The Hole in the Middle (9 page)

I open my eyes with trepidation and freeze. I can hardly believe what I see. I have a sleek cap of golden hair that curves gracefully around my face. It's short in the back but lengthens gradually toward the front, and by some magic, it seems to make my round face look heart-shaped.

“Do you like it?” asks Hugo anxiously.

“You gave me cheekbones!” I say. “I love it.” Hugo beams. “Thank you,” I tell him.

“Wait until Marisa is done with you. Then you'll have cheekbones,” Hugo promises. “Marisa!”

Marisa appears with what looks like a toolbox. “What's in there?” I ask.

“Makeup,” says Marisa.

“Oh, no thanks,” I say. “I don't really wear makeup.”

“Mrs. Parker wants you to have makeup,” Marisa insists, pulling out various tubes, holding them up against my face, and rejecting them. “Do you know what color you're wearing tonight?”

“Black, I guess,” I say, as Lil appears behind me in the mirror, her own hair darker than I remembered and expertly set.

“Lovely cut,” she says. “Much better. What size do you wear?”

I blush. “Ten,” I say.

“Ten!” she says. “Nonsense. You need to stop wearing clothes that don't fit you. You have a nice little figure.” She turns to Marisa while I stare at the floor in mortification. “She'll be wearing midnight blue.”

Back at Abernathy Road, Lil hustles me up to her apartment. “I have just the thing for you,” she says. “Come into the bedroom.”

Lil's bedroom is decorated in blues and creams, with stunning dark furniture that must be terribly old and expensive. But it is the painting above the bed that captures my attention. It's an abstract portrait of a nude woman with dark hair, reclining on a sofa in the foreground, her face hidden by an arm lifted back and behind her head. The woman, the
sofa, and the walls of the room are all captured in angular blocks of blue oil paint in varying shades and intensities. The only contrast is from a riotous vase of pink and red peonies in the upper right corner of the painting.

“Do you like it?”

“It's wonderful,” I say. “It reminds me of a painting by—”

“Matisse.” She finishes my sentence. “Yes, he was very influenced by Matisse in his early years. His work evolved into his own distinctive style over time, but this is one of his earliest pieces of any significance.”

“Who was the artist?”

She seems to hesitate. “Isaac Wallace,” she says.

“I. B. Wallace?” It is a name I recognize, of course, but I wouldn't have guessed that this was his work. Zoe and I went to the retrospective show at the art gallery last year. I wonder why this piece wasn't included.

“Let's get you dressed,” says Lil. She opens a door on the far wall and beckons to me to follow her. The door leads to a closet that is only slightly smaller than the bedroom. “It's organized by decade,” she says, wandering along the racks until she finds what she wants. “Here,” she says, unzipping a garment bag and lifting it off the hanger. “I want to see this one on you.” It is a satin confection of pleats and drapes, with a deep V-neck; small, rounded cap sleeves; a fitted waist; and a bell skirt that hits below the knee. The name on the label is Dior. I suck my stomach in as Lil pulls the zipper up.

“No need for that,” she says. “It's not too small; quite the opposite. These were supposed to be very fitted. But it works on you. And the color is fabulous with your eyes. What do you think?”

She spins me around so that I face the full-length mirror. I hardly recognize the reflection staring back. My eyes look huge and radiantly blue, framed with lush dark lashes, my lips full and rosy, and, as promised, my cheekbones look like cheekbones. “I feel like Cinderella,” I say.

Lil beams. “Bippity boppity boo,” she says. “Speaking of Cinderella, do you have any proper shoes?”

“I have some black heels,” I say.

“I'm sure those will be fine,” she assures me. She checks her watch. “Anil is picking us up in a half hour. I'd better get ready.” She opens a drawer and rummages around, pulling out a faded blue box with a sparkling necklace inside. “Take this with you. It will go very nicely. It's not real, so don't have an anxiety attack.” She waves me off toward the door. “I'll meet you downstairs.”

