had better things to do. It wasn’t like Roxanne Dubrow was going to survive next year on the strength of Roxy D alone. There was still, according to our market research, a whole segment of women in the 35-to-50-year-old range who had yet to discover the wonders of Youth Elixir, our flagship moisturizer. I decided to concern myself once more with the demographic that needed me most, at least from a skincare perspective. Besides, the Youth Elixir campaign needed all my creative energy if I hoped to keep it afloat now that the budget for it had been cut nearly in half.
I had carefully explained to Shelley the challenge of promoting the Youth Elixir on a drastically reduced budget that week during our session. I could see she was looking for an opening to talk about something with a bit more emotional depth than whether or not I could single-handedly raise Youth Elixir to new sales heights, but I didn’t give her the chance. What was the point of wallowing in whatever problems she imagined remained beneath the surface?
Still, I was aware of some lingering malaise over Michael, one I could not erase as effectively as I had Ethan.
No less than three times that week, I caught myself fantasizing about some big scene in which, with one or two killing statements, I revealed to Courtney as well as to Michael’s doting sister, Dianne, that Michael Dubrow was a womanizing jerk. Which was why I decided to disappear for the few hours that I lived in danger of running into Michael and his entourage.
So, at eleven-thirty on the appointed day—a full forty-five minutes before the Dubrow clan was due to arrive via car service from Long Island—I went to Bloomingdale’s.
In case you think I was shirking my duties out of emotional distress, trust me, I did have some competitive shopping to do. Some of the major manufacturers had come out with new gift packages, and I needed to see what Roxanne Dubrow’s competitors were up to, didn’t I?
The fact that I dawdled in the designer section on Two once I was done in cosmetics had nothing to do with anything. After all, September was now fully upon us, and I could already feel the cooler weather creeping in. I needed to stock up on this season’s trousers and sweaters if I hoped to make it through the coming winter.
By the time I left Bloomingdale’s a full two hours later, I was armed with enough shopping bags to make my time away from the office look suspiciously like a personal shopping spree. So I opted for a quick cab ride across town to my apartment, where I relieved myself of all non-work-related expenditures, and took a few moments to dust powder over my face and freshen up my lipstick. Because if I was unfortunate enough to run into Michael, I needed to look gorgeous enough to fill him with a pang of regret that he would never, ever, have me in the horizontal—or otherwise—again.
Take that, I said, standing before the full-length mirror in my bedroom and studying the way my light sweater hugged my curves, the way my narrow skirt accentuated my legs. My well-cut jacket that balanced the vamp element the skirt lent the whole outfit, setting me firmly in the tastefully-corporate-yet-supremely-feminine camp. A dab of lipstick (just a refresher, mind you—I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard) and I left the apartment, more than ready to face whatever Michael Dubrow had to dish out.
Of course, one glance at my watch as the cab rolled toward Park Avenue indicated that I had been gone almost three hours and was likely in no danger of running into any of the Dubrows. The way I calculated it, lunch had ended by two o’clock and Dianne et al. were on the L.I.E. no later than two-fifteen.
Which was why my eyes practically popped out of my head when my cab pulled up and I spotted the Dubrows’ shiny dark luxury sedan parked in front of the building. The driver sat inside reading a newspaper, as if he didn’t anticipate leaving anytime soon.
I paid my cab fare and stepped out onto the sidewalk, knowing full well there was no way I could avoid the Dubrow clan any longer.
The first thing I noticed when I entered the office was that it was eerily empty—and surprisingly quiet. Lori’s desk was vacant, and if not for the furious tapping of keys that I heard coming from Claudia’s office, I would have thought the building had been evacuated.
I stopped in her doorway. “What’s going on?”
She glanced up. “Where have you been?”
“Bloomingdale’s,” I replied, holding up the single bag I had brought back to the office with me, which contained an assortment of offerings from our main competitors. “The winter gift packages are in stores,” I replied by way of explanation.
“Dianne has got everyone gathered in the conference room,” Claudia said. “We’re about to have a champagne toast.”
“Don’t tell me you got Mimi Blaustein to sign over her star property during lunch?”
“No, no,” Claudia said, shaking her head. “Please. You should have seen the way everyone was fawning over that Irina at lunch. Disgusting. As if anyone was really interested in what a girl barely out of her training bra had to say, which wasn’t much.” She rolled her eyes. “No, Irina and Mimi are long gone. Something about a plane Irina had to catch to Paris.” I saw a hint of bleariness in her well-made-up eyes and realized that Claudia was likely exhausted from having to curb her irritation with the girl-barely-out-of-training-bra for the sake of the company’s agenda. “I just wanted to get this e-mail out before the end of day and I was hoping to buy you some extra time….”
“Time for what?” I blinked.
“Oh, God knows. Dianne has some sort of announcement she wants to make.”
Everyone was already assembled, from PR and Sales to the marketing teams for all three of the brands. I spotted Michael right away, chatting merrily with Doug Rutherford, the Director of Sales, who kept an office at the other end of our U-shaped space for when he was in town. In that one fleeting glance I allowed myself, I saw that Michael was just as handsome as ever, with his dark brown hair and thickly lashed blue eyes. Although he had just passed the forty-two mark, he somehow seemed younger-looking than ever. Michael epitomized the phrase “boyishly handsome,” with his (seemingly) guileless features and somewhat petulant mouth and jutting chin. It suited his position as the late-in-life baby, born a full twelve years after Dianne—much to the delight of Roxanne Dubrow and her late husband, Ambrose. And Michael was every bit as spoiled and selfish as that position in life allowed, I had realized just after he had carelessly made love to me as if it didn’t matter. As if I didn’t matter.
Not allowing myself to dwell on that face—or the surprising tremor of feeling that radiated through me, even after all this time—I made my eyes flit about the room until they fell on Dianne, who stood at the helm, her shiny brown hair framing her perfectly made-up face and flawless skin—well, as flawless as a woman of fifty-four could look. She was, as always, dressed to perfection in a fitted ivory suit (the season’s new black, as of last week’s issue of W), and looking like the petite but exquisite queen of the Dubrow clan that she had become when her mother had gone into retirement over a decade ago. The sight of her filled me with a strange sort of relief, as it occurred to me that I had not seen Dianne in probably months. Though she had always ruled the roost from the Long Island office, previously she had made her presence in the New York office felt through frequent visits. I wondered now what had kept her away.
“Makes you want to puke, doesn’t she?” Claudia said, startling me as she came to stand at my side.
“Puke?” I asked, confused.
“Courtney Manchester. The redhead talking to Dianne….”
I shifted my gaze, taking in the woman who
