Читать книгу Best Day Ever - Kaira Rouda Sturdivant - Страница 13

3

I check my expression in the rearview mirror, forcing my face into a blasé look of nonchalance: mouth relaxed, shoulders down. Poker-face Paul. I inhale a deep breath. I’ve got this, I do, but then I feel the heat on my cheeks. I pretend to check the driver’s side mirror.

“Caroline?” I ask, stalling for a moment as a shiny silver frame holding a photo of a smiling young couple thuds into my awareness. I shake my head, erasing it. My brain has enough to do. I must recollect everything I’ve uttered to my wife about Caroline, and the Thompson Payne office in general over the past few months. Then, like for one of Sam’s first grade projects, I must sort what has been said into one pile and what hasn’t been into another. This is an important exercise, best done on my terms, not hers. Too late for that, though.

“Your jaw is twitching,” Mia says.

It’s true. I unclench my jaw, sliding it back and forth. I take a deep breath and force a smile. This is disappointing, her observation of me. My skills are slipping. Not so poker-faced, after all, these days. I glance at my wife, who is smiling, presumably at my discomfort with this topic.

She adds, “So Caroline is still bothering you, huh?”

“No, not anymore,” I say, speaking slowly to find the right words. “She’s young. It’s her first job. She just didn’t know what is appropriate and what isn’t, that’s all.”

“Everyone knows it’s inappropriate to call your boss at home at midnight,” Mia says. “Especially when you’ve been drinking.”

“She was upset, Mia. I explained all of that.” I check the side mirror and pass the stupid green Honda traveling at a snail’s pace in front of us. It’s almost time for the two-lane road, so I need to get this menace far behind me. “Her father died. She didn’t know where else to turn.”

Mia gives me the look that says she doesn’t believe me, still. “So you turned her in to HR, but she’s still working at Thompson Payne?” she asks, her fingers drumming on the car door handle. I maneuver the car back into the right lane.

“We don’t fire people who need help, Mia. That’s why we have human resources. It’s their job to explain policies and help make people better employees.” I feel my eyes narrowing. I do not like this topic. Just the fact that I had to speak of human resources brings an unpleasant event to mind. I shake off the remembered smell of Miracle-Gro and old cat.

Mia isn’t backing off. “And we suggest these people who need help, people like Caroline who we have turned in to HR, to our wives as appropriate babysitters, do we? As part of some employee rehabilitation program?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, honey. We were in a pinch, you and me, remember? And that was ages ago. I’m not sure why you’d bring it up today of all days,” I say. I feel my jaw begin to clench again and rub the back of my neck with my left hand. I’d rather be talking about the strawberry daughters. I feel like I’m being squeezed too hard, and all the air is gone.

“Right,” Mia says. “Best day ever, I know. I’ll drop it. She still bothers me, though.”

“Honey, I never even see her at the office.” This is the absolute truth. I feel my jaw calming down as if someone released the vise around my head, relaxed the grip around my chest. Good old Thompson Payne. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of my life at those gleaming suburban offices. Much of my job has been to make sure everyone looks good to potential clients. Are the women wearing heels and short skirts? Are the guys clean-shaven and friendly, nonthreatening but cool? Advertising agencies are all about the sizzle, all about appearance instead of reality. Making a good first impression. And that’s why yours truly was a perfect fit for director of client services. I am like the man in the top hat at the three-ring circus that is an advertising agency. I am the person running the show, communicating with overbearing clients and the crazy creative team attempting to serve them. Running interference between the staff and the partners who are never satisfied even with our vast successes. Do they think it just runs itself? Without me, everything falls apart, as they have no doubt discovered.

When John Larson left three years ago, an exit I’ll admit I had a hand in, I transitioned into his role with ease. And I learned from his mistake. He had trusted me, made me into his number two. I make sure I never elevate any of the account executives reporting to me. They are all equal in my eyes. In fact, I make certain they feel equally unstable, that their jobs are at risk all the time. That keeps me in control. I don’t have a right-hand man. Don’t need one. Never have. I know what you’re thinking, for a sales guy I sound like a loner. The irony is that I do prefer to be alone, most of the time. People in general, employees in particular, can be more trouble than they’re worth. Just ask good old John.

