Fake It 'til You Make It, page 3
Rising from the sofa, I select a ball that has been signed by Barry Bond, infamous former left fielder for the San Francisco Giants. I know this because my brother has had small plaques made to sit in front of each ball. Most of his collection has come from ball trades at the end of his games, but some, like his signed Babe Ruth ball, he acquired from auction.
My brother is a catcher for the San Francisco Giants. He’s spent the last three years as a starter but recently picked up a shoulder injury that’s seen him out of the game for four months, with the physios predicting another two to recover after a number of setbacks.
He earns good money, the kind that means he can afford a second home in New York – which has now become my hideaway.
Mike and I look like dead-ringers for each other. We’ve even been asked if we’re twins a heap of times. In fact, I’ve wondered whether that means he looks younger than his thirty-six years or I look older.
He’s four years my senior, and I’ve spent a lot of my childhood in his shadow, unable to live up to his dizzy heights of athleticism. I wasn’t a bad ball player, but I wouldn’t have made a major league team like Mike. When I finally stepped out from his shirt tails, I realized I had a bent for and enjoyed science, analytics and tech.
See, though we look alike, personality wise, Mike and I are polar opposites. He’s a devout athlete and sports fanatic and I’m a self-confessed tech nerd. Specifically, I develop forward-thinking, innovative, analytical software.
And, until seventy-two hours ago, I was flying in my field. Now, I’m just a guy who hasn’t got the faintest clue how to get through each day.
Intermittently taking bites out of my zero-goodness sandwich, I decide to grant myself 250 tosses of the ball against the wall, plus an extra one for any missed catches. This is more than double my allowance of one hundred throws I allowed myself as an insomnia cure last night but when I reach 250, I promise I’ll check my emails.
Thud. Catch. Thud. Catch. Thud. Dropped catch. Thud. Thud. Thud.
I lose count around 170 but I’m sufficiently pacified by the tedium of the activity, and my sandwich has filled a hole.
Reluctantly, I open up my inbox through my cell phone and see the number of unread emails taunting me in bold. That’s a count of more than 300 since I walked into my partner’s office out of hours and found him screwing my fiancée.
I don’t know what irritates me more, the number of emails or the fact that Roman, my ex best friend, is going about our business as if nothing has happened.
Absolute shitbag.
We’ve been programming together since college. Inseparable for a decade. Seemingly those years of friendship have meant nothing to him. Certainly not more than sex.
I walk to the shelf, pick up another of Mike’s signed baseballs – Buster Posey – and throw it as hard as I can at the wall on the opposite side of the lounge.
Brilliant. Now I have a freaking hole in a wall to fix on top of everything else.
The holding responses I’ve sent to a couple of urgent emails have obviously triggered my assistant’s attention because her ringtone, designated specifically so that I know to take her calls, comes over the ridiculous home theatre speakers.
‘Mel, hi.’ I don’t say anything else because I don’t know what to say and I don’t know whether the rumor mill has yet started at the office. I’m a private person, a relatively quiet person, but I’m the brother of an MLB player, a partner of one of the fastest growing tech companies on the west coast, and my girlfriend is a model with a strong social media following. So, yeah, Mike is right, it’s only a matter of time until word gets out.
‘Ted, finally. I’ve been trying to reach you for two days; you’ve been completely off the grid. Where are you?’
‘Connectivity problem with my cell phone, sorry.’ Yep, the kind you have when you turn off your phone for two days. ‘So… what’s up?’
I’m pacing the floor of the lounge, speaking into the open space, waiting for her to cut to the chase and tell me everyone is talking about what happened, some shocked, some ridiculing me.
‘What’s up?’ I can hear confusion in her voice. I guess I’ve never just disappeared in all the time she’s been my assistant. In fact, I’ve never really taken a break from work since the inception of Vanguard RED Technologies. ‘Nobody knew where you were, Ted. Roman has had to step into your shoes for three of the meetings you had in your calendar.’
‘Yeah, well, Roman is very good at stepping into my shoes.’
