’

‘Do you know where the bathroom is?’ she asked, leaping to her feet. ‘It’s fine, I’ll find it!’ She picked up her bag (the cheapness of which, like her boots, was starkly highlighted in contrast with the opulent room) and charged towards what she assumed was the bathroom, but which turned out to be a storage cupboard. ‘The bathroom is through there,’ one of the beautiful waiters said gently, and she managed to lock herself inside just before the tears spilled over. ‘Shit,’ she said to herself. ‘Shit.’ She sat on the toilet and took a few calming breaths. The bathroom was completely covered in mirrors, floor to ceiling, like a fun house. Though at this particular moment, as she watched her eyes refill with tears, it was not fun in the least. What sort of sadist would design such a bathroom, she wondered? Even if she hadn’t been having an emotional breakdown, she had never done anything in a bathroom that she’d wished she could watch herself do, and that included the time she pulled the Sigma Chi treasurer into the frat house bathroom and had sex with him in the mouldy shower cubicle. Especially that, in fact.

There was a soft knock on the bathroom door, and then, after a few minutes, another, more insistent one. She stared at herself in the mirror. She couldn’t stay in there for ever – Jefferson might send someone in to find her, which would be mortifying. She took a deep breath and stood up, running a pinkie finger underneath each eye to wipe away her smudged mascara. She ran her hands under the tap and dried them with one of the little towels rolled up in a wicker basket next to the sink (a real towel! Made of cloth! She couldn’t believe the profligacy of the place, the glamor) before rubbing in a few pumps of the expensive moisturizer for good measure. She pulled open the door, gave the woman waiting a haughty smile, and walked back into the bar.

Jefferson was where she had left him, gazing around the room like a man surveying his considerable kingdom. A pair of fresh martinis had been placed on the table. ‘I thought you might need another drink,’ he said as she approached.

She sat back down and immediately took a sip, then another. Her head felt pleasantly fuggy now, and all of the upset of the previous ten minutes began to evaporate. ‘Thanks,’ she said, gesturing towards the drink. ‘I guess I did need that.’

He laughed and took a sip of his own. ‘A wise man once said to me that martinis are like breasts. One is not enough, three is too many, but two is just right.’

‘Sounds about right to me,’ she said.

‘Though sometimes there are extenuating circumstances.’ He signaled the waiter as he sailed past. ‘Two more, please.’

‘Actually,’ Ruby said, feeling suddenly bold. ‘I’d like a bourbon, straight up.’

Jefferson raised an eyebrow. ‘A bourbon drinker, eh? You’re full of surprises.’

In that moment, gin-warmed and lifted by the unrelenting goldenness of the room, she felt sophisticated, even a little bit glamorous. She was a woman capable of surprising a man like Jefferson. She smiled at him across the table and he winked.

After that, there was another round, and then another. Ruby’s vision tunneled and skipped. The waiter’s smiling face appeared and disappeared, Jefferson’s hand moved under the table onto her knee, and then there was the flickering rush of the street through the cab window. There was a doorman holding a door open, a bed with gray sheets, her sweater tossed over a chair, Jefferson’s face looming above her.

She woke up on top of the sheets, wearing just her underwear. The room had the chilled air of a place not often lived in, and she clutched her arms across her chest and shivered. Jefferson was asleep next to her. He looked older somehow, the lines between his eyes deepening into a V, his skin chalky in the artificial lamplight. She sat up and looked around the room. The walls were painted a tasteful pale blue, and the carpet was thick under her bare feet as she padded unsteadily towards the bathroom. She stumbled through and was sick in the toilet, just once and as quietly as she could manage, careful not to wake him up. She pressed her forehead against the cool white basin as the scenes from the night flickered past.

Finally, once she was fairly sure she wouldn’t be sick again, she gathered herself to her feet. She stared at herself in the mirror, taking in her slightly smudged eyeliner and the lipstick that had settled onto the chapped patches of her lips. She looked haunted, like a Victorian drawing of herself, all big hollowed-out eyes and pale skin. She carefully picked up her clothes from where they were scattered across the room, each item feeling like a piece of evidence at a crime scene. She dressed slowly. It was still night, but her hangover had already started to kick in, dovetailing seamlessly with her residual drunkenness. She checked the time on her phone: 4:34 a.m. She had thirteen missed calls, nine from Ethan, four from Jess. She placed the phone gently back in her bag and walked out of the apartment, shutting the door firmly behind her.

The night air was bitter, and the wind whipped down Seventh Avenue with merciless intent. The street was quiet now, all dimly lit doorways and shuttered windows, and she hurried into the subway. She would have taken a cab, but she only had six dollars on her, and besides, she didn’t feel capable of communicating with a cab driver at that particular moment. In fact, she felt she might never be capable of speech again. Did they still take vows of silence in convents? she wondered. Was that avenue open to her?

She spent the ride home with her eyes half closed, head tilted back against the window. The stations rushed past: 34th Street, Union Square, Canal Street. She knew now that everything had changed. She would get a new job. She would never again accept a drink request from an older, married man. She would meet the city head on and fight her way through it. She would no longer be afraid. She would be smarter, harder, tougher. She would be an adult.

She would also end things with Ethan. She’d send him a letter, and she’d say goodbye. She knew that she couldn’t live with herself if she told him what she’d done and he hated her for it, but she also knew that she couldn’t live with herself if he forgave her. She had to let him go, cleanly and without explanation, so she could keep on living.

She closed her eyes and let the rhythm of the train soothe her. Court Street, DeKalb, Atlantic. She would live with herself, alone. It would be some sort of penance, or maybe some sort of salvation. Prospect Avenue. Her eyes shot open and she darted off the train and into the late-night morning.