People Who Knew Me (19 page)

 

SIXTEEN

I spent the first few days of my unemployment as a stereotype—sitting around in pajamas, sleeping late, watching terrible TV. The apartment was quiet in a way it had never been, even when it was just Drew and me. To compensate, I played loud music—Tori Amos and Joni Mitchell and Janis Joplin and anything else that made me feel like the strong, independent, empowered woman I wanted to be. I didn't go running; I didn't feel the need. I just took Bruce out for long walks.

Marni said I should call a recruiter named Patricia Wilson. She charged a fee—a hundred bucks per session. I hedged at that and Marni argued, “She's the best of the best. She's, like, epic in New York. She's a career fairy godmother.” So I called. I didn't get to talk to the woman herself; her assistant made an appointment for me. I took note of her address in the city and promised to bring a pristine résumé. That's what the assistant requested—pristine.

I got a haircut for the first time in years, chopped off three inches. At the salon, I flipped through a women's magazine with an article that said making even the smallest changes in your life can be the start of a “personal revolution.” I'd kicked out my husband, essentially; the revolution was under way.

Patricia Wilson's office was in a high-rise on Fifth Avenue, nine floors above an art gallery and a Baskin-Robbins. I told myself I'd get an ice-cream cone if the appointment went well, and I'd get a different flavor than my usual cookies and cream, in accordance with the “personal revolution.” I wore my best business suit—charcoal-gray pants with a matching blazer, and an emerald-green shirt underneath. The green shirt was my good-luck shirt at Mathers and James. Whenever a big client presentation made me so nervous that I couldn't sleep the night before, I wore that shirt. And never once did my greatest fear—suddenly forgetting how to speak English—become a reality.

The elevator stopped at the ninth floor and I stepped out. An etched metal plaque on the door of suite 900 read
THE WILSON GROUP
. Patricia didn't just work at a recruiting agency; she owned it. She managed a group.

Beyond the double wooden doors was a grand reception desk, manned by a beautiful, dark-haired twenty-something. She could have been temping between modeling gigs.

“You must be Emily Morris,” she said, making the kind of eye contact that's unnerving, the kind of eye contact that makes you paranoid there's food on your face.

“I am,” I said. I approached the desk and shook her hand. She had a clipboard ready for me, my name already typed at the top of the form affixed to it.

“Would you mind filling out your information? Patricia will be right out.”

I took a seat in one of only two chairs in the waiting room. They were armchairs that you'd usually see in front of a large fireplace, upholstered with some kind of satiny material that I was almost afraid to touch.

The form asked questions about my past work experience and future goals. I checked a box saying that I would be interested in personality assessments to match me with the best possible employer. I wondered what my assessment would say: That I was bossy or passive? Obedient or rebellious? Easygoing or stubborn? I wasn't sure who I was anymore.

I heard Patricia before I saw her. The click of her high heels was slow and steady, like she was in absolutely no rush to get anywhere. Her strides were long, so I figured her legs would be. She was one of those women men stared at on the street, pausing in the midst of eating a street-vendor hot dog to admire.

“Emily?” she said, emerging from the hallway. She was even prettier than I'd imagined. She must have been in her forties, but her skin was as milky smooth as that of her young receptionist. She had blond hair, in loose curls halfway down her back. She wore an expensive-looking black dress, belted at the waist, and red high heels. Her lipstick matched her heels perfectly.

“It's nice to meet you,” I said, standing, my legs shaky as if I were rising to greet royalty.

“Come back to my office,” she said.

I followed her down the hallway, kept pace with her relaxed gait. I watched the sway of her hips and felt convinced this woman could get me anything—a job, a million dollars, anything.

Her office was huge and looked even bigger because there was hardly anything in it. She had a glass coffee table with an antique pink fabric couch, the kind with only one armrest that you picture in a shrink's office. Her desk was glass like the coffee table, with a chair that matched the couch. She had no filing cabinets, no bookcases, no photos of pets or babies or a husband. There wasn't even an errant Post-it lying around. It was as if she wanted no distractions and expected her clients not to have any, either.

