The Hole in the Middle (22 page)

Jesse is very still, his jaw set in a hard line. “We should go in,” I say. “It's cold.”

“That didn't seem to bother you when Will was here.”

“I lost track of time,” I say.

“Apparently,” he says.

“Let's go in, Jesse,” I say. “Come on. There's no reason to be like that.” I give him what I assume is a reassuring smile, but he's having none of it.

“The sad thing is, Sophie,” he says, “I bet you actually believe that.”

We go into the house and bid our guests a good night. Zoe gives me a sympathetic look and mouths the words
call me
as she heads out the door. Jesse starts heading up the stairs.

“Are you going to help clean up?” I ask. The tension between us is palpable, but I'm sure relations will normalize once we start tidying and domestic order is restored. It's always worked in the past.

“I don't think so,” says Jesse. “I'm going to bed.” It's clear he's not inviting me to join him. Remembering Anya, I feel panic begin to rise.

“Jesse—” I begin, but he doesn't let me finish.

“How about this, Sophie,” he says. “How about you tell me when I get to stop looking over my shoulder, OK? Because I would really like to know.”

saturday, december 7, 2013

The alarm goes off at seven on Saturday morning. With my eyes still closed, I try to remember a time when Saturday morning meant waking up on your own, just because your body had enough sleep—not because the kids wanted you to turn on the television, and not because you had to go and oversee a crew shooting a ridiculously sentimental holiday ad airing too late in the season to make much of a difference to anyone. I try, but I can't really remember what it felt like, only that there was a time in my life when it happened routinely. I roll over and reach for Jesse, but his side of the bed is cool and empty. In the distance, I hear glasses clinking and the dishwasher door slamming shut. There's no help for it; I'm going to have to intervene before he breaks every glass in the house. I slide out of bed, wrap myself in a bathrobe, and pad downstairs.

“You're up early,” I say.

“I didn't get much sleep,” he says.

I pour a cup of coffee and swish a mouthful around to wash out the ashy aftertaste of my cigarette hangover, and then go over to the dishwasher and start removing the wineglasses that Jesse has just loaded. “I don't want the stems to snap,” I say. Jesse watches me without speaking. I fill the sink. “Do you want to dry?” I ask.

“Not particularly,” he says.

“All right,” I say, bracing myself. “Do you want to tell me why you're so cranky this morning?”

“I think you misunderstand,” says Jesse. “I'm not cranky. I'm completely and totally pissed off. And you can probably guess why. I'll give you a hint. It has to do with the fact that you invited Will fucking Shannon into my house and then snuck off with him in the middle of dinner.”

I drop glasses into the water, watching the bowls fill and sink to the bottom. I take a couple of calming breaths. “There was no sneaking,” I say reasonably. “He offered me a job. He wanted to discuss it privately.”

“A job doing what, exactly?”

“Running the Baxter Foundation. He and Lil want me to replace her.”

“And why didn't Lil ask you herself?”

“I don't know,” I say, defensively. “Will's the chair of the board. We're old friends. Maybe they thought I'd be more likely to say yes to him.”

“Because you think he walks on water?”

“Jesus, Jesse, lay off. We haven't seen each other in ages. We were catching up.”

“And why is this the first time I'm hearing about this so-called job offer?”

“Are you seriously suggesting that I'm lying about the job?” My voice is getting higher with each volley. “I might well have mentioned it last night, but it was difficult to get your attention.”

“My attention? You were the one in the backyard, smoking and gazing into Will's eyes.”

“I don't know what you thought you saw,” I say, “but—”

“I know exactly what I saw. And so would anyone else paying the slightest bit of attention. Is he your backup plan in case I don't work out? Because you might want to bear in mind that he didn't want you the first time around.”

“Stop it before you say something you regret,” I say.

“You're the expert on regrets around here,” he says.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Give me some credit. Do you really think I'm that oblivious?”

“I think you're oblivious to everyone except Anya these days.”

Jesse slams a hand down on the counter. “You have a lot of nerve turning this around on me. What does Anya have to do with anything?”

“She was snuggled up to you all night at the table,” I say, outraged at his denial. “She kept touching you. You acted like she was the only person there. Even Zoe noticed it.”

“Zoe should mind her own fucking business for once,” says Jesse.

“Don't you start on Zoe.”

“For Christ's sake, Sophie, I'm not interested in Anya. We were talking about business.”

“And what business was that? How incredible she looks?”

Jesse's face is white. “No, actually. I needed to talk to her about how our last-chance investor failed to get the loan he needed and about how our company is going to go under as a result. Good news for you. You always hated Anya and now you won't have to deal with her anymore. Happy?”

“Of course I'm not happy!”

“Well, there's a big fucking surprise. You've been miserable for months, and here's a news flash—it's not anything that Will Shannon is going to fix for you. He never sticks around for the hard stuff, and you are incredibly fucking hard to live with these days.”

I feel as though I can barely breathe, my chest is so tight. “Fuck you, too, Jesse,” I whisper.

In the airless silence that follows, I hear laughter as the front door opens.

Jamie and Scotty race into the kitchen and twine themselves around my legs. “Hug, Mommy,” they cry, and I bend down and wrap them in my arms, hiding my face from Jesse.

“I've got to go up and shower, Jesse,” I say, my voice shaky. “I'm due at the Baxter in an hour for the shoot.”

“How long are you going to be gone?” He doesn't meet my eye.

“It could go all day,” I say, “but it's unlikely. I think I'll be back mid-afternoon. The sitter will be here at six.”

“Where are we going?”

“It's Lil's party. I promised her we'd both be there.”

“Fantastic,” says Jesse. “Another chance to catch up with my old friend Will. That sounds wonderful. Can't wait.”

