The Job (35 page)

Juliet suddenly sounded sheepish.

“Mr. Allen, I’m just reading what she dictated to me. Platt and McHenry will be contacting you about drawing up a legal separation agreement between you, so your lawyer should contact-” “I don’t have a lawyer,” I said, and slammed down the phone.

I fought the urge for a cigarette. I fought the need for a drink. I simply put my head in my hands. Then the phone rang. I picked it up, said hello, and heard a blast of Spanish-inflected English in my ear.

“The fuck you been, Ned?”

Oh, God. Debbie Suarez. Since that night I hadn’t plucked up the courage to call her again… even though I knew she had been trying to contact me, as she’d left about five messages on my old home phone number. The sub letters hadn’t moved in yet, so I was still able to access the voice mail at my former apartment. Just yesterday I’d finally gotten around to changing the message, leaving the number at Jerry’s loft and my new office for anyone trying to reach me. Yeah, it was slimeball form to dodge Debbie’s calls. But not only was I still deeply embarrassed about ending up in her bed, I was also a little preoccupied by the fact that our one-night fling had triggered the end of my marriage.

“Hi, Debbie,” I said, sounding anxious.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” she said.

“You share my bed, then you disappear?”

“It’s a long story….”

“And then you never call me, even though I phone you over and

“It’s a really long story.”

“I want to hear it.”

“Debbie, please… This has not been an easy time for me.”

“You don’t want to see me.”

“I do, but… life has been really complicated lately.”

“You sayin’ I’m gonna complicate your life?” She sounded hurt.

“Of course not. It’s just… I’m all over the place.”

“A cup of coffee, that’s all I’m asking.”

“Okay, okay.”

And we arranged to meet at a Starbucks on Fifty-third and Park at

6:00

P.M.

But when I walked into Starbucks sixty minutes later, it became quickly apparent that Debbie was interested in more than a quick latte. She kissed me fully on the lips, holding me close. She ran her fingers through my hair and gave me a big love-struck smile. As we sat down at a small table, she took my hand and squeezed it tightly. She scared the shit out of me.

“I gotta tell ya, I figured you’d left town or something’,” she said.

I gently withdrew my hand from hers.

“Things got a little complicated after Ivan’s funeral.” And I explained about my eviction from the apartment and from the tele sales job. She suddenly had my hand in hers again.

“Oh, Mr. A…. Ned … I feel terrible. How’d your wife find out?”

“I was, uh, kind of marked by the experience.”

She let out a nervous giggle.

“I know, I know … all my fault. But that’s the problem with you being so irresistible….”

“Debbie…”

“Now I know why you’ve been so hard to find. Where you stayin’?”

“A place belonging to a guy I went to school with.”

“You know, you need a place, you can always stay with me. Raul asks about you every day. Says you helped him with his homework. I tell ya, he really, really likes you. Keeps asking me when he’s gonna see you….”

I said nothing. I simply avoided her gaze and stared at the table, feeling truly awful. Suddenly, Debbie put the brakes on her manic monologue, her eyes moist.

“I’m embarrassing you.” she said.

“I’m embarrassing me.”

“You’re not embarrassing anyone… .”

“If I was you, I’d be thinking, this woman sounds desperate….”

“I don’t think that.”

“Well I think that.

“Cause ever since that piece-of-shit husband of mine got his ass shot off three years ago, there’s been nobody in my life, nobody in my bed. Not even for one night. Until you. And you know…”

Her voice grew quiet, little.

“.. . I’ve always carried this big fucking torch for you. That night at the Christmas party … it wasn’t because I was drunk. It’s how I felt. I’d wanted to kiss you for-” “Debbie… Don’t.”

“… and so when you came back to my place, I thought, hoped, prayed that maybe this would be the start of … especially after Raul told me how much he liked you.”

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, man. I don’t need your sympathy. I just need… you. Or, at least, that was my bullshit dream. You. Me. Raul. Some fairy tale…”

“Debbie … I love my wife.”

“Your wife’s left you.”

“I know. I blew it. Sleeping with you was-” “Don’t say it.”

I nodded. We lapsed into silence. Debbie covered my hand again with hers.

