A Clean Slate (15 page)

Both Cole and Artie stared at me in silence. Hmm. Maybe my great idea wasn't so great. I tried one more time to sell it. “Look, this is an ad for road rage, right? We want people to realize that they're being pigs when they hog the road, when they yell at other drivers, all that stuff. So we don't need a pig that looks cute and adorable. That doesn't get the point across. We need him to look mean and cutthroat and sinister.”

More silence. I was about to cross the room and just start packing my bag. It might be better to quit than get fired again.

But Artie spoke up. “She's right,” he said. “She's absolutely right. Can we get a few test shots of William as he is now?”

Cole glared at me, then nodded. I scooted across the room for his old-fashioned Polaroid that he used for trial shots. As I handed it to him, he didn't even meet my eyes.

In complete silence, Cole took at least five test shots from different angles. Even William kept quiet, seeming to sense that an ominous moment might be upon us.

There was more silence as Cole, Artie and I stood around the drying Polaroids, waiting for William's image to come clear. When they did, Cole pulled them toward himself, so that I could only see them upside down. He and Artie studied them for a very long time.

Finally, Cole turned a few of them toward me. “What do you think, then?”

I looked down at the shots. To my mind, they were hysterical, exactly what we wanted. The car gleamed red, the steering wheel a shiny black and William an angry pink. You could almost imagine him tearing down the road, ignoring the Children at Play signs.

“I like them,” I said, looking back up at Cole.

“So do I.” He put the pictures down and picked up his camera.

 

That night, I did something I thought I'd never do—went out for drinks with my new boss. In college, when I mooned over his stuff in my photography classes, I certainly wouldn't have thought that I'd ever be chatting over cocktails with the great Coley Beckett. Since I'd started working for him, I couldn't imagine a worse way to spend a night. But taking my suggestion about William seemed to have given Cole a new respect for me. The rest of the shoot was ultrasmooth. William appeared to be happier in his
sweaty state and was more cooperative, making Tina and me much happier. Cole and Artie became more relaxed, too, and when the shoot ended early at five o'clock, Cole thanked everyone for their hard work in the most cordial tone I'd ever heard from him.

After William was packed into his silver crate and everyone left, Cole came up to me, running a hand through his spiky hair, and said uncomfortably, “Nice work.”

It was probably the closest I was going to get to a “thank you” from him, so I nodded in what I thought was a gracious manner. “Sure. I'll clean up and see you Monday.”

He didn't respond right away. I started rolling William's shiny red car toward the props closet. I had to bend over to do it, and so my jeans-clad ass was in the air when I heard Cole say, “How about a drink, then?”

I froze until I became aware that I was basically displaying my butt to Cole. I stood up quickly and spun around to search his face. Was he hitting on me?

Seeming to sense my internal question, Cole held up his hands as if I was pointing a gun at him. “Not for any particular reason. Just to celebrate a good day, right?”

I mentally ran through my social calendar for the night. Nothing. “Okay. Where do you want to go?”

“You pick,” he said. “You're the local.”

I couldn't imagine Cole trying to mingle with the lawyers and traders at any of the Loop bars, so thirty minutes later, we were in Bucktown at Soul Kitchen, a hip Cajun place with killer martinis. Because the dinner crowd hadn't arrived yet, we were given a curved corner booth with polished orange seats. The booth seemed too big for us, though, and silence filled in around us with each stab at polite conversation. Meanwhile, I kept peering through the dimly lit restaurant toward the door, looking for Laney, whom I'd called from my cell phone and told to meet me ASAP. I needed backup.

Cole, with his black spiked hair and black clothes, fit right into the scene, but even he seemed uncomfortable that it was just the two of us. I didn't get the feeling that he was trying to flirt with me, yet still I couldn't figure out why he'd asked me to have a drink.

“Look,” he said, when he was halfway through his gargantuan martini. I was barely sipping mine, fearful of bringing on another doozy of a headache. I'd had so many of them lately. “I have to tell you that I'm not always like…” Cole seemed at a loss for words, but I refused to help him out, so just looked at him expectantly.

He tried again. “I'm not usually such a complete arse.”

“Hmm.” I nodded, debating between, “Could have fooled me,” and “What, you're usually just a prick?”

“I don't want to harp on about it,” he said, swirling his drink with one hand, “but I've been going through a rough time. Professionally, I mean.”

I nodded again, wondering if he'd tell me now why he'd been blacklisted from the fashion world.