As I come down the stairs, I see that the boys have followed Lil's instructions and cleaned themselves up. Will is stunning in a black suit with a charcoal tie. Even A.J. is highly presentable in gray flannel pants and a jacket. Lil is wearing a claret silk suit. All three turn at the same time to watch me descend. Lil nods her approval, but both boys seem shocked, and I stop on the stairs, thrown by their reaction. I feel suddenly too exposed. My hands flutter up to cover my chest, the tips of my fingers touching the crystals on Lil's necklace. Then Will gives a low whistle, and I smile with relief. A.J.'s expression shifts from astonishment to something more like annoyance.

The doorbell rings. “That will be Anil,” says Lil. “Are we all ready?”

I drape my fake cashmere wrap around my neck. It's black and doesn't exactly go with the dress, but it's passable in the dark. I'm not used to wearing heels, though, and I miscalculate the front steps and nearly pitch forward onto the walkway. Will grabs my arm and steadies me. “All right?” he asks. I nod. He takes a step back and then holds out an elbow.

“You mean chivalry isn't dead after all?” I say, looping my arm through his.

“It's a special occasion,” he says.

“You three sit in the back,” says Lil. “I'll ride up with Anil.” I take the middle seat. Lil glances back, her expression impish. “A rose between two thorns,” she says.

The ride is short, but I've never been this close to either Will or A.J., and I'm uncomfortably conscious that the top of the dress is gaping. I pull the wrap closer around my shoulders. I look out the window to the right and collide with a glance from Will; the same thing happens with A.J.
when I switch to the other side. I shift my hips and lean back slightly to minimize the view of my bra, but as I do so my thigh rubs against Will's leg and he jolts away. A.J. opens his window.

When we arrive at the restaurant, they both leap out, and I'm left to climb inelegantly onto the sidewalk. No one offers to take my arm now, although A.J. holds the door as we enter. We sit, and I take in the lovely room, with its deep, upholstered chairs and crisp white linens and enormous floral arrangements, while Lil examines the wine list. The waiter appears at Lil's side. “Madame,” he says. “May I offer you a cocktail to begin?”

“We'll start with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Vintage Rosé. Do you recommend the 1975 or the 1978?”

The waiter looks startled. “Let me get the sommelier for you, Madame,” he says and scurries off.

“Rosé?” Will is clearly dubious.

“Don't be such a snob,” says Lil. “This is one of the great drinks of the world. We're not talking about the syrupy sludge that can only be consumed with fresh strawberries on Valentine's Day.”

The sommelier appears with a bottle. “The 1975,” he says. “The 1978 is much better paired with food. This one stands on its own beautifully. A marvelous choice.”

He pours a small amount into Lil's glass and she sips it delicately. “Yes,” she says. “That will do very nicely.” He pours a glass for each of us. “Would you let our waiter know that we'll be having the tasting menu with the wine pairings?” He nods. She raises her glass. “To new friends,” she says.

And then we eat. The hours vanish in a blur of sensation. Each fresh combination of flavors is a revelation: sea scallop and caramel, foie gras and lavender, lobster and lemongrass, chocolate and sour cherries, and with each course, another glass of exquisite wine. My head is spinning when Lil suggests that I accompany her to the ladies' room.

“What do you think?” she asks.

I'm too tipsy to feign sophistication. “It's incredible,” I say. “Amazing. The best meal I've ever had in my whole life.”

She beams. “I'm so glad,” she says.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask, and then wince as I hear the words. “I mean, not that I don't really, really appreciate it.”

Lil laughs. “Because I'm old,” she says. “And because you remind me of someone I used to be. Now, let's get back to our dates, shall we?”

By the time Anil drops us back home, it's past midnight.

“Gentlemen,” Lil says, and the way she enunciates each syllable tells me that I'm not the only one feeling light-headed, “one of you is going to have to escort me upstairs.” A.J. leaps up and moves to her side, holding out his arm. “Well-raised,” says Lil approvingly, as they head up to her apartment. “Good night, my dears.”