“She’s gone, Ned. I’m here.”

As gently as possible, I said, “You know that’s not how it works. I wish it were. But…”

“Shut up,” she whispered.

“Okay,” I said.

She withdrew her hand, reached into her bag for a little packet of Kleenex, extracted a tissue, and quickly dabbed at her wet eyes.

“You know what I was thinkin’ today?” she said.

“Just how damn tired I am. How everything is one big, long struggle. Never enough money. Never enough time with your kid. Nonstop worry-about the rent, the tuition, the medical bills, and paying Con Ed, and whether you’ll have a fuckin’ job next week. You keep hoping

So, when you get down to it, all this struggle only makes sense if there’s one basic thing in your life: someone waiting for you when you get home at night.”

“At least you’ve got Raul,” I said.

“Tell me about it. Sometimes I think he’s the only reason I get up in the mornin’, spend the day screaming down a phone, selling bullshit.”

She took a deep, steadying breath. And stood up.

“I gotta go, Mr. Allen.”

“I’m Ned-She shook her head.

“See you around, Debbie.”

“No, you won’t,” she said, and headed for the door.

I walked over to the Lexington Avenue subway and caught the downtown local. When it stopped at Fourteenth Street, I had to fight the urge to jump off, dash three blocks east to Stuyvesant Town, knock on Debbie’s door, fall into her arms, embrace Raul as my newfound son, make a teary speech about family values being the only values, and then lead the three of us, arm in arm, off into the sunset.

If only life could be scripted by Hollywood.

Instead, I stayed on the train to Canal Street, walked north to Jerry’s place, and checked the phone for messages. There was just one-from, of all people, Ian Deane.

“Well, hello there, stranger. Geena and I were wondering where the hell you were. Then, when I was talking to Lizzie yesterday …”

I didn’t wait to hear the rest of the message. I rapidly punched in Ian’s number and hoped to God he was home. He was.

“So what did Lizzie say?” I asked as soon as he picked up the phone.

“And a good evening to you, Mr. Allen,” Ian said with a laugh.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just…”

“Understood. How are things?”

“I’ve been better.”

“Then why the hell haven’t you called?”

“You know why, Ian. And I’m sure Lizzie told you why.”

“Yeah, she did say something to Geena about…”

“How I fucked up.”

“It happens.”

“I was so stupid….”

“Okay, okay, it was a dumb call. But we all make dumb calls from time to time.”

“Not that dumb.”

“You still should have gotten in touch with us, Ned.”

“I really thought you wouldn’t want to talk to me….”

“For fuck’s sake, Ned. We’re your friends. And we’re not going to take sides here.”

“Not even Geena?”

“All right, I have to admit that she has been leaning a bit toward Lizzie. Especially because of the … uh …”

“Yeah, I hear you….”

“But hey, don’t expect me to get all righteous with you. I mean, stuff like that… It was kind of a drunken accident, right?”

“Yeah, I drank too much, then tripped and ended up naked in another woman’s bed….”

“You got unlucky, that’s all.”

“You mean, I got caught.”

After a pause, Ian said, “Yeah, I guess that’s what I mean. But hey, it’s not a war crime.”

“No-but my marriage is dead because of it. She’s not coming back, is she, Ian?”

“Well, from what I could gather, Lizzie’s still pretty upset about things. And, yeah, I think you’ve got an uphill battle ahead of you..

..”

“Right.”

“And I also sense that she needs some space right now….”

Space. That fucking word again.

“But, who knows?” Ian said.

“Given time, she might not…”

“What? Hate me so much?”

In the background I could hear Geena calling Ian.

“Listen, we’re about to eat. And tomorrow we’re off to Bermuda for a week. But we’re back next Sunday. So I’m going to expect a call, understand? Take care. And remember: You’ve got an ally here.”

As I put down the phone, I couldn’t help but think what a jerk I had been to file Ian away under Manhattan Bank.

Again, my Maine-boy envy-my need to compete at all costs-had made me overlook a glaringly obvious truth: Ian Deane considered himself my friend.

And though I wanted to take his friendly advice-and temporarily desist in my campaign to win Lizzie back-I left five messages for her over the weekend.

