way one chubby guy watched us with a mixture of disgust and excitement, and the sound of the crowd’s laughter when someone called me the family dog.
I hadn’t walked down that hallway again for the rest of the year.
In some ways, the world of New York advertising was like high school. Sure, the gossip traveled via BlackBerry or over martinis at Velvet or Sugar instead of by folded-up notes, but the grapevine was alive and thriving. If I stayed, everyone in the business would know how spectacularly I’d screwed up. It would be a permanent footnote to my résumé: Lindsey Rose, the woman who holds one-on-one meetings with her male employees after hours. Clothing optional. I’d never get past it, never stop seeing the gleam of recognition in my colleagues’ eyes when they heard my name for the first time.
Would my future bosses be watching me whenever I was around male subordinates? Would a simple touch or a glowing review spark the gossip all over again?
I’d spent my entire life transforming myself into someone who was admired and respected. I couldn’t bear to lose that. So I couldn’t stay in New York.
Matt was still sitting next to me on the couch, watching me.
“I don’t think I can start over again in New York,” I finally said. “I need to go somewhere else. I need to go home.”
And with those words, deep within me, I could feel the faintest flickering of my old determination.
Home, where everyone still thought I was successful. Home, where my parents depended on me to negotiate the best deal when they were buying a new car and pick the right stocks for their retirement plans, and where the neighbors always asked about my latest business trips and promotions. Home, where Bradley used to love me and might again still.
I wasn’t going to curl up in bed forever. I’d never been a failure, and I wasn’t going to start now, damn it.
I’d figure out a way to explain my return, and I’d put my life back together. Maybe I wouldn’t be a vice president anytime soon, but I’d get a good job. I’d work my way up again. I’d still have everything I’d ever dreamed of, everything I’d ever wanted. No matter what it took.
Seven
IN THE END, ALL it took to erase any sign that I’d lived in New York was a rental truck, a trip to an upscale consignment store, another one to Goodwill, and a half day on the phone canceling utilities and negotiating an early end to my lease and arranging for my painting and plasma TV to be put in storage.
And suddenly I was standing in my bare apartment with dust motes floating in the sunlight and two suitcases at my feet. Just the way I’d begun my life here seven years ago.
“I can’t believe you don’t have more stuff,” Matt said, picking up one of my suitcases. I was spending tonight, my last night in the city, on the couch in his apartment before catching the 9:00 A.M. train home to Maryland tomorrow. I hadn’t asked how Pammy felt about this.
“Aren’t girls supposed to have more stuff?” Matt asked.
“I’ve got stuff,” I protested. “I took a truckload to Goodwill.”
“A quarter truckload,” Matt corrected me. “Where are all your scrunchies? Where are all your clothes? Where are your stacks of magazines that tell you how to drive your man wild with an ice cube and Saran Wrap?”
“First of all, I stopped reading
Penthouse
when I was ten,” Isaid. “And scrunchies? Do you know how disturbing it is that you even know that word?”
“We’re talking about
your
inadequacies, not mine,” Matt said.
God, it felt good to banter with him again, to act like everything was normal, even if underneath the surface I felt like brittle glass, ready to splinter under the slightest tap.
“So what’s the plan for tonight?” I asked. “Mexican and a movie?”
“Hell, no,” Matt said. “It’s your last night in New York. We’re going out.”
He picked up my other suitcase and I locked my door and we walked to the elevator. I
I hadn’t walked down that hallway again for the rest of the year.
In some ways, the world of New York advertising was like high school. Sure, the gossip traveled via BlackBerry or over martinis at Velvet or Sugar instead of by folded-up notes, but the grapevine was alive and thriving. If I stayed, everyone in the business would know how spectacularly I’d screwed up. It would be a permanent footnote to my résumé: Lindsey Rose, the woman who holds one-on-one meetings with her male employees after hours. Clothing optional. I’d never get past it, never stop seeing the gleam of recognition in my colleagues’ eyes when they heard my name for the first time.
Would my future bosses be watching me whenever I was around male subordinates? Would a simple touch or a glowing review spark the gossip all over again?
I’d spent my entire life transforming myself into someone who was admired and respected. I couldn’t bear to lose that. So I couldn’t stay in New York.
Matt was still sitting next to me on the couch, watching me.
“I don’t think I can start over again in New York,” I finally said. “I need to go somewhere else. I need to go home.”
And with those words, deep within me, I could feel the faintest flickering of my old determination.
Home, where everyone still thought I was successful. Home, where my parents depended on me to negotiate the best deal when they were buying a new car and pick the right stocks for their retirement plans, and where the neighbors always asked about my latest business trips and promotions. Home, where Bradley used to love me and might again still.
I wasn’t going to curl up in bed forever. I’d never been a failure, and I wasn’t going to start now, damn it.
I’d figure out a way to explain my return, and I’d put my life back together. Maybe I wouldn’t be a vice president anytime soon, but I’d get a good job. I’d work my way up again. I’d still have everything I’d ever dreamed of, everything I’d ever wanted. No matter what it took.
Seven
IN THE END, ALL it took to erase any sign that I’d lived in New York was a rental truck, a trip to an upscale consignment store, another one to Goodwill, and a half day on the phone canceling utilities and negotiating an early end to my lease and arranging for my painting and plasma TV to be put in storage.
And suddenly I was standing in my bare apartment with dust motes floating in the sunlight and two suitcases at my feet. Just the way I’d begun my life here seven years ago.
“I can’t believe you don’t have more stuff,” Matt said, picking up one of my suitcases. I was spending tonight, my last night in the city, on the couch in his apartment before catching the 9:00 A.M. train home to Maryland tomorrow. I hadn’t asked how Pammy felt about this.
“Aren’t girls supposed to have more stuff?” Matt asked.
“I’ve got stuff,” I protested. “I took a truckload to Goodwill.”
“A quarter truckload,” Matt corrected me. “Where are all your scrunchies? Where are all your clothes? Where are your stacks of magazines that tell you how to drive your man wild with an ice cube and Saran Wrap?”
“First of all, I stopped reading
Penthouse
when I was ten,” Isaid. “And scrunchies? Do you know how disturbing it is that you even know that word?”
“We’re talking about
your
inadequacies, not mine,” Matt said.
God, it felt good to banter with him again, to act like everything was normal, even if underneath the surface I felt like brittle glass, ready to splinter under the slightest tap.
“So what’s the plan for tonight?” I asked. “Mexican and a movie?”
“Hell, no,” Matt said. “It’s your last night in New York. We’re going out.”
He picked up my other suitcase and I locked my door and we walked to the elevator. I
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