The Best Laid Plans (23 page)

“Ooh, I’ll put in a good word, but I don’t think it was a smart idea to ‘
ssh
’ her.”

“I know, it just kind of happened, like steam escaping a heating pipe. Maybe I’ll just go out and get us a couple of coffees.…”

I arch my eyebrows and Bill dutifully heads toward the backroom.

“Sienna, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed you out of the front office,” he says as he pulls open the screen. We’re both expecting Sienna to be furious, but she’s so engrossed in whatever it is that she’s doing on her computer that it takes her a moment to even realize we’re in the room.

“What are you up to?” I ask, trying to look over her shoulder. As usual, whenever I’m within reading distance, Sienna snaps the damn thing shut.

“Nothing.”

“Well it can’t be nothing. If it was nothing, you’d say what that nothing is. You’d say, ‘I’m emailing,’ or ‘reading Ashton Kutcher’s Tweets,’ or ‘I’m on dailycandy.com, finding out all about sales and fabulous things to do.’ ”

Sienna holds her computer protectively to her chest. “Just because you’re keeping a secret from Peter doesn’t mean that everyone’s keeping secrets,” she gripes.

“Wow, I guess I really hit a nerve,” I say, hurt at Sienna’s stinging reaction.

“Sorry, I just don’t get why you’re being so nosy.”

“Tru has a point, honey,” Bill agrees. “Why don’t you just tell us what it is?”

Sienna plasters a smile on her face—not the carefree smile where, charmingly, just a little too much of her gum shows. This is her professional smile. The tight, polite, practiced grin she flashes for the cameras or when someone asks for an autograph and she’d rather be finishing her dinner.

“Fine, if the two of you really want to know, I’m blogging. I wasn’t really meant to be the office help. I’m a trained and highly respected reporter.”

“That’s great,” Bill says effusively, wrapping his arm around Sienna’s waist. “I know you miss the newsroom. I’m glad you’re doing something you like.”

“Me too,” I say cautiously. “Though why would you keep it
a secret?” And then I think to add, “And what are you blogging about?”

“Just this and that,” Sienna says evasively, as the corners of her mouth get a little tighter. “My life, what it’s like to be a reporter, a little bit about what I’m up to now.”

Life … reporter … up to now … it takes a moment for Sienna’s words to register, but when they do, they hit me like a ton of bricks. Reflexively, I fasten the top button of my sweater and fold my arms in front of my chest as if I can shield myself from the news.

“You’re blogging about the Veronica Agency?” Bill asks, alarmed, as he too starts to understand Sienna’s drift.

“Of course not. I’m not an idiot. The two of you should stop looking so worried,” Sienna says cavalierly. “I don’t use my real name or the Veronica Agency’s. My blog is called Madame XXX. There’s nothing to connect us or the girls or our clients to the real business. I don’t even say that we have a Ligne Roset couch—on the blog, it’s from Maurice Villency.”

“B
Y THE TIME I
got home I was bushed. I thought for sure Peter would be asleep, but he was waiting for me in the foyer, with his hands on his hips like a cheesy bouncer. ‘You can’t be serious!’ I said. I just
knew
he was angling for another fight. But instead he tilted my head toward his and gave me a kiss.

“ ‘I’m sorry things didn’t turn out the way I’d planned,’ he said.

“I said I was too. But when I started to explain Peter stopped me.

“ ‘
Ssh
!’ he said, giving a whole new generous meaning to the same sound which got you into so much trouble with Sienna.”

“And he carried you into the bedroom and you made passionate love?” Bill asks.

“Whoa, I think working in an all-female environment is starting to get to you, my friend! That was definitely a girly question. And no. We were both so exhausted, we fell asleep right there, sitting on the floor, leaning up against each other. If the delivery guy hadn’t thwacked the newspaper against the
door like he was trying to knock over a kewpie doll at a carnival we’d still be snoozing—Paige and Molly would have discovered their parents crumpled over each other in the hallway.”

It’s late afternoon and Bill and I are at the agency catching up on work. But so far we’ve spent most of our time going over current events.

“Peter and I are taking another stab at going out to dinner tonight. And I’m going to tell him all about our work.”

“That’s good,” Bill says. “If you and Peter can’t make it there’s no hope for the rest of us.”

I reach over and squeeze Bill’s hand. “There’s lots of hope. I’ve never seen Sienna so happy. We just have to get her to stop blogging. Doesn’t she realize she could blow our whole cover?”

“I haven’t known Sienna long, but I can see that she likes to stir things up.”

“Or maybe there have just been too many secrets,” I say, thinking about Peter being unemployed, the agency, Sienna’s blog, and how distrustful I’ve become toward my husband ever since
I
started fibbing about where I am all day. “Okay, enough,” I say, snapping myself out of my reverie and scanning my finger across an Excel calendar to check on our employees’ schedules. “I’m just going to finish a few notes. I want to get home to see Paige and Molly before I meet Peter for our date.”

Bill and I spend the next hour working companionably, trading a few stories about the escorts, their dates—and how much more fun it is to run the Veronica Agency than to be a tax attorney.

“It doesn’t matter how many thousands of dollars I save them, everybody hates me at tax time. But here, clients shower me with unconditional love.”

“That’s just because our employees shower them with unconditional sex. Well, I guess it isn’t unconditional.” I giggle.

I’m just gathering up a few papers and saying goodbye when Bill’s phone rings. He motions his hand in the air, signaling me to wait. “A buddy of mine from grad school. He needs a woman to take to his company’s cocktail party tonight and his date just called to say she has the flu. Just two hours, no sex, can you check to see who’s available?”

