I'm Your Man (7 page)

“No. Your dry cleaning bill was forty dollars. You were out of cat food.”

“What kind of food did you—”

“And litter.”

“What did I do to deserve you? Manhattan, please. Forty-sixth Street and Ninth Avenue.”

“Sounds like somebody just got a cab. You're not coming to the office today?”

“No. I'm going home.”

“Good. I can cut out early and go to Barneys. I mean, I can finish typing these reports,” she said, as if I would ever reprimand her for taking an afternoon off to go shopping.

The first time Violet ever took a sick day was the previous November, when she literally had to be carried out of the office on a stretcher because of stomach cramps. The pain had gotten so bad she was doubled up on the floor, clutching the itinerary for an upcoming location shoot and trying to crawl to the photocopy room. An ambulance had been called after Violet screamed out in pain when Evelyn, our office manager, tried to help her walk down the hallway to copy the itineraries so they'd go out on time. Two days after her appendix was removed, Violet called me, begging me to help bust her out of the hospital so she could get back to work.

“You're taking an afternoon off? There must be a full moon,” I joked.

“You sound like Lillith,” Violet said, hitting me where it hurt. “Speaking of Lillith, I suspect the reason you're not coming in today is so you can have a weekend to figure out what you're going to say to the boys upstairs about your resignation.”

“If there's a Cuban version of Miss Marple, you'd be her,” I stated wryly. “Which brings me back to what I was originally going to ask you. Have you typed your resignation yet?”

“If that's your clever way of asking me to jump ship and work for you at Lillith Allure, Mr. Dunhill—”

“Which it is. Yes.”

“I'm not sure I can—”

“Take the bridge. Don't take the tunnel,” I said to the driver. “I'm sorry, Violet. You were saying?”

“That's okay. If you had given me a little more time, I might have—”

“Do I need to give you money for the toll now? Or do I give you that at the end of the trip?” I asked the driver, who eyed me curiously, as we hadn't reached the bridge yet.

“You give it to me now. You give it to me later. It makes no difference,” he said.

“Okay. I'll give it to you later,” I said.

“If you interrupt me one more time,
I'm
gonna give it to you later,” Violet said.

“I'm sorry, Violet. It won't happen again. What were you saying?”

“Stop playing games with me. I'm not turning you down,” she said.

“Good,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. “I was running out of ways to interrupt you.”

“I need more information before I can give you an answer,” Violet said. “Plus I want to be wooed. Take me out to dinner, and we'll talk it over.”

“Wooed? You want to be wooed? All right. Why don't we—”

“Sunday night? Eight? At Firebird? I'd love to,” Violet interrupted.

“You've already made the reservations, haven't you?”

Violet confirmed my suspicions by not answering. Instead she asked, “I don't suppose you've seen the papers this morning? One paper in particular, I should say.”

“No,” I answered tentatively, hoping that any news about Lillith Allure hadn't been given to the press yet.

“Pick up the
Manhattan Star-Gazette
when you get home,” Violet instructed.

“No,” I begged. Violet knew that I only read the
New York Times
if I wanted news. The
Star-Gazette
was for entertainment news or, worse yet, when my friends and clients were hit hard in Lola Listeria's gossip column. “Maybe you should read me the highlights.”

“Okay,” Violet answered, and I heard the rustling of newspaper pages as she found the column. I calmed myself by looking at Manhattan's skyline as the taxi cab went over the Triboro Bridge. I was almost home.

“Ready?” Violet asked. “There's a whole section about an actress whose foot had to be cut out of a boot at a department store. I was going shoe shopping today, but now I don't think I want to.”

“Just skip to whatever's relevant, please.”

“If you want relevance, read the
Times.
Okay, here it is. ‘Fashionista's Flight of Fury.' ”

“Oh, no,” I said.

Violet read on, “Saturn must have been lodged in Uranus during a flight to Baltimore when a certain model learned her agent turned down a booking for Claude Martrand's fashion show. Perhaps she was more furious because she hoped the designer would give her a free wedding dress? Or is it because our girl is too busy to get married? Lola's looking into her crystal ball, readers, and the future seems mighty cloudy. Not only for our star-crossed model, but for Metropole, too.”

“Sheila will have a fit,” I predicted.

“A fit has been had,” Violet said. “Sheila's moved on to rage. She called me an hour ago.”

“Maybe I should go see her,” I mused.

“Let her cool down first,” Violet advised. “She's working out her aggression in a kick-boxing class. Do you really want to see her right after that?”

“You're right, as usual. I don't. I'll call her later. We're pulling up to my building. I'll see you Sunday night, Ms. Medina.”

“Good day, Mr. Dunhill.”

My apartment was on the fifth floor of an old tenement building in midtown Manhattan. The neighborhood was affectionately named Hell's Kitchen. Though I'd lived there for three years, I still hadn't figured out how its name originated. I'd heard several theories from my neighbors, all of them confirming that the name had been around since the late 1800s. A woman who lived downstairs said there used to be a German restaurant named Heil's Kitchen a few blocks down from where we lived. The man who owned the dry cleaners on the corner said a
New York Times
article had named a building in the West Thirties “Hell's Kitchen” because of a multiple murder that had happened inside; the name spread to the area around it. For more than a century, the west side of Manhattan was home to the mob and street gangs. I personally thought my neighborhood got its name because there were so many restaurants in the area.

If Hell's Kitchen was still fraught with crime, I never knew it. When I first moved into my building, it was because the apartment was affordable. Now I appreciated everything about my neighborhood. I loved stopping into St. Famous Bread to grab a muffin and hear a cheery hello from the owner every morning on my way to work. I loved my deli, where I was always greeted like a cherished friend. I liked seeing familiar faces among the people on the sidewalks, even if I'd never have names or histories to go with them. If I wanted to bring work home with me, I could do it on my own terms. Everyone I knew from the world of advertising lived on the Upper East Side, out of town on Long Island, or in New Jersey, so it was rare to run into someone from the office in my part of the city.

