Tilting at Windmills Page 3

  The apartment was, for the first time that night, quiet.

  And so I spoke up.

  “Maddie’s screwing the boss.”

  John was in mid-drink, and he choked. Took a minute to recover.

  “Jesus, Brian—you can’t just come out with a statement like that . . . without warning.”

  “Think how I felt when I saw them together.”

  “Saw them how? On a date, in public, holding hands, that kind of thing?” His voice was hopeful, but I shook my head.

  “Mid-fuck. Her bed.”

  “Maddie and that prick Justin Warfiend?”

  John had met Justin many times when he’d come by the office and he’d always been less than taken with the big boss, and always called him Warfiend.

  “What’d she say?”

  “Say? No words, really, just a lot of grunting and oohing and ahing. They were quite taken with each other.”

  “No, you idiot, when you confronted her. Surely you interrupted . . . of course you didn’t, not Brian Duncan. Jesus, Bri, you find your girlfriend and your boss doing the horizontal hokeypokey and you don’t stop them? What—were you afraid he might fire you?”

  “No, you jerk. Look, words didn’t exactly flow to my tongue—I think I swallowed them all. So I hightailed it out of there. And no, I haven’t spoken to her. But I guess come Monday, I’ll have to—it’s my first official day back. Maybe there’ll be too much work.”

  “Brian, she’s not just your coworker—she’s your girlfriend. You’ll have to talk about it. She’ll know something’s wrong immediately and you’ll ’fess up—you always do. Brian, you’re not one to keep things—you know, problems—all bottled up. Though the fact that you managed to keep it secret for three days amazes me.” He paused. “So, what are you going to do?”

  I shrugged. “Haven’t really decided.”

  “I don’t envy you. Your eggs are all in one basket and now one has cracked, and it’s making them all rotten.”

  “What?” I said, and started to laugh.

  “Hey—it made sense in my head. Maybe it’s the beer. Anyway, I gotta pee—and then I gotta go.”

  “Yeah.”

  John left ten minutes later, saying that if I needed to talk—anytime—just call. I thanked him, and I closed the door, grateful for his friendship. He was right, I do usually talk about the things that bother me, and keeping a secret—not spilling my guts, as he’d so graciously put it—was out of character.

  But I’d stay out of character for a while longer, because I hadn’t exactly been truthful with John when I’d said I didn’t know what I was going to do. The idea had come to me after Maddie’s second message, that darling claim of having missed my arms wrapped around her. Come Monday morning, I’d take action. The element of surprise would indeed be on my side. John wouldn’t believe it, nor would Justin.

  As for Maddie, not in her wildest dreams would she think Brian Duncan capable of such a move.

  I guess I fell asleep shortly afterward. Sunday passed with excruciating slowness. Monday wouldn’t come soon enough.

  Or maybe I could have waited some more, given the curve this beautiful spring morning threw me. Justin and Maddie, I found out, had sure been busy those six weeks I’d been gone.

  That’s not how the morning began, though. I woke with confidence, with the knowledge that I had control. I was about to exert a power move, so I was dressing for the occasion. I donned one of my better suits, a slate gray three-button suit from Hugo Boss. I straightened my Joseph Abboud tie, tied the laces of my Cole Haan shoes. Yeah, I was in my corporate battle wear, ready to head into the enemy camp. I had easy access thanks to my electronic card key, the nineties’ Trojan Horse.

  I arrived at the Beckford Group’s nineteenth-floor offices at eight-thirty and found the place already buzzing with activity, mostly of a social nature, with everyone asking about the past weekend while brewing pots of coffee. The smell of muffins and bagels emanated from the staff kitchen. That was a good sign, since it was Justin’s routine to bring these goodies every Monday; it meant he was already in.

  I dropped my leather attaché in my office, then headed down the hall to Justin’s corner office. His secretary was not at her desk, probably off getting a muffin or something, and so that gave me free rein to just walk in on the boss. It seemed to be a new habit.

  This time he was alone.

