Shatterproof (12 page)

S
herri flags me as I creep out of my office with my purse.

“Reuben’s looking for you,” she whispers.

I mouth “thanks,” and hurry toward the exit.

Not fast enough.

“Hudson. In my office. Stat.”

Freezing in my tracks, I say, “Gotta run, Reuben. Talk tomorrow?”

“Oh, right, it’s Valentine’s Day, and someone else is calling the shots now.”

I turn and walk back, stopping right in front of him. I don’t say anything but there must be a wild glint in my eye, because Reuben takes a step backwards. Then I walk around him and into his office.

“We can talk tomorrow, Hudson,” Reuben says. “You’re right.”

I drop my purse on the floor and collapse into his guest chair with a thud. “No, let’s talk now.”  This conversation isn’t going to end well and I’d rather get it over with, even if it costs me a few minutes.

Reuben hesitates in the doorway, but I stare straight ahead at his chair, until he circles the desk and lowers himself into it, watching me warily.

“What’s on your mind?” I ask, my voice eerily calm.

Regaining his composure, Reuben gestures to his laptop. “The photo. Of you and that kid.”

Somehow Reuben managed to get through the day without a sip of water or a treat from Starbucks. Normally, he’s as bad as the juniors when it comes to free snacks.

“The kid was drunk and he kissed me,” I say. “That’s it. You know crazy things happen at launch parties sometimes.”

Reuben’s had at two affairs that I know of with young consultants. The most recent started at a launch party for the Australia project. He actually took that horrendously long flight four times to hook up with her. And when the project was over, and we were all under one roof again, he dumped her—but only after promoting her to another division. She’s leading a project in Utah now.

NTA doesn’t object to employees dating among the rank and file. On the contrary, it’s tacitly encouraged, perhaps because inbreeding among followers is the strength of any cult. However, there’s one type of relationship the company
doesn’t
encourage, and that’s between boss and subordinate. It still happens, but it’s kept on the down low.

“This guy’s a direct report,” he says.

“He made a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

“True, because we’re sending him to Calgary. Poor guy can’t even remember it happened. And that’s before EC got to him.” Reuben chuckles. “It’s for the best, considering you’re engaged.”

“