The Key (3 page)

N
aomi was still waiting for an elevator when I went out to the lobby a moment later to meet Jake and Mark. Listening to her let Gallagher have it had been almost as cathartic as if I’d done it myself, and it had definitely been more cathartic than my blunt-object fantasy. I wanted to thank her, but even I knew that probably wouldn’t be appropriate.

She appeared preoccupied anyway, tapping her foot and checking her watch as she waited. My colleagues sat on the other side of the floor so had missed the entire scene—I was already looking forward to filling them in over lunch.

An elevator finally announced its arrival with a digital beep. The doors slid apart, framing another woman in the opening.

“Figures,” I heard Naomi say under her breath.

The woman was about my age and roughly the same size, but that was where any resemblance ended. With her golden highlights and glossy manicure, not to mention the enormous diamond on her ring finger and matching studs in her ears, she was pretty much the illustrated dictionary definition of socialite-slash-trophy-wife. The Gucci jacket, Prada skirt, Manolo Blahnik heels, and Louis Vuitton purse did nothing to contradict the image, although I did find myself wondering if it was wise to mix so many brands at once. I also felt suddenly self-conscious. It must be nice to have the funds and leisure time to support such perfect grooming and over-the-top wardrobe selection. In fact, it must be nice simply to get enough sleep.

She and Naomi were standing face-to-face, and together they were blocking the elevator entrance, but it seemed rude to push past them.

The socialite-slash-trophy-wife heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Hello, Naomi.”

“Well, hello, Annabel. You’re looking coiffed. Here to see Glenn?” Naomi’s voice dripped acid.

It wasn’t just an image, then. This woman was, in fact, a trophy wife. Glenn Gallagher’s trophy wife, to be exact. What could she possibly be thinking, marrying a weasel like him? But the outfit answered that question nicely—the jewelry alone likely added up to more than the annual income of your average top-tax-bracket American household.

Annabel sighed again and indicated a garment bag she had slung over one arm. The bag bore a Brioni logo, as if it needed a label to join the rest of her ensemble. “I’m bringing him his tux. We’re going to a benefit tonight, and he won’t have time to stop home to change.”

“He’s in a fine humor.”

“Oh?”

“I have that effect on him. And I managed to separate him from some of his money. He never likes that much. Can I give you some advice, Annabel?”

“Do I have a choice?” she answered impatiently. She moved to step past Naomi, but Naomi moved with her. The elevator doors gave a whining beep in protest at standing open for so long.

“If you didn’t already sign everything away in a prenup, which he probably made sure you did, get things squared away now. Especially if you’re planning on having any little Annabels or Glenn juniors. Find a good lawyer and have him draw up some watertight contracts. Otherwise all you’ll see once he’s onto Number Three is half of whatever he made while you were married, and my guess is that he’ll hide a lot of that away.”

“Thank you for your concern, but I can take care of myself. Are you done now?” asked Annabel, trying again to step past Naomi. “These people are waiting for the elevator.” She motioned toward our little group, which had been bearing witness to the entire scene with varying degrees of awkwardness. I thought I caught a flash of recognition in her eyes as her glance swept over us.

“Yes, I must get back to my office. Some of us work, you know. Besides, I wouldn’t want to keep you from anything important. I know how busy you must be with all of that shopping and decorating to do. Goodbye, Annabel.”

“Goodbye, Naomi,” Annabel said, mimicking Naomi’s tone. This time Naomi let her pass and stepped into the elevator, followed by Jake, Mark, and me. A small smile played over her lips as the doors slid shut.

We were all silent as the elevator descended. Personally, I was in awe. Naomi seemed to be completely comfortable saying whatever she wanted to whomever she wanted. And while Miss Manners most assuredly would not have approved, I couldn’t help but be impressed.

The doors parted when we reached the ground floor, and Naomi strode off.

“Wow,” I said.

“Good show,” agreed Jake.

“You missed the first act.” I filled them in on Naomi’s showdown with Gallagher as we made our way to a nearby Burger Heaven. I’d chosen our destination; I was very much in need of protein, preferably accompanied by large quantities of French fries.

“It sounds like Wife Number One isn’t exactly president of the Glenn Gallagher fan club,” said Jake when we had settled in a booth and placed our order.

“I don’t think that’s a very happening club,” I said.

Mark laughed, his first laugh in the three days we’d spent almost entirely in each other’s company. I turned to him, glad to see some sign of personality. It would be nice if the guy loosened up—thus far, he’d been like a Stepford associate: focused, uncomplaining, and completely humorless.

“So, Mark, where are you from?” I asked.

