NOT THE CALL I EXPECTED
Sara
“There’s another Suit, Sara.” Carly nudges me behind the concierge desk.
I glance at the door and watch the tall, blond businessman walk in.
“Nope. Sara likes the dark-haired ones,” Robert chimes in behind me.
“Ugh. You two.” I shake my head and try to ignore them, hating that they’ve noticed me ogling every dark-haired businessman that has walked into the lobby over the past month.
I’m a smart, young, good-looking, independent woman. I don’t need him.
“How’s the new roommate? Does she know about your crazy manhunt?” Carly asks.
“Okay, first of all, I am not holding a manhunt,” I tell Carly determinedly, rolling my eyes. “And she’s fabulous. The stars are definitely smiling down on me.” I wink at them both, feeling positive.
“Did you get the tickets for Wicked for room 511?” Robert asks as the phone rings.
I hand him the envelope with the tickets as he picks up. “Concierge, this is Robert speaking.” There’s silence before he slides his gaze in my direction. “Sara, it’s Walter.” Then Robert hangs up the phone.
“Huh? Walter Walter?” I ask, confused.
Walter never calls for me. I doubt he knows my name. He’s a short little man who likes to gather us all in weekly meetings to tell us how we’re doing and how we can improve our jobs, while he skims his eyes down our skirts. He’s only ever looked, but the girls and I still like to wear pants on the days he schedules the weekly meetings.
“That’s right. Walter, the hotel manager. He wants to talk to you. Now,” Robert adds.
“On my way.” I run my hands down my uniform and head to the private offices in a secluded section of the hotel’s lobby floor.
Honestly, this can’t be good. I’m trembling so hard I need to press my lips together as I rap on Walter’s door. His name—engraved on the plaque—stares ominously back at me before I hear his voice from within the office saying, “Come in.”
My hand twists the doorknob and I force myself to stride inside with confidence.
I spot Walter behind his desk and instantly think, I’m getting fired.
He’s not making eye contact.
He’s not looking at my skirt.
Instead, he stares at a paper as he says, “Take a seat.”
You are so fucking fired, Sara.
Or maybe I’m getting a promotion?
Maybe I’ve done an outstanding job and am getting an employee-of-the-month award.
No, dumbass. You got caught fucking a hotel guest in room 1103 and now you’re doomed.
Well, he was a hot hotel guest! a part of me chirps in.
That is irrelevant, my bitch of a conscience insists. You fucked him at the hotel and you got caught. Now you’ll not only never see the guy again and never know his name—you also won’t have a job.
My whole body feels as taut as a bowstring. I’m so tense, if I move too fast or too brusquely, I might break. God, please don’t let Walter know about room 1103, I think, as I sit down.
“We’re letting you go.”
I swallow.
Fuck.
He really fired me.
He actually just fired me.
I am being let go.
Out of a job.
Completely and utterly… fucked.
Oh… my… God.
It’s hard to respond to him. This is the second time I’ve been fired in my life. And I’ve only had two jobs. What does that say about me?
I suddenly don’t like myself very much. I feel like a worm. A worm who’s scared shitless now that I’m going to be all alone, in a big bad city, job hunting again.
“I… is it something I did?” I wring my hands.
“Not really. More like didn’t do. We don’t feel you’re as passionate as some of your coworkers. We’re also making cuts, and when it came down to it, I believe you’re the weakest member of the team.” He pushes his glasses back up his nose and stares down at my file. “You can finish your shift and pick up your check on your way out.”
Wow. That’s it?
No “Have a good life, Sara.” Or “It was great working with you.”
No “Thanks for the tie you got me for my birthday.” Or, at the very least, “Sara, thanks for bringing us donuts out of the kindness of your heart all those times.”
Wow.
I’m surprised I manage to walk steadily to the door, because it feels as if my world is spinning like a carousel that is going faster and faster by the second. What am I going to do?
I stumble into the ladies’ room and quickly hide myself inside a stall. I exhale a very effusive “Fuck!” and put my hands on my temples and review my conversation with Walter. I’m an absolute wreck. My dad always said I’d turn out this way. My dad, who is divorcing my mom and seems to think we’re no good for him, was right; I’m apparently not good for anything.
Picking dancing as a career would lead me nowhere.
I’d end up with a dead-end job and no “decent” college degree to save me from it.
I groan and lean back against the stall door, blinking my eyes as I fight back tears. Maybe I deserved to be fired. Walter wasn’t wrong: I wasn’t in love with this job. I wanted to love it like I love dancing, but I don’t. It must have shown in my work.
I gather my shit and leave the restroom feeling drained and defeated, and like I’m the biggest loser on the planet. Don’t cry, I tell myself, as I head back to the concierge desk. You can cry all you want when you get back to your apartment. Focus on getting your shit and doing what’s left of your job until your time is up.
