With Friends Like These: A Novel (34 page)

Autumn’s prognostications had seemed sensible when I’d heard them earlier. I wanted to believe her. I blew my nose, dabbed my tears, and tried to remember the gist of the rest.
You may have been hurt in the past and so find it hard to trust people, but don’t let suspicions get out of hand
had been intermingled in her wisdom. I had a long and winding road ahead of me if I wanted to reach the apex of self-improvement.

I decided to listen to the next day’s tape right then. I pulled my iPod from the bedside table and stuck the buds in my ears.
Look in the mirror
, Autumn trilled. I got up and walked to the full-length mirror.
Who is that? A star in the making! Lady Luck is shining on you
. I’d have to take her word on that, since I looked like I’d gone through a half marathon, not a short crying jag.

I realized I was being a brat. Xander provided for us luxuriously, yet had little time to enjoy anything himself. Before I saw him again, I’d best reapply my eye makeup, but I wanted to soak up a bit more psychological rehab first.

Think of your life as a beach book so juicy you can’t wait to turn the page and see what thrilling escapades will occur next in the heroine’s life. Become that heroine. Write your own story. Make it anything you want
.

I closed my eyes and tried to take myself on a more daring path, but I
couldn’t see beyond my own front door, which I’d recently repainted in cerulean blue and had refitted with a shiny brass knob. Maybe I wasn’t thinking big-picture enough, but except for my subzero confidence, my life already felt close to ideal—Dash, our Keaton Inc. prosperity, and certainly Xander, though I’d like to have him be, as Autumn would say, more present in our lives. My beach book was going to hit the remainder pile the week it was published. It surely wasn’t going to warrant reviews, even in someone’s sloppy blog. Certainly it wouldn’t be optioned for a movie!

I opened my eyes and noticed, as I got up to walk to the bathroom, that the light on my phone was blinking. The first message was about a job that had struck me as respectable but dull. It was at a large agency and my assignment would be on floor accounts, the challenge being that people in the Swiffer Generation, as the interviewer referred to people I assumed were my age, didn’t place a high priority on the state of the wood beneath their feet. The recording was from someone in human resources. “Great news!” she warbled. “Mrs. Keaton, we are delighted to make you an offer. Please return my call at your convenience, any time after eight in the morning.” I was even less enthusiastic about the job knowing the hour at which the busy bees there would hit the desk. The second message was from my decorator, who’d found a collection of antique maps she wanted to hang in Dash’s room; some weeks ago, Xander had vetoed the idea of re-creating a log cabin. The last message was from Winters Jonas, from Bespoke Communications. “Chloe, let’s talk once more,” he said, and left his cell number. His voice was a low growl. “It’s down to you and another candidate.”

I’d hoped to complete my twenty-four-tape crash course in ego repair before I needed to make major decisions. How should I react to antique maps in a young child’s room? Xander would probably find them brilliantly educational, but what if Dash started jabbering about, say, the country of Yugoslavia and his friends thought he’d made it up? He’d come home furious for having been led astray, and demand to know the truth about the Tooth Fairy, too. If I was dithering about antique maps, I certainly wasn’t up to accepting a job or possibly choosing between
offers. A smarter job hunter would enjoy playing one position against another, but I understood this game even less well than football or bridge.

I redid my makeup and changed into a flowing white robe Xander had given me last Christmas. I walked first to his library, my rustling satin the only sound except the big clock ticking in the hall. His library door was closed, no lamps lit or richly scented pipe smoke wafting into the hallway. I continued down to the living room and dining room. Empty. “Xander,” I called out, quietly, for fear of waking Dash. I got to the garden floor and saw that his jacket was missing from the hook in the hall. I heard noise in the kitchen and opened the door, hoping he’d be there and that our mutual apologies would outdo one another.

But it wasn’t Xander. It was Jamyang, who had her back to me, brewing mint tea. She turned and looked up, pushing a wave of black hair away from her face, portrait perfect, with eyes darker than charcoal. She smiled ever so slightly. “I’ll be finished in a minute,” she said, spooning dainty drops of honey into the green glazed stoneware cup that she kept in her room. Did she think that to place it in our cupboard would violate boundaries, or was she afraid that our decadence might contaminate her purity?

“No need to hurry,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t. I wished Jamyang and I might talk, perhaps not exactly as friends, but I wanted, at least, her respect. I worried that she thought I was spoiled and pesky. In the months since she’d joined our household, I’d never succeeded in sparking conversation, light or otherwise, though Jamyang’s vocabulary had expanded right along with Dash’s. Our exchanges ventured only as far as practicalities.

“Yes, ma’am,” she answered, although once we’d gotten past “Missy Chloe,” time and again I’d suggested that she call me by my first name.

I looked at Jamyang’s tea and realized I craved some hug-in-a-mug hot chocolate. My cooking instructor always spouted off about how it was a crime to use anything less than the darkest imported chocolate, the more bitter the better, with pours of heavy cream and organic milk to which he added vanilla beans, cinnamon, and slivers of candied ginger. His production
would take me thirty minutes. But our teacher was across the river in the Village, most likely dreaming of wild rabbit stuffed with foie gras and truffles. I dumped a packet of Swiss Miss into a saucepan, poured in whatever skim milk remained in the carton, and waited for my concoction to simmer while I scavenged for mini marshmallows and pictured my cooking instructor having a stroke.

As I went through the steps, I felt Jamyang’s watchful eyes. Could I, who had a good ten years on Jamyang, move to the other side of the globe, unfamiliar with the language and customs, the money and transportation system, and manage even a fraction as well? I knew the answer to every question. Did I honestly want to know what she thought of Xander and me? Perhaps her silence was a gift.