“Things are looking up, however.” He gave me a half grin, before dropping his eyes back to his glass. “I think I might be getting an assignment soon, quite big, actually. Well, I shouldn't say anything, not just yet, you never do know, right? But it would mean a lot, professionally anyway. But as I said, I shouldn't speak so much about it. Jinx factor and all that.”

He looked up at me then with an expression that seemed uncharacteristically human and hopeful. Was he actually seeking some kind of reassurance or approval from me? Didn't he have model girlfriends for that? And what had he really said? Just some ramblings about an assignment.

“Well,” I said finally. “It sounds like it could be…” What was the word? “Big.”

“Right, right.” Cole nodded like an eager puppy.

Another pall of quiet fell over us, but—thank God—just
then Laney blew through the door, looking gorgeous in her tall black boots and red coat. She waved when she spotted us, and started picking her way through the tables.

“Ah yes, your ‘official friend,'” Cole said, watching her closely as she made her way toward us, not taking his eyes off her.

Laney and I hugged, and she and Cole shook hands and did the nice-to-see-you-again thing. She seemed lit up with a Friday-night buzz, and somehow, she'd brought some electricity to our table. Soon we were gabbing over a bunch of appetizers, Laney asking Cole where he'd grown up in England and how he liked living in Chicago. Cole seemed more at ease than ever, answering her questions and making us both laugh by imitating his mother's Cockney accent and the messages she left him on his voice mail every day.

“So,” Laney said at one point, leaning her elbows on the table. “Kelly tells me that you were run out of Manhattan. Want to tell us about that?”

Cole froze, a croquette halfway to his mouth.

I shot Laney a look that said,
Shut the fuck up, please!
How could she? I'd just gotten the guy on my side, and now he was sure to hate me again.

She only shrugged as if to say
How bad could it be?

Cole put his food down on his plate and looked from Laney to me and back again. “Well, ladies, I don't think we know each other well enough yet for that conversation. My memories of it are rather like having a full proctology exam. Not suitable for dinner conversation.”

There was a short pause, during which I struggled in vain to come up with a new topic. But then Laney lifted her glass. “Let's toast then. To taking it up the ass…and surviving it.”

Oh, God. I hung my head. I should have cut Laney off after the first martini. Vodka does strange things to her. But then I heard something even more strange—the sound of
Cole laughing. I looked up to see him shaking his head, his eyes crinkled happily.

“To surviving,” he said, and we all clinked glasses.

T
he next morning I lectured Laney about her behavior during the Cole dinner, telling her that although it had gone surprisingly well, she should never, ever say anything to him again about Manhattan or what had happened there.

“Well, he's such a hottie that he makes me nervous,” she said. “I was just trying to razz him.”

“You think he's hot?”

“Definitely.”

“Really? Hmm.” I guess I could see Cole being Laney's type. “Well, you can't ever bring that up again!”

“Fine, fine,” she said. “You've told me twenty times now, I get it. Next topic. What are you wearing to Jess and Steve's wedding?”

“Shit! Is that today?”

I'd been so busy despising my boss during the week (and then worrying that I'd pissed him off) that I hadn't
given any thought to the wedding or the maddening fact that Ben would be there, looking, I was sure, gorgeous in one of the suits I'd spent hours picking out, with Therese on his arm, looking, I was sure, gloatingly beautiful in some fantastic dress.

I spent a few hours trying on everything in my closet, with Laney on speakerphone doing the same thing. Everything looked different on my new body. Dresses that used to cling to my curves hung baggy now. Others that were forever tight suddenly fit well. I finally decided on a chocolate-colored, raw silk dress with a deep V-neck that Laney had made me buy when we were at Saks. I'd kept the tags on, just as I had the silver beaded dress, sure that I wouldn't have a chance to wear either of them. But the chocolate number was absolutely perfect, I decided, because it showed off some cleavage, and Ben hadn't seen it before.

I put on a ridiculous amount of lipstick and gloss, trying to force myself into a sultry, seductive, make-the-bastard-miss-you mode, but too many emotions kept batting around in my brain. I hated Ben, I kept reminding myself. The asshole had dumped me
on my birthday.
But my thoughts kept sliding to my good memories of Ben—our ski trip to Telluride when we barely left the hotel room, the way he'd surprised me with my first photography classes at the university. Then, of course, there were the jealous thoughts, spurts of rage over him being made partner ahead of me, wondering what he'd known about my getting laid off, sick with envy that he was with someone else so quickly. Lastly, I kept seeing the way his eyes had showed concern when we'd talked at Tarringtons. Those eyes tugged at me the most. I could tell he still cared.

I finally made myself leave my lips and the thoughts of Ben alone, since I was already late to pick up Laney. Ten minutes later, she slipped into the cab looking gorgeous in a black dress with her red coat over it, her hair sleek and tucked behind her ears.

