I frowned. “Gary just grabbed my boob. Breast. Whatever. He felt me up. Right in the middle of this party.” I didn’t know how to say it, never having had to say anything like it before. It was the most unexpected, most disturbing thing to happen to me, and the fact that it happened so flagrantly, with my colleagues all around, made me question whether it had actually happened at all. “And then he invited me to the PE Fights Hunger gala at the Met.”
“Fuck! Skip!” Jordan’s jaw dropped. “Everybody goes. Or everybody wants to go. For somebody gunning for partner like me, it’s the single most important business development event I can attend. If I had tits, I’d let him grab them both to cop an invite!” He shook his head and made his way to the bar to refill his scotch, leaving me stunned.
I made my way to the ladies’ room, where I sat on the tufted circular ottoman and smoothed the fabric of my dress over my thighs. I’d thought the dress was modest. Did it make me look like a slut? I shouldn’t have worn lip gloss. Or maybe my eyeliner was too heavy. I wiped my finger under my eyes to lighten it.
“Hey, you okay?” Vivienne White sat down next to me as I nodded robotically. “I love these shoes, but they are the most uncomfortable, impractical things in the world.” She removed her feet from gorgeous black satin pumps with crystal-embellished straps to reveal a Giuseppe Zanotti label, then applied pressure to the arch of each foot and closed her eyes. “You sure you’re okay?”
I breathed in and forced myself to speak again. “Gary Kaplan sort of . . . grabbed at my chest. And then invited me to the PE Fights Hunger gala . . . like as payment for letting him feel me up.”
Vivienne sighed and rolled her eyes. “He’s so grabby.” I waited a moment for more—for a display of anger from her, a sign that she was horrified by what had happened. But it didn’t come. “That gala is a good opportunity for you. You should go. It’ll show your status in the M&A group. After Match Day, you can decline these invites. Just stick it out until then.” She slapped my knee and slipped her shoe back on. “Look, he doesn’t work for the firm. It’s sort of . . .” She held up her palms as if to say, Out of my hands. She clicked her tongue against the top of her mouth and walked out the door.
I sat there for a moment longer as two blondes with impossibly long legs and absurdly short skirts emerged from a single bathroom stall, one of them rubbing her upper gums with her index finger. I stared at them as they put their drinks down to wash their hands, each adorned with nearly identical and blinding engagement rings.
“Oh! Miss! You have a little . . . ,” I said to the taller one, wiping at my own nose to signal her to do the same to the white powder on hers.
“Whoopsies!” She giggled. “Better?” She bent over and leaned her face close to mine so I could judge, and I suddenly felt wetness on my leg as she emptied her glass of red wine onto my new dress.
“Oh my god. I’m so, so sorry!” she wailed as I jumped up. Her friend covered her mouth with her palm, laughing from behind it. “I’m so sorry.” The girl grabbed my arm as she repeated her apology. The bathroom attendant rushed over. “Here. Let me.” The girl grabbed the towel from the attendant and went to the sink to wet it. She returned and rubbed at my thigh, which only worked the red liquid deeper into the white fabric, making me look like a murder victim.
“Don’t. It’s fine,” I said, gripping her wrist before the towel did any more damage and moving it away from my waist.
“I have to pay you! I feel awful! And it’s so beautiful!” She spoke quickly, clearly feeling the effects of the cocaine. “Is it last season’s Marchesa Notte? Or is it Oscar? Oh god, please don’t be Oscar de la Renta!”
“No. It’s Alice and Olivia,” I said, staring down dejectedly at it.
“Oh, thank god. I thought it was couture.” She placed her hand over her heart and breathed. “I’m sorry again! But at least it wasn’t expensive,” she called over her shoulder as she and her friend burst back out into the cocktail hour, the jazz sax seeping in behind her for a moment before the door shut and muffled it.
I burst into tears and called a car to take me home, slipping easily out of the party without being seen by my colleagues, who busied themselves chatting with their clients. When I arrived back at the apartment, Sam was already asleep. I contemplated waking him, knowing he’d hold me close to comfort me and find my encounter with Gary appropriately appalling. But he looked so peaceful. I’d bring it up in Vermont, I decided. I suddenly couldn’t wait for a weekend alone with Sam—away from work and the city, with nothing to do but remember all the reasons I loved him.
Chapter 13
I did exactly as Peter had suggested, and went right to his ski house Thursday afternoon after an almost full and luckily slow workday. The house was as magnificent as I’d expected—the quintessential ski chalet punctuated with oriental carpets and chocolate leather, the plush carpeting offsetting the grandiose scale of the rooms. A gaping stone fireplace beckoned us into the great room, where 180-degree views of the mountain awaited us. I had been asleep for four of the five and a half hours that Sam drove, and was still groggy as I explored.
“No way. It’s too weird,” I said, standing in the doorway to the master bedroom, staring at a picture of Peter and his beautiful blond wife on the nightstand next to the California king. “We have four other rooms to choose from!”
“Are you saying you want to sleep in bunk beds?” Sam smiled.
“Fine, three other rooms,” I said, and rolled my eyes sleepily.
Sam pushed a button on the wall, and the windows let out a soft groan as the blackout shades recoiled, revealing a huge screened-in balcony with heat lamps, oversize chairs, and a glass table. Beyond that, Killington Mountain was streaked with moonlight bouncing off the snow-covered trails. I put my bag down and slid open the balcony door while Sam clicked on the heat lamps, and then he slipped his arms around my stomach and leaned his chin on my shoulder from behind.
“Can we stay in this room? Pretty please?” he whined. I laughed and turned to him.
“Sam?” I said into his chest. “What if this job is changing me?” The question surprised me as I spoke.
He kissed my cheek. “I loved you before this job. I love you now. And I’ll love you after,” he said, making a sweeping, circular gesture around my body. “In the meantime, I’ll just have to grin and bear the perks of your career.”
I breathed in, believing his words and allowing myself to appreciate his goodness for the first time in too long, allowing myself to see all the things that had made me fall in love with him. I looked into his kind eyes and knew that he’d never grope a woman in public, he’d never cheat on me. I pulled him onto Peter’s bed.
Eventually the animalistic need for sustenance trumped the one for sex, so we dressed quickly and got into the car. Aware that all the restaurants in the village closed at ten thirty, we walked into the first cozy Italian joint we spotted. As we waited for the maître d’, Sam pressed his stomach to my spine. I slipped my hand around the back of his thigh to pull him closer.
“How many will you be tonight?” the maître d’ asked politely. I felt Sam lean into me, and I turned to him.