Saved by the Celebutante (3 page)

FOUR

I wake up on the couch the next morning with the hangover from hell. Penny is hovering over me with a black coffee.

I take it gratefully and slowly pull myself into an upright position. So. Much. Pain.

“Well, you certainly know how to make a scene,” she teases.

“Oh my God.” I bury my face in the back of the couch, almost spilling my drink on the upholstery.

“It’s okay. We’ve all been there.”

“I think Rochelle wanted to kiss me,” I confess.

“I heard. Good thing you were sick then, huh?”

“I suppose.”

She laughs. “You sound disappointed. Don’t worry, if you want me to hook you up with someone, I know plenty of girls who would jump at the chance.”

“No, no. I’m a mess. Ignore me. Hey, what time is it?”

“Eight thirty.”

“Shit. I’m going to be late for work.”

“Can’t you take the day off?”

“No. I have a lot to do. And I need to call Kahlua.”

“You mean that trashy personal assistant with the triplets who married Jack Dean?”

“That’s the one.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Why would you want her as a client?”

“You’re such a snob. She’s actually really nice. And smart. You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. Plus, I like the fact that I get to promote a line of baby food with her. Maybe I’ll even get to meet her kids. I saw a picture of them once in
People
and they were so cute.”

Penny shakes her head. “You are a lost cause, sis. Well, I don’t have to be anywhere today, so do you want me to hang around? If you leave the office early, we could go get manicures or something?”

“That would be great. Thanks, Pen.”

“No problem. Michelle is working on a big project at the moment, so she’s hardly home. And your place is nicer than mine anyway.”

I look around the living room and have to agree. Corey and I like to have expensive things. Like the sixty inch flat screen television mounted on the wall, and the thousand dollar Athenian marble coffee table on top of the hand-woven Persian rug. Penny and Michelle don’t have much stuff at their place because they spend all their money on travel and experiences.

I hurry off to the bedroom and quickly change out of last night’s dress and into an only slightly wrinkled white shirt and black skirt. I put on my flats and throw my heels into my bag. On the way out the door, I pop a mint in my mouth and grab a bottle of water. I wave to Penny.

“Help yourself to anything in the cupboard. I’ll call you at lunchtime to let you know if I can leave early.”

“See ya!” she calls, already lying on the couch watching
Good Morning America
.

I had briefly contemplated staying with her and ignoring my responsibilities, but I do think it’s best to keep things as normal as possible. And I don’t want to let Kahlua down. I really like her.

I’ve been at Perry Tyler since I finished college. I was so excited when I landed an interview with the legendary PR firm in its flagship Mission District office. And after fourteen years, I still love it. There’s always something new happening…interesting challenges…fun clients. Even just walking through the surrounding streets each day makes me smile. There are so many awesome places to eat, thanks to the varied mix of cultures that all come together in this one area.

I pass La Taza, one of my favorite Latin cafés, and finally reach my building, noting the tiny plaque on the wall containing the initials PT etched in gold.

I enter the lobby and breathe in the expensive interior, with its minimalist tangerine leather seats, 3-D ripple-effect walls and glossy cream tiles. I never tire of this scene. But then maybe that’s because they change the modern art display in the center of the floor once a month. The best (in my opinion) was an exhibition featuring the Australian sculptor Sam Jinks, and his reconstruction of two life-like babies curled up together on a white podium. I couldn’t believe they weren’t actually human, and I secretly used to pat them when no one was looking.

While I wait for the elevator to take me to the fifth floor, my brain fog finally starts to clear. Naturally Corey is weighing heavily on my mind, but I also can’t stop thinking about how I almost kissed Rochelle and then puked in a nightclub. Both of those things are so unlike me. I normally have it all together. I pay my bills on time, I never embarrass myself in public, and I thought everything was going pretty smoothly until yesterday. I have never even remotely considered cheating on Corey before. Why was the drunken version of me so open to the idea of making out with someone else? I mean, I know Corey is probably gay, but we’re still married, and we haven’t yet talked about how we’re going to handle everything. Was I just trying to get even with my husband? Or was I perhaps wanting to understand why he was so interested in the same sex?

My head is pounding. I’m going to need some Advil before I can function properly.

I’ve arrived at the office a few minutes late, but I’m not too worried. We don’t really clock-watch here. As long as you do your job, no one minds if you keep slightly erratic hours.

Yet for some reason, today I feel like everyone
does
mind. Why are they staring? Our floor is mostly open plan, with only a few partitions dividing up employees from different departments. Only the managers have proper offices.

I reach my desk without one person saying hello. As soon as I attempt to make eye contact with any of my colleagues, they quickly look away. It’s really quite unsettling.

I retrieve my painkillers and wash them down with a mouthful of water before switching on my computer. The usual avalanche of emails awaits. Most of them aren’t urgent, although there is one from Linda asking me to see her as soon as I get in. Maybe she wants to follow up on the meeting with Kahlua from yesterday. Or even just see if I’m feeling better.

I head across to the other side of the floor where her office is located. Everyone is still avoiding my gaze. My boss’ door is open, so I walk right in and sit down. Linda has been employed by the company even longer than me, and I like to think we have a fairly good working relationship.

She looks up from her computer, her mouth pulling into a tight line as she sees me.

“Chrissie.”

“Hey, Linda. What’s up?”

“Funny you should ask.” She types something on her keyboard and then swings the monitor around so that it’s facing me. “Care to explain this?”