‘I’m sure he is, but the people you were supposed to be meeting were disappointed with your absence, and we kind of need to know where you are.’
She isn’t wrong. Going AWOL is not only unlike me, it’s highly unprofessional, but, silly me, where was my head when I should’ve been thinking about my business and business partner? Oh, that’s right, it was replaying images of my business partner getting it on with my fiancée.
‘I know, and I’m going to be out for a few more days. But I’m back online now, so you can tell Roman…’ His name feels like dirt on my tongue. ‘There’s no need for him to take over my role anymore.’
Mel is quiet for long seconds, until she asks, ‘Have you and Rome fallen out? Is this like that time he took the biggest office in the new building without asking you first?’
She doesn’t know. Ironically, Roman stealing something that was supposed to be mine is precisely what has happened, though on this occasion, it’s something less trivial than office space.
‘No, it’s not like that. Is there a specific reason you called?’ I need to spend some time working out responses to questions until I’m ready for my private life to become public news.
‘You have an interview with GQ tomorrow; their writer is supposed to be coming to our offices. Will you be here? Are you even in the state?’
Crap. GQ magazine. I forgot about that.
‘Can we postpone?’
‘You’ve already postponed twice and it’s for the next edition.’
Double crap. It’s bad enough that the press seem to get any insight into my private life, without me having to give over the details myself. But this is an important interview for Vanguard, and until I know what I want from my business relationship with Roman going forward, I need to keep up appearances. Not least because, if it comes to it and we sell out, we need the business to be mentioned in publications as widespread as GQ.
‘Wait, GQ has an office in New York, right?’ I ask.
I hear Mel typing in the background, then she says, ‘Yes, they do.’
‘Great. Can you call them and tell them I can take the interview in New York? They can email me directly for the address.’
‘In New York? You’re in New York?’
‘Mel, could you do this for me without questions, please?’
‘Sure thing, boss.’
‘Thanks. And Mel, the fact I’m in New York is strictly confidential. By that I mean between you and me. I don’t want anyone to know. Not Fleur, not Roman, okay?’
There’s silence on the line and I sense she’s switching from business associate mode to friend mode. ‘My lips are sealed.’
We say goodbye but before either of us hangs up, she asks, ‘Ted, are you okay?’
Am I okay? I feel like I’m hurtling into outer space without gravity or thrusters with no clue how to get back to the world as I knew it just days ago.
‘I’m good.’
Ending the call and back in the silence of the apartment, I wince at the mess I’ve made of Mike’s plastered wall. I feel exactly the way that wall looks: like there’s a big hole missing from it. Now, to add insult to injury, I need to prepare for my interview with GQ. I need to do the last thing on earth I like to do. I need to go shopping for something other than shorts, T-shirts and sneakers.
5
ABBEY
I’d rather walk anywhere in the city than take the subway but Brooklyn Heights to Bloomingdale’s, where I am meeting Dee and Shernette this morning, is a trek. I’ve compromised, taking transport from Court Street station to Union Square, and I’m walking the rest of the way.
The fresh air and takeout coffee en route have been beneficial. When I woke this morning, after listening to the relentless banging from upstairs into the early hours, again, I felt grouchy as heck.
To top that off, I was playing the radio as I got dressed and what came on? Only Jack Johnson’s ‘Better Together’. It’s as if the universe is trying to keep Andrew front and center of my thoughts all the damn time.
‘Better Together’ was one of our songs. Not that we had a song expressly but it always reminded me of drives we took back home around Banff National Park, even road trips to British Columbia. I would have preferred to hike together but Andrew was always happier in a gym than outdoors, so we would take scenic drives instead. I’d take climbing the Rockies over a claustrophobic, sweat-filled gym any day.
I replace the lid on my now empty coffee mug and pop it into my satchel. Just as I hold my hand across a ginormous yawn, I see Dee and Shernette waving at me from the entrance to Bloomingdale’s.