“Sit,” she said, motioning to the couch. I obeyed. She pulled her desk chair over and placed it beside the couch, then retrieved a hardcover notebook and a pen—like a calligraphy pen—from her desk drawer and took her seat.

“So,” she began. “Let me tell you a little bit about what I do.”

Maybe this was a joke Marni was playing on me. Maybe this woman was one of New York's famed madams and she thought I was a prospective escort.

“I consider myself a matchmaker of sorts,” she said.

I wouldn't put it past Marni.

“I want to create relationships that last,” she said.

I held my breath.

“When I place you in a job, I want you to feel like it's the perfect fit for you.”

I exhaled.

“That sounds great,” I said.

“First of all, I think it's very important to perfect your interviewing skills.”

She talked slowly, like she had all the time in the world, like she used to be a hypnotist or a sex line operator.

“I've gone ahead and made a list of companies that I know have openings,” she said. She pulled a paper out of her notebook and handed it to me.

“Now, these positions are mostly administrative. They wouldn't be in your exact field. But I want you to go and interview just to practice building your confidence.”

“Like fake interviews?”

“Well, if you decide the position sounds appealing, I suppose you could consider it a real interview,” she said with a sly smile.

She must have seen my confusion because she said, “It's unorthodox, I know, but it's the best way to practice.”

I nodded like I agreed, though I wasn't sure I did. I glanced at the list. I didn't recognize any of the companies.

And then:

“I know this guy,” I said, pointing to a name toward the bottom of the page.

It was Gabriel—Gabe—Walters. From college. His name was listed under a company called Berringer. His title was vice president, domestic sales.

“How funny,” Patricia said, with just the smallest of smiles, no hint of a laugh.

“I went to college with him.”

“Well, Berringer is a great company,” she said.

“What do they do?” I asked.

“Investment management.” She said it quickly, like she wanted to move on. I didn't want to, though.

I hadn't thought about Gabe Walters in years. He was everyone's crush in college—and would have been my date if I hadn't decided to spend that fateful night with Drew instead. I'd never been one to revisit the past, but the present was begging me to.

“I could do my practice interview with him,” I said.

She uncrossed her legs, her two feet side by side just so, and smoothed out her skirt.

“I would prefer you practice with employers you don't know in order to simulate a real-life interview situation,” she said.

“Of course,” I said, feeling stupid.

Within a few minutes, she had penned stars next to two other companies on the list and said she would set up interviews with them.

“But don't they know it's not real? The interview?”

She looked at me like she knew so much more than I ever would.

“We don't tell them that, no. That would defeat our purposes. We choose large corporations, corporations that have money and time to waste, companies with protocols in place saying they have to interview a certain number of candidates to be considered fair. It works out fine for all involved.”

She stood and I did the same. On my way out, she gave me a lengthy questionnaire that she said would help her determine the best work environment for “someone like you.” She said to fill it out that night and send it back to the office. At my next appointment, I'd report on how the interviews went and she would have my questionnaire analysis complete. Before I could even say thank you, she was greeting another girl in the waiting room—a girl who looked just as clueless and hopeful as me.

*   *   *

I opted for a strawberry ice-cream cone because it sounded right for a humid day just shy of the official start of summer. I crossed Forty-second Street to Bryant Park. All my years in the city and I'd never spent a leisurely afternoon in the park. I'd seen other people do it—sitting in chairs, at tiny round tables, on the expansive lawn. It all seemed very Parisian. Drew and I had come here once, for an outdoor fall film festival. I couldn't remember for the life of me what had been showing. It had been right at the beginning of us, in that small and precious window of time between the night we met and the first time we had sex, when it wouldn't have mattered what we were watching because our minds were otherwise occupied with anticipation of each other's touch at the end of the night. I do remember that I'd brought my black cardigan, the one I always wore, and ended up tying it around my waist because it was so warm outside—still summer in early October, Indian summer, as they say.