“Thank you so much,” I say. “It was a magical evening.”

“It was my pleasure,” she says. “And, Sophie? I want you to keep that dress. It's beautiful on you.”

“Thank you,” I say again, as she ascends.

Will leans against the banister. “Do you need assistance as well?” he asks.

“I think I can manage,” I say.

“I'll stay close just in case,” he says.

I concentrate on keeping my balance. I wobble a few times but Will doesn't intervene and we make our way up to the second floor. Outside my door, I kick off the heels. “Made it,” I say with pride. I smile up at him. “I had a really good time tonight.”

“It shows,” he says.

I throw my hands above my head like a ballerina in a music box and spin so that my skirt flares out at the bottom. But this is one feat too many for my addled brain, and I lose my balance, giggling. Will grabs me around the waist. “Champagne spins,” I say, referring to my head and not my dance moves. “They're much better than the regular kind.”

Will adjusts his grip and I feel the spread of his fingers on my hips. With my heels off, he looms over me, and I hold on to his forearms and tilt my chin up to look at him. He is very still, his face troubled and
uncertain. For a moment, I think he is going to kiss me, but then he releases my waist and steps away.

“Good night, Sophie,” he says.

“Good night, Will,” I respond, opening the door to my room and closing it firmly behind me. I'm too drunk to hang up my dress, but I lay it carefully over the back of my armchair. I can see it from my bed, glimmering with captured light from the street, as I fall asleep, with the memory of Will's gaze lingering on my skin.

wednesday, december 4, 2013

J. SOPHIE WHELAN

To: [email protected]
Sent: Wednesday, December 4, 2013, 6:45 a.m.
Subject: Hi

Hi Will,

I heard that you called the other day. It's been too long! How are you?

Would love to get together next time you are passing through town.

Sophie

WILLIAM R. SHANNON

To: [email protected]
Sent: Wednesday, December 4, 2013, 7:03 a.m.
Subject: Re: Hi

Hey Sophie. Thanks for the Christmas card. Glad to hear
that the family is doing well. I'm coming into town later today and wanted to see you. Are you around?

WRS

J. SOPHIE WHELAN

To: [email protected]
Sent: Wednesday, December 4, 2013, 7:06 a.m.
Subject: Re: Re: Hi

Definitely around. Let me know what works. Looking forward to seeing you!

I'm checking my BlackBerry every five seconds as I stand in line at Nigel's station, but there's nothing from Will. There are, however, a series of increasingly hysterical messages from Erica, with little red exclamation marks and subject lines that read, “Call me!” and “Where are you????”

I do a quick ROAR calculation. My desire to coddle Erica with reassuring messages about my impending arrival in the office is zero (DPA = 0), and any reasonable guilt that I might otherwise have felt is tempered by my conviction that Erica and the rest of her helicopter-parented, praise-craving, sacrifice-allergic generation need some tough love (GF = 1). My need to behave like a grown-up is arguably satisfied by refusing to give in to Erica's neediness, so I allocate a neutral score (NBLG = 5). Finally, I allow myself a modicum of selfishness due to the fact that I cannot seem to get rid of my runny nose and cough and feel moderately horrible, and also because I am pretty distracted by the whole Will Shannon situation (AS = 3). So that's 0 + 1 + 5 − 3 = 3, and in my system, anything in the dull ROAR range of one to five can be safely ignored. Willfully, and a little bit maliciously, I delete Erica's messages.

The line is moving very slowly this morning; Nigel has his hands full interrogating some anemic-looking supplicant who has had the misfortune to cough within earshot of his desk. I check my BlackBerry again.

WILLIAM R. SHANNON

To: [email protected]
Sent: Wednesday, December 4, 2013, 9:08 a.m.
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Hi

Am just about to board a flight. Can you call me in the next 10 minutes?

WRS

Nigel summons me to the desk.