My hands clutch the steering wheel to keep them from shaking as I drive to the office, rehearsing our argument over and over in my mind. Jesse and I rarely fight, and this one has been apocalyptic by our standards. By the time I arrive at the office, I'm in a complete state. And, as luck would have it, Nigel is clocking some overtime by working the germ desk on Saturday morning. His eyes light up as he sees me, but I find, suddenly, that I've lost my will to fight. He pulls out his clipboard.

“You don't need to do that,” I say. “I've had a sinus infection for the past week. I've had a fever, but I'm not contagious. I'm taking antibiotics. Here's a note from my doctor.” I rummage around in my purse and produce the note from Beverley. “Truce?”

Nigel scrutinizes the document as if it contains paragraphs instead of ten words. He looks up at me with a sour expression. “It's not easy doing this job, you know.”

“I appreciate that,” I say. “I certainly wouldn't want to do it.” Nigel looks suspicious. “I think what you do is really important,” I add hastily. “And I'm sorry if I've been rude to you. It's been a stressful time at work, but that's not an excuse.”

Nigel looks surprised and mildly disappointed. He obviously has a fight or two left in him, but I'm no longer a worthy opponent. “You can go in,” he says.

I make a mental note to tell Jenny that I've circumvented Nigel's grievance. At least I can claim one achievement today. I wonder if I have to tell HR that Geoff is in love with me and may decide to quit at any moment, which reminds me that I'm really, really dreading seeing Geoff.

I make my way to the conference room on the second floor, which has been transformed into a tiny ecosystem populated with young people dressed in black and wearing headsets. I watch them for a few minutes
while I get my bearings, observing them buzz back and forth from the perimeter of the room to a point in the center, where the maestro is holding court. Claudio is in a slim white suit today, with snakeskin loafers and aviator glasses. It gladdens my heart to see that he's prepared to treat my holiday ad with all the seriousness of an Oscar-contending Hollywood production.

“Sophie!” Claudio swans over, arms outstretched, and kisses me on both cheeks.

“I can't thank you enough for doing this, Claudio,” I say, completely sincerely. “We would have been sunk without you.”

“True,” he says. “But the Baxter holds a special place in my heart. I am at her service.” He hooks an arm through my elbow and pulls me over to the corner, waving off a couple of black-clad assistants. “I have to ask you,” he says in a low voice, “is something wrong with Geoff? He seems upset with me. Did I offend him? I like to tease him, you know, but it's all in fun. It's just too delicious to poke the straight boys with sticks. But I have been known to go too far. Can you talk to him?”

I scan the room for Geoff. The sight of him makes me uncomfortable and anxious; it reminds me of the morning after an ill-advised pickup at the pub.
Prince Charming always looks like a frog when the beer goggles come off,
as Zoe used to say. But the feeling seems misplaced and more than a little unfair here: I'm suffering for my sins without the preceding pleasure of any transgression. Geoff knows I'm here, which is evident from the fact that he hasn't so much as glanced in my direction. He's not going to make this easy for me. “It's not you, Claudio,” I say. “Geoff had a bad week. I think the best thing would be to go a bit easy on him today. Let's just give him some space, OK? I don't think it would help for me to speak to him.”

“Ah,” says Claudio. “That poor man. I always suspected that he played for your team—your team specifically, I mean. I take it that things were said?”

“It's a little awkward,” I say.

“It's not your fault,” says Claudio. “Better out than in and all that.
He'll get over it.” He turns and points to one of the assistants hovering a discreet distance away. “Kara, can you fill Sophie in on the shoot schedule? I'm going to get started with the doctor. Showtime, people!”

Kara shows me her clipboard. “We have a three-hour shooting schedule,” she says. “We're doing the first hour in here for the interviews with Dr. Waldron and the patient. We're working from a basic script, but we're still going to use an interviewer to make the conversation as natural as possible. We'll edit out the interviewer and select the best clips in the studio. Geoff is doing the interviews, since he's done the script prep. Then we're spending a couple of hours up on the oncology ward. We've got permission from a couple of families to film them interacting with Dr. Waldron, and then we're going into the recreation room for some shots of the kids playing. We've got a couple of people up there explaining the process and timing to the parents and handing out waiver forms.”

“You guys are amazing,” I say. “What's the timeline for production?”

“It depends a bit on the quality of the interviews, but Claudio's got the editing team booked in for the rest of today and tomorrow. He says we'll have it to you on Monday.”

“Quiet, please!” Claudio commands.

“Why don't you wait in the green room?” says Kara, as she escorts me out.

The green room is an office down the hall, which is empty except for one teenage girl sitting at the desk, typing on a laptop. She's very pale and tall, with lively brown eyes and a red bandanna covering her head.

“You must be Taylor,” I say. “I'm Sophie. Thanks so much for agreeing to help us out with the shoot.”

“That's OK,” she says. “Do you work here?”

“Yes. I'm the director of communications for the hospital, so my office is kind of in charge of the shoot. They're just starting with Dr. Waldron now, so they'll probably call you in a half hour or so.”

“Director of communications,” she says. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Go ahead.”

“I'm going to take some notes.”

“OK.”

“What does a director of communications do?”

“Can I ask you a question first? Why are you taking notes?”

“I'm doing some research on different careers and what people like about them.”

“For a school project?” I ask.

“Not exactly,” says Taylor, “but it could be, I guess, if that makes a difference to you.”

“No,” I say. “I was just making conversation. I work with a group of people to produce materials that tell the outside world what the Baxter is all about. Those materials include our website, annual reports to people who give us money, public statements about our research that we hope will get picked up by the media, and then various projects like the one we're doing today that are designed to encourage people in the community to support us financially. And then I do a bunch of other things that aren't really part of my job at all, like organizing fund-raising events, and sitting on committees, and things like that.”