Authors: Sofie Hartwell
“I’m sorry. Everyone keeps saying that the new guy is very demanding, and I don’t want to make the wrong first impression.”
I lightly touch his shoulder. “You won’t. I don’t even understand why you didn’t get the job,” I say sincerely.
“Are you kidding me? That job would mean the end of my marriage. The hours would kill me.”
It’s true. Ralph Donaldson is a legend for the time he spends at the office. He likes to be in the center of the action, not remotely accessing the figures. He’s not a big champion of flexible hours either. I wonder if his successor is anything like him.
“Boss?”
“Stop calling me that,” he says with a touch of annoyance since the word is one of his long-standing pet peeves.
“Do you know who it is yet?”
“Nope. He’ll be making a grand entrance on Monday and surprising everyone. Until that time comes, we’re simply sharing rumors and building myths.” He shakes his head.
“Okay then,” I say with a slight shrug. “Can’t wait.” I don’t really care who or what the new CFO is like. He’s another suit in the corner office. A pleasant ‘good morning’ now and then will be the extent of our interaction.
John goes back to his desk and I busy myself with the last few reports that need to be updated and then uploaded before we go home.
***
Melanie is stretched out on the couch while Jen and I stuff ourselves with hummus on whole wheat crackers. “You guys. A minute on the lips, forever on the hips.”
Jen and I roll our eyes and start to laugh.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she says with a pout.
“Do you even eat?” I ask in a biting tone.
“Yeah, Melanie, do you even take in anything but water and fruit?” Jen joins in.
“C’mon! I do indulge once in a while. But you have to be disciplined or you’ll end up fat and alone at the age of thirty.” She gives a grunt of disdain.
“You are the most vain person I’ve ever known. And the thing is, with your model’s face and body, you already have the pick of the crop.” I say this with a little envy.
“Oh please! L.A. has the biggest concentration of beautiful women. The competition is vicious!” she says this with a sad look in her eyes.
“Why compete?”
“Livie, I swear to God, you are so naïve.”
“I just don’t see the point of starving yourself and spending so much money on clothes. Are you saying we just can’t be ourselves?” I really am staggered by the inanity of it all.
“She does have a point, though,” Jen tentatively comments. “Men only want to go out with hot women – women who are perfect in every way.”
“I can’t believe that. Not every man is that superficial.” Of course, even I question the veracity of my statement. I mean Jen is gorgeous, sweet, and kind, but all her relationships have ended the same way – with her boyfriend cheating on her and dumping her for another woman.
“Believe that!” Melanie says loudly. “Sometimes I think I should just let go and perhaps a good man will come along and want to be with me for no other reason than my great personality, but…”
I sigh. “Your great personality. Don’t you mean your prickly personality?” I tease her.
“True,” she readily admits. “But it’s men who’ve turned me into this impatient, crabby bitch.”
“Oh, Mel. Don’t worry. We love you, warts and all,” Jen says.
“Humph!” She breaks out into a smile. With Melanie that’s a rare moment, so we rush to the sofa to hug her. “Get off me, bitches. Your sunny dispositions are contagious,” she jokes.
“Good! You just don’t know it, but you’re even lovelier when you’re not your grumpy self.” She bursts out laughing at my backhanded compliment.
“You know what, screw it! Hand me those crackers.” We give her a few on a napkin and she starts to devour them. “Soda in the fridge?”
Jen gets up to grab three cans. “Here, Melanie, ice-cold to match your icy exterior,” she says with a grin.
“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response. By the way, this hummus is terrific. If only you had pita bread,” she says wistfully.
“Uh-oh, are you slowly transforming before our very eyes?” I ask with a hint of sarcasm.
“I’m just too tired today, so I’m letting go. Now, tomorrow, I’ll probably be back to my normal ways,” she says.
“One of these days, if you’re not careful, you may become human. Think of what fun that will be,” Jen continues the banter.
Melanie throws one of the pillows at Jen and a playful pillow fight ensues. Melanie hits me hard with one of the firmer throw pillows and I momentarily lose my balance.
“Oh my God, are you okay?” Jen immediately fusses over me.
“It’s just a pillow!” Melanie says exasperatedly.
“I know, but she had a blackout, and I was scared …” her voice peters off as she sees me motioning for her to stop talking.
