Learning Curve by Michael S. Malone

I’ll write it on the plane in the morning.”
    â€œJesus,” said Dan, shaking his head. “You’re good. That’s about the third time you’ve saved me on this trip alone.”
    Lisa, finished her drink. “That’s why I’m here,” she said. “Cosmo thought you might need me.”
    â€œCosmo was right.”
    â€œHe usually is,” said Lisa, signaling for another drink.

v. 3.3
    F eeling no pain, Dan slowly made his way up the grand staircase of the Randolph Hotel, passed the Gothic revival stained glass windows, and eventually reached the second floor. Using his right hand to balance himself along the wall, he shuffled down the narrow hallway to his room, the Edwardian floorboards under the carpet squeaking with the weight of each step. He fumbled with the magnetic card for a while, but finally gained entry.
    The bed was turned down, with a chocolate carefully placed on each pillow. Music was playing on the stereo. Most impressive of all, the curtains were open, revealing the vast, yellow floodlit Georgian face of the Ashmolean Museum across the street. The sheer romance of the scene was almost unbearable to Dan in his current state. And here I am, he thought woozily but with perfect clarity, a lone businessman on the road. What a waste.
    He pulled off his suit jacket, then sat heavily on the bed, stripped off his tie and kicked off his shoes. He rubbed his face with his hands. Looking up, he saw that the screensaver on his laptop was glowing. With a groan he moved to the desk, sat before the device, and tapped the space key. The screen opened up to a list of new email. The clock widget in the corner of the screen said it was 3:00 p.m. in Silicon Valley. He never should have looked; now he’d have to answer the most important messages.
    It took nearly an hour. Thank goodness he had empowered Donna to read his email, strip out all the spam, and send the non-critical messages to the right people. But that still left a score or more desperate emails waiting for Dan by the end of each day on the road. There were requests for interviews and speeches, introductions by friends to other people who wanted something, messages from the various companies and foundations for which he served as a board member, and personal notes from friends and family.
    Growing sleepier by the minute, Dan tackled the business messages first. He answered most of them with no more than a sentence, deferring longer contact until he got home. He erased all the links to coverage by him in the media—Lisa got those too, and showed him all the important ones. He begged off most of the parties and gatherings, replying by cutting and pasting the same polite but pointed paragraph.
    Finally, with his chin almost resting on his chest, Dan opened three emails he’d saved for last. All were from his wife. The first was tagged “Aidan.” The other two were both empty, and tagged “Did you get my message?” and “Are you there?”
    Too tired to feel any anxiety over the subject lines, Dan yawned and punched the key to open the first email:

    Dan:
    Â 
    I hope you’re doing okay. You sounded worn out when we talked yesterday. I know how difficult this has been for you. Having to sell a plan you don’t believe in has got to be hard—and having to pretend you do believe in it must be doubly awful.
    Â 
    You’ve got that right, honey, Dan thought to himself.
    Â 
    So I really hate to bring this up, but I’m very concerned about Aidan. You’ve been so busy, I’m sure you haven’t noticed, but I can’t help thinking there’s something wrong with her. Her grades have slumped—I checked with the school’s grade site, and she’s got an “F” in two classes right now.
    Â 
    As you know, she’s hardly ever even gotten a C in all of her school years. And that’s only part of it. I got one of those automated calls today