All the Time in the World (16 page)

“Come on,” I say. “Snyder will accompany you. You can lie down on the piano.”

“Roger paid you to say that,” says Colleen, laughing.

“She's onto us.” Roger puts one arm around Colleen's waist and pulls me to his side with the other. How did he end up a conductor and not a quarterback? “But you're going to have to be the one to settle up, babe, because I didn't bring my wallet.”

“Hey, you think Jess will ever deign to come and say hello to her former students?” says Snyder. He's super mood-driven.

“She will.” Roger releases me and takes Colleen's empty glass, setting it on a nearby windowsill with his own finished drink. “But I'll give a hundred bucks to whoever's name she remembers.”

“You're going to give all our money away.” Colleen finally finds a way to sit down with her knees bent out to one side. Lord knows how she'll get up. “Of course she'll remember Charlotte. Charlotte was her favorite.”

“That's right,” says Roger. “We have Jess's prodigy in our midst.”

“It'll be a shame if she doesn't remember
your
name,” I say to Roger. “You're the one who slept with her.”

“You slept with her?” Snyder slaps the side of Roger's calf a few times, with admiration or indignation; it's hard to tell which. “Damn. I tried really hard to sleep with her.”

“I didn't
sleep
with her,” says Roger. He stands over Colleen, with his feet on either side of her feet, nudging her ankles with his. “There may have been some touching, after a particularly intense work session, but there was never any sex.”

“Get your facts straight. It was just a little groping,” says Colleen.

“Oh man,” grumbles Snyder. “On the piano? Piano groping is my favorite, you know.”

“Yeah, we know.” I step on the toe of Snyder's sneaker. I'm preoccupied with it because it's coming untied. “Maybe you should have tried wearing some dress shoes. Show a lady she's worth your best. Didn't Jess give you a reference for that commercial you did? She must know your name. I'd say there's still hope. Maybe take your shot tonight.”

“I'm glad to see our conversational skills haven't evolved at all in the last few years,” says Colleen. “Remember how much time we used to spend obsessing about Jess and the rest of our teachers? And now we're in Boston, and the cathedral almost couldn't spare me for these two days, and Roger is directing the majority of this season at the opera, and Snyder has seen Peter Jackson's hobbit basement, and Everett is at Carnegie Hall—”

And Charlotte is a replacement housewife.

“And Charlotte is here in New York, and still, all we can do is talk about Jess.”

“No one is as cool as Jess, baby,” says Roger. I finish my drink. I should not have another. I can feel the two I've had, rappelling up and down my thighs, urging me toward the floor.

“I'm going outside to find Everett.” I leave them to speculate on Jess's coolness.

On my way through the lobby, I spot a private handicapped bathroom and step inside. I stare at myself in the mirror. I swear I used to know how to get ready for these things; how to get it up socially, how to approach a night with energy and enthusiasm, how to make myself look as good as I can look. I spent years figuring out how to do all of that, knowing that if I wanted a career in music, there was a certain level of socializing that I would have to get used to. But the last six weeks—and the two years before that—have undone all my work. The only things I'm currently used to are negotiating breakfasts and temper tantrums and reciting Captain America's vital statistics.

I make my way back out into the lobby and toward the side door that Everett pointed out earlier. The door opens directly onto the loading dock. I'm exhausted, and I've had too much to drink. Should I attribute the exhaustion to this throng of artistic temperaments, where priorities are all over the map and status is immediately assessed? Is my unsteadiness heightened by the adrenaline coursing through me from being on high alert for unwanted small talk and glimpses of Jess? Or could it simply be that having a night out with adults, with whom it seems I can no longer converse without rising to epic levels of snark, is wiping me out?

I find Everett leaning against a dumpster full of construction materials and lighting a new cigarette with the end of his old one.

“That conductor was bullshit,” he says, as soon as he sees me coming.

“That conductor is world-renowned
.
” I lean into his side and wrap both of my arms around his waist.

“His timing was erratic. It was like he picked the tempo based on his pulse or something.”

“Maybe you ought to suggest he see a doctor, then.”

