The Hole in the Middle (18 page)

“Maybe that's the solution,” he says. “You just need more alcohol.”

“No,” I protest. “I'm fine.” It's been a long day, and the last thing I need is more beer. We've been chasing diversions for hours now—a boozy lunch at an all-you-can-eat Indian buffet, a sprint through the Matisse exhibit, an action movie, and now pool. I've already had three beers in an attempt to keep pace with Will, but he's way ahead of me.

“All right,” he says. “A lesson, then.” He takes a long drink and puts his beer bottle down on the edge of the pool table. “Pool 101,” he says.
“Hold up your stick and find the balance point.” He points to a spot on the stick. “There,” he says. “Hold it with your right hand. Now move your hand back six inches.” I do. “OK. Now step forward with your right foot.”

“Are we going to do the hokey-pokey?” I ask.

He steps in so that he's standing at my left hip. “I'm ignoring you, because it's painful to watch an attractive woman make a fool of herself playing pool. It's not just a favor to you—it's a public service.” My rational mind knows that I've been insulted, but I'm pretty sure Will just called me attractive. Now he has my full attention.

“You need to make a bridge with your left hand,” he says. “Make a fist?” I do. “I think an open bridge will be easier for you.” He takes my left hand in both of his and I clear my throat. “Stick your thumb out. Right, just like that. Now lean forward and put your bridge here.” He places my hand on the table. “Now put the stick on the bridge and aim.” He laughs. “I meant aim for the pocket, Sophie. Here.” He puts a hand on either side of my hips and pushes me slightly to the right. I catch my breath. “Now try,” he says. And I do. I concentrate every bit of my mind on sliding the stick across my bridge hand and tapping the ball dead center. Miraculously, the ball scoots to the corner pocket, teeters on the edge for a split second, and drops in. I whoop, pump my fist in the air, and leap up and down.

Will grins. “Feel good?”

“I've never sunk a ball before,” I say. “At least not that I remember. That was awesome. Thanks for the lesson.”

“Thanks for coming to the hospital with me.”

“No problem,” I say. “I can go with you any time. I'm around all week.”

Will is quiet and I wonder if I've gone too far. But he says, “I appreciate it. Maybe in a few days, if I can figure out how to avoid my mother.”

“OK,” I say. Despite my brief moment of glory, I'm dying to get out of the pool hall. My previous pool experiences have always been late at night, surrounded by packs of university students. The clientele early on a Monday evening is markedly bleaker. “Why don't we go home? I've got some leftover lasagna in the fridge, and we can watch TV. Sound good?”

“It does,” he says. “Let's get a cab. My treat.” I smile. Will knows that I
think taxis are the height of extravagance, caving only after very late nights of drinking in the middle of winter and even then persuading drivers to take four or even five passengers. He flags one down and opens my door for me, and we sit in silence broken only by the dispatcher as we make our way back to the house. We've been relaxed with each other all day, racing from one activity to another, but now Will seems edgy and brooding.

At the house, I go into the kitchen and pull out the lasagna, serve up two portions, and stick them in the microwave. Will opens the fridge and uncaps another beer. “So now you've seen the Shannon family in all its dysfunctional glory,” he says.

The microwave beeps, and I'm grateful not to have to look at him while I answer. “All families are dysfunctional,” I say, putting a plate in front of him.

“Yours isn't,” he says.

“You haven't met them!”

“I don't need to. You're the most normal person I know.”

I know I shouldn't be insulted, but Will's insight cuts deep. This fundamental truth is the chink in my alternative-girl armor. I'd love to be able to claim some genuine darkness, and my happy childhood is something I don't like to talk about. On the other hand, this is the most intimate conversation Will and I have ever had and I want to keep it going. We eat in silence for a few minutes, until I say, “Your dad seems like a really nice guy.”

“He is a nice guy. He just handed in his balls the day he married my mother.”

“She couldn't be that bad,” I say.

“She put her foot down and refused to name me Staunton the Third. So I owe her for that,” he says. “But she's otherwise a fairly unlikable person.”

I can't imagine saying something like this about my mother, and I have an inkling, which I brush aside, that Will may have some issues that I don't have the tools to fix. But I say, “I guess your grandmother isn't a big fan of hers.”