“What are you guys talking about?” Melanie looks utterly lost.
Well, since Jen let the cat out of the bag, I have to fess up. “Remember last Saturday at the party?” Melanie nods, still looking baffled.
“You ended up in bed with that hot guy, I know,” Melanie says.
“Actually, you don’t, and neither do I,” I say to add to her confusion.
“What the hell are you saying?”
“I woke up the next day in bed with a stranger. I kind of remember now that he was at the bar, and then later on asked me to dance with him. But I don’t remember any of the details. I don’t remember actually dancing with him or even going up to his hotel room.”
“You actually had a blackout?” she asks.
“Yes, and before you start castigating me, I know it’s all my fault. I should have stopped drinking after one glass. I should have stuck close to you guys. I should have…”
“Stop it!” she says, glaring at me. “I would never blame you. The drinking maybe, because we all know you hardly drink and you should have known better. But, blackouts are rare. Do you remember anything at all?” she asks, the corners of her mouth drawn down.
I am touched, and frankly, taken aback by the solicitude she’s showing. I guess there haven’t been many times in the years I’ve known her when she’s had to sympathize with my plight. “Well, an image flashed before me when Jen was describing what she observed that night. But, other than that, not really. Every night I get a headache, trying so hard to recall what took place. I come up empty-handed.”
“I think what you had was a kind of fragmentary blackout. It’s not like your entire memory was wiped out. Some of it may still be there, but you won’t remember it all at the same time,” Melanie seems to know a lot about the topic.
“How do you know so much about this?” I’m half-afraid to ask.
“I’ve never had it happen, but a co-worker of mine confided in me about a similar experience. I did further research because I wanted to know a little more. In her case, she was able to piece together at least fifty percent of what happened.”
“How? Tell me,” I demand.
“Apparently, in that kind of blackout, remembrance is triggered by something. When you say an image flashed before you, what was it that Jen said?”
Jen has been quietly listening in, her eyes wide with fascination.
“She said something about us making out on the dance floor. Suddenly I remembered the feel of his hands on my butt,” I say with embarrassment.
“Livie, if you want the truth, I think in the coming days, you’re going to be remembering worse things than that,” she says with one eyebrow lifted. Jen grins uncomfortably and I close my eyes, now willing myself to just forget.
“Relax. The more you try to remember, the more anxious you will be. And that’s definitely not gonna help,” Melanie says.
“Well, I’m not actually sure now that I want to remember. What if that night was one cringe-worthy moment after another?”
“I don’t think that would be the case at all,” Jen says placatingly.
“You don’t know that,” Melanie says in her usual brutal manner. “Liv is the goody-two-shoes type, so it follows that when she’s drunk, she’ll lose her inhibitions big-time.”
“Shut up! You’re making it worse,” Jen gives Melanie the dagger eyes.
“It’s okay,” I say just to end the argument. “I’m never going to meet that man again and, believe me, I’m never going to imbibe again.”
After what seems like an interminable silence, Jen says, “Anyways, isn’t the Masquerade Ball coming up in a few months?”
The Masquerade Ball is the event of the year at Gallo’s. It’s bigger than Christmas. Every September, a huge fundraiser is held for one charitable organization. Last year it was for St. Jude Children’s Hospital. This year, it’s for Habitat for Humanity. The affair is usually held at a large venue in downtown L.A., and interior designers work their magic to transform the place into one of opulent splendor. Then a world-renowned chef is flown in to prepare a feast fit for royalty. The black-tie event is attended by the biggest names in business and entertainment. Each golden ticket is worth at least $20,000, and when the night is over, millions will have been raised. For the past two years I’ve manned the welcome tables, so I’ve really been only on the outside looking in.
“Yup. Early part of September. And, no, I still can’t sneak you in,” I say with a slight smile.
“Why not?” she whines.
“Because the place will be crawling with undercover cops. You don’t want to spend the night in jail. And I really don’t want to lose my job.”
“All that glamour and glitz in one room,” she says with a sigh.
“What’s the big deal, anyway?” Melanie asks, her lips pursing in a moue of distaste. “It’s just a bunch of spoiled, entitled people. If they want to give to charity, they can just quietly send a check.”