Dee cups her hands either side of her mouth, making a human foghorn, and calls, ‘Are you ready for shoppiiiiiiiiiing?’
Horrified, I glance around me. Unbelievably, every passerby is just going about their business, heading to work, shopping, drinking caffeine on the move. Good old Manhattan – I could have been struck by lightning right here in the middle of the sidewalk and no one would notice. Back home, getting dumped by your long-term boyfriend is the business of everyone from your mother to the distant cousin of the owner of the local store whom you see semi-annually.
I make my way over to my sister and best friend.
‘I’m ready if you promise never to do that again.’
Dee scrutinizes my baggy dungarees and foot-fitting sandals. ‘I’m glad to see you came dressed for the occasion.’
Scowling at my sister, I hug Shernette. ‘Thank you for taking a Monday off work. The thought of shopping on the weekends is enough to give me hives.’
‘I wouldn’t have missed it. The chance to help makeover my bestie and blow copious amounts of cash? Hell yes, I’m in.’
I smile at Shernette, then point at my sister. ‘You don’t get a hug.’ Then I gently stroke her tummy and say sweetly, ‘You do, my gorgeous little nephew.’
‘We don’t know what the sex is, yet.’
‘Given girls are born in times of stress and there isn’t a stressed bone in your horizontal body, it has to be a boy.’
Dee’s eyes visibly brighten. She places her hands on her non-existent bump and glances down. ‘A boy, huh?’
Shernette gives me a look that says: your parents are going to flip.
She’s dead right.
‘And on that note, shall we get this torture started?’ I ask.
We head inside the store. As I hold open the door for Dee, she tells me, ‘Speaking of chilled out people, we have dinner plans with the very antithesis of chilled out on Thursday evening. Meredith is going to book somewhere and send the details.’
Meredith, Nate’s wife. It means dinner will be somewhere flashy but since Big Brother will be paying, who cares?
Due to the constant stream of tourists, Bloomingdale’s is still busier than I’d like but given it’s a work day, it isn’t heaving. As we step onto the renowned black and white check tiled floor, I inhale the scent of fresh leather from the wealth of designer handbags, mixed with the hundreds of expensive eaux de parfum.
‘Where do we start?’ I ask, looking at my makeover tutors. Personally, I’d like to start at Magnolia Bakery but something tells me that won’t be the answer.
Dee and Shernette look at each other, then at me. ‘Casual wear,’ they say in unison.
I follow behind them – Shernette in a bright, floral shift dress, Dee wearing a Bohemian-style romper – feeling sad for my comfy dungarees.
As we ride the escalator, Dee tells me, ‘We’re booked for facials and make-up in two hours, so we need to get a move on.’
Two hours? Urgh.
New me. New me. New me. Must channel new me.
I will be glamorous, desirable and someone with a fabulous job; in fact, any job would be an improvement currently. A woman befitting of Blake House.
Deciding to see our climbing the escalator as a metaphor for rising to the new, aspirational me, I thrust my shoulders back and step off the moving steps into a Ralph Lauren concession.
After baulking at the price tags of the first three items I pick up, I realize I’m going to have to be led by the clothes and not the price tag if I’m going to make any headway.
I have two pairs of smart pants hanging over my left arm and with my right, I am holding up a blue tailored shirt, when Shernette appears over my shoulder.
‘Too safe, too safe and too safe.’ She takes the items from me and hangs them on the rail in front of us. ‘These are just fancier versions of the things you’ve always worn to work.’
She waggles a mini tweed skirt and jacket combo at me – pink and lime green! ‘This is your new work wardrobe.’
‘Riiiiight, for that unemployment line.’ I finger the outfit. The material does feel expensive, I’ll give her that.
Leaning her head to one side, she smiles. ‘For the fabulous job you’re going to get, when you decide whatever it is that you’re passionate about.’
‘Oddly, I was, I am passionate about numbers, analytics tools, innovative forensic software, the business world. But clearly, I’m not very good at those things, evidenced by the fact I no longer have a job in the field.’