  Justin was standing behind his desk. He was on the phone, yammering on about something with the smooth, easy tone that usually won over whomever he was talking to. He saw me and waved me in and began wrapping up his call. As I waited, I watched this man whom I’d grown to trust, this man who had given my career the spark it needed. I’d always admired his sharp look, the Armani suits, the slicked-back black hair and natural tan of his skin, all of it lending him an air of confidence. Now, I thought he just looked sleazy.

  “Hey, look who’s back—the prodigal account director,” he said, as he put down the phone and extended his hand. I reluctantly shook it, noticing that it was only the start of the workday and already he’d rolled up his sleeves, exposing arms thickly covered with curly black hair. It took all my concentration not to punch the ape.

  Instead, I said, “Hey,” back.

  “Have a seat. I’ve a spare second before the announcement.”

  “The announcement?” I asked. “What . . . ?”

  He flashed bleached teeth. “You’ll have to wait like the rest of them.” He was characteristically unctuous and I wondered what was going on. He didn’t give me the chance to ask. “So, Brian . . . hey, how’re you feeling ? Guess you’re back full time—and none too soon, because there’s a shitload of work to do. I hope you’re up to the challenge, ’cause we’ve got big plans at the Beckford Warfield Group. Big mondo plans. And you’re a part of it—hell, you’re our creative genius.”

  The added name to the corporate banner didn’t escape me. “Beckford Warfield?”

  He grinned like the Cheshire cat’s dentist. “All in good time.”

  He was distracting me from my own agenda. “Uh, Justin, there’s this little matter—”

  He held up a hand like a crossing guard, and I stopped. His secretary, Laura, had popped in.

  “She’s in?” Justin asked.

  “She’s in,” replied Laura with simple efficiency.

  “Who’s ‘she’?” I asked as a follow-up.

  “You’ve got no patience this morning, do you, Bri?”

  “I’ve spent the past six weeks being patient.”

  “As well as being a patient.” He laughed at his lame joke, then added insult to injury by saying, “Get it?”

  Hilarious.

  “Well, follow me and you’ll get all your questions answered,” he said, and he was up and out of his chair, rolling down his sleeves and throwing on his suit jacket, all in one smooth motion. Then he was gone, rocketing down to the conference room, a man on a mission. I was slow to follow and wondered if my sabbatical from the corporate pace had lessened my tolerance for it.

  When I got there, I saw I was one of many. In fact, he’d assembled the entire sixteen-member staff inside the conference room, a nice-size room with classic furniture and a great view of Midtown Manhattan. Everyone was anxiously standing about, eyes focused on Justin. Mine included. I hovered near the back, a virtual stranger in these familiar surroundings. Just then the “she” Justin referred to shot through the door frame. Not all that surprisingly, she was Maddie.

  And she looked great. Healthy glow, professional attire, she was vibrant, and despite my feelings, I felt my heart do a quick dance. Love is a tricky emotion to quell, even in the face of betrayal. She didn’t help matters any, though, by going directly to Justin’s side. As they stood next to each other, it was clear they were the envy of the room, beautiful people in positions of power. Maddie looked like she’d never been a part of me.

  Madison Laurette Chasen. A Georgia-bred beauty who’d worked hard to successfully rid herself of her Southern ac
cent, a woman who’d worked equally hard at mastering her career, if the pale beige Donna Karan suit was any indication. Her hair, a lustrous and thick golden blond, absolutely radiated, even in the artificial glow of fluorescent lights. Here was a woman who would not be denied her ambition, who surged forward with clear goals and the smarts to reach them. Why, then, had she gone and done the predictable? Why had she fucked the boss?

  The answer, it appeared, was unfolding before me.

  “A couple of announcements, folks, before we begin this exciting new work week,” said Justin with the ease of a born leader. “As you all know, Franklin Beckford, our beloved chairman, has not been in the best of health lately and has cut back his hours dramatically. He has decided now to permanently step down as chairman. His only regret is that he cannot be here to tell you all—he and his wife, Suki, have just left on an extended trip. Clearly, Franklin wants to enjoy himself, as he’s wanted to for some time. The announcement last week that we landed Voltaire Health Group’s account sealed this agency’s financial future, so Franklin felt he could retire on this very high note.