I hold up my BlackBerry. “Sorry, but I'm in a rush. I'm due on a call,” I say.

Nigel is unimpressed. “No exceptions. Hospital policy,” he says, pulling out his survey.

I check my watch. It's nine-fifteen. I'm going to miss Will if I don't get out of this line now. “I'll take a mask,” I say, pointing at the box of surgical masks beside the desk.

Nigel looks surprised and more than a little disappointed. Failing hospital employees on the survey and forcing them to wear a surgical mask all day is the only fun his job has to offer. “I think we'd better complete the questions first,” he says. “For our records.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I don't have time.”

Nigel puffs out his chest. “I understand that not everyone thinks this process is important, but I would appreciate a little respect.”

“I have three, no, two minutes to get on this call. Give me the mask, please.”

“Not until you answer the questions.”

“Give me the fucking mask!” I screech, and Nigel hands it over as I punch in the numbers.

“Will Shannon.”

“Will, I'm so glad I caught you! It's Sophie,” I say.

“Hey, Soph,” he says. “I've just got a second here. I can swing by your office around two. Is that good?”

“Very good,” I say.

When I arrive on the fourteenth floor, Erica is waiting, wild-eyed and pale. “Sophie, thank God. It's crazy here. I've got media calls from sixty news outlets already and they keep coming. Apparently one of our researchers has found a definitive link between hours of television and ADHD. Someone leaked a preliminary report onto an international news feed, and it went viral.”

My shoulders crunch upward with anticipatory stress. “Breathe, Erica,” I say. “Have you actually seen the report?”

“No.”

“Who's the researcher?”

“Someone named Christian Viggars. I've never heard of him.” She pauses. “What's with the mask?”

I ignore her. “Let's call Marvin Shapiro and sort this out.”

I sit down at my desk and shove the mask up to the middle of my forehead as I pick up the phone. Dr. Marvin Shapiro is the director of medical research at the Baxter, and he is so lovely and respectful and gentlemanly that I try to be on my very best behavior whenever we speak. “Good morning, Marvin,” I say, when he answers.

“Ah, Sophie. I thought I might hear from you today.”

“Do we have someone named Christian Viggars doing research in our hospital?” I ask.

“Indeed we do,” says Marvin.

“Well, Marvin,” I say, “every news outlet in North America wants to talk to him this morning about how television causes ADHD.”

“I see.”

“Do you know anything about this report?”

There is a pause. “Possibly. I think it would be best if I spoke to Dr. Viggars before you meet with him.”

“That's fine. We'll need to speak to him this morning, though, so we can figure out our media strategy.”

“Undoubtedly a good idea,” says Marvin. “It might also be a good
idea for me to attend. Dr. Viggars is brilliant, but somewhat—what's the word I'm looking for?—disconnected from the concerns that animate your work. Do you understand what I mean?”

I don't, really, since virtually every researcher in the hospital, with the exception of Marvin himself, would fit this description, so I say, “Thanks, Marvin,” and leave it at that.

I hang up the phone and see Joy in the doorway with a sheaf of pink messages in her hand. “You're late for the search committee meeting,” she says. “And Janelle Moss has phoned three times this morning,” she says sourly. “Are you planning to call her back?”

“Eventually,” I say. “I have a couple of other things to deal with today that are more pressing than the theme for the Gala. If she calls again, please tell her that there is a very urgent problem that needs my attention this morning and I will call her at my earliest convenience, which will not be before this afternoon.”

I turn to Erica. “Here's what I need you to do. Get a meeting organized with Marvin and Dr. Viggars for this morning. Joy has my schedule. Return any calls from media outlets and tell them that we'll have a statement this afternoon. I have to run.”

I sprint downstairs to the meeting room. From the far end of the corridor, I can see Jenny Dixon waiting patiently outside the door, and I murmur
I am a competent professional
over and over again like a mantra until I'm standing in front of her.

“What was that you said?” she asks.

“Nothing. I think we're late, Jenny,” I say. “We should get inside.”

