I turn the key to my apartment and step inside, arms weighted down with bags and enough cheese to stock a Jewish deli for a month. Everything is just as it was, but the place feels off, like I’m seeing it for the first time. I drop the bags to the floor and pace from room to room, not sure what to do with myself. I check my phone again: no messages.
Michael has my number. If he had gotten hung up somewhere, he’d have called. Or texted. Right?
I plop onto the couch. Why do I feel so incredibly shitty? I’ve got a life to get back on track! I shouldn’t be moping over Michael. The pack of Nat Sherman’s is right where I’d left it, smack in the middle of the coffee table.
Hellloo!
I slide out a cigarette, tip a match to it, and lean back noir style, my hand upturned coquettishly. I take a deep drag. Hmmm. That’s not nearly as nice as I remember. I take a long look around the apartment. My God, this place is small. My eyes skim over the sterile Ikea furniture, all of it in shades of black and white. Small and a bit dreary. I ask myself how could I live here. With Brad! I take another puff on the cigarette. Still manky. I jab it out on the edge of a plate.
What am I doing?! I should be over the moon to be home, and Stuart’s dynamite offer. I have to accept! It’s my dream job, but I can’t seem to pry myself off the sofa.
Bridie’s voice echoes in the back of my mind. ‘Love makes its own home.’
I shoot up again and head out the door and downtown.
Oak Ridge Assisted Living. This is the place.
I knock at the door and am met by a burly armed nurse.
‘May I help you?’ she asks. A spindly woman peers over her shoulder.
‘Mrs. Foster!’ I gush.
My God she’s gotten old.
She stares out at me as if I might be a vision.
‘It’s me, Julie! Kate’s friend.’
‘Kate?’ she whimpers.
The nurse steers her back inside. ‘Sorry about that, miss. It’s bad days and worse days with that one. Who was it you were looking for?’
‘Kate Foster.’
‘Oh yes. She’s here today. Down the hall to the right.’
I click down the corridor and peek into a common room where Kate is mid charade, a group of older men and women gathered, whooping, around her.
‘One word!’ the woman nearest me yells.
‘Movie!’ a second adds.
Kate nods emphatically and claps her mouth open and shut, eyes gleaming terribly.
‘Dracula!’
Kate swims wildly across the room, biting as she goes.
‘Baywatch!’ an old man yowls.
‘Dear, will you help us?’ one of the women asks me, and Kate turns to see me.
‘Julie?!’ She squints at me in disbelief.
‘Hey, no talking,’ a man spits.
‘Two minutes, Mr. Finch.’
She stalks over and yanks me into the hall. ‘When did you get back?’
‘Just now,’ I say.
‘Like just now?’
I nod. ‘I came to say I’m sorry. I’ve been a terrible friend, and an even worse partner!’
Kate sulks. ‘You’re pretty shit at it, actually.’ She smiles and claps me to her. ‘But I forgive you.’
My heart breaks wide open.
‘Hey, Kate? Can I get your help a minute?’ A very dapper young man kitted out in the same get up as Kate strides over.
‘Yeah, sure. Steve, this is Julie.’
He clasps my hand. ‘Heard loads,’ he smiles wryly and turns to Kate. ‘Mr. Anderson needs his bath. And guess who he asked for?’ He squeezes Kate’s side and ducks into a store room.
‘That’s Steve?’ I gape.
‘Mmmmhmm,’ Kate beams. ‘I’ll see you Monday? Same bat time?’ she asks.
‘Same bat channel.’
5.00 am Monday morning comes way too soon. I fumble about in the apartment, my head five hours fuzzy, trying to remember the shape of my routine. I’m a pot of coffee and three week old papers to the good when the clock strikes seven, and it’s me firing up the subway stairs, and Kate waiting with the two steaming cups of coffee.
‘Still on Irish time?’ she laughs.
‘Oh yeah.’ I take a big glug of coffee.
‘Wait’ll you see your new office. That’ll perk you up.’ We stream through the crowd, the energy of the city seeping up through my feet. ‘You should’ve seen the look on Roger’s face when Stuart booted him!’ Kate prattles on. ‘Total diva.’
I freeze on the corner, eyes wide at a row of flashing television screens. The Aran video—my video—hops across each of them.
‘Julie?’ Kate looks over my shoulder. ‘Oh yeah, you haven’t seen that? It’s like totally viral now.’
‘Is it?’ I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.
‘Yeah. Were you near any of that?’ She nods at the protest clip.
‘Not really,’ I lie.
Tadgh swings the agency door open for us, tipping his hat to me.
‘How was your trip to the old sod?’ he asks.
‘Go hiontach!’
The elevator door slides open to the office, and there’s Roger, a crammed cardboard box in his arms.
‘Look who’s back,’ he snarls.
‘Heya, Roger,’ I smirk. ‘No hard feelings, okay?’
I stride past him to the glory that is the corner office. All of the staff are gathered beneath a ‘Welcome Back!’ banner, holding their breath.
‘There she is,’ Stuart cheers and pours a round of champagne. ‘To our new Creative Director!’