“And they do. Most of them send big, fat checks in addition to the cost of the ticket. I should know. Our department obviously tallies all the donations. But the rich attend because they use their fame to encourage more people to donate.”
“I guess. So the question now is how to land one of those rich, good-looking tycoons. Hmmm…” Melanie says this in a serious tone.
“You’re something else, Mel.”
“Something else good or bad?”
“Let’s just say you keep things interesting,” I say and she lets out a hearty laugh.
“But, Jen, why are you asking about the ball, other than your need to mingle with the high and mighty, that is?”
“Actually, I just wanted to know if you’ve already shopped for a gown. Cause I’ll tag along, if you haven’t.”
“No need. I’ll wear my black gown from last year.” She gives me an exaggerated look of alarm.
“No! Please, no.”
“What? It’s not that bad.”
“It’s boring, ill-fitting, and does nothing for you.”
“Ouch! You don’t pull your punches. What happened to the sweet Jen I know?” I don’t mind her telling me what she really thinks… I’m just bothered that I didn’t even notice how bad the dress was.
“Oh, Lord! Are you talking about that plain, strapless excuse for a dress?” This from the irrepressible Melanie.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Generic,” Melanie replies.
“You need something with oomph,” Jen offers. “And you didn’t even accessorize,” she adds in a tone that suggests I committed a crime.
“Well, ladies, you had me at ‘please no.’ When I get my next paycheck, I’m going hunting for a dress in the fashion district.”
They both look at one another like they want to say more, but refrain from doing so. I know they really don’t want to shop in what many refer to as an oversized outdoor flea market for clothes, but I’m not going to spend needlessly. “Ye-hey, fashion district it is,” Melanie says.
“Snobs!” I accuse them.
“Sticks and stones,” she says, not bothered by my label.
We all go back to our crackers and hummus, and quickly get sidetracked by some gossip we read online.
Everyone hates Mondays, myself included. I have to deal with the heavy traffic on the first day of the week, and people who know what it’s like in this city know it can be excruciatingly snail-paced. I arrive at the parking lot with only fifteen minutes to spare, so I grab my purse, lunch bag, and heels, and rush to the entrance from the covered walkway on the side of the building.
As always, I say a hasty “hi” to Robert and run to the elevators. Once inside, I find myself squished to the side. I stretch my right arm out and press P. Then I say a prayer of thanks that I’m not late. I mean, John really wouldn’t mind, but I’m rather OCD about time, especially at work.
As I walk towards our office, I pass by Conference Room A – the biggest of five such rooms on the floor. It’s usually reserved for top-level meetings. Since it’s surrounded by glass on all sides, I immediately notice that there are only two people inside. John, his back against the glass wall, is quietly looking at a document in front of him. At the head of the table is another man whose profile looks vaguely familiar. The man slightly swivels his chair, turning to face John. I stand frozen to the spot, unable to do anything but stare at his face. His hair is raven black and slightly tousled. Beneath his strong arched brows are the most intense gray eyes. His prominent cheekbones and angular jaw are slightly obscured by a light over-all stubble, like he’s well-groomed, but too busy to shave. I would recognize that face anywhere. I draw a sharp intake of breath and walk, almost run, like the bogeyman is fast at my heels.
Once inside the ladies’ lounge room, I dump my belongings on the counter and sit on the edge of one of the chairs. My hands are shaking. I’m pretty sure I’m as pale as a ghost.
Who is that man? Why is he talking to John?
I’m biting my lip, thinking of what I should do next. Fortunately, there’s no one here but me. At least I don’t have to talk to anyone. I stand up, go to the lavatory, and proceed to splash my face with water. I scrub carelessly with my hand to remove my make-up. I reach for my contact lens case inside my purse, pour some solution from my miniature bottle, and take out my lenses and put them into the case. I can’t let him know it’s me.
It was night and he probably won’t remember anything, but I can’t take a chance. I put on my eyeglasses. I can’t do much without them. Finally, I get a black hair-tie and put my hair up in a ponytail. I pause to look at my reflection in the mirror. My hands automatically fold up together in front of my mouth, as if in prayer. Chances are he’s just a visiting executive from one of our big suppliers. That’s why he’s talking to John. Yet, fear niggles at the back of my mind.
Calm down, Olivia
. Get the facts before you start freaking out!