“Okay, enough. Tell me what’s going on.”

She began to chew on one of her glossed lips, and I could see the pink coming off onto her white teeth. “Billy, it’s just that I’ve wanted to do PR since college, okay? I had to work as a secretary at an accounting firm and then an ad agency before I got hired here. I love it. I really do.” She looked up at me with plaintive eyes. “I can’t afford to lose this job.”

“Lizbeth, what makes you think you’re going to lose your job?” I leaned forward on my desk.

“Well, Alexa got fired, and everyone’s been talking, wondering who’s next.”

I sat back, deflated. Alexa. So that was why everyone was so deferential. “Lizbeth, you’re not going to get fired.”

“I’m not?”

“No. No one is.”

She let out a breath and grinned a little. “Well, that’s good.” Then her smiled disappeared. “But then why…”

“Why what?”

“Why did Alexa have to go? I mean, I thought she was really good at what she did, and she was always taking time to explain things to me when no one else would.”

“She did?” That shocked me. I assumed Alexa had pushed her work off on everyone else, just like she’d done with me.

“Oh, yeah, she would stay late and tell me what the team was working on, and why we were going after one type of media and not another. She was great, you know?”

I grimaced.

Lizbeth caught it. “Well, maybe not. I mean, clearly she did something wrong.”

She was groveling again, and I held up a hand. “Lizbeth, it’s okay. I promise you-no one else is going to lose their job.”

She left, practically bowing on her way out. I got up and shut the door, then sat quietly, thinking that Alexa hadn’t really done anything wrong, except piss off the wrong person. Me. I’d used my new position to get what I wanted, making the good of the team the excuse, not really caring whether my truth was reality. And now I’d gained an unwanted respect as the company hatchet man.

My intercom buzzed. “Billy?” Evan’s voice rang through my office.

I pushed it. “Hi,” I said softly.

“What’s wrong?”

I sighed. “Nothing.”

“Well, I’m leaving, but I just wanted to remind you about the Hello Dave show tomorrow night. You coming?”

“Chris and I are going to my mom’s.” But then I remembered that my mother wouldn’t be home from Milan until Monday. “Actually, Evan, I think we might be able to make it.”

“Excellent. It’s been a while since you’ve seen them, and it’s been a long week. You need to cut loose.”

He was absolutely right. I needed some good loud music in a good loud bar with a good strong drink. “We’ll see you tomorrow night.”

chapter six

O n Saturday night, I was the only one getting ready for the Hello Dave show. Chris had gone to work that morning, with promises to be back by 5:00, but the office had sucked him in and refused to spit him back out. None of this was unusual. Chris nearly always worked Saturdays, and he often stayed until an ungodly hour. But what was unusual was the way he handled it. Instead of “crying swamp” in a crabby, quick phone call, he sent a vase of yellow lilies to the house. Sorry about the show, Treetop, the card said. You go, and I’ll make it up to you later. It made my eyes well.

I took forever to get ready, just like the old days when hitting the bars every Saturday night was vital rather than optional. I straightened my hair with an iron and flipped up the ends, admiring the dark sheen it now had. I made up my eyes dark and smoky, then emulated Lizbeth and applied lip gloss with a trowel. I dressed in black pants, strappy sandals and a flimsy aqua top I’d bought for my honeymoon. I threw my dark jean jacket over the ensemble and tossed my tiny Gucci bag over my shoulder. I put my nose in the lilies one last time, inhaling their perfume, thinking how lucky I was to have Chris, and then, smiling to myself, I was out on Dearborn hailing a cab.

At the Park West, Evan, who knew everyone in town, had put us on the guest list, so I picked up my free ticket and slapped an all-access sticker on my thigh. He was waiting at the bar inside the main doors, and he waved a hand over his head. People pushed their way around him, everyone trying to secure drinks while the opening band was still on, but Evan looked unruffled. He still did this every Saturday. Meanwhile, the crowd daunted me. The smell of cigarette smoke permeated the air. The women who elbowed me were so young, yet their expressions world-weary.

When I reached Evan, he gave me a tight hug, then looked behind me. “Where’s Chris?”

“Duty calls. Making the world safe for democracy.”

“I’m glad I’m not a lawyer.”

“Me, too. Where’s your date?”

He gave a sheepish look.

“You broke up with her already?”

“Had to be done. Guess it’s just me and you tonight.”

I was shoved from behind, and my hands flew up to protect myself. They landed on Evan’s chest. A very firm, broad chest, I couldn’t help noticing. “Sorry,” I muttered.

He held my arm and stared down at me. “I’m not.”

I chuckled uneasily. “How about a drink?”

Evan turned to the bar and with one movement, he was at the front, conferring with the bartender.

“Here you go,” Evan said, putting a drink in my hand a moment later. The glass was icy cold.

“What’s in it?”

“Stoli orange.”

“And some soda?” I said hopefully.

“A splash.”

I took a sip. The drink bit into my tongue, sharp with a hint of citrusy-sweet. “This is dangerous.”

Evan lifted his eyebrows and smiled crookedly.

Inside, the theater was buzzing. A largely ignored warm-up band sang earnestly, while people milled around, jockeying for position, waiting for the main act. Our access passes got us to the VIP area at the front of the stage, but it was still packed. Evan put his arm around me and pulled me toward the stage. That arm felt bigger than Chris’s, somehow more urgent, and, like the vodka, much more dangerous.

Soon, Hello Dave took the stage, and the crowd surged, yelling and clapping. Evan put that arm around me again, ostensibly to protect me. I let the crowd push me into him, breathing the light scent of his cologne. The lead singer yelled thanks to the crowd, then immediately broke into “Golden,” a finger-snapping, hip-swaying song that reminded me of a sunny, summer afternoon.

Evan threw his head back and hollered. It was something that had initially attracted me to him-his absolute abandon in the face of live music. Chris was more of a step-clap, step-clap kind of guy, eyes firmly on the stage (although he was the sweetest of slow dancers, holding me tight, swaying perfectly to the music). But it was undeniable that Evan could move, and it was infectious. I took a gulp of my vodka-so I wouldn’t spill it, I told myself-then allowed myself to be taken away. I closed my eyes, and my body charted its own course with the music. I felt beads of sweat along my hair-line and the small of my back, but I kept dancing, swaying, and as I did, years melted away. I was no longer a thirty-two-year-old married woman who had steadily clawed her way to a position of power. I was young, I was free, I was somehow perfect at that moment.

At some point, Evan picked his way out of the crowd and back. “Drinks,” he mouthed, holding two more vodkas. That arm slipped around me again, and we moved together to the music. I hoped the band would play forever. I wanted to drink vodka and stand near the heat of Evan’s body and dance and dance and dance eternally.

“We have to do this more often,” Evan said. He spoke into my ear so he could be heard above the music, and his breath sent a tingle down my neck, into my back.

I nodded, not trusting myself. My hips kept moving in time with his.

“You’ve been great!” yelled the lead singer. “Thank you!” He bounded into the final song, “Biminy,” and the crowd became more frenzied.