“Would you be? My mother's been waiting for her to die for years.”

“You really care about your grandmother,” I say.

“I do. I spent a lot of time at her house while my mother was playing bridge and running charity events and getting her hair done.” He smiles, remembering. “She had a big influence on me. She used to make me debate current events with her. She wanted me to be a lawyer.” He pushes his plate away and stretches his absurdly toned arms in front of him. “Thanks for dinner, Sophie. You're a good friend.”

A friend.
Disappointment settles over me like fog and I rub my own arms, willing myself to be whatever he needs until he's ready for more. “So are you,” I say, forcing cheer into my voice. “So what do you feel like doing tonight? Do you want to see what's on TV?”

“No,” he says. He gives me a stare that makes my belly clench, and I remind myself that Will wants a friend, only a friend, today.

But then Will throws me off balance again by walking over, putting a hand on either side of my waist, and boosting me up onto the counter.
Beer me, baby,
I think, remembering my first time in this house, and the first time I laid eyes on Will Shannon.

“I don't want to watch TV,” he says, standing between my legs so that we are eye to eye. “I want to go upstairs with you and not talk about my family.”

“I can do that,” I say.
I'd go anywhere with you,
I think.

Will kisses me hard, and I kiss him back, and in the end we don't make it upstairs at all.

friday, december 6, 2013

On Friday morning at nine sharp, I'm sitting in the conference room with Barry at the head of the table, while the search committee reviews the CVs of the candidates that we are about to see. It's interview day, and everyone is here—everyone except Lil. I wonder if Lil has decided to disappear now that stakes are higher and the game is less diverting.

I'm drinking strong coffee, as hot as I can stand it. I was up late last night, cleaning the house for the dinner party tonight, and I slept badly. I'm determined to maintain a laser-like focus on this meeting today and not think about the dream that left me raw with longing and sick with disloyalty at four in the morning. I dig my nails into the palm of my hand to pull my attention back to the meeting. I will not think about Will. Except that I have to confirm our plans for dinner.

J. SOPHIE WHELAN

To: [email protected]
Sent: Friday, December 6, 2013, 9:16 a.m.
Subject: Dinner

Slight change of plans for dinner. Can you come to our house? We have a few friends coming over—including Zoe, so you can catch up. Hope that's OK with you.

S

Barry hands around a sheet of paper. “Jenny Dixon advises me, on behalf of the HR department, that we should be asking every candidate the same questions,” says Barry, his tone betraying exactly what he thinks of HR bureaucracy. “Apparently, this is the new best practice in making hiring processes equitable.” Barry sighs audibly, then remembers himself, squares his shoulders, and reads from the paper in front of him. “Thank you very much to Jenny for all of her efforts to protect the integrity of our process.” Barry raises his hands in the air and draws air quotes around the phrase “integrity of our process,” which causes Jenny to snort aloud.

Barry tries again. “I have here a list of questions, which have been approved by HR. I have also been advised that we should alternate questioners. Is there a volunteer who wants to ask the first question?”

“Why don't I take the first one?” says Jenny. “‘Tell us, how has your work experience prepared you for this position, and why are you interested in this move at this point in your career?'”

“Fine,” says Barry. “Next?”

“I'll take the second question,” says Marvin. “‘What would you hope to accomplish in your first one hundred days on the job?'”

“And I'll ask the third one,” says one of the board members. “‘Discuss your management style and how you motivate a team.'”

“Thank you, Carl,” says Barry. “Carolyn? Do you want to take the fourth question? ‘Describe your specific experience in planning and executing a campaign.'” He looks at Jenny. “I still think that question is completely unnecessary, Jenny,” he says.

“And based on the job description, which involves running a fund-raising operation, I still have to disagree with you, as do all of my colleagues in HR,” says Jenny briskly.

“I'll ask that one,” says Carolyn.

Anusha raises her hand. “I'll take number five—‘What would you say to persuade a donor that he should support the Baxter?'”