Tina sweeps me into the office. ‘I’ve reassigned your files to this port,’ she says, pointing at an external disk, ‘updated your client list, and rerouted your mail.’
‘Thanks for that, Tina.’ I settle slowly into the mammoth black leather chair.
‘This just came for you,’ she says and hands me a brown envelope. ‘It’s urgent.’
It’s from Cathal. I push it to the corner of my desk, just out of arm’s reach.
‘Thanks, Tina.’
I flick open my laptop. Five new clients. Better get cracking.
But the first thing I do is run a search for my video. Kate was right. It’s popping up everywhere! There’s a link to the Fair Trade Commission’s website and a petition!
Kate knocks at the door. ‘How’s it fit?’ she grins, lounging a cheek on the edge of the desk.
‘Grand!’ I smile and snap the laptop shut.
‘Thought so,’ she trills.
‘Listen, Kate, if you still want to break out, start our own firm—’
‘Nah.’ She waves a hand at me. ‘I’m not sure if now’s the right time.’
‘Okay.’
Kate glances at the envelope on the desk. ‘Those the papers?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You sign ’em?’
‘Not yet. I will.’ I lower my eyes.
She hops off the desk and runs round behind me to give me a hug. ‘It’s so good to have you home, Jules.’
‘Yeah.’ Cathal’s letter stares me down from the opposite end of the desk.
‘Chat later,’ Kate says and slips out.
I have to pull a late one to catch up with the backlog of work. Roger’s books down, hands on approach had lost us two mid level clients, and Stuart had given me the express mandate to find one big name to fill the gap. The Chavez Brothers were ripe for the picking, but I couldn’t hand them over to Stuart!
The day drags its way to sundown, and I’m a smeary eyed, frazzled mess by the time I get back to the apartment and fish out my phone. Still no messages. Why hasn’t Michael called? I shuffle to the window and peer out. The street noise rises up and into the room. It seems to clutter the air. I click on the radio. Sinead O’Connor.
‘For the love—’ I flick it off again, wander into the kitchen and peer into the fridge. Nothing but cheese. Damn. I forgot to hit up the grocery on the way home. I take out a wheel and slice it gingerly, then take a reluctant bite.
It is good.
I nibble at another slice.
The doorbell clangs, and I flinch.
‘It’s ten o’clock. Who the hell—’ I swing open the door. Brad stands, all smiles, in the hallway. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I heard you were back,’ he says.
‘From who?’
‘Okay, I saw your light on. I miss you.’
I move to swing the door closed.
‘Wait, wait, just two seconds,’ he says, jutting a hand in. ‘I just want to talk. Tomorrow. We’ll do dinner.’
‘We’ll do dinner?’
‘Look, Jules. I know it’s way too little too late, but I need to see you.’
I cock an eyebrow. Since when does Brad Scholer need anything?
‘I have to tell you something. One thing, and I’ll leave ya be,’ he says.
‘Just one thing? That all you have to say for yourself?’ I huff at him. This has to be some sort of trap. He looks down at me sheepishly, and the blue chunk of ice around my heart thaws just slightly. ‘Where?’ I ask as bloodless and flat as I can manage.
‘Tomorrow at eight. At Gold.’
‘One drink.’
Brad breaks out in a face long grin. ‘Great.’ He tries to hug me, but I duck him. ‘Great, I’ll see you then.’
I bolt the door behind him and pad back into the living room. The manila folder glares at me from the coffee table.
Now or never, Julie.
I slide the forms out and sign them with a shaky hand.
‘You’re never gonna believe who dropped by last night,’ I say to Kate as we waltz up Broadway.
‘He didn’t?’
‘He wants to have dinner.’
‘And you said no. Right?’ she asks.
I look over at her meekly. ‘I said I’d have a drink with him. It might end up in his lap.’
‘Classic,’ Kate laughs.
At the office, Kate’s IT entourage are huddled around her desk. The Aran video flashes on the desktop.
Jacob, the PR manager, pauses it. ‘Kate, this thing’s really blowing up. Are we in on this yet?’
I look over Kate’s shoulder at his screen.
‘I got the link to the petition,’ Kate says.
‘Do we know which agency posted it?’ Jacob asks.
‘Julie might know. She was like right there.’
All eyes on me.
‘I have no idea,’ I say. Kate flashes me a secret smile, but she doesn’t give me away.
‘Tina, can I see you for a sec?’ I ask.
‘Sure.’ She follows me into my office and I hand her a letter.
‘Send it today, please,’ I say.
‘To a Mr. Heaney...in Inishmore?’
‘That’s right.’ I prop open a new file and scribble away at a campaign sketch.
‘Ms Quinn?’ Tina asks.
‘Mmmhmm.’
‘Is everything alright?’
I set my pen down and look up at her. ‘Of course.’
I have everything I’ve ever wanted. The things I need? Jury’s still out on that one.
Tina clicks to the door, sliding past Kate. She nods at Tina slyly and marches up to my desk.
‘So, you’ve finally signed the papers to sell the factory?’ she says.