“What did Walter want?” Robert asks.
I swallow hard before squeaking out, “He fired me.”
“What? He fired you?” The flare in Robert’s eyes reveals his complete shock.
Carly doesn’t look nearly as surprised, though. “That’s sad… Oh, Sara, I’m so sorry,” she says.
“I know. Who’ll cover for you next time, right?” I snap, my self-defense mechanism bubbling out to hide my hurt.
Carly ignores my attitude. “You know who else got fired? Bert, one of the guys from the front door. Also a shit ton of the cleaning ladies…”
I tune Carly out as I let Robert hug me and tell me he’s there for me if I need anything. I nod, pry free, and scan the concierge desk for any items that might be mine that I’d need to take home with me.
There’s nothing for me to pack. That’s what happens when you’re a concierge. I don’t have drawers full of stuff or pictures on my desk. I go, I work, I leave.
And today it’s really hard to leave. I can’t believe this is my last day. God, I never thought I’d miss being a concierge. Say goodbye, Sara, I think, as I say farewell to my colleagues and return home, with no job, no dream, and without my mystery man’s name.
* * *
“What happened?”
Bryn finds me bawling into a tissue when she arrives at the apartment. I’m so relieved to see her, I begin to cry harder.
I guess it’s like they say. Man plans, and God laughs. Wow, he must be laughing pretty hard right now.
“I got fired. I had no idea they’d start making cuts and I’d be the first to go. What am I going to do?” I blow my nose and toss the tissue aside while Bryn grabs a waste basket, tosses in all the tissue balls and the empty box of tissues, and sets a fresh box before me.
“You’ll get a new job.” She sits down beside me.
God, I knew I shouldn’t have kept looking for dancing gigs. I got my hopes up and my dreams distracted me from my real job. I should’ve stayed focused. “It’s not that easy—”
“You can walk dogs with me,” Bryn interrupts.
“That’s your gig.”
“I’ll split it with you,” Bryn insists. “I won’t be able to dedicate as much time to it as I want to—I’ll be too busy working on the start-up.”
“Really?” I eye her. “How are you so confident you’ll get the money?” I hate being the party pooper, but we need to be realistic here. Honestly, I think it’s a pipe dream. She’s really smart and great at designing clothes, but no matter how much talent you have, I know that to be successful, luck has to somehow play a part as well.
And luck doesn’t seem to like this zip code.
“Because I saw him again tonight, and I’m hoping I can wear him down,” Bryn says optimistically.
Okay, so “him” is Bryn’s equivalent of my Hot Workaholic. His name is Aaric Christos. Manhattan bachelor soon to be wed. Billionaire investor tycoon. How Bryn got a meeting with the man recently is a miracle.
“It’s not wishful thinking?” I ask. Because how many miracles can one girl in Manhattan expect in her life? “Sorry to break it to you, roomie,” I say softly, “but half of the city wants the man’s backing. Everyone thinks they have a genius idea or wants someone who’ll help them make their stupid idea genius.”
“Maybe. But I still mean to wear him down.” Clinging to her positivity, Bryn heads to the kitchen to pour us some tea. “You okay?” she asks with concern as she returns and hands a cup to me.
“I don’t know,” I finally admit, wishing I could feel as positive as Bryn does right now. “I can’t figure out what’s gone wrong with my life.” I pass a crumpled tissue along my nose, wad it up tight, and pull a new one from the box as I recite my failings. “I went to Tisch School of Arts here, in NYU. But I broke my ankle during my first big break. Two years went by, and recovery was a bitch, but even once healed, nothing. No leads, no successful auditions. So I became a concierge, and even then, doing something supposedly easy, I fail.”
“You didn’t fail, Sara. It wasn’t your endgame, it was your in-the-meantime job.”
“Yeah, well.” I think about it for a moment, but that doesn’t make me feel better. Because being a concierge was at least something real. Not some dream. It at least fed me, clothed me, and kept me busy. “I’m starting to wonder if most of us aren’t destined to be stuck in our in-the-meantime.”
“I might agree… but then you see someone, someone who had it worse than anyone, and who made it big. Not because he got lucky—he worked for it. It makes sense that if we work hard enough, we can go somewhere, too.”
“You really like this guy,” I say.
I feel a pang of worry all of a sudden. Aaric Christos is as hard-to-get as hard-to-get can get. And he’s in a relationship with some spoiled society darling. Does Bryn have a death wish or what?
“No. I… I admire him,” she counters. “We were in high school when we met, and I admired his gumption. I suppose I liked him, too,” she admits, “but I could never understand how he made me feel. I guess I liked him enough that it confused me.” As if she’s jinxing herself by admitting that, she quickly shakes her head. “But enough about that. I’m excited about the start-up. If this takes off and you don’t have a job, I’ll hire you.”
