Grand Avenue (32 page)

“Hi, sweetheart,” she heard Owen say. “Am I catching you at a bad time?”

“Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine.” Susan could see his gentle smile through the phone wires. “I just had a call from Ed Frysinger asking if we’re free for dinner on Friday night. I said I’d check with you and get back to him.”

“Friday sounds good.”

“Great. I’ll tell him.”

“Okay. See you later.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” Susan hung up the phone, buried her head in her hands.

The phone rang again.

“I need to see you,” Peter Bassett growled in her ear. “Now,” he added, just before the line went dead.

Susan reluctantly pushed herself to her feet, smiling thinly at Carrie as she passed by her cubicle. Before she reached the end of the narrow corridor, she reached up and closed the top button of her pink cotton shirt. Then she took another deep breath—she’d taken so
many she was starting to feel dizzy—pushed her shoulders back, and walked toward Peter Bassett’s office.

The door was already open. Peter was sitting behind his desk, seemingly absorbed in something he was reading. “Close the door,” he instructed, not bothering to look up, as if unconcerned with preliminaries.

Susan cleared her throat, then closed the door behind her, her heartbeat quickening. Don’t be silly, she told herself, forcing herself to look directly at her superior, although he continued to ignore her. There’s nothing to be concerned about. Nothing is going to happen. Not now. Not in the middle of the afternoon in a glass-walled office surrounded by curious workers.

“You’re driving me crazy, you know that?” he asked, still not looking her way.

Susan felt her breath catch in her lungs. Oh, God, she thought, feeling the now familiar tingle between her legs.

“I’ve been sitting here trying to work all day, and I can’t get anything done because I can’t stop thinking about you.” He raised his head, looked directly at her.

He’s not even that handsome, Susan tried telling herself. He’s too thin and hawklike. Owen is a much pleasanter looking man. Except when was the last time Owen had looked at her with such unadulterated lust? Adultery, Susan repeated silently, damning her overactive brain. Did it never take a rest?

Peter Bassett suddenly jumped to his feet, thrusting a stack of papers in her hands. “Follow me,” he
directed, out the door before she had time to ask why.

She knew where they were headed even before he turned toward the boardroom. Please let it be occupied, she prayed, waiting while Peter knocked first, then pushed open the door. “Coast is clear,” he whispered with a laugh, then said louder, so that those nearby could hear, “Just spread all that stuff across the table.”

Susan was laying the papers across the table as directed when she heard the door close, then lock, behind her.

“What are you doing?”

“I thought you wanted …”

“You know what I want.” And suddenly he was standing right behind her, his breathing loud and heavy. Susan could feel it slowly wrapping itself around her, invisible velvet ropes pinning her arms to her sides. “You’re so tense,” he was whispering, expert thumbs finding the tender muscles between her shoulder blades. “Try to relax.” His hands slipped around to cup her breasts. Before she could protest, they’d already dropped to her thighs, were pulling at her skirt. Good God, was he really going to make love to her right here in the middle of the office? Was she really going to let him?

Don’t do it
, she heard Vicki say.

“Don’t,” she heard herself whisper, unconvincing even to herself.

“I want to kiss you,” he said, spinning her around, his hands groping their way under her skirt, tugging at her pantyhose. His lips found hers, his tongue pushing her lips apart. “I want to kiss you all over.”

Oh, shit, Susan thought.

Be a good girl
, Vicki told her.

“Relax,” Peter said hoarsely, fumbling with the zipper of his fly.

Go home to Owen
.

Owen, Susan thought, hearing his voice on the phone, innocently making plans for Friday night. Owen, whom she’d loved since high school. Her first love. Her only love. Good, sweet, thoughtful Owen, who would never betray her as she was betraying him now. Hadn’t she always hated men who cheated on their wives? Think about Ron, she reminded herself. Think about the hell he’d put Barbara through. Is that what she wanted for her own marriage? Vicki was right. She’d hate herself in the morning. Hell, she hated herself already.

