“Sure, why not? I’ve got nowhere to be in the morning.” I hurriedly finish my drink while simultaneously signaling to the bartender for another round.
With our second round in front of us, Suzy says, “Some people have been saying you were fired because you were too distracted with wedding planning and weren’t paying attention to your accounts, and that you didn’t care anymore because you planned to quit anyway to have a baby. I don’t believe a word of it though. You’re the least bridezilla-prone bride-to-be that I know. And as proof that you weren’t all-consumed with the wedding, then you probably would’ve noticed what your maid of honor was up to.”
I actually feel my pupils dilate as my eyes widen in horror. “What do you mean?”
She puts her hand on my arm. “I heard about Neil and Stacey.”
My heart squeezes and I slump down over my drink. “So, wow. That’s out there too,” I say, feeling even more like a loser and wanting to disappear into the floor. You hear about sinkholes in the ground happening, but why is it that a sinkhole never opens up in those moments when you truly want to disappear?
I say weakly, “I found out about that the night I got fired. So when did you find out?”
“Honestly, babe? I always kinda suspected it. Stacey competes with you on everything. It wasn’t a surprise that she would want to compete with you there, too. I found out about a week ago. Stacey’s been telling everyone. All very hush-hush, you know.” Suzy rolls her eyes.
“Ugh.” I rest my elbows on the bar and my forehead on my hands. “Is she the one telling everyone I got fired?”
“No. I heard that through the usual grapevine. All very third-hand sources, and I don’t believe the reasons they gave. My bet is that someone there sabotaged you.”
“Sabotage?” Sabotage! While the circumstances around my firing are suspicious, an outright saboteur hadn’t yet occurred to me. “You think it was Stacey, again? She doesn’t even work there anymore.”
“Maybe? But most likely not. She was too tied up sabotaging your upcoming nuptials, and, frankly, I don’t think she’s smart enough to manage both. Too many chemicals leached into her brain.” Suzy twirls her hair and then points to her forehead and pouts. “With all that peroxide, Botox, and filler, the poor thing probably suffers from brain damage.”
“Agreed.” I laugh bitterly.
“You had most of the high-profile accounts there, so it’s a given that you had some jealous colleagues.” Maybe sensing that I’m becoming more dispirited, Suzy says, “Hey, people love you, and, with your experience, another firm will snap you right up.” She snaps her fingers to underscore this point.
Ha! Not according to Julie.
I decide not to tell her about my experience with the recruiters and just nod in agreement. “Yeah, I haven’t really started looking yet. With Neil breaking off our engagement, I’m just kinda taking it easy and figuring out my next steps. I mean, with no job, no significant other, no dependents … I can kinda do anything right now.” Repeating Jordan’s wisdom to Suzy, I watch her face go from sympathetic to Oprah-enthusiastic-you-go-girl. Though I was simply trying not to be a bummer, Suzy’s expression makes me think maybe Jordan is on to something—maybe this is my chance to change direction.
“Yeah!” Suzy holds up her hand to give me a high-five and I laugh. “Allison James, you’re a rock star! Thank god you’re through with that sad sack Neil and your backstabbing colleagues. They did you a favor.”
I laugh again. “I guess so.”
She then lowers her voice and says, “But, still, if I were you, I’d want to know the bitch who got me fired. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”
She gives me a conspiratorial wink and we make a pact by clinking our cocktail glasses.
In the morning, still reeling from Julie’s call and digesting my conversation with Suzy, I do the obligatory email check on my phone as my coffee brews. There, hiding between a Bloomingdale’s sale and my ComEd bill, is an email from Neil.
Allison,
Thank you for taking care of the contracts. Although it would make more sense for you to handle informing everyone, if you send me the contact list, I’ll take care of it.
Best,
Neil
Uncaffeinated, I’m not sure if I’m grateful or enraged (maybe both?) by his response. But what did I really expect? I still want to know what happened to us, but his email extinguishes any last glimmer of hope of that happening. So after I finish my first cup of coffee, I respond.
Here. Thanks.
A
Still not sure why I continue adding “thanks” to my email interactions with him, when what I really mean is—Thanks for nothing!—I attach the Excel chart of our guest list and hit send. In a couple days it will no longer be gossip that the wedding is off. It will be a fact. A sad, sad fact. And while it’s also a fact that Allison James never misses a workout, I pour another cup of coffee, pull the tie tighter on my robe, and then turn on Bravo to tune out the rest of the world. Strangely, the “reality” of promiscuous hijinks and backstabbing waitstaff on my television screen helps me escape my own reality, if only temporarily.
Just as I’m settling into my television-watching coma, my phone rings.
Checking that it’s not my mother, I answer hoping that it’s something positive on the job front. “Hello, this is Allison.”
“Hello, Allison! This is Darlene from Nordstrom.” While she sounds cheerfully surprised to have reached me, my stomach tightens. “Great news! Your dress just arrived back from the seamstress and it looks gorgeous. We’d like to schedule your final fitting.”
“Okay,” I say, sadness squeezing my heart.
“We’ve had a cancellation this afternoon. Any chance you’d be able to escape from work? Otherwise, we have a Saturday appointment.”
“What time today?” As if it matters.
“Three o’clock?”
“Sure, that works.”
“Wonderful! We’ll see you then!”
Not able to muster the requisite enthusiasm, I simply say “thank you” and “goodbye.”
At least I have something on my calendar today.
I shoot off a text to Jordan letting her know about my appointment and she immediately responds—I’ll be there. Though she had offered to come, I’m surprised since she’ll have to skip out of the office. Feeling a wave of warmth for her friendship, I type back a string of XOs.
Even though trying on the dress that I won’t be walking down the aisle in is a dreadful prospect, the fitting motivates me to get off the sofa and go for a run. So there’s that. All is not lost.
JORDAN MEETS ME outside the store at the corner of Grand and Wabash.
“Just in case,” she says, surreptitiously opening her laptop bag to reveal the bottle of wine she plans to smuggle in.
I laugh and give her a hug. “I’m sure they’ll give us a glass of champagne, but thanks for the backup plan.”
We make our way inside and are greeted by an effusive Darlene. “Are you ready for your final fittings, ladies?” She claps her hands together.
I look over at Jordan. Fittings?