“When do I start?” I smirk.
“Who knows? Call God’s number and ask.” She flashes Christos’s card and I try to snatch it out of her hand.
“Give me that,” I say as she pries it away. I need it more than she does.
“Over my dead booty. It’s my golden ticket and I’m not giving it up, even to you. I’ll give you some of my chocolate, though.” She disappears for a second and returns to toss a Godiva chocolate bar in my lap. I groan. Chocolate is my weakness, dammit, and my roommate didn’t take long to figure it out.
“Do we have any ice cream?” I ask.
She brings an ice-cream tub from the freezer and two spoons. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Can I adopt you?” I straighten up in my seat and watch her settle down by me.
“Come on. I’m only two years older than you,” she says as she pries the ice cream open, winking.
“I know what else I’m missing. Confidence. I seem to have lost it somewhere,” I admit to her as I stare at the silent TV across our living room.
I think of Bryn and her start-up dream, still so far out of reach.
I think of myself and my own dreams, the dreams that, no matter how amazing, are still getting in the way of me making a solid foundation with what I currently have to work with.
And I think of my mom and her dreams, and the heartbreak she’s enduring at the hands of my dad. Her biggest dream, that of a loving husband and family, shattered.
God, it fucks me up every time I think about it. Knowing my mom is hurting hurts. But it’s not like she can hold my dad back. He doesn’t love her anymore.
Now my mom needs to learn how to be on her own again, and be comfortable like that.
Just like you need to go out there and look for what you want, rather than keep settling. Because the option of settling is no longer on the table, Sara. You’re jobless. So now—do you want to do what you love? Or do you want to go for average again?
“I have confidence in you,” Bryn says as she helps me scoop up a spoonful of ice cream.
Suddenly I’m tired of feeling sad. Today has been a wreck. I just want to focus on the good things, the fact that I have someone to share a good tub of vanilla ice cream with. Someone who has her own dreams. “Good, ’cause I have confidence in you, too. Boss.” I grin, feeling a little better as we attack the ice cream, eating little pieces of the Godiva chocolate along with it.
Ian
“And it’s a wrap.”
Cheers and claps erupt around the set as both the cast and the production team of my latest documentary call it a wrap. My thirty-third production. I should be proud. I suppose I am. But I always put a lid on the celebration because there is always more I can do. More that I want.
“Congratulations, job well done,” I tell Jake Myers, my director, as I slap his back and hop to my feet from my chair beside his.
I take a moment to congratulate our actors, narrators, and film crew. Just a moment to pause before jumping back on the hamster wheel and doing it all over again.
“Before you leave,” Jake calls after me, bringing over a bottle of champagne he promptly opens. My assistant, Pepper, quickly appears with over a dozen plastic wineglasses that she distributes to the group. Jake raises his glass, and we all do. “To Ian fucking Ford,” he says.
“He means, to all of you,” I counter, shaking my head with a smile.
We all drink to a job well done. I toss a gulp down, enjoying the flavor for a hot second, but before my champagne glass is empty, I set it aside and plunge the script back into my briefcase.
“We’re going to miss you, Ford,” Georgiana, our female narrator, says.
“Won’t be gone permanently,” I tell her with a wink.
“But you’re still moving back to New York?”
“Gotta get that next documentary done. Easier if I stay there until it’s wrapped.”
“Good and tight as a burrito,” Jake adds, closing in on us before Georgiana gives me a hug and thanks me.
“For letting me work for you. For all the opportunities you’ve brought my way,” she tells me.
I’m always touched whenever one of my team shows gratitude. To be honest, I’m more grateful to them—well, most of them—for putting up with my need for perfection and retaking shoots to the point of exhaustion.
“It’s a pleasure, considering each one of these things is well deserved,” I tell her.
Jake watches her as she leaves, respect shining in his eyes before he turns back to me. “About New York. Wouldn’t have anything to do with that lady who brought you back with a smile last time?” He sounds genuinely curious. Anticipatory, even.
“Maybe. We’ll see. She was one bold kitten.”
We start crossing the set toward the exit. Jake is one of my closest friends in Los Angeles. We’ve worked together on eleven of my blockbuster films and the full eighteen documentaries I’ve produced. You could say we’re like brothers, and considering I’ve never had one and barely remember having a family except for my grandmother, I value him like one.
“Sounded more like a cat,” he says.
“Cats betray you. Kittens can still learn to love you.”
“Cannot teach a kitten loyalty; it’s still a cat,” he warns.
I know he means he doesn’t want another Cordelia in my life, and though I appreciate the gesture, I can take care of myself just fine.
“Mr. Ford, I’ve printed out your flight information as well as your room reservation,” I hear Pepper say as she rushes up behind us.
“Four Seasons, our usual room?” I inquire as she hands over the papers.