“Ready?” she said as we executed the air kiss that we only did when we were wearing huge quantities of lipstick.

“Ready,” I said.

The wedding was, unfortunately, a lengthy, wallop-packing Catholic mass. Clearly, this was the only time in the week where the priest was able to deviate from his usual script, and so he waxed on and on about the “formidable” institution of marriage, which of course he knew nothing about. I turned my head discreetly every so often to search the huge, drafty church for Ben and Therese, but I couldn't spot them. Most likely Ben was playing his “reception only” card, because of some running engagement he had this morning.

The reception immediately followed the ceremony. None of that lounging-about-in-a-bar-way-too-dressed-up-waiting-three-hours-until-the-reception-starts stuff. It was held in an old restored building off Clark Street, in a huge ballroom with gold-painted ceilings at least two stories high. Waiters in tuxedos circled with champagne, and a jazz quartet played muted elegant numbers in the corner. Still no sign of Ben and Therese, I noted as I swiped a champagne flute from one of the trays. It didn't matter, anyway. I'd mustered up more of the hatred for him, and planned to stick with that emotion for the rest of the evening.

After waiting in the receiving line for forty minutes so that we could hug Jess and Steve, and uncomfortably congratulate relatives we'd never met, Laney and I made our way over to the place cards. We'd been designated table 7, and we immediately began surveying the room and the rest of the place cards to see if we'd gotten a good table. God love Jess, because she hadn't stuck us at a singles' table, but put us with the rest of the crew from the advertising agency where Laney used to work, a fun, rowdy bunch.

Pleased, we sat down and proceeded to get mildly blotto with the rest of our group. Our table turned into a team of sorts because Jess and Steve requested that no one clink
glasses to make them kiss, but instead that the tables sing a song with the word
love
in it. I've always found this rogue wedding practice a little too cute and entirely too much like summer camp, but because of the amount of alcohol ingested by our table, we got rather competitive about it, leaning our heads in and whispering our suggestions in case the other tables sent spies over to deduce our next number. Not that anyone would have wanted to steal our song selections. While other groups got up time and again to harmonize sweet, or at least appropriate, songs, such as “Love Will Keep Us Together” or “I Just Called to Say I Love You,” our little bunch, on the other hand, shouted drunken renditions of “Love Stinks” and “Love Is a Battlefield.”

Jess and Steve, to their credit, laughed, shook their heads and got up and toasted us. Other guests weren't so forgiving. Jess's mother, for example, glared as if she wanted to vaporize us. Normally, this would have made me panic and crawl under the table. I was nothing if not a parent-pleaser. While I was growing up, my mother was more like a kid than I was, going out late on dates, trying to sneak back into the house tipsy. I was always the elder, the person who didn't want any attention drawn to her. As a result, I usually felt a kinship with other “parents,” and I was always the good kid in high school, the one that the families felt okay about sending their children out into the night with.

But right after I saw Mrs. Ladner frown with disapproval, I saw Ben. He was behind her and to the right, and he was looking straight at me. So instead of ducking my head or maybe opting out of our saucy version of “Love Kicked Me in the Ass,” I raised my chin and belted out the final lyrics, envisioning myself as some bawdy opera singer. As we took our seats, I snuck another glance at Ben. He was laughing and clapping, and he was still staring directly at me, almost as if he was a parent himself, one who had just proudly watched his funny little toddler stumble about in the
school play. Therese sat to his left, and, seeing Ben applauding, she slugged down half of her wine.

I sat back in my chair and crossed my legs, feeling rather smug. I could do this. I could be near Ben and survive. Even better than survive, I could be fun and elegant. Well, something approaching elegant, anyway.

I had just started conspiring with the pudgy guy on my left about possible dirty love songs when I heard the words that all single girls fear—“Ladies and gentlemen, it's time for the bouquet toss.”

Actually, since those words hadn't applied to me for so long, it wasn't until my pudgy friend said, “Well, aren't you going to head up there?” that I processed what was happening. Now that I was truly single and a friend of the bride, I would have to stand up and effectively announce to the entire ballroom that I was a spinster. When I was with Ben, although still technically single, I'd avoided this by clinging to Ben's arm and murmuring, “We're practically engaged.” But now everyone at the table seemed to be waiting for me to get up, and I had no excuse.

I turned to Laney. She looked about as pleased as I felt.

“Ready?” she said.

I downed the rest of my champagne. “Ready.”

