about how they apply. I just didn’t know that’s what we were doing today. Dan didn’t say anything about—”
Craig sighed elaborately and put his BlackBerry on the table. “Dan left his shit in a mess. I’m sorry he didn’t tell you the deal. Can you just email me some links? We need CRM, CMS, and SEO would be a major bonus. Oh, and we’ll need a mobile version of everything, of course, so I’ll need some small-screen samples.”
“Well, of course —”
“Awesome. Hey—thanks for coming in. Sorry about the wait.”
“Oh, no problem. I’m sorry. Thank you .”
***
Sophie stood out on the sidewalk, trying to get her bearings in the humid, noisy air. She squinted up and down the avenue; was she facing north or south? She wandered for a bit, her slow pace clearly annoying the people who were actually trying to get somewhere. For the first time that day she felt like an impostor. All around her, people were rushing toward real responsibilities, whereas she was merely playing at it, in her outdated shoes and too-small skirt. She walked into a deli and, feeling overwhelmed by the vast menu hanging over the counter, ordered the first thing she saw.
As she chewed a dry turkey wrap (when was it decided that sandwiches would be better rolled up in something with the texture of a commercial paper towel?), she tried jotting down old websites she could send Craig to show how “robust” her portfolio was. Her best work was from before Lucy’s birth, and she knew none of it would interest him. She doodled on her napkin, leaning her cheek on her fist, despair bearing down fast through a fog of dumb disbelief. Nothing was working, and she was trying, goddamn it, she was trying as hard as she knew how. Her mortgage payment was going to reset in fifteen days, and while she might be able to pull together enough to pay the first one, there was no way she could do it a second time, and a third, and a fourth. At least then her mortgage company might come out of hiding, she thought ruefully. But by that time it would be too late to undo the damage.
They were underwater, Ron had said, and that’s exactly how it felt. She recalled the feeling, when she was a child, of being tumbled by a wave at the beach: the roiling, watery confusion of not being able to get her legs under her, not knowing which way was up; the roar in her ears, the scrape of salt inside of her nose and down the back of her throat. She was going to lose her house, one way or another. The smart way would be sell it now, get out quick. The painful way would be to have it pried out of her grasp by a series of threatening letters and legal notices, and eventually, she supposed, the sheriff. For a moment her mind lingered on the scene: their belongings piled high on the sidewalk under the ginkgo tree, the kids weeping, her neighbors standing around shaking their heads, feigning concern but secretly relishing the spectacle.
She needed a walk. She left the deli and headed south, toward the less-hectic blocks of Murray Hill. She strolled slowly down Second Avenue, through a dull blur of drugstores and dry cleaners, sweating into her silk blouse. Something about the city’s midsummer smells—exhaust, urine, impatience—brought back memories of her first visit to New York, when she was ten years old. Randall had brought her on one of his trips to visit his editor and go to a trade show. Maeve must have been out of town, and somehow it was decided that leaving Sophie alone at home for three days, while completely acceptable to her parents, might be frowned upon by the neighbors.
So Sophie was left, instead, in a New York City hotel room, along with ten dollars and a subway map. Randall suggested a few places she could visit while he was in his meetings: the Met, the Empire State Building, Bloomingdales. Sophie got lost on her first day, ending up in the Bermuda Triangle of Times Square, and had to take a cab back to the hotel. After that she’d stayed inside,
Craig sighed elaborately and put his BlackBerry on the table. “Dan left his shit in a mess. I’m sorry he didn’t tell you the deal. Can you just email me some links? We need CRM, CMS, and SEO would be a major bonus. Oh, and we’ll need a mobile version of everything, of course, so I’ll need some small-screen samples.”
“Well, of course —”
“Awesome. Hey—thanks for coming in. Sorry about the wait.”
“Oh, no problem. I’m sorry. Thank you .”
***
Sophie stood out on the sidewalk, trying to get her bearings in the humid, noisy air. She squinted up and down the avenue; was she facing north or south? She wandered for a bit, her slow pace clearly annoying the people who were actually trying to get somewhere. For the first time that day she felt like an impostor. All around her, people were rushing toward real responsibilities, whereas she was merely playing at it, in her outdated shoes and too-small skirt. She walked into a deli and, feeling overwhelmed by the vast menu hanging over the counter, ordered the first thing she saw.
As she chewed a dry turkey wrap (when was it decided that sandwiches would be better rolled up in something with the texture of a commercial paper towel?), she tried jotting down old websites she could send Craig to show how “robust” her portfolio was. Her best work was from before Lucy’s birth, and she knew none of it would interest him. She doodled on her napkin, leaning her cheek on her fist, despair bearing down fast through a fog of dumb disbelief. Nothing was working, and she was trying, goddamn it, she was trying as hard as she knew how. Her mortgage payment was going to reset in fifteen days, and while she might be able to pull together enough to pay the first one, there was no way she could do it a second time, and a third, and a fourth. At least then her mortgage company might come out of hiding, she thought ruefully. But by that time it would be too late to undo the damage.
They were underwater, Ron had said, and that’s exactly how it felt. She recalled the feeling, when she was a child, of being tumbled by a wave at the beach: the roiling, watery confusion of not being able to get her legs under her, not knowing which way was up; the roar in her ears, the scrape of salt inside of her nose and down the back of her throat. She was going to lose her house, one way or another. The smart way would be sell it now, get out quick. The painful way would be to have it pried out of her grasp by a series of threatening letters and legal notices, and eventually, she supposed, the sheriff. For a moment her mind lingered on the scene: their belongings piled high on the sidewalk under the ginkgo tree, the kids weeping, her neighbors standing around shaking their heads, feigning concern but secretly relishing the spectacle.
She needed a walk. She left the deli and headed south, toward the less-hectic blocks of Murray Hill. She strolled slowly down Second Avenue, through a dull blur of drugstores and dry cleaners, sweating into her silk blouse. Something about the city’s midsummer smells—exhaust, urine, impatience—brought back memories of her first visit to New York, when she was ten years old. Randall had brought her on one of his trips to visit his editor and go to a trade show. Maeve must have been out of town, and somehow it was decided that leaving Sophie alone at home for three days, while completely acceptable to her parents, might be frowned upon by the neighbors.
So Sophie was left, instead, in a New York City hotel room, along with ten dollars and a subway map. Randall suggested a few places she could visit while he was in his meetings: the Met, the Empire State Building, Bloomingdales. Sophie got lost on her first day, ending up in the Bermuda Triangle of Times Square, and had to take a cab back to the hotel. After that she’d stayed inside,
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