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks.” I turn to leave. “Call me if you need me. I’ll probably have Wi-Fi on the flight as well.”
“Oh, and Mr. Ford,” she calls as I turn back to the door. She hesitates when Jake lingers by my side. Jake takes a hint and slaps my back and wishes me a safe flight before he gives us a moment alone. “Thanks for the wedding gift—it was very generous,” Pepper finally says.
I shake my head ruefully. “Glad you liked the home sound system. And I apologize I won’t make it to the wedding.”
She laughs and waves it off as if I’ve just said something completely crazy. “Oh, I never expected you to.”
“You didn’t?” I’m confused for a second.
“You’re generous with your money but quite a pinchpenny with your time, Mr. Ford. Oh! And I meant no offense.”
She flushes beet red, and I stare at her for a moment.
Jesus. Is this me? Am I known to be this… cold? I shake it off, granting her a smile. “I wish you all the happiness, Pepper. I’ll see you when you return.”
I mean my well wishes. I’m jaded, that’s true, and maybe even bitter over what happened with Cordelia, but I hope that the happiness can still be true for someone. Especially Pepper, who’s worked her butt off for me for years. I’ve never met anyone more loyal.
I head out of the studio to find my Mercedes sports car parked at the curb. The top is down, so I swing my briefcase into the passenger seat and then settle behind the wheel.
“Good day, Mr. Ford,” my personal valet says.
“Same to you, Pedro. Don’t miss me too much.”
“Will try not to, sir. And this beauty, either.” He roves his eyes lovingly across my car.
I laugh at that and hit the pedal. I head straight to my Bel-Air home, ready to get packed and catch an early flight to JFK tomorrow. As I drive, I remember Sara that day in the cab—and a part of me even fantasizes about finding her right where I saw her that first time. In the damn taxi line. I’m surprised how much I want her ass in my hand and her tongue on mine. How much I want this bold girl to come for me again.
I avoid complications at all costs. Even my assistant, Pepper, is older than me by a decade and a half. Not because I don’t trust myself with a woman, but because I was married and never wanted Cordelia and me to have unnecessary misunderstandings. Especially with me traveling so much.
Sara is a complication. The kind I prefer to avoid. Especially since my divorce is far from settled. And I’m far from open to emotional entanglements at the moment. Still, the idea of being in the same city has me restless. Wired.
I’ve worked myself to the bone these past months. Trying to forget that night we fucked each other senseless. It’s no use. The more I try to forget, the more the memories come back to haunt me.
I might as well dive in. See her again. Know her full name, her likes, what makes her tick—figure out why I’m so obsessed with her. That’s the only way to get her out of my mind.
For the first time in over a year, New York holds strong appeal. The memory of her has only made me crave to go back for more and more. She’s the first thing that’s made me feel alive in too damn long. Her pussy was great, but her brazenness and that saucy mouth are what keep me awake at night.
Tonight is no exception. I wander the halls of my Bel-Air home at midnight. It’s a three-bedroom that I bought after I moved out of my West End apartment.
I’d thought to make a life here, in Los Angeles. And though business has flourished, I eye my spacious rooms and the palm trees out in the perfectly manicured lawns and it’s not me.
I’m still a Manhattan man deep down. It’s time I let my wife—soon to be ex-wife—stop ruining my life and driving me away from what I want.
I love fucking New York City—it’s my home, and always will be.
Time to seal the deal, start over, and hell, yes, if it’s what I want, take Sara to Daniel for dinner.
I punch my lawyer’s number as I climb into my silk drawstring pajamas for bed.
“Wahlberg. I’ve been thinking.”
“When aren’t you thinking? You’re a machine. You need more feeling and less thinking, Ford.”
“I’ve been feeling,” I announce, a bit exaggeratedly, “really desperate here. And I’ve reconsidered the plan you mentioned the other day.”
“Ahhh, the hardball plan. I tell you, with a woman like Cordelia, you need to—”
“Let’s do it,” I say, cutting him off.
“Come again?”
“Let’s do it. I can’t play nice anymore. I’m sick of her credit card bills, her phone calls, and getting jet rental invoices as she traipses around the world with any boy toy she can find. I’m not this man, Wahlberg. I’m not the one who’s been made a fool of for more than a fucking year.”
“Well, Hallelujah, he’s pissed now.”
“Not pissed. Just ready to do this on my terms. Get it done.”
After that last instruction, I hang up.
It gives me no pleasure to play hardball. Usually people respect me enough not to push me to the limit or encourage me to go there. But I’ll never be free if I don’t do this with her; and no matter how many wrongdoings I committed in our marriage, I fucking loved her. I tried my best. I deserve a shot at being happy again and I plan to pursue whatever gives me a glimpse of that feeling. And when I find it, I’m never letting it go.