“Sorry, no one,” I say without consulting the schedule, because I already know that everyone’s booked.

Bill talks into the phone again, makes a face, and turns back to me. “Is there anyone you can think of? My friend says it’s an emergency. Something about his boss favoring employees who are in stable relationships. Doesn’t like the people who work for him to be gallivanting around. And my buddy’s up for a promotion.” Bill’s got the hangdog look of a man who’s about to ask for a favor, but before he can, I vigorously shake my head.

“Oh no, don’t even go there! I’m a married woman! With teenage children! I am not a hooker!”

“Courtesan,” Bill says. “And there’s no sex, I promise. My friend J.T. just needs an attractive woman to stand at his side and make pleasant chitchat. A cultured woman, a woman who owns a call girl operation and who wants to ingratiate herself forever to a grateful client. A client who’s willing to pay five thousand dollars. It’s from six to eight. You could go to the party and be finished in plenty of time to have dinner with your husband. Please?”

W
HEN I GOT
home to change for my date I didn’t actually get to
see
Paige and Molly, or hear their voices, either. As usual, these days, they were out, and I texted them. I’ve finally, if reluctantly,
accepted the fact that they’d rather type than talk on the phone. (Although I worry that instead of growing their brains, the next generation is going to develop thumbs the size of corn cobs.) I took a shower and reapplied my makeup and changed into my best cocktail dress—a pretty good knockoff of a Versace that even Donatella would have to take a close look at to know it isn’t the real deal. Two hours later I’m on the arm of Bill’s buddy, J.T.—a short, thirty-four-year-old with the manners of a toddler. He slithers his hand down my back and despite my jerking my shoulders up and down to try to dislodge them, his stubby fingers stay firmly planted.

“Great place for a party,” J.T. says, looking around the lobby of Lincoln Center’s newly renovated Alice Tully Hall. It’s not open to the public yet, but tonight special donors are getting a sneak peek. I take in the building’s gorgeous two-story glass façade, long limestone bar, and tongue-and-groove wooden wall.

“It must have been some job building this place, but it was worth it,” I say.

“Some expensive job,” J.T. snickers, pointing to a wall that thanks his company, among others, for their contribution. “Nothing gets done in this town without money. Drink?” he asks, and before I have a chance to answer he’s summoned the waiter, who hands me a wide-lipped glass with a salted rim.

“Looks delicious, but I can’t,” I say, reaching toward the waiter’s tray to put it back.

“Everyone’s having margaritas,” J.T. snarls, through gritted teeth. “Just hold it. Maybe put it up to your lips every once in a while.”

“What?”

“The idea is to fit in.” And when I look at him quizzically he adds, “I’m paying you, remember?”

My back stiffens and I look at my watch. Ninety minutes to go and I am never doing this again, I promise myself. Are these the kind of assholes our employees are having sex with?

J.T. tries to move his hand down to my waist, but I discreetly slap it away. “No physical contact, that’s the deal.”

“Okay, okay, don’t be so testy. No hands, see?” J.T. says, waving his palms. “But for five thousand bucks you better ooze an awful lot of charm.” He points across the room and starts to lead me toward a table where his boss is holding court with several couples.

“Let me freshen up first,” I say, leaving J.T. to cool his heels and hold both of our drinks. I open my purse and start fishing around for a lipstick and as I maneuver past a particularly crowded area near the bar, I look up, startled. Even from the back I easily recognize my husband. And if I didn’t, who could miss Tiffany Glass? Her hair is swept up off her neck into a Brigitte Bardot–like beehive and she’s leaning in suggestively toward Peter to wipe a crumb away from the corner of his mouth with her finger.

I drop my lipstick and let out a little gasp.

“Tru, is that you? What are you doing here?” Peter says, turning around and looking puzzled. I bend over to pick up the lipstick and smooth my hands down my hips.

“I could ask you the same question,” I say, flustered. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be on the offensive or the defensive here. Clearly, both of us have a lot of explaining to do.

Tiffany giggles. “The host of the party owns CoverGirl, They’re thinking of investing in BUBB. This is a work night for me and Peter. What’s your excuse?”

From across the room I see J.T. raising the margarita glasses
in the air, his head darting back and forth as he searches for me.

“I, um, I’m here with a friend of Bill’s. He needed a last-minute date,” I explain awkwardly, not knowing what else to say.

“I didn’t know you still went out on dates,” Peter says, looking mildly annoyed.

“And I didn’t know that your ‘work’ involved being pawed by Tiffany at cocktail parties,” I mutter.

“Maybe you and I should get out of here before one of us says something we regret. Tiffany, are you okay with me leaving?” asks Peter.

“Whatever you need, Peter,” Tiffany says solemnly. As if they’re in
Casablanca
, and she’s selflessly telling Peter it’s okay to get on the plane.

“Do you need to tell your date?” Peter grumbles.

“No, it was just a favor. Well, maybe that’s a good idea,” I say, as I give Peter my coatroom check and I go to find J.T. “Sorry, about this,” I tell J.T. “The agency will make it up to you. I’m having an emergency of my own that I need to deal with.”

We’ve only spent thirty minutes together but I get the feeling that this isn’t the first time that J.T.’s been ditched. He pulls himself up to his full height—all five-foot-three—and tells me, “Go on, get out of here. You weren’t worth five thousand dollars, anyway.”

I’d have to agree. I didn’t hold up my end of the bargain. But the price to my marriage for tonight’s shenanigans could be a whole lot more devastating.