‘Yep,’ I nod and swivel round to take in the skyline.
‘And that’s what you want,’ Kate prods.
‘Yeah. It is.’
‘You don’t sound too convinced,’ she says.
‘I just need some time to adjust, you know?’
‘To what? This is your life.’
‘Yeah. That’s the weird part,’ I sigh. ‘Hey, you know that dress from the Mademoiselle shoot?’
‘The Jenny Packham?’
‘That’s the one. Can I borrow it?’
‘Um YEAH,’ Kate beams.
I make sure I’m more than fashionably late to Gold. I want Brad to sweat it. I want him to be absolutely convinced I’m not coming and then loose it when I breeze through the door in this shimmering golden laced number. As I skirt past the bar, I see him, shoulders hunched in his tailored slate suit and canary tie at the best table in the house. Oh, he’s sweating it alright. I float through the door and let the dress walk for me. There isn’t a head in the place that doesn’t turn.
‘Julie. Hi.’ Brad pulls out a chair for me and almost trips over himself sitting back down. The waiter minces over. ‘Two martinis,’ Brad says and turns back to me. ‘You look... God.’
I eye him, heart and head steady.
‘What is this, Brad?’ I ask.
‘I owe you a birthday dinner,’ he smiles. ‘Remember?’
‘I remember finding you in bed with one of your models,’ I snipe at him. The waiter arrives with the drinks and smirks at Brad.
‘How ’bout we don’t talk about the past?’ he says and raises his drink. ‘To the future.’
I clink glasses with him ironically. ‘What do you want, Brad?’
‘They do an unreal surf and turf here,’ he says, immersed in the menu.
I stare through the top of his head, and he looks up at me, slowly, deliberately. ‘I want you back,’ he says at last.
What?! I keep my eyes trained on his. He can’t be serious?
He reaches into his jacket pocket. ‘I would’ve waited for dessert,’ he says and pulls out a small velvet box.
Oh NO.
He drops down on his knees. ‘Will you marry me?’ He opens the box, and out gleams a stunner of a rock in an ornate filigree setting.
This isn’t the way it was supposed to happen?!
‘I’ll promise to love and respect you,’ he says. ‘And to be more understanding of your work. I’ll never let you down again, Jules. I won’t. I don’t want to lose you again. Ever.’
My breath hitches in my throat, and everyone, even the barmen and the waiters, gape at me. Brad shifts his weight from one knee to the other.
‘Love is about compromises,’ he says. ‘I had to lose you to figure that out.’
‘I’m sorry, I—’ Think I’m going to spew. ‘Got to go to the bathroom.’ I leg it to the toilet, ram my way through the door, and very nearly topple a tall blonde, crying loudly into her hands. ‘Cameron?’
She looks up, eyes muddied with smudged mascara. ‘We have got to stop meeting like this,’ she says and tries to smile.
‘Are you ok?’
She nods yes, but then sputters out another heaving sob. ‘No,’ she cries.
Oh boy.
‘Life is so damned unfair!’ she blubbers into a wad of toilet paper.
‘Um. Yeah. I guess it is. But hey, look at you! You’re still the head of fashion at Wilson and Partners!’
‘I lied,’ Cameron snuffles.
I blink at her.
‘I’m just her PA,’ she sobs. ‘Well, I was. She fired me today.’
Say WHAT? ‘But I thought you—’ Were the face of the city!
Cameron waves a hand dismissively. ‘Apparently, thirty’s too old to fetch coffees!’ she wails.
My mouth drops open. ‘But why did you lie?’
‘I was like so envious of you in college! You were always the smart one, and I was just...’ she sniffs dejectedly, ‘the dumb blonde.’
‘No, you weren’t,’ I say and squeeze her hand.
She looks up at me and flashes that million dollar smile. ‘Is that a Jenny Packham?’ she asks, wiping at her tears.
‘Yeah. Borrowed.’
‘It looks good on you. Really good.’ She smooths on a slick ruby lipstick. ‘How’s your new firm coming along?’
I look at myself in the mirror. ‘It’s not. Long story.’ Cameron freezes, eyes bulging wide. ‘Everything’s changed,’ I say, locking eyes with myself. ‘You ever feel completely lost?’
Cameron nods knowingly. ‘All the time,’ she smiles. ‘My grandmother used to tell me that if I ever got lost in life, there were two things I could do. I could sit down and wait for someone to rescue me, or I could turn around and go back the way I came. You pay attention to the signs along the path, you’ll always be able to find my way home.’
I gape at her, wide eyed. She’s right! It might not make much sense, but I have to do it. I gather Cameron up in a warm hug. ‘Thank you,’ I tell her. ‘Everything’s gonna be alright.’
I stride out of the bathroom, alight with confidence. Heads swivel to follow me back to the table where Brad waits, nervously fingering the velvet box. I give him a curt peck on the cheek.
‘I’ve got to go, Brad,’ I say and collect my bag.
‘Go? Where?’
‘Home,’ I smile and dart off.
Brad half rises, the little box outheld.