“No,” she heard herself say. “No. Don’t. Stop.” Susan struggled to turn her face away from Peter’s, but his lips clung stubbornly to hers, like Velero. “Stop,” she said again, spitting the words out of the side of her mouth, the only place where she had any room, but still he wouldn’t stop. She grabbed his hands, tried pushing them aside, but he held tight. Was she going to have to scream to make him stop?

“Stop this,” Susan pleaded, managing to break free, hold him at arm’s length.

“What’s wrong?” Confusion clouded his eyes, twisted his lips.

“I can’t do this.”

“Sure you can.” Once again, his hands were everywhere, in her hair, on her breasts, tugging at her skirt. “Nobody’s going to come in.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is?”

“I just can’t do it.” Susan pushed at him with such force Peter lost his balance, his hip slamming against the corner of the table.

He stared at her through eyes as hard as pebbles. “What the hell kind of game are you playing, lady?”

“I’m so sorry,” Susan apologized, struggling to rearrange her clothing, tuck her blouse back inside her skirt. “I didn’t mean for things to go this far. Can we just forget this whole thing happened?”

“Forget it? You’ve been leading me on for months, and suddenly you just want to forget it?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Wiggling by my desk. Batting your eyelashes anytime you want some extra time off. Leaning over my desk …”

“I haven’t …” Had she?

“Playing little Miss Helpless. Little Miss Depressed. So worried about her mother …”

“I
am
worried about my mother.”

“Worry about your job.”

“What?”

“I don’t like being toyed with.”

“I wasn’t toying with you.” How had this whole thing come to be her fault?

“I thought you liked me,” he said, his voice a gentle plea. “I thought this was what you wanted.”

Susan heard whispering outside the boardroom door. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

Peter pulled himself together, adjusted his clothing,
straightened his tie. He looked at the sheets of papers that had been knocked off the table during their scuffle and which now lay scattered across the floor. “Pick this shit up,” he said, opening the door and exiting the room, leaving her alone to straighten up the mess.

Three weeks later, the phone in Susan’s office rang.

“I need to see you in my office as soon as possible,” Peter Bassett said. “Bring that article on hormone replacement therapy you’ve been working on.”

Article? What article? Susan wondered, fumbling through the papers on her desk. He’d kept her so busy these last weeks, she hadn’t had any time to work on the article at all. At best, she had a few preliminary notes. An outline maybe. Where were they?

The phone rang again.

“When I say as soon as possible,” Peter Bassett said, “I don’t mean whenever you damn well feel like it.”

“I’m on my way.” Susan coughed nervously into her hand.

“You’re not getting sick again, are you?”

“Sick?” Sick
again?
When was the last time she’d been sick?

“Just bring the article.”

Susan finally located the single sheet under a stack of other such sheets and read her notes over quickly before heading to Peter’s office.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Peter said impatiently as she entered his office.

Susan reached across his desk, handed him the single sheet of paper, careful to avert her eyes. Every time she looked at him, she felt a wave of nausea. Had she been out of her mind?

“What the hell is this?” Peter asked, loud enough to be heard by those in the immediate vicinity.

Susan felt a warm flush scurry up her neck to her face, like an army of fire ants. “It’s all I’ve got at the moment.”

“You call this satisfactory work?”

“I call it an outline, a few preliminary notes …”

“Are you aware this article is due at the end of the week?”

“What? No, of course not. We never discussed any deadlines.”

“Have the finished article on my desk by Friday morning.”

“But that’s impossible. You already have me editing three other pieces.”

“Are you saying you can’t do your job?”

“Of course I can do my job but …”

Peter Bassett smiled, leaned back in his chair. “Look, Susan, I’ve tried to be patient.”

“What?” What was he talking about?

“I know you’re having a hard time on the home front, what with your mother and your daughter and God knows what else. Maybe this job is just too much for you.”

“What?”

“Chemotherapy takes its toll on everybody. Look at you. You don’t look well at all. You’re letting yourself go, putting on weight.”

The words hit her like a slap on the face. “What?” How many times had she asked that?

“There are only so many chances I can give you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know you love your job. Your enthusiasm is admirable. And I’ve tried hard to make allowances for your inexperience.” He shook his head. “But I’m not sure I can keep covering for you.”

