I straightened, utterly mortified and unable to speak. I nodded as he gestured to the door and stood to leave.
“Skip!” Matt called after me. I turned. “Don’t forget you’re actually good at your job. Go. Fix this. CC me and Jordan on everything. This will be cleared up within a few days.” He gave me a short, forgiving smile. I nodded and blinked in apology before turning.
I walked slowly down the hallway, not trusting my feet beneath my wobbling knees, promising myself to never make the mistake of relying on my appearance over my intelligence again.
I cracked my neck as emails about what I had thought was a closed deal flooded my in-box. I stared at the number on my ringing phone.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Dad’s here too! We’re just checking in.”
Phone calls with my parents were the only points in my week when I actually remembered that I had broken up with Sam. I couldn’t quite bring myself to tell them Sam had moved out, and my willful omission alerted me to a deep sense of failure over the relationship not working that was bubbling beneath my skin. And not telling them one thing made my brain skulk shamefully off to all the other things I’d never tell them, like my thing with Peter and my occasional drug use. Instead, I filled our conversation with chatter about my deals and the upcoming gala.
The Private Equity Fights Hunger gala was one of the most highly anticipated and popularly photographed charity events on the New York social calendar. It would be a veritable who’s who of upper-echelon New Yorkers from every walk of life and line of work, and this year it would be sponsored by Stag River because Gary was chairing the event. I googled last year’s event from my office, clicking wide-eyed through pictures of Anna Wintour, Oprah, and the Obamas. I had only one thought: What am I going to wear?
Practically, I wasn’t going to spend thousands of dollars on a couture gown—less because of the money than because I would never have the time to tailor it properly, and it would be a total waste. I opted for Rent the Runway, borrowing a $12,000 Naeem Khan runway gown with a corseted bodice and black gossamer tulle skirt covered in deep violet silk flowers. It fit perfectly.
I knew I had made the right choice as soon as I arrived at the steps to the Met, trying desperately not to grin at the flashing cameras, knowing the photographers were mistaking me for somebody important. I didn’t actually care what the random photographers thought, but I believe their reaction portended what Peter’s might be when he saw me. My heart pulsated wildly as I posed for the press while standing in between the posters of Gary Kaplan shaking hands with the president of the Fight Against Hunger organization that flanked the step-and-repeat. I traded emails about my location with Peter until I finally spotted him in front of the oyster display, dashing in his perfectly tailored shawl-collar tux and classic bow tie. I watched him from a distance for a moment, plotting how we’d slip out together unnoticed at the end of the evening.
“Hey!” I tapped him playfully.
He spun around, flustered. “My wife is here. Just came. You look amazing.” He said it all as one word.
I plastered a smile on my face as my chest tightened and my throat closed.
“Well . . . I’m going to get a martini.” As I turned toward the bar, tears sprang to my eyes. I had somehow convinced myself in the past few weeks that his wife didn’t exist—that she was just some beautiful figure who fed his kids while I played the romantic lead in Peter’s life. It was more difficult to pretend she was a mere nanny when she was on his arm at a gala. I sniffled and steadied myself, missing Sam for the first time since I had watched him pack.
I twisted the clasp of my evening clutch anxiously as I waited for the elderly couple in front of me to get their club sodas.
“Somebody get this lady a drink.” I recognized Gary’s voice immediately. This just wasn’t my night. I turned and greeted him with a smile, though I’d been hoping to make it through the evening without seeing the host.
“Hi, Gary. This event is lovely. Thanks for having me.”
“Alex, I want you to meet my wife, Cynthia, and our daughter, Olivia.” Gary turned his body diagonally in the crowd, and his wife and daughter leaned their heads forward into my view. His wife had a large, bright smile. She was conservatively dressed in a stately black gown. His daughter was wearing a sequined shift that was perfect for her gangly teenage frame and took the attention off her pink braces. I smiled broadly and sidestepped the older couple so I could stand in front of them. I was almost confused by the sight of them—they seemed the picture of a New York society family.
“Hi. It’s such a pleasure to meet both of you. You must be so proud.”
“We are.” His wife beamed over at her husband. Maybe I’d misjudged him entirely. Had the Rainbow Room grope actually somehow been an accident or misunderstanding? Was that woman in the Nomad a friend? Did he have an arrangement with his doting wife?
“Alex is at Klasko. She works a lot with Peter Dunn,” Gary announced to his wife, who seemed to recognize Peter’s name. And all of a sudden he knows my name. “She’s really been integral to a few of our deals. She’s going places.”
I tried to wipe the look of confusion off my face.
“Honey, I want to catch Bill and Hillary before they leave. They never stay for dinner.” Cynthia pulled gently at Gary’s arm, and Gary nodded, putting his arm around his daughter as they all waved goodbye to me. I watched the happy family leave before shaking myself back into the moment.
I made certain to finish two martinis before taking my seat at the Klasko table across from Peter and Marcie. She wore a simple sleeveless black velvet sheath with a diamond brooch, and she’d swept her hair into an effortlessly loose knot, accentuating her impossibly long neck. I looked at the parade of fabric marching across my breast and had the sudden and overwhelming feeling that I was emphasizing my short frame and small chest with the busy gown. I only lasted twenty minutes across from her, forcing myself to wait until Gary’s speech was over before excusing myself.
I ran my fingers angrily over the silk petals protruding from my gown as I made my way out of the dining area. Somebody opened the front door, and the unseasonably cold air was so inviting that I slipped outside, the night air stinging my lungs as though reminding me I was still breathing. What a fucking disaster of an evening! I looked at my watch. It wasn’t even eight o’clock, and while the idea of hours alone in my empty apartment made me shiver, it was better than even a moment longer at the gala. I snapped myself out of the pathetic pity party, hiked up the bottom of my gown, and plunged down the long set of granite stairs leading to Fifth Avenue.
As I reached the bottom step, I saw the outline of two men fighting, arms locked around each other like two boxers who got knotted up.
“Alex! Hey! Can you give me a hand here?” Gary was struggling to keep another man vertical as he slipped down the stairs, missing whole bunches of the concrete plateaus as his feet spilled over them. Not fighting, I corrected myself. The man was wasted.
I rushed to the man’s side and took his other arm, trying desperately not to get my gown caught on my heels as I did so. Gary and I practically carried him down the steps of the Met.
“I can walk! I’m not a fucking baby!” The man writhed as though in pain in an attempt to extricate himself from our hands. I moved to release him once we were on flat ground, but he was so unsteady on his feet, I grabbed for his arm again.