“Dash ate an avocado today,” she said. “And two clementines.” She had the kind of round, full lips Hollywood celebrities used artificial fillers to fake. Had Xander noticed? “And he could use some harder puzzles. Smart.”

“Thanks,” I said, thinking that she knew Dash’s brains came from Xander, not me. “I’ll pick some up tomorrow.”

“And new pajamas.”

Usually Jamyang wore baggy jumpers over long-sleeved T-shirts and leggings, her hair tightly braided. But that night she was in a sleeveless T-shirt, which showed slender arms toned by repeatedly picking up a growing boy. Her feet were bare—pale and as exquisitely formed as a marble statue’s. To my surprise, her toenails were painted a trendy shade of bloody red. Why had she gone to the trouble? Perhaps the real question was, for whom?

Did Xander notice Jamyang, an orchid flowering within his own home? Did she want him to notice her? I told myself I was a crackpot to think this, but couldn’t stop.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said. “Good evening, ma’am.”

“Good evening, Jamyang, sweet dreams.” She turned away and padded noiselessly into the hallway that led to her room.

My hot chocolate was ready. I poured it into a gaily striped red mug
and sipped it while I read trashy magazines in bed, waiting for Xander. Usually I relished photos of celebrities shoving toilet paper into their trunks or conveniently falling in love with their costar right before their movie release. But before I got to Fashion Police, I’d closed my eyes. I’m fairly sure sometime later, Xander kissed me goodnight.

When I woke in the morning, he was already in the shower. “Good morning, sunshine,” he said a few minutes later as he strolled toward his walk-in closet with its still life of suits—navy or charcoal—neatly hung on wooden hangers. He selected a charcoal pinstripe and turned toward his ties—stripes, dots, and small geometric patterns, arranged by color. “Which cravat does the lady prefer?” He held up two, blue and pink.

“Pink, definitely.” Was he going to pretend our words the night before hadn’t been ugly? Did he think I’d acted like a child, and was going to magnanimously overlook my behavior?

He started dressing. Crisp white shirt, light on the starch. Discreetly engraved matte gold cuff links. Black lizard belt. Well-cobbled, perfectly shined Lobb shoes, heels always in repair.

“Xander, about last night,” I said.

He took his thin gold watch from the velvet-lined box where it rested every night. “Honey, I can’t be late.” He kissed me on the cheek. The faint citrus scent of his hundred-dollar-an-ounce cologne lingered after he left the room.

It was eight-ten. I called the Swiffer lady to get the details on her offer. The salary was more than twice as much as what I earned now, although of course it was for a full-time job, not a part-time one. She wanted my answer within a week. I thanked her, told her I’d be back in touch soon, and put a note on my calendar. I knew I was going to say no, but it seemed rude to reject her on the spot.

My next order of business was my Autumn Rutherford tape.
If partners and loved ones try to clip your wings, do whatever it takes to protect your autonomy. If you lose it, it won’t be easy to recover
, she advised.

At nine o’clock I dialed Bespoke Communications. “Chloe Keaton for Winters Jonas, please,” I told the receptionist.

  
Talia

“Good to see you again,” Winters Jonas said. Apparently he was not going to apologize for keeping me waiting. I’d been sinking into a burgundy love seat in a dive so poorly lit I couldn’t even pass the time by proofing the copy I’d written that day for Eliot. I could hear my mother saying,
Talia Rose, who has a job interview in such a dump?
But this was where the blond receptionist had told me to meet him. My skirt had ridden up, and as Winters sat beside me I pulled it over my knees.

I’d ordered sparkling water. “Can’t I talk you into a glass of wine?” He waved over the server. “The syrah, please,” he said after he perused the short list.

I was too vain to take out my glasses to read the menu. “Make that two,” I said.

He leaned back and at an angle, his face slightly in shadow. Once again, he was wearing black, a turtleneck, subtly expensive. On his wrist was a Patek Philippe, the model with a perpetual calendar and diamonds twinkling on the bezel. Its face and band were black. The only reason I could identify the watch was that Xander owned its twin, an engagement
present from Chloe, who’d taken me along on a giddy shopping trip.

“Talia,” he said, “this hasn’t been an easy decision.” Was this putz going to tell me I was the loser? Couldn’t he have e-mailed? “I hope you don’t think I’ve been jerking you around.” I did, I did. “You’ve been on my mind a lot since California.”

The wine arrived. He lifted his glass and slowly swirled its contents. A bossa nova beat was playing on the sound track, inspiring the couple next to us to sway in their seats.

“I won’t pretend I don’t have some hesitation—your background isn’t a custom fit,” Winters said. I hoped he couldn’t hear me gulp. “But my instincts tell me I’d be making a mistake not to hire you,” he added, “and I always respect my gut.” His smile looked nothing less than genuine. But then he bent forward to remove an eyelash from my eye.

“Just a minute,” he said, his breath cool on my face. Was this
schmuck
going to kiss me? But he sat back in his chair and repeated the words I’d been hoping to hear: “I’d like you to take the job.”

Not praise to make a woman break into song. Still. “Great news,” I said. “Thank you.”

He reviewed the salary—almost as much as I’d asked for—and the accounts, each more interesting than my current assignments. “I’d like you to start in two weeks,” he said, “and meet me in Napa, where I’m pitching a major winery.” From a slim leather satchel he withdrew a folder, both black. “You could start working on it now.”