“Excellent,” says Barry. “And I'll take the final question, which invites the candidates to make a closing statement.” He pauses, and looks directly at me. “There will be no opportunities for unplanned questions. I hope everyone understands that. Now, please take a few minutes to review the materials and then we'll get started.”

The door opens. Without looking up, Barry says, “We'll be right with you. Please wait outside and we'll come and get you in a moment.”

“I think I'm supposed to be in here, actually,” says a familiar voice, and Lil steps into the room. The beehive hairdo and the fox stole are gone; Lil is striking in a crisply tailored pinstripe suit and a ruffled silk tuxedo blouse.

“This is a private meeting,” says Barry.

“I was afraid this would be awkward,” says Lil with a laugh. I can see Marvin's eyes light with recognition, but everyone else around the table looks uncomfortable or confused.

“I'm embarrassed to say that I've been having a little joke at your expense, Barry,” says Lil. “And I apologize for that. It was inappropriate for me, as the representative of the Baxter's principal funder, to take my responsibilities anything less than seriously. I just get so few opportunities to wear my fox.” And she sits down in her usual seat.

Barry is flummoxed. “Mrs. Baxter?”

“Quite so,” says Lil, crisply. “Please don't let me interrupt you any further. We should bring in the first candidate; he's waiting outside.”

Barry's mouth is open slightly and he seems a bit dazed.

“Why don't I go and get the candidate,” says Jenny, diplomatically, and she walks over to the door and beckons into the hallway.

The man who enters is tall—at least six foot two—and in his early sixties. He's tanned and energetic, with a slight paunch that would be more pronounced on a shorter frame. Barry gestures to the empty seat at the end of the table, and once the man is settled, he announces, “We
are very pleased to have Stephen Paul with us today. For those of you who read the business pages on a regular basis, Stephen requires little introduction. He has recently retired as CEO of the Ascot Group, and it is a great compliment to the Baxter that he is considering spending the next few years investing his considerable experience in our organization. Welcome, Stephen.”

Stephen opens his mouth, presumably to affirm his membership in the Barry-Stephen Mutual Admiration Society, but Jenny steps neatly into the void. “Mr. Paul,” she says, formally, “we are seeing several candidates for this critical position at the Baxter Hospital, and we have a set list of questions . . .”

I take advantage of the introductory patter to check my BlackBerry under the table. There's nothing from Will yet, but there is one from Geoff, marked with a little red exclamation mark that inspires dread. I've managed to dodge him since his declaration yesterday, and my current plan is to avoid being alone with him until after the holiday ad shoot. It's callous, self-serving behavior that does me little credit, I know. But if I reject him now, the risk that the holiday ad will be compromised is high.

GEOFFREY DURNFORD

To: [email protected]
Sent: Friday, December 6, 2013, 9:35 a.m.
Subject: Are you OK?

I didn't see you yesterday after our conversation. Is your wrist OK? I'm worried about you. Can you meet me for lunch today?

J. SOPHIE WHELAN

To: [email protected]
Sent: Friday, December 6, 2013, 9:47 a.m.
Subject: Re: Are you OK?

Hi there,

Sorry you were worried. It's been a busy 24 hours. I'm tied up in search committee meetings today, so I can't have lunch. Too bad!

Speak soon, Sophie

“. . . in conjunction with our board of directors, that it was time for the Ascot Group to do some blue-sky thinking about its mission and vision,” Stephen says. “So it made sense to do a leadership transition. On a personal level, playing this key role at Baxter will allow me to leverage my expertise for the public good, which is something that I feel strongly about, while still having more time to pursue independent interests than I have had for the last number of years. In short, I can say with confidence that I offer the set of skills that this hospital requires at this juncture.”

WILLIAM R. SHANNON

To: [email protected]
Sent: Friday, December 6, 2013, 9:58 a.m.
Subject: Re: Dinner

Sure. What's the address? What can I bring?

WRS

Marvin asks a question. “Well, to be frank,” answers Stephen, “I would be reluctant to get too granular about my plan for the first one hundred days at this stage. There is no question that we would engage immediately in a strategic planning process to identify goals for the Baxter organization. And you can't design a critical path to arrive at the specified goals without engaging in a process of SWOT analysis . . .”