The minute I let myself into my apartment, Dexter was underfoot, howling to be fed. I stepped to the left, trying to avoid trampling him, and knocked over a small table, sending several days' worth of mail, my keys, and a telephone tumbling to the floor.

“Damn you, Dexter!” I shouted, and he ran through the apartment to the safety of the bathroom. He didn't fool me. I knew in five minutes he'd forget all about my temper and would come back to let me know he could see the bottom of his food dish.

I was surprised to notice that my answering machine showed no messages, until I saw that Violet had screened them all and transcribed them onto a small notepad, which I found amid the clutter of stuff that I'd knocked to the floor. The majority of the calls were business related. Except for a call from Gretchen. Figuring she was most likely working, and not wanting to go through her office's convoluted voice-mail system, I dialed her cell phone, intending to leave a message to let her know that I was back in town.

“Hi!” Gretchen exclaimed, surprising me. Before I could say a word, she said, “Hey, I have to take this. Give me a few minutes.”

I could hear voices in the background when she answered my call, then I heard her walk away until the sounds of New York white noise replaced the voices. She must have stepped outside.

“Okay, I can talk now,” she said. “Sorry about that.”

“Are you at work? It sounds like you're outside. What did you do, step out on a ledge? Don't do it, Gretchen!”

“Accountant and window ledge jokes are about as tired as postal workers and pistols, Blaine. Besides, the market is quite bullish today. And so am I. But no, I'm not at work.”

“I have a message that you called me. What's going on?” I asked.

“I saw Lola Listeria's column in the
Star-Gazette.
I tried to call Sheila, but she was at the gym or something, according to Josh. He didn't say anything about the column, and I didn't ask.”

“Smart move,” I commented, filling Dexter's bowl with food. He immediately came out of hiding to eat, not bothering to thank me. “I haven't talked to her yet. I'm not looking forward to it.”

“I don't want to see her blow a good thing by flipping her lid. That's all,” Gretchen said. “She's very lucky to be successful. Especially in a career where everything could end as quickly as it began. So I wanted to see if there's anything I could do.”

“Sheila's no fool. She knows she has a good thing. One little argument with her agent won't send her life falling down like a house of cards.”

Gretchen suddenly became quiet, and I could hear someone speaking to her in the background. Then she said, “I have to go, hon.”

“Hon?
You never call me that. Or anyone, for that matter. Gretchen, where are you, anyway?”

“Okay, bye,” she said quickly and disconnected our call.

Still holding my cordless phone, I stood in the middle of my apartment, wondering why Gretchen had acted so oddly. It was almost as if she was keeping our conversation a secret from someone. She'd said she wasn't at work, where it might make sense to disguise a personal call. But since she wasn't, why would she take the call outside? Away from whomever—

Suddenly it was all too clear to me. I strode across my apartment to one of the two windows and looked down at Daniel's patio garden. There, talking with Martin and gesticulating, her cell phone still in her hand, was Gretchen. I turned on my cordless phone and started punching in numbers. When she answered, I said, “Gretchen,
hon,
when you're done down there, could you stop by my place for a minute? I've been thinking of investing in a new home. The view here sucks.”

I hung up without waiting for an answer. She looked up at my window, as did Martin, who blew me a kiss. I waved, then stepped away from the window. If the only word for my reaction was petulant, the best description of my mood was pissed off. Which I knew was ridiculous. Gretchen and Martin had been friends for a long time. Even if he'd been part of my breakup with Daniel, I couldn't expect everyone else to be mad at him, too.

I supposed what was really bothering me was how seeing them at Daniel's made me feel excluded. It reminded me of the time when I'd first noticed him and tormented myself trying to figure out who he was, who his friends were and what they talked about, and what the details of his life were. It was as if Daniel was a stranger again, and I was on the outside.

The phone rang, and I took a deep breath before I answered.

“You sound strange,” Violet said. “I forgot to tell you something. You received a fax today from Gavin Lewis. The massage therapist I found for you in Baltimore. What should I do with it?”

“We'll talk about it on Sunday night. Stop working!”

“Not to worry. I'm already checking out a sexy sales associate at Barneys.”

“He's gay. Or in a committed relationship. Or both.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I don't need for you to fall in love, get married, and leave me.”

“I'll keep that in mind. Goodbye again, Mr. Dunhill.”

The phone rang again as soon as I clicked off. I sighed and answered it in a more polite tone.

“Lunch tomorrow at one,” Gretchen said briskly. “The Vinyl Diner.”

“I'll see you then,” I agreed.

 

Gretchen was at the restaurant before me the next day. “Hi,” she said, but didn't stand to hug me. I could tell by her guarded expression that she was trying to gauge my mood.

“I apologize for being rude to you on the phone yesterday,” I said. “I'm still not exactly in the best space when it comes to Daniel.”

“Figuratively, or are we back to discussing apartment locations?”

“Both,” I said, then paused while she considered her ordering options with the waiter. After he left, I said, “Why do I get the feeling this is not one of our regular get-togethers? What's on your mind?”

The clattering of plates made her wince, and she looked around. “I probably could have chosen a quieter place. I don't know how I feel about yelling private things about my life for an audience.”

“We could walk back to my apartment after we eat,” I suggested. “I'm sure Dexter would be thrilled by the possibility of another pair of hands to feed him.”

Gretchen laughed, and we talked for a while about Dexter, then Sheila and Josh. I noticed the shadows under her eyes and wondered if she'd been working longer hours now that we were entering tax season, or if something was bothering her. I felt a guilty relief that someone other than me might have problems that led to sleepless nights.