“Your sarcasm is not becoming,” he says, looking like he wants to smile but can't quite get there.

“I know,” I say. “But neither is your self-deprecation. The audience loved your piece. It's some of your best work, my friend. You should come back in and celebrate. If you're bored with the rest of the room, you can always hang out in the corner with your old college pals. We've formed a little subgroup of introverts and misfits.”

Everett hands me his cigarette. He lights another one for himself, inhales, and exhales with a sigh that could knock me over in my current state. “Colleen and Roger are gregarious misfits. They ought to be able to hold the conversation, should anyone try to infiltrate your subgroup.”

We smoke for a while. There is an abandoned, half-loaded truck full of technical equipment right across from the dumpster that we're leaning on, and I wonder when the crew will come back out for it. I consider sitting down in the back of it to relieve the pressure in my feet but decide there's too much of a risk that I'll end up with streaks of dirt across my backside. Tomorrow when I wake up I'm really going to regret this night, but for now, it feels good to let my head spin. I'm shivering, and Everett wraps his scarf around my shoulders. It's very soft.

“Nice,” I say. “Armani?”

“Ralph Lauren,” he says.

“Chinese women with tiny hands?”

“Charlotte, you wound me.”

“Come back inside with me,” I say, and I let him hold my hand as we go, even though I know it's for all the wrong reasons.

When we step back inside the door, I come up short, flinching away from Everett. The two little kids I saw in the reception hall are here in the lobby, standing next to their parents. Now I am close enough to recognize them, and the collision of my two worlds cannot be successfully avoided. Ainsley, the little girl that Matty's been haranguing at recess, her twin brother, Aaron, their father, who hasn't been significant enough in the land of drop-offs and stroller parking for me to commit his name to memory, and Jillian, the Class Mommy.

There is no opportunity to hide. I pull on my hemline to make sure it's at a decent length and walk in their direction, forgetting about Everett for a moment, hoping it will be so out of context that they won't even notice. But alas, being perfect, Jillian's manners and perception are right on point. The fact that she brought her twin five-year-olds to Carnegie Hall, sporting little prom outfits and holding organic juice boxes, is incredible to me. And also, right in line with what I know of her personality.

“Charlotte?”

“Hey,” I say. “Hi, guys. How are you?”

“How funny to see you here! You two remember Matt's babysitter, right? Honey?”

“Is that man getting the taxi?” says Aaron, pulling on Jillian's hand. “Are we going to miss it?”

“We're number fifteen in line,” says their dad, extending his hand to me. I have to cross a few steps to reach him, as he's been rendered momentarily immobile by Ainsley, who is standing on his feet. “We've got a few minutes to wait, and it's very cold outside. Nice to see you, Charlotte. We saw you at the funeral, but you seemed very busy. I'm sure that life has been unbelievable for you in the last few weeks.”

“We're so sorry about Gretchen,” says Jillian, wrapping both of her hands around my forearm. “It's the worst thing I can imagine. Please let us know if there's anything we can do for you or the boys.” Aaron and Ainsley are both staring at the floor, Ainsley at her miniature bedazzled shoes on top of her dad's impeccable Italian leather, and Aaron at a pull in the rug he's been nudging with his foot. I almost laugh, recognizing the postures as similar to those George and Matt adopt when they're listening very intently but trying to pretend they're not.

I nod at Jillian and her husband, not sure what I should say. “Well. Thank you.” I'm so preoccupied with their sympathetic gazes that I find myself startled to see Everett in my peripheral vision, standing next to me as if he'd like to be introduced. I try to remember Jillian's husband's name, but nothing comes. “This is my friend Everett. We went to graduate school, ah, together.”

“Yes, of course!” says Jillian, taking her hands off me in order to clasp Everett's hand in both of hers. She is a physical communicator. “The composer. The piece was wonderful. We all loved it! I'm Jillian.”

“Nice to meet you,” says Everett, raising his eyebrows at me, in serious need of some semblance of context, which I decide not to help him with. “And thank you.”

“Is Matt here?” Ainsley asks me.