“Have you heard from John?” Mia asks, reading my mind for the second time today. I mentioned, didn’t I, what I think of that particular talent? I turn to look at her but her face is calm, almost friendly, indicating the topic of Caroline is behind us, for now.

“No, not at all. Why the sudden interest in Thompson Payne, past and present?” We’ve arrived at the turnoff for the two-lane road. Once I exit the highway, I’ll turn left, passing one of the iconic old barns that was painted white for the Ohio bicentennial. I worked on that campaign for the state, back when I was a lowly account executive. It was a good campaign. Full of government-funded perks like fancy meals at the taxpayers’ expense, and a lot of time spent driving around and identifying old barns across the state. Perfect for me. A lot of alone time.

“Oh, well, I actually ran into John recently, at Whole Foods of all places. He’s a vegetarian now and he looks really great. He’s lost the beer belly,” she tells me.

I’m making the turn onto the two-lane road as she says this, and I cannot take my eyes off the road to stare at her. I sense, however, that something is up. The tone of her voice has changed. It’s thin. It’s hiding something. The air sizzles between us. How long ago did she run into John? I wonder. How much did they talk, do they talk?

She adds, “He looks great. Says leaving Thompson Payne was the best thing for him. He started his own advertising agency, did you know that?”

Interesting. His noncompete must be up. He won’t be a real threat to Thompson Payne for years, I know. He’ll start by knocking off the small clients who don’t get serious attention from the big guys like Thompson Payne, and then he’ll work his way up the client food chain. It will be a decade or more before he reclaims his status, flying to New York or LA for commercial shoots. I pity him, poor man.

“Good for him,” I say. I do wish him well, of course. Nice guy, actually. He was simply in the way.

I hear my wife take a deep breath, an annoying sound, but I’m focusing on my barn. We’re passing it now, two red silos behind it, green fields, no doubt Roundup Ready soybean, for as far as you can see behind it. Everything here is as it should be, orderly, symmetrical and productive. A beautiful farm. Perfection through pesticides and genetic modification. If only people were so easily controlled. Mia is droning on about John.

“After we ran into each other, he invited me to tour his agency. He even asked if I’d consider doing some project work for him, you know, copywriting and some press releases. Just something part-time since, as you said, the boys are in school all day and don’t really need me anymore. Or as much, I should say.”

This road is dangerous. I need to use my full attention to navigate. She knows this, and that’s why she dropped this bomb during this stretch of the drive. I glance over and see her hands clasped tightly together in her lap, her ring sparkling like the edge of a knife when the light hits it just right. I have been holding my breath, I realize, and I let it out with a sigh.

Mia cannot get back into the advertising business—now is not the time. “No, that won’t work,” I say. I know my tone is firm, my voice deep and powerful. My stage voice, that’s what I think of it as. When I was young, in high school, I loved performing in the school plays. Mrs. Belt, my drama teacher, said I had serious acting chops; she thought I would be a star someday. I guess I could have been. I had the looks, the talent. The road not taken, I suppose. “The kids do need you, honey. They’re just acting as if they don’t.”

“I’ve decided I’m going to take him up on his offer. I’ll work from home while the boys are at school,” she says. Defiance is making her voice shake. “I need to exercise my brain again. I almost didn’t tell you, but we’re having such a nice drive, and it’s a beautiful day. It seemed like the perfect moment. Don’t let this bother you, okay?”

I don’t say a word, a silent protest. Inside I feel heat, a flame igniting. We cannot ever predict what our supposed partner is really up to, can we? Even the best of plans can be ruined. That is why I must stay nimble, attempt flexibility. Not my strong suit. I’ll remain calm and later I’ll squash this foolish notion of Mia’s like a cockroach. I’m sure she doesn’t really mean this, that’s why her voice shakes. She’s in unfamiliar territory. This boldness is not like her. And I don’t like it, not at all.

My wife clears her throat, and says, “John told me there’s so much change in the advertising industry in town. He’s heard all kinds of crazy things.”

She pats my leg then and I almost jump. A chill runs through me and I grip the wheel. This is a challenge, I know it, but how and when did Mia become so confident? Where did she come from, this new Mia? And what, exactly, does she know?