I’m looking at a grainy video. At first, I have no idea what it’s supposed to be. Then it all too horrifically becomes clear.

It’s me. From last night. Stumbling out of the nightclub and being supported by Penny and Anna.

And then…oh no.

I’m puking in the gutter. I have absolutely no recollection of this. I just assumed that after I threw up inside, Penny put me in a cab and took me straight home.

The video continues. I watch as I wipe my mouth and then stand up, reaching out to stroke Anna’s hair.

“You’re so pretty,” I slur. “Do you want to make out with me too?”

Anna laughs and gently disengages herself from my clutches. “Maybe another time,” she says as if humoring a toddler.

“Turn it off,” I beg Linda.

She nods and turns the screen back around to face her. She levels her gaze at me.

“You know we have a reputation to uphold, Chrissie.”

“Yes. And I am absolutely mortified that anyone saw me in that state. I am so sorry. It will never happen again, I swear to you.”

“Why was it happening in the first place? One of the directors recognized you and sent this to us. He was worried it reflected badly on the firm.”

What are the odds of a director being outside that exact club on a Wednesday night? And why would he take a video? My usual awesome powers of damage control abandon me. I can’t seem to summon the right words to make everything better.

Hang on. Is this why everyone in the office is treating me like a leper?

“Has anyone else seen this?” I ask.

Linda frowns. “No, why?”

“Are you sure? Did the director send it just to you?”

“What are you getting at?”

“I think someone circulated it around the office.”

“Chrissie, you’re being paranoid.”

I’ve had enough. The events of the last twenty-four hours would be enough to break anyone, and this just tops it off. I jump up. “No, I’m not being fucking paranoid! Why don’t you go and ask them? Check their computers and phones! Anyway, did it even occur to you to ask
why
I was acting like that last night?” I stab a finger at her screen. “Because I found my husband dressed in drag and then he fucking told me he was probably gay, okay? And I’m thirty-five years old and I don’t have kids yet, and now I’m going to have to figure out this entire mess and quite possibly get back into a world where guys expect you to have a permanent Brazilian wax and submit to anal sex on the first date!”

When I finish, I’m puffing and out of breath. I belatedly realize I’ve been yelling so loudly that the rest of the office would definitely have heard – so even if they hadn’t seen the video, they have more than enough ammunition against me now. And then it occurs to me that I just outed Corey to several dozen people. I am an awful, awful person.

Linda sits there, aghast. She has never seen me lose it like this in the whole time we’ve worked together. In fact, I’m normally the queen of cool. Professionally, at least.

She doesn’t seem to want to look at me directly, scrubbing at a speck of dirt on her desk instead.

“Well, you’ve clearly got a lot of stuff to deal with,” she says. “I think it might be best if you took some time off. Let us know when you’re feeling better.”

“What about my clients?”

“We’ll take care of them. Just focus on sorting yourself out, Chrissie.”

I can’t tell if she’s being understanding, or if she’s just trying to avoid another scene. Tears well in my eyes.

“I’m sorry, Linda. It’s just…”

“Listen, I’m no good at this emotional stuff. I know we’ve worked together for a long time, but our relationship has never been personal. I’m not someone you should be confiding in. Just go. Take some time and then call me when you’re ready.”

I nod, defeated.

“It’s probably best if you leave right now. Don’t worry about seeing the day out.”

I nod again. And then, feeling like a prisoner on death row, I trudge back to my desk to get my purse.

I notice a framed photo nearby of me and Corey on our honeymoon in Mexico. I can’t face looking at it, so I pick it up and slam it into the trash can. It makes a satisfying crack as the glass breaks. And then I decide that I don’t want anyone finding the photo and making fun of my outburst, so I stick my hand in the trash and yank out the photo from the broken frame, cutting my hand in the process.

“Shit.” I grab a Kleenex from a box on my desk and wrap it around the cut.

I take one last look around and can’t see anything else I need, so I turn and stalk down the hall, ignoring everyone’s now open-mouth stares.

So this is what it feels like to leave your workplace in disgrace. It’s as bad as I imagined.

I ride the elevator down to the ground floor and then step out onto the street, temporarily unemployed. I feel numb.

I walk slowly back to the apartment, taking the long route. I can’t face Penny yet, so I dawdle, stopping to look in all the shop windows. I even buy a smoothie I don’t want, but I drink it anyway. For a brief moment, I get lost in the mindless act of retail therapy.

But then I see a display set up in the window of a baby store, and I start crying again. How cliché. The childless, middle-aged woman blubbering over the tiny socks and hats. I press a hand up to the glass and look in, and then quickly back away again when a woman inside stares at me in horror. It takes a second for me to realize I’m bleeding on the shopfront like some deranged lunatic.

I suck on my smoothie and unhappily drag myself home.

I hadn’t planned on talking to Corey at least until tomorrow, but when I get to our street, I see him approaching from the other direction.

“Oh, hey,” he says, startled. “I thought you’d be at work.”

“I’ve been sent home on temporary leave,” I explain, my voice flat.

His face clouds over with concern. “Is everything all right?”

“What do you think, Corey? Do I look all right to you?” I wave my arms around for emphasis. Smoothie slops all over the place from one hand and blood seeps out from the other.

“Jesus, Chrissie. You didn’t try and…”

For a second, I don’t know what he’s getting at, but then I let out a bark of laughter.

“No, I haven’t tried to kill myself! I cut my hand on a broken photo frame.”

His face sags with relief. “Oh, good.” Then he catches himself. “I mean, not good, but at least…”