“No,” I tell her, unsure if she'll be disappointed or reassured.

“Well, you have very talented friends, Charlotte,” says Jillian. “I didn't know you went to school for music. My husband works in the music industry too.”

“Casey Donohue,” says the twins' father to my relief, shaking Everett's hand. “Makes sense that she's musical, though, right, honey? Remember Matt's birthday, at the museum? Charlotte led the kids in quite the performance.”

“She did?” says Everett, unable to contain a wolflike leer, which would probably traumatize the kids, if they were paying attention. “Please tell me the ukulele was involved. She's a wizard on that thing.”

“A ukulele wizard. That's not something you hear of every day,” says Casey, and he and Everett laugh, and Everett's laugh sounds the way it has all night at this event, which is different from his normal laugh.

“We come to a lot of these,” says Jillian to me, while the two men continue to talk. “We support the New Voices program. This one's a little shorter, so it was a nice opportunity to bring the kids. We were debating L-E-A-V-I-N-G at intermission, but this one really wanted to stay.” Aaron has begun hanging off of his mother's hands with all his body weight, trying to see if he can make her teeter on her heels, but so far, she hasn't budged. It's very impressive. I suspect pilates. The only mental image I can call up for Aaron is his using a full-sized soccer ball to peg kids in the knees while yelling “DODGE BALL!” in his Optimus Prime voice, which is incongruous with the picture of him being enraptured with orchestral music. Maybe I haven't yet been privy to his artistic side?

I tune back into Everett and Casey's side conversation as Everett says, “Of course, yeah. I thought A&R guys were a dying breed. But I did get to meet your engineers. They came in to record the dress rehearsal. I don't know whose idea that was, maybe the director, but I certainly appreciate it. I didn't think to have someone record it. I was writing up to the very last minute, and I couldn't think about anything else. But do you think the label would even release something like that?”

“There's a market for it. We can talk about it, if you want to, or I can put you in touch with someone who'll be better equipped to give you the specifics. The label is Atlanta-based,” says Casey. “But we're in New York and L.A. too. This is not really my field, but I oversee the departments that deal with it. I'll give you my card, and we can make sure you talk to someone and decide what you want to do. We usually start out with an EP, anyway, and it's probably the right length for that.”

Everett puts his arm around me. It's possessive, like he owns everything, which I'm sure he thinks he does.

“Mom, can we
go
?” says Ainsley. She has a sweet, high voice that makes her sound angelic, even though she's talking in that way little kids do when they're not the center of attention and are having trouble handling it.

“Not yet, sweet pea. It's not our turn,” says Jillian, and Ainsley groans theatrically.

“Did you guys stay up to watch the whole concert?” I ask. Aaron and Ainsley nod, proud of themselves. “Wow. I'm very impressed. Whenever I try to play something classical for Matt, he covers his ears and sings ‘Call Me Maybe' at the top of his lungs.” Everyone laughs, and Everett hooks his thumb under the back of one of my shoulder straps, which I hope that no one else can see.

“Well, it might be more the idea of coming out with the grown-ups and having a late bedtime that they like,” says Casey.

“Charlotte, maybe one day we'll hear you play,” says Jillian. “Wouldn't that be fun, guys?”

“It's more fun if you do regular songs,” says Ainsley.

“Oh, yeah?” I say. “Give me some ideas. I'll write them down.”

“Uhhhh, I don't
know
,” says Ainsley.

“Okay. Well, just think about it, and tell Matt in school, and he'll tell me. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I have the sudden, horrifying thought then that Scotty might hear about this night from a third party. That I will be caught, cheating on them. Cheating? Is that what I'm doing? I shrug Everett's arm off me.

“So, you play? Or, what's your field?” asks Jillian, polite as the day is long.

“Not really,” I say, picking up one uncomfortably shoed foot and wrapping it around my other ankle, like a flamingo. “Well, the ukulele. Some piano. My master's was in composition.”

The doorman comes in then to let Casey know he has a cab. Everett and I wave good-bye, and I march him back toward the reception room before he has the opportunity to comment.