“Me?” He took a sip of his soda. “New Jersey.”

“Southern New Jersey or northern New Jersey?” asked Jake. I wondered how this could possibly matter. New Jersey was New Jersey as far as I was concerned.

“Southern.”

“Then you’re an Eagles fan, right?” said Jake.

My heart sank. I really hated sports talk, and it didn’t help that I had no idea what sport the Eagles played.

“Yeah.”

“Man, did you see their game against the Cowboys? During the playoffs?”

“Uh, no. I missed it.”

“It was awesome.” Jake started talking about the game, and I was able to ascertain that the sport in question was football. It was amazing how someone who was usually so engaging in conversation could embrace such a boring topic.

“What about the Eagles-Steelers game? Did you see that one?” Jake asked.

Mark looked relieved to be able to answer in the affirmative. “That was a great game.”

They started talking about that game, and I tuned out. I couldn’t possibly be expected to concentrate on a subject this dull when I was hungry. I perked back up when our food arrived, and I was pleased to find that the football discussion had run its course. They were now talking about work. This was only a marginally better topic, but it still trumped sports.

“You’ve been with the firm since January, right?” Jake was asking. “How do you like it?”

Mark picked up his burger. “I expected that the hours would be pretty brutal, and they have been, especially with this new deal. But I wanted to work on a buyout.”

“Even with the Idi Amin of Winslow, Brown?” I asked.

Mark hesitated. “This is probably embarrassing to admit, but I was deciding between offers at a few different firms. When I heard that Gallagher had left Ryan Brothers to join Winslow, Brown—well, that made up my mind for me. In fact, I asked to be assigned to his next deal. I’d heard that working with him was sort of painful, but I thought it would be a good learning experience. He’s kind of a legend in certain circles.”

Circles of hell, I thought. Imagine
wanting
to work with Gallagher. In fact, following Gallagher to the firm? That was dedication. Or masochism.

“Then it’s a dream come true?” asked Jake. He must have been thinking along the same lines as me; there was a teasing edge to his tone. But Mark looked uncomfortable, so I changed the subject.

“I have a question, Jake. Since you’ve worked with the guy before.”

Jake turned his attention away from Mark. “Shoot.”

“What’s with Gallagher and the pencil thing?”

“What pencil thing?”

“Don’t even try to pretend that you haven’t noticed the pencil thing. When he sharpens an already sharp pencil and sucks on it? He must have done it six or seven times when we were in his office this morning.”

He grinned. “Oh, that pencil thing.”

“Yes, that pencil thing. He must go through a dozen pencils a day. And the sucking—it’s disgusting. I don’t even want to know what Freud would make of it.”

“All that lead can’t be good for him,” volunteered Mark.

“Maybe he’ll die of lead poisoning,” I said, not bothering to disguise the hopeful note in my voice.

“I think they make them out of graphite now,” Jake said. “It’s funny, though. Do you watch
Forensic City?
”

“I love that show,” I said.

“You do? Me, too,” Jake said.

“I have the entire season’s episodes on my TiVo, just waiting for the time to watch them all,” I told him.

“Well, I don’t think I’ll ruin anything by telling you they had an episode a few weeks ago in which a guy who likes to chew on toothpicks dies from chewing on a poisoned toothpick.”

“Interesting,” I said thoughtfully. “Maybe we could slip some poison into one of Gallagher’s pencils?”

“Should I be worried you’re not joking?” asked Jake.

“I don’t know. Would you be willing to help out?”

“For you? Anything.” There was a gleam in his eye.

I laughed, but my cheeks felt strangely warm.

I decided to chalk up my reaction to hunger. “Could somebody pass the ketchup please?”

We lingered over lunch, and Jake talked about adjusting to life in New York after Chicago. “I lived here after business school,” he explained. “That’s when I first worked with Gallagher—I was an associate at his old firm. But my ex-wife was from Chicago and wanted to move back. Ryan Brothers didn’t have an office there, so I took the job at Winslow, Brown. But I was never a big fan of the Midwest, and it turned out that my ex-wife wasn’t such a big fan of me. Once we split up, I hightailed it back to the East Coast.”

I’d heard around the office that Jake was newly divorced after a short and unsuccessful marriage, but we hadn’t talked about it much. He seemed glad to be back in New York except, of course, for the inevitable lament about real estate. “The prices are insane.”

“I was lucky,” I told him. “I bought my apartment years ago.”

“Is there enough room for the two of you?” Jake knew that Peter had just moved in.

