For the next segment—“Your Money Q and A”—Casey joins me in the sound booth, and I respond to queries readers have submitted online, which she reads to me from her laptop. I’ve previewed them, of course, and scribbled notes in advance, and I’m pleased with how my answers come out. Sasha, I notice, is studying a sheet of paper in the outer part of the studio and briskly rubbing her hands, as if in anticipation of her upcoming role.
And now it’s time for the final segment, “Let’s Chat Dollars and Sense,” which is meant to be a light, casual close to the show. As Casey departs, Sasha strides into the sound booth, takes the seat across the desk from me, and adjusts her headset. I catch Casey rolling her eyes at Rex.
“You all set?” I ask Sasha.
“Absolutely.”
We’re given the signal to start, and after introducing Sasha as my intern, I tee up the segment by saying that as essential as it is to learn how to negotiate your salary—as today’s guest so wisely counseled us—it’s equally important to be smart from the get-go about managing the money you make. I ask Sasha to tell us about some of the mistakes she sees her friends making and what she wishes she could tell them.
Unfortunately, this is Sasha’s first rodeo and it shows. Her comments are stilted, and she also fails to tamp down her natural arrogance.
“How are your friends doing on the IRA front?” I ask. “Particularly the freelancers. Have they started to save for retirement yet?”
“Not all of them. It takes such a big chunk out of their earnings at a time when there are other important costs.”
“What do they consider more important than an IRA?”
“A good professional wardrobe. Networking dinners. Vacations.”
“I hate to hear that. Because the sooner you start feeding an IRA, the better.”
I notice Sasha twitch in her seat, as if she’s gearing up to make a particularly salient point.
“Actually, I have a different point of view on that,” she says.
Her comment catches me off guard. When I mentioned the importance of IRAs on Friday, she didn’t utter a word in disagreement.
“I’d love to hear it,” I say.
“Having the right clothes, meeting the right people, taking trips that energize you can actually be excellent investments. They help you grow your career and earn promotions, which in the long run can provide more benefits than investing in an IRA in your twenties.”
There’s a hint of smugness in her tone. I almost laugh out loud. Is she hoping to throw me off my game? Casey shoots me a WTF expression through the glass.
“That’s an interesting point, Sasha,” I say. “As with everything else, it all comes down to the math, figuring the rate of return. It is important to look the part, network, and take vacations. But historically, investing in the stock market has paid off far better than investing in something like Louboutin shoes.”
We wrap up a minute later, and after Sasha has hurried off to “an appointment I can’t be late for,” Casey shakes her head in annoyance.
“When is her last day again?”
“She’s finishing up Thanksgiving week.”
“Great, now I really will have something to be thankful for.”
I know I should be more annoyed by Sasha’s comment during the segment, but frankly, I’m just grateful about my performance today. The podcast was hardly dazzling, but I’d give it a solid B.
I take a cab back to the apartment, cobble a lunch together, and then read through the contract Mulroney’s sent me. There don’t seem to be any obvious red flags, so I sign, scan, and forward it to him along with a couple of recent photos of myself. It would have made sense, of course, to let Hugh take a lawyerly look at the contract, but I don’t want to wait or run the risk of him talking me out of it. Finally, I use PayPal to forward the retainer. Minutes later Mulroney emails back to thank me and to confirm that he’s already dropped off the bag of tissues at the lab.
I switch out of the black pencil skirt and turquoise V-neck sweater I’ve been wearing and change into jeans, a crisp white collared shirt, and boots. I take more pains than I probably should with my makeup, but I can’t shake the desire to replace Damien’s last image of me—foul smelling, rain soaked, coming apart at the seams—with that of a sane and pulled-together woman.
A few minutes later I head north on Broadway to the café in the West Seventies that Damien ended up suggesting. I remind myself there’s nothing to feel guilty about, that I haven’t told Hugh about the meeting simply because I don’t want to upset him unnecessarily.
The streets are crowded with West Siders doing their thing: culture lovers dashing up the steps of the Lincoln Center plaza; people returning from work (half of the guys with messenger bags over their shoulders); teenagers meandering home from school; mothers and nannies pushing strollers, often with a second child perched on a little platform at the back. Once I wanted the latter—or a variation of it—in my own life. Why did the desire seem to dissolve overnight? When Erling’s question—“Do you not want children, or do you not want them with Hugh?”—tries to force its way to the front of my mind, I fight it off.
I pull my sweater coat tighter across my chest. It’s cooler today than yesterday. The sky’s overcast and the air is raw.
Finally, I reach Seventy-Fourth Street, ready to hang a right. I pause at the corner and wait for the Walk sign to tell me to cross.
And suddenly, I sense something. Not the pit in my stomach. That sensation’s been there the whole walk over, in fact from the second I woke up this morning and knew I’d be seeing Damien.
It’s something else entirely. I can’t help but feel that there’s a pair of eyes on my back. That someone nearby is staring hard at me.
16
I swivel slowly, trying to make the movement appear casual. A woman is attempting to convince a sweet-looking girl of five or six to zip her coat. Behind them everyone seems to be going about their business—glued to their phones or walking their dogs or trudging home with plastic shopping bags. No one appears remotely interested in me.
Is this a warning sign? I wonder. A vague, irrational suspicion that’s actually a prelude to my mind going haywire again? No, it must be nerves, I reassure myself. Nerves about the idea of seeing Damien, and about keeping it from Hugh. The only observer right now is my conscience.
Just to be on the safe side, I fumble in my purse for the tin of cinnamon Altoids, slip one in my mouth, and force myself to concentrate on the flavor.
The light changes, the Walk sign on the far side of Broadway flashes, and I hurry across. By the time I arrive at the café, my pulse is racing. Don’t turn this meeting into more than it is, I tell myself. Yes, I’m curious about Damien, and I probably always will be, but my only real goal today is to glean any clue about why I showed up at Greenbacks.
It turns out I’ve beaten him there. I settle at a table in the back and slip out of my coat. The place is only half full, and the setting—brick walls, buffed wood floors, soft lighting—calms me a little. But I’ve barely had a chance to take in my surroundings when Damien enters the café. He spots me immediately and raises his chin in greeting. Though I saw him only recently, he’s in sharper focus now, and it’s a shock to my system.