“Covering for me?”

“Your work is simply not up to the standards of this magazine.”

Susan could barely believe what she was hearing. Was he really saying these things? And did he actually expect her—or anyone else—to believe them?

The smile in his eyes provided her with the answer.

“Are you firing me?”

“No.” He reached across his desk, lifted a black-and-white Mont Blanc pen into his hands, twisting it between his fingers. “I’m a nice guy, Susan. I’m going to give you one more chance.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m putting you on probation.”

“Probation?”

“I think you need some time to think things through, decide just how much this job really means to you, whether you can give it your full attention, become more of a team player, as it were.”

As it were, Susan repeated silently. “You can’t do this,” she said out loud.

“Ah, but I can,” he said, a fresh chirp in his voice as he dismissed her. “That’s all, Susan. Oh, remember to have that article on my desk first thing Friday
morning. And close the door after you on your way out.”

This isn’t happening, Susan thought as she marched back down the hall toward her cubicle, muttering under her breath, “How dare you! You bastard! How dare you!”

What the hell was she supposed to do now? she wondered, looking neither left nor right as she strode past the long line of cubicles, ignoring the puzzled look on Carrie’s face as she passed her desk. She plopped down hard into her chair, inadvertently dislodging the papers beside her computer, watching them jump into the air and dive toward the floor, as if looking for cover. “Damn you, Peter Bassett.” What was she supposed to do now? There was nothing wrong with her work and they both knew it. Her work wasn’t the point. Her work was beside the point. The actual point was that she’d rebuffed his advances. Rebuffed his advances! Who was she—a beautiful young heroine in some old-fashioned bodice ripper? No, she was a pathetic, overweight, middle-aged woman who’d let herself be so flattered by the attentions of the office lothario that she’d almost done something incredibly stupid, and now she was in danger of losing her job because of it.

God, what had ever possessed her?

Vicki had been so right. About everything.

Susan picked up the phone and punched in Vicki’s number. “I need to speak to Mrs. Latimer,” Susan told Vicki’s secretary.

“She’s in a meeting right now. Can I take a message?”

“This is urgent. Can you tell her that her friend Susan Norman needs to speak to her right away? I’ll hold as long as I have to.”

Thirty seconds later, Vicki was on the line. “Susan, where are you? What’s wrong?”

“I’m at work. Remember what we talked about last month?”

“Goddamn,” Vicki said slowly. “You’ve been shitting where you eat.”

S
hit,” Barbara said, feeling the sting of mascara as her nervous fingers accidentally jabbed the delicate makeup brush smack into her right eye. “Shit, shit, shit.” She blinked rapidly, watching the errant mascara arrange itself mournfully around the bottom of her eye, as if someone had punched her. “Great. I look just great.” She reached for a cotton ball, squeezed a drop of makeup remover across its soft surface, then delicately wiped the accidental artifice away while trying, unsuccessfully, not to take the rest of her makeup along with it. “Shit,” she said again, understanding she’d have to start over despite her best efforts.

“What’s the matter?” Tracey, wearing a blue chenille bathrobe identical to the one her mother had on, stood in the bathroom doorway.

“Look at me. I look like I just went ten rounds with Mike Tyson.” Barbara reached for her bottle of cleanser, began rubbing the creamy, white lotion into
her cheeks and across her forehead with deliberate, well-practiced strokes.

“I think you look nice.”

“Thanks, sweetie, but nice isn’t quite the adjective I was going for.”

“What’s the big deal? It’s just you and me and Richard Gere.”

Barbara stared at her daughter through their reflections in the bathroom mirror. What was Tracey talking about? What did Richard Gere have to do with anything? “What am I missing here?”

“An Officer and a Gentleman?
Your favorite movie? The one you asked me to rent for tonight?”

“Oh, God.”

“You forgot?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re going out?”

“I’m sorry,” Barbara repeated.

“With that guy again?”

“With Howard, yes.”

“You said we were going to watch a movie. You asked me to rent the tape. I bought popcorn.”