  “So, as of today, I am assuming the responsibilities for the company and therefore have been named the new chairman.”

  The gang broke into spontaneous applause, and I joined in, though hardly with the effort I would have given, say, last Tuesday. He enjoyed his moment before shushing us and proceeding to his next announcement. He was renaming the agency the Beckford Warfield Group, and this was also met with hearty applause—and with whistles. All in all, a lot of energy and noise for a Monday morning. Justin must have put something in the coffee.

  Once again, Justin quieted everyone down, the chairman quickly assuming command of the ranks. I’d already stopped and had my arms crossed over my chest. There was more to come, I sensed, as everyone focused in on the person standing beside the newly appointed boss. Maddie looked confident on the surface, but I could tell, as someone who knew her well, that this was just a façade. Maddie was nervous.

  And that’s when it hit me. Like a ton of bricks.

  “Technically, I’ve already made two announcements,” Justin said, “but those are intertwined, so we’ll just count them as one. Which leaves me with still one more announcement. Colleagues, I ask you, when the president gets promoted to chairman, does that not open up a position for a new president? Of course it does, and I’m happy to say that the perfect candidate is someone we know, we respect, we love. Our own—anyone for a drum roll?—Maddie Chasen.”

  For the third time in ten minutes, the room was full of applause. This time, it was more raucous, the obvious support for a person from their ranks succeeding beyond anyone’s hopes. Maddie had played the game and been rewarded, a shining example now for inspiring hard work in others. I saw not one person in the room who looked disappointed in this news. Yet had I seen myself in a mirror just then, I’d have seen plenty of disappointment. No one, though, was paying me any mind. They had gotten used to my not being around, and guess what—they’d have plenty more time to get used to it.

  I slipped out of the conference room undetected and returned to my office.

  So far, the morning had not gone as planned. I still had to talk to Justin. I still had to quit.

  Time dragged as indecision racked my nerves and butterflies danced in my stomach. My plan, if I went through with it, was twofold. First, find the guts to face Justin. Second, avoid running into Maddie. Twenty minutes passed when I finally made up my mind to confront Justin, and that’s when I looked up and saw him standing in the doorway.

  “Hey, sorry to cut you off before, but . . . well, it was important that we tell everyone together, and quickly, before rumors started. I like my staff to know what’s going on. But anyway, it’s your first day back—an exciting one, too.” He paused, and I guess he was studying my face, because the next thing he said was, “You don’t share the excitement?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s . . . great news, for you. Sorry about Franklin, though it sounds like he’s got the better end of the deal. Get all the money from a buyout and travel the world . . .”

  “I get the sense that there’s a ‘but’ to your less-than-pronounced enthusiasm.”

  Isn’t there always a “but”? As in life is great, but . . .

  “We need to talk,” I said.

  He gave a quick nod of his head. “Okay. Shoot. What’s up, big guy?” Here it comes—the supportive boss, the pal who signs your paychecks.

  “Maybe you should come in.”

  “Okay.”

  “And close the door.”

  He did so, and then sat down in my guest chair. A case of role reversal that I hoped enabled me to keep control of the situation.

  “Are you all right—healthwise?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I still get tired here and there and I’ve got to make sure that I get lots of rest. But it’s pretty much out of my system. It’s just . . .”

  “You’re happy for Maddie, right?”

  “Couldn’t be happier,” came my monotone reply.

  “So then what’s the problem? Do I have to force it out of you?”

  “It’s not easy to say this, Justin, not after so many years here.”

  “Whoa. Stop right there,” he said, again halting my conversation with his upraised hand. “You sound like a person who’s getting ready to quit. And that’s not possible. Brian Duncan is my star, and he’s back after a stint on the disabled list, but hey, come on—it’s back to the game and let’s win some. You know what I’m saying . . .”