“In a second,” she says. “I just need to have a quick word with you, Sophie. I'm sorry to tell you this, but there's been an HR complaint about you.”

My mind races. Surely I haven't been so neglectful of my staff that they've complained to the HR department? “Who was it?” I ask.

Jenny looks uncomfortable. “The identity of the complainant is confidential, but he claims that you abused him in the course of his duties this morning and used an obscenity.”

I'm almost giddy with relief to know that I've been betrayed by
Nigel and not by one of my own, and it makes me less measured than the circumstances call for. “I thought I was pretty restrained in the circumstances,” I say.

Jenny smothers a smile. “That's not quite the response I was aiming for,” she says. “This particular complainant is known to the authorities, shall we say, and not all of his grievances are as well-founded as this one.”

“I admit that I may have been less than polite. Perhaps we could agree that there was a misunderstanding?”

“Perhaps,” she says. “I'll tell the complainant's supervisor that you regret your choice of words. It would be ideal if you would apologize to him. Do you think you could do that?”

“I'll think about it,” I say, ungraciously.

“Do that,” she says. “Shall we?” She reaches for the door. “Nice mask. I understand it may be more effective if you take it off your forehead and put it on your face, though.”

The meeting is in full swing as we enter. The agenda, which Barry flings down the table at us, indicates that we are reviewing the reference checks and deciding on the set list of questions to be asked each candidate in the interviews. I feel strangely light-headed in my mask, a symptom that is probably psychosomatic, but I seem to have to concentrate harder than usual on breathing without hyperventilating. As a result, I am only partly listening to the discussion; in any event, it's more of a monologue, as Barry describes the comments of the references at length. With Barry's voice rising and falling in the background, I look around the table at the rest of the committee. There are the two board members hanging off Barry's every word, nodding along with the cadence of his voice. As for the others, Marvin seems intent on a document in the binder in front of him. Carolyn Waldron is sending e-mail surreptitiously under the table. Anusha Dhaliwal is doodling on the back of the agenda. Patti and Jenny are writing notes to each other, which they scratch out violently as soon as they are read. And then there's Lil, still wearing the fox stole, eyes closed and head lolling slightly to one side. Again, I wonder what she is up to, and if I had a spare minute I'd call her and find out.

Reading between the lines of Barry's monologue, it seems that
Stephen Paul has had a distinguished career running a large public company, that he is regarded as a strong business strategist, that he is at his best when engaged in high-profile deal-making, and that his exposure to philanthropy is through his corporate foundation, which operates under the direction of an advisory board, distributing money to worthy community projects and reporting to Mr. Paul on a quarterly basis.

“Superb references,” Barry enthuses, although to my ears, the candidate's manifold talents sound only tangentially related to the position that we are trying to fill. Karim Assaf is next, and he too is deemed by Barry to be “a serious guy,” having made frequent appearances in the society pages as the stylish, metrosexual executive director of the City Arts Center. His references speak glowingly of his charisma, energy, and vision in relation to large-scale events, but there are also some oblique references to negative revenues, which Barry is not inclined to elaborate upon. Margaret Anderson is last. She is a former nurse turned administrator who is now the executive director of a national organization that provides support services for cancer patients. She is described as collaborative, hardworking, strategic, and dedicated. “A good third choice,” says Barry. “Not the most exciting candidate, obviously, but clearly worth seeing. Although, in confidence, I understand that she is a single mother, so she will have considerable difficulty fulfilling the responsibilities of this position.”

From the way that the board members nod in unison, it is apparent that Margaret Anderson's family status has been a lively topic of discussion in some quarters. I raise my hand. “I'm sorry,” I say. “I'm not totally clear on the problem with Margaret being a single mother. How is that going to affect her work?”

Irritation flashes across Barry's face, but he quickly masks it with an expression of indulgent and exaggerated patience. “I'm sorry, Sophie,” he says. “It's difficult to understand you in that mask. Could you repeat your comment?”