There were several untaken chairs. They were probably occupied a few hours earlier, during the midtown lunch rush. I sat, licked my ice cream until I got to my favorite part—the soggy cone. I nibbled at it in a circle, like a neurotic woodland creature. When I finished, I balled up the napkin in my hand and leaned back in the chair, closing my eyes and turning my face toward the sun. It was one of those New York days that made me forget completely what winters were like. Selective amnesia, Marni always said. Days like this keep New Yorkers in New York.

I took out my phone and dialed Marni. No answer … just her voice telling me to leave a message. I didn't. I'd thank her later for suggesting Patricia. I was bored enough to consider calling my mom, but I knew if I talked to her she'd just confirm that my life was a mess. I hadn't told her I was jobless. I still hadn't told her how bad things had gotten with Drew's mom. It was better that way.

I looked at my watch, realized how little time had passed. I could go home, spend the rest of the day with Bruce, but I was in the city. It felt like a waste of an opportunity—to do what, I didn't know.

I wandered up Sixth Avenue. When I was a kid, my elementary school class did a double-decker-bus tour of the city. The guide told us how Sixth Avenue became Avenue of the Americas in 1945, as requested by the mayor. Stubbornly, real New Yorkers persisted in calling it “Sixth Ave.”

I remembered there was a bar nearby, a place I'd gone to with former coworkers for a happy hour. I took a right on Forty-fourth Street and, sure enough, there was O'Malley's. It was just what the name implied—a dirty Irish pub.

I'd never been the type to visit a bar before sundown. We'd taken clients to nice restaurants with fancy wine bars for three-hour lunches, but never to a pub like O'Malley's. The stools at the bar were mostly empty. A big-bellied man sat by himself, his hands so large they made the tankard of beer he was clutching look miniature. He didn't even look up when I walked in. Two guys, with ties swung over their shoulders, sat in one of the booths. Their faces were red with drunkenness. It was likely they'd had their own three-hour client lunch and then decided to ditch out on the rest of the workday. I'd done that sometimes, but I always went straight home to Drew.

The bartender gave me a lazy nod. This wasn't the type of place that welcomed you. The booths were on raised platforms. I stepped up into one and looked at the beer list. I wanted something strong, something that would make me not care that I had an entire empty afternoon before me. I chose the darkest Guinness stout they had. I'd never liked stouts.

A few sips in, I took out the questionnaire Patricia had given me, along with the paper with the starred companies she wanted me to use for interview practice. I was intent on completing my questionnaire and sending it back to her so she'd realize I was a serious overachiever worth her time. But I kept looking at that name—Gabriel Walters. I wondered:
Would it be so crazy to call him?
I imagined him answering and me starting the conversation with,
So, funny thing today …
I imagined us laughing like the adults we weren't in college.

I started filling out the questionnaire:

Q: At a party, are you the type to socialize with many people, 1 or 2 people, or no one?

A: 1 or 2 people.

Q: How would you rate your confidence level with public speaking on a scale of 1 to 10 (1 = no confidence, 10 = completely confident)?

A: On a good day, 8. On a bad day, 1.

I put down my pen and finished my beer with one long gulp. There was no harm in calling Gabe. Patricia had said his company, Berringer, was a good one. I wasn't picky about the type of work I did. Any job would do. The worst that could happen was he'd say I wasn't a good fit. Or, maybe, the worst that could happen was he wouldn't remember who I was.
You know, Em. Emmy? Emily? Emily Used-to-be-Overton? You asked me out—several times. I canceled our date that one night because I'd met someone
.

I could always just hang up.

It was easy to get the main number for the Berringer corporate office. Before I knew it, a receptionist was putting me through to his extension. If it had been a couple years earlier and I didn't have a cell phone, I would have abandoned the idea to contact Gabe. I would have sobered up by the time I got home to my landline and decided I was being ridiculous. New technology allowed for impulsivity.