‘You need to start seeing being fired as being liberated,’ Shernette says. ‘The world is your oyster. Your checklist will be fulfilled in no time. Or at least within six months, otherwise you’ll be unemployed, homeless and single. And this little number is going to help you shuck the shell. Go try it on!’
She holds out the hangers until I take them from her and make for the nearest fitting rooms.
‘Technically, I quit,’ I call back. But maybe she’s right. I need to view this forced break as an opportunity to make a change. I’m just not sure to what.
‘Abs, it’s me,’ Dee says over the stable-style door. Inside the cubicle, I’m still admiring myself in the tweed two-piece. I don’t think I’ve ever worn anything so fancy. ‘What exactly is our budget today?’
‘Absolute max, I have eight hundred dollars for my entire Blake House wardrobe.’ Prior to trying on the pink and green suit, I would have said $500. Shernette’s first pick has softened me a smidge.
After splurging on six months’ rent, I divided the rest of my savings between socializing (which I do little of) and bills, leaving some leftover for clothes shopping. Essentially, the splurge on a new wardrobe is the difference between me needing to find work soon and yesterday.
Dee dangles a pair of Capri pants in royal blue over the dressing room door. I take the bait, then she hands me a silk, ivory-colored vest, which I also take.
‘Have you heard of a capsule wardrobe?’ she asks.
By the time we leave Bloomingdale’s, almost my entire shopping balance has been depleted and I have the core ingredients of what Dee describes to me as a capsule wardrobe – a small collection of clothes that I can mix and match to make a heap of different outfits, something to suit every occasion.
‘I can’t believe I let you guys convince me to spend so much money on clothes,’ I say as we head down Fifth Avenue, making our way idly in the direction of Macy’s on 35th Street. I stifle a yawn, again.
‘And color!’ Shernette says. ‘Hello World, this is Abbey Mitchell, bold, bright and about to embark on the best years of her life!’
I’m loathe to admit that I do feel taller, cheerier somehow, wearing the shorts and blazer combo the girls encouraged me to leave the store in once I had settled my insanely large check.
‘Plus, you can’t always wear T-shirts and jeans from Gap,’ Dee adds.
Shaking off the insult, I see a café up ahead. I tell the girls I need coffee.
‘I agree,’ Shernette says. ‘You’ve been yawning all morning. At first, I thought it was sheer boredom, but I’m starting to think it’s not that. I saw you checking yourself out in that outfit – rightly so, since you look a million dollars in it.’
‘Why are you so tired? You told me your new bed is the comfiest thing you’ve ever slept in,’ Dee says.
I hold the café door open for them and the smell of our savior hits my nose. ‘Rich, dark, intense, exactly how I like my coffee.’
‘That’s exactly how I like my men,’ Shernette replies, heading to the counter.
When we’re seated on stools in the window of the café, looking out to the traffic and bustle of Fifth Avenue, I finally reply to Dee’s question.
‘I’m tired because of the freaking guy in the apartment above me. I don’t know what he’s doing but there’s a rhythmic banging like he’s going to bounce a shot put right through my ceiling every night. I’ve half a mind to go up there and tell him to quit it, but you know me, I hate conflict.’
Shernette, now holding her hand to her head as if she has brain freeze from zealously sucking her iced smoothie, says, ‘Sex. He’s obviously romping the night away.’
‘No, I don’t think so. It’s been both nights. For hours. I appreciate I only have a wanker to compare him to but does any man have that kind of stamina?’
My sister and best friend look to each other, their jaws metaphorically hitting the floor. Then they gush, ‘We are soooooo proud of you.’
‘Huh?’
‘That’s the first time you actually called Andrew out on being a complete, total and utter dick-fest,’ Dee says, before slurping her decaffeinated Frappuccino through a straw.
I feel a slight turn of my lips. ‘It did feel good. Unlike me but kind of cathartic.’
Shernette nudges into my shoulder. ‘New apartment, new wardrobe, new woman.’
‘I’m not sure about that but I am at least starting to feel like a work in progress.’