  His face sank as he realized his sports analogy wasn’t working.

  “I’m sorry, Justin, but it’s something I’ve got to do.”

  “Got to?”

  “Have to.”

  “You’ve got another job offer? You know I’ll match it—hell, I’ll better it.”

  “There’s no other job. I’m taking a break.”

  “A break? From working? Christ, Brian, you’ve just had a six-week break, which, may I remind you, was a break with full pay.”

  “It’s not like I was off seeing the world, Justin. I had a pretty major illness. And now . . . and now I’m not sure I want to return to the daily grind of nine-to-five, put on the shirt and tie and be creative on demand. There’s got to be more to life, more to—”

  “What does Maddie say about this?”

  He surprised me by mentioning her. “Nothing. I haven’t spoken with her.”

  “Oh,” he replied, suddenly uncertain. “Look, Brian, I’m not sure where all this ‘more to life’ stuff is coming from, but if you’re not ready to return to work, I’ll give you a couple more weeks. Get the rest you need, and then come back. Maybe six weeks wasn’t long enough for you to recover and it’s the sickness that’s hampering your decision process. What do you say? We need you, Brian, more than ever since landing Voltaire. It’s going to be high pressure launching this new drug and we need the best creative mind in the business. And that mind happens to be yours. Hell, it’s how we landed the account in the first place, all your great ideas. So come on, take two weeks—go somewhere and lay in the sun—and then come back refreshed and ready to work. Hell, I’ll even spring for the airfare. You can’t pass that up, can you? Consider it a bonus for helping us land Voltaire.”

  “That’s a generous offer, and anyone would jump at the chance. You’re being very accommodating, Justin, like you have been during these past six weeks. But I just can’t accept. I realize this is unexpected, but I’ve already made my plans and they don’t include the Beckford Group—pardon, the Beckford Warfield Group.”

  I didn’t mean for it to sound snotty, but that’s how it came out, and suddenly Justin’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared in anger. “Aha. Pieces are falling into place.” He stood up, placing his hands on my desk and leaning in close. “Listen, Duncan, I’ve got no room at this agency for petty jealousy. So your girlfriend just got a major promotion. So what? Are you afraid of Maddie’s success? Jealous that she beat you to the top? P
issed off that I didn’t give the job to you because you’ve worked here longer?”

  “No, no, Justin. You’ve got it wrong; that’s not it at all. Maddie has nothing to do with my leaving . . . well, her promotion doesn’t have anything to do . . .” I stopped, realizing it was futile. This was why I wanted to talk with him earlier, but how was I to know the morning would unfold with such drama? Clearly Justin thought my decision to quit was related to this morning’s shakeup, that I was leaving out of jealousy and anger and some petty, childish revenge motive. Which I wasn’t. I was quitting because the boss had screwed my girlfriend and I didn’t feel like dealing with it. Wasn’t it easier to just remove yourself from the situation?

  “Well, Duncan? I’m right.”

  I shook my head. “No, Justin, you’re not. Except you’re going to think what you think and there’s nothing I can do to change that.”

  “You know, Duncan, I’m disappointed in you. When you first came to work for this company, you brought a sense of freshness, determination, the idea that nothing would stop you, nothing would bring you down. Now look at you, quitting because you got passed over for a job you weren’t ready for, maybe wouldn’t ever be. Some people are born to play the corporate game, driven people like myself and Maddie. Then there are those who are afraid to roll the dice. They fail. You, Brian—you failed.”

  Any number of replies came to me, none of them suitable. I just remained quiet and let Justin head for the door. He opened it, then turned back for one last moment of melodrama. “Don’t think you’re getting off easy, Brian. After your living off my goodwill for the past six weeks, I’m expecting two weeks’ notice.”

  “Expect what you want, Justin. Just don’t actually count on my being here.”

  “Get the hell out of this office.”

  Maybe his words were meant to hurt me or intimidate me. Instead, I smiled, a great big shit-eating grin that pissed him off even more. He stormed away, and I began the process of packing my personal items.