There’s way more than I need here. I’m a major fan of research—you have to be, with financial topics—but too many statistics can suck the freshness and spontaneity out of an interview. Though I’m briefly tempted to tell Sasha this, I bite my tongue. Being research-crazy is probably good for her at this stage, and the bottom line is that I need projects to occupy her time.
“Let’s focus for a few minutes on the last part of the podcast,” I tell her. As a favor, I’m allowing her to participate in the final segment of the show, a ten-minute “chat” with me that I usually do with my producer, Casey. It’s my chance to riff on a current financial news headline or trend and offer insights as to how it might affect listeners.
“I’ve already made a list of things that are in the air right now, though that could change this week.”
“Actually, I’d like to try a different tack this week,” I tell her. “Since the interview is going to be mainly about career strategies, and not as much personal finance, I thought you and I could chat about the financial mistakes people make early on in their careers.”
“You mean like buying a toasted white chocolate mocha on the way to work instead of making coffee at home or in the office kitchenette?”
“That’s been overdone lately, so let’s talk about factors that have a much bigger impact. Credit card debt. Not opening an IRA. That’s always a big mistake.”
“If that’s what you want.” I detect a hint of sullenness in her tone. She was clearly banking on me going with one of her ideas.
“Yes, I think that will be best in the mix. . . . Unfortunately, we’re going to have to wrap up now.” She’s been here far longer than I planned, and the conversation has started to drain me. “I need to take care of a few other things before dinner.”
“Of course,” she says crisply, beginning to gather her belongings—the stack of papers, manila folders, a fancy rollerball pen. “Thanks for taking the time today.”
“And thank you. For the soup—and the flowers.” I tug my phone from my sweater pocket to check if Hugh’s texted.
“Oh good, you found it,” she says.
“Excuse me?”
“Your phone.”
“Um, no, this is a spare.” I don’t recall mentioning my phone was MIA. “How did you know it was missing?”
“Because you called on Tuesday to say you lost it.”
10
I freeze. I spoke to Sasha on Tuesday? Does this mean she knows something about my whereabouts that day? For a moment I sit tongue-tied at the table, not sure how to play this.
“Don’t you remember?” she asks.
“The two of us speaking?” I say finally, trying to fake awareness.
“No, you called the reception desk at WorkSpace. I guess you wanted to let Nicole know you’d lost your phone, but she’d already left for vacation so you talked to Carson. He told me when I dropped by later that day.”
I pick up the notepad I’ve been using and tap it lightly on the table a couple of times, a feeble attempt at nonchalance.
“Did he mention where I was calling from?”
“No, he didn’t,” she says, clearly wondering why I’m in the dark.
“That was the day I started coming down with something, and the afternoon is a bit of a blur.”
She furrows her brow. “Maybe you should get checked out.”
“Oh, that doesn’t seem necessary. I’m totally on the mend now.”
I feel desperate to learn more, but my gut tells me Sasha’s shared the extent of what she knows, and besides, it wouldn’t be smart to pique her interest any further.
I rise and collect the espresso cups from the table and carry them to the counter. Sasha slips the last of her papers into her nylon Prada tote and rises from the table.
I lead her back to the foyer and retrieve her coat from the closet, and while I’m waiting for her to slip into it, I hear Hugh’s key turn in the lock. Sasha glances quickly toward the door, looking startled. Before I have time to say, “It’s my husband,” Hugh steps through the doorway, reeking of rotisserie chicken and loaded down with a briefcase and two plastic grocery bags. He seems taken aback by the sight of the two of us standing there.
“Hugh, hi,” I say. “This is Sasha Hyatt, the intern who’s been working with me on the podcasts.”
“Oh, right,” he says, dropping the briefcase at his feet so he can shake her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Sasha spares him the head-to-toe assessment I’ve seen her give other men on a couple of occasions, but he’s definitely gained her attention. She evaluates Hugh’s face as if it’s a designer handbag she’s deciding whether to buy.
“Actually,” she says after a moment, “I think we’ve already met.”
Hugh narrows his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I’m drawing a blank.”
“Now I’m drawing a blank,” she admits. “But somewhere. I never forget a face.”
He shrugs neutrally. “Someone told me the other day that I look like the guy in the new Volvo commercial. Maybe that’s what you’re thinking of. Will you excuse me?”
“Of course,” she says as Hugh hurries with his bags and briefcase into the great room. Sasha appears mildly vexed, as if she senses my husband has charm to spare and she’s been cheated of her share.
“See you Tuesday at the studio,” I tell her, opening the door. “And thanks again for the goodies.”
“You’re welcome. Feel better.”
As soon as I ease the door shut, it seems as if this weird tension has been siphoned from the space along with her.
“Feel better?” Hugh says when I join him at the island. He’s unloading his purchases onto the counter.
“Yes, much,” I say, sliding onto one of the barstools.
“Glad to hear that, of course, but what I meant was why was Sasha saying that? You didn’t tell her what happened, did you?”
“God, no. But I had to explain being out of touch for a couple of days, so I said I’d been sick. Have you met her someplace?”
“No—at least not that I have any memory of. It almost seemed she was trying to be provocative.”
“Yeah, well, I’m beginning to sense that’s her MO.”
I notice his attention suddenly snagged by the bouquet on the table.
“What was she doing here, anyway?” he asks. “I thought you were going to take it easy today.”
“She was desperate to review some research with me before next week and basically invited herself over.”
“That’s annoying.” He glances down at the food on the counter. “I’m going to set all this up, but give me a minute to change, will you?”
“Sure. What can I do?”
“Nothing, just relax.”
But as soon as he heads down the hall to the bedroom, I call the front desk at WorkSpace. Carson’s shift must be ending around now, and I’m relieved when he picks up. I identify myself and ask if he remembers talking to me on Tuesday about my lost phone.
“Yes, did you find it?” he says.