“Now, I know you haven't done this in a while,” Laney said, as we picked our way through the tables toward the dance floor. “Here's what you need to remember. First, the bouquet usually lands in the center of the group, so stay toward the back or the sides. Also, clasp your hands in front of you, and if it comes your way, just lob it away like a volleyball.”

“Okay, okay.” I nodded and concentrated, as if she were giving instructions on how to defuse a nuclear weapon.

“And most importantly—and I can't stress this enough—do not look embarrassed. Stand tall like you're the hottest woman in this room.”

I elongated my spine and put a serene smile on my face.

“Perfect,” Laney said, and we took our place on the fringes of the group.

The band leader was yammering about the tradition of the bouquet toss, as if some guests might be unfamiliar with it, and while he was going on and on, I sneaked a glance toward Ben and Therese. The bitch. She had appropriated my pose, her hands around Ben's forearm, and she was giving me a smile that said,
You poor pathetic girl.

I grabbed Laney. “Go get Therese.”

“What?” Laney pulled back and gave me a horrified look.

“She's not married. She needs to be humiliated, too.”

“I can't just drag her out here.”

“Please!” I put my hands together like I was praying. “Please, please!”

Laney shook her head. “It's a good thing I love you,” she huffed before she turned on her heel and headed to Ben's table.

I couldn't hear what they were saying but I saw Therese's smile freeze when Laney reached them, and then I could see her shaking her head, and finally Ben laughed and gave her a little shove. And so Laney was soon walking toward me with Therese in tow. Therese had on a skimpy blue dress that looked more like a slip, her long, tanned legs stretching out of the short hem and into shoes so high and pointy I couldn't believe she could walk upright.

“Kelly,” she said when they'd reached me.

“Therese,” I said back, mimicking her somber tone.

I was so pleased we'd forced Therese onto the dance floor that I forgot Laney's warnings and was standing with my hands behind my back when suddenly there was a drumroll and Jess launched the thing. In a very fast few seconds, I saw with horror that the bunch of lilies was coming right at me.

Here's the thing: I've never had a desire to catch the bouquet. Even when I wanted to marry Ben and I got talked into taking part in the bouquet toss, or when I thought I might want to marry my previous boyfriend, Eric, I never wanted
to actually catch the thing. To me, it seemed a monumental jinx. And so as the lilies arched above my head, I started to shift to the right. Excellent. I was getting out of the way. But then I glanced back and saw that I'd left Therese standing slightly alone and looking up at that bouquet the way a cat looks at a can of tuna.

Not on my turf,
I thought, as if I was some beat cop on the streets, and that thought catapulted me into action. I lurched back to the left so that I was side by side with Therese, both of us jostling together, our arms upstretched. I knew it wasn't adult behavior, but I didn't have enough time to talk myself down from the ledge.

Therese was taller than me, especially in those shoes, and as she elbowed me in the shoulder, I thought that there was no way I could win. At the last second, though, I bent my knees and jumped a few inches, shoving her away with the movement, and when I came down, I had the bouquet in my hand.

The crowd broke into polite applause.

“Yeah!” Laney jumped around me and smacked me on the back as if I'd just scored the winning touchdown, as if she'd actually counseled me to try and catch the thing. “Better luck next time,” she said to Therese.

“Doesn't matter,” Therese said, cupping her cheek and sending me a look with her flinty brown eyes. “I'm the one that'll be in bed with him tonight.”

Sometimes I'm good at snappy comebacks. I can usually dredge up something if I'm in a situation where I couldn't care less about whatever's happening around me. But that wasn't true for this situation. I was in a stare-down with my ex's new girlfriend, and so I opened and closed my mouth like a mute fish.

Luckily, Laney came to my rescue. “Better you than us, girlfriend,” she said before she took my hand and led me
away. It wasn't that good of a retort, all things considered, but at least it was something. At least I'd had the last word by proxy.

 

After posing for pictures and dancing with the guy who'd caught the garter belt, I made my way to the bathroom, still holding the bouquet like it was some sort of prize. I didn't know what had made me fight Therese for it, but I was inordinately pleased with myself just the same. It had something to do with retribution, I decided, as I picked my way down a deserted carpeted hallway off the ballroom. I had finally gone head-to-head with Therese, the woman who'd taken away the man I was supposed to marry.

But that was ridiculous, I realized. Therese hadn't taken him away. He'd taken himself away and then found her.

I came to a sudden halt. Was that really true? Had Ben broken up with me
before
he'd met Therese, or had she been one of the reasons he'd given me the ax? If he'd known about the partnership earlier than he'd let on, if he'd kept that from me, maybe he'd been dating Therese on the side the whole time.