“It’s a little cramped right now, but we’ll figure it out,” I said with false confidence. Given that every closet was already filled to bursting, I wasn’t sure how this was going to happen. But I loved my home—its high ceilings and southern light and old-fashioned details—and I really didn’t want to move. It was only since Peter had arrived that I’d realized just how attached I was to the place, and how much I’d gotten used to having my own space.

There had been a lot of snow over the weekend, but it had warmed up since then and the pristine white piles were quickly melting into dirt-colored slush. We had to navigate the pavement carefully on our way back to the office.

We missed the light at the corner of Madison and Fifty-first, but I was still scoping out the enormous puddle lapping at the curb, trying to figure out the best way across it, when the signal changed from the orange hand of “Don’t Walk” to the striding white figure of “Walk.”

“I’ve got you covered,” Jake said.

“What—” I started to ask.

He grabbed me around the waist and hoisted me over his shoulder as if I weighed nothing, which most certainly was not the case, especially not after the meal I’d just consumed. He stepped easily over the puddle and continued across the street before depositing me on the opposite corner.

My feet were dry, but if my cheeks had felt warm before, now they were burning.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Anytime,” he grinned.

A
mountain of work waited for us in the office, but we were sufficiently fortified by lunch to get through it at an efficient pace. Still, it was well after nine by the time I let myself into my apartment.

I sensed instantly that something extraordinary was underway.

“Peter?” I called out, kicking off my shoes. I shrugged out of my coat and left it with my hat and scarf draped over one of the cardboard boxes in the foyer.

“In here,” he answered.

“In where?”

“The kitchen.”

“Why?” I asked. An old Van Morrison CD was playing on the stereo, and the apartment smelled strangely of food. My stomach reminded me with a rumble that lunch, however fortifying, had been a long time ago. I picked a path through the cartons that lined the hallway, heading toward the room in question.

“Why do you think?”

“Oh my God.” I stood in the kitchen doorway, frozen with shock.

He was
cooking.

“Lasagna all right with you? It seemed like a good choice for a cold night. It’s almost ready. Here, let me pour you a glass of wine.”

I struggled for words. “But—how? With what?” I didn’t see any plastic containers from restaurant takeout, or even one of those orange boxes with the trusty Stouffer’s logo. And the microwave was quiet. None of it made any sense.

“A casserole dish. The oven.”

“It works?” I’d gotten a letter from ConEd years ago, warning that they were turning off the gas since it registered such little usage. I was pretty sure I’d never responded.

“Seems to.” He handed me a glass of Barolo.

“I have a casserole dish?”

“It was a bit dusty, but I rinsed it off.”

“But—but didn’t you need spices and herbs and ingredient stuff?”

“There’s a grocery store a couple of blocks away. They even deliver.”

He was trying to act nonchalant, but he was clearly pleased with himself.

I put my glass down and wrapped my arms around him. “Will you marry me?”

“I’ll give it some thought.”

A few minutes later he banished me from the kitchen so that he could put the finishing touches on the meal. In the living room, I saw that he’d even set the small table. Place mats! Who knew I owned place mats?

I went to stow my briefcase in the tiny room that I used as a study and which technically elevated my apartment from a one-bedroom to a two-bedroom, although it had never been clear to me how it could possibly fit a bed when it could barely fit a desk and chair. The PC was on—Peter must have been using it—so I took a moment to check my personal e-mail account. My BlackBerry was like an extra limb, almost surgically attached to me and ensuring that I rarely fell behind on my work e-mail, but my home account tended to fill up.

Most of it was spam. The Internet was supposed to usher in a golden age of targeted, one-to-one marketing, but I refused to believe that I was the target market for penile implants. I sent message after message into the trash bin, clicking the mouse with increasing impatience and speed.

As a result, I nearly missed an e-mail from Luisa confirming drinks the following evening. In a fortuitous twist of events, all four of my college roommates were in New York this week, and we’d agreed to meet at the King Cole Bar at the St. Regis Hotel. I hit Reply All to caution them that I might be a bit late, but I resolved at the same time to make it out of the office at a decent hour. Gallagher and his deal would suck up every second if I let them.

The next and last e-mail also nearly missed being tossed into the trash bin. And once I saw it, I almost wished I’d deleted it unread.

The subject line read Important. Of course, all of the Viagra ads claimed relevance and urgency, too.

But the return address was from [email protected]. Not the most legitimate-sounding address—it had a self-righteous rabble-rousing air to it—but it seemed more likely to be a real person than one of the randomly assorted strings of letters that most of the Viagra ads came from.

I clicked it open. The message was short, and cryptic.

Perry’s dirty and so is this deal.

And they’ve done it before.

That was it. That was all it said.