J. SOPHIE WHELAN

To: [email protected]
Sent: Friday, December 6, 2013, 10:18 a.m.
Subject: I might have neglected to mention

Will Shannon is in town. He's coming to dinner tonight.

ZOE HENNESSY

To: [email protected]
Sent: Friday, December 9, 2013, 10:22 a.m.
Subject: Re: I might have neglected to mention

!!!!!!!

With effort, I wrench my focus back to Stephen Paul's interview. “When we understand the core competencies of the organization, we can begin to operationalize our strategic plan. Of course, arriving at a strategic plan that makes sense at Baxter will likely involve an extensive stakeholdering process. Completion of that process may not be actionable in the first one hundred days, but we'll bear down and aim high.”

Carl the board member beams. “Terrific, Stephen. Thank you for that insight. And may I say how much I have admired your career at Ascot. It's an honor to have an executive of your stature in our process.” The spectacle of these men rubbing up against each other is excruciating, and I can see clearly how foolish I have been to hope that a new VP could make any difference at all to my job satisfaction. I have a chilling vision of myself five years hence, writing press releases littered with corporate jargon for Stephen Paul as I grow increasingly bitter and less relevant, perhaps turning into someone to be tolerated and worked around: someone like Joy.

With a shudder, I go back to my BlackBerry.

ZOE HENNESSY

To: [email protected]
Sent: Friday, December 6, 2013, 10:29 a.m.
Subject: Re: I might have neglected to mention

Neglect bordering on the criminal—more on that later.

But for now—why did you invite him to dinner??? Does Jesse know? Doesn't he hate Will?

“. . . human capital is arguably
the
key resource that a manager has to leverage. Recruitment, retention, and responsibility are the three Rs of management on my team. You need to find the right people, get them on the same page, and delegate. But there's no victory to be had in herding cats, so commitment to the team is paramount. If you want to succeed in change management, you need to empower people to participate actively in the process.” Stephen Paul chuckles. “I've always said there's no need to miss golf season when you have a team you can trust.”

J. SOPHIE WHELAN

To: [email protected]
Sent: Friday, December 6, 2013, 10:50 a.m.
Subject: Re: Re: I might have neglected to mention

He doesn't hate Will! It's complicated. But dinner will be fine.

Carolyn Waldron has her chin balanced on her fist, and her brows are knitted together in concentration. “I confess to being one of those who may be a little out of touch with the language of business,” she says. “But I'm hoping that you'll be able to help me by being very specific in your answer to the next question. Could you please describe your experience with fund-raising and campaign planning?”

“The Ascot Group has a very robust philanthropic arm, and I have always taken a direct interest in ensuring that our business has a significant charitable footprint. Now, it's true that our foundation at Ascot was in the business of providing funds to charities, while Baxter is in the business of acquiring funds. But these are two sides of the same coin. My experience suggests that fund-raising, like business, is all about creating incentives so that people perceive investment with your organization to be in line with their self-interest.”

ZOE HENNESSY

To: [email protected]
Sent: Friday, December 6, 2013, 10:57 a.m.
Subject: Re: Re: Re: I might have neglected to mention

Complicated? You think? Everything with Will Shannon is complicated.

You are in a weakened state. You are wandering into dangerous territory. Have you seen what happens to wounded gazelles on the Discovery Channel? You're the gazelle. Don't take a stroll through lion country.

Anusha Dhaliwal says, “I was going to ask how you would persuade a donor to support the Baxter. I've been listening to you describe a process by which you would consult others about the vision for the hospital. Don't you need a clear sense of where we should be going in order to persuade donors to give? What do
you
think the vision for our organization should be?”

“Again,” says Stephen, “I feel it's premature to commit myself to a vision at this juncture. I would need to loop in and really immerse myself in the organizational DNA, and complete a strategic planning process before I would feel confident that we had arrived at a collective understanding of the way forward.”

“Wonderful,” says Barry. “Thank you, Stephen! Would you like to make a closing statement?”

“Only that I look forward to your decision,” says Stephen, rising from his seat and making his way to the door. Barry watches him go with obvious fondness, and as soon as the door closes behind him, announces: “Well, it's certainly going to be hard to top that!”