Then, on Tuesday morning, a letter arrived (via Federal Express) at the loft.

Ned:

I’m not trying to play hard to get, or be a bitch. But after what happened, I just think it’s best if we cut each other a bit of slack right now, and keep some distance until we both cool down.

Juliet told me about your reaction to my message. In retrospect I do think it was wrong of me to call in lawyers so soon-and I apologize for that. But I would appreciate it if you would please stop phoning. It’s not helping the situation.

I’ll be in touch when I’m ready to be in in touch-i.e.” when I know what my next move will be.

Lizzie Searching around Jerry’s apartment, I found a yellow legal pad and a pen. Sitting down at the dining room table, I wrote:

Dear Lizzie:

Hindsight is always 20/20, isn’t it? I cannot change what happened-though, Christ, I’d pay just about any price to do so.

I blew it. I blew it. I blew it. And I miss you more than I can say.

But… okay, if you don’t want me to call anymore, I will honor your request.

Know this, though: Every time the phone rings, I will be hoping it is you. I love you.

Ned On the way to work I dropped the letter into a mailbox, and thought, It’s her move now. And if she chooses not to respond to this, then I’d better start accepting that it is truly dead between us.

Two weeks later I still hadn’t had a response from Lizzie, and was lurching into total despair. Not just because it was clear that my wife really didn’t want anything more to do with me-but also because I’d yet to have one positive response to my mailing of Excalibur sales brochures. Check that: After making over two hundred calls, not one product manager had deigned to even speak with me.

“Sorry, we’re just not interested” was the message I kept receiving over and over again from secretaries, personal assistants, and other species of underling. Jerry was out of town on business for most of this time, so I didn’t have to supply him with an ongoing progress report, or feed him some spiel about how everything was coming up roses.

But I knew that, if I kept striking out on the sales front, I would eventually have to come clean with Jerry and admit this simply wasn’t working. And why wasn’t it working? If you’re a good salesman, there is only one real reason why you can’t peddle something: because people don’t like the product.

Still, I kept on phoning, contacting around fifty companies a day on my list.

“Sorry, we’re not looking for private investment right now.” .. . “Sorry, we already have other equity funds interested in us.” .. .

But then I had a lucky break. A guy named Dwight Capel called me one afternoon. He told me he was an MIT grad, running a small company in Medford, Massachusetts, that was currently developing a new state-of-the-art graphics board (the hardware component that allows computers to run full-motion video programs).

“We’ve got a real cutting-edge product, but we’ve got no budget to get the damn thing marketed properly. So when your brochure and letter arrived I thought maybe this is the sort of investment we’ve been looking for.”

When I asked if I could come up and see him in Medford, however, he informed me that he’d like me to meet his financial advisor, who also just happened to be his brother. His name was Elliot Capel. He was a senior fund manager at Federal & State, a Boston-based pension fund company, and Dwight had given him the Excalibur material the night before.

“So give Elliot a call-and if he’s enthusiastic about what you’re offering, then I guess we might just do some business together.”

Getting through to Elliot Capel was no easy task. For two straight days he was busy. Finally, in desperation, I called him at 6:30 P.M. on the third day-and he picked up the phone himself.

“Well, this is some fluky coincidence,” he said after I introduced myself, “because I finally got around to reading the Excalibur sales brochure this afternoon.”

I was suddenly animated.

“Fluky coincidences are the way some of the best business deals get started,” I said.

“And I’d really love to build on this coincidence, and come see you to discuss how your brother’s company could benefit from Excalibur investment.”

“Have you been with the fund long, Mr. Allen?”

“Ned-please. But the answer to your question is no. Just a few weeks, to be exact. But, of course, I am incredibly excited by Excalibur’s overall potential and-” “So you had nothing to do with structuring the fund or writing the sales brochure?”

“Like I said, I’ve just been hired by the fund.”

“And have you ever worked in the private equity fund business before?”

“Uh, no. This is a career change for me. But look, Mr. Capel, if you could find a window in your schedule during the next few days, I’d be delighted to fly up to Boston and meet you.”

“How about tomorrow, say around eleven A.M.”

Got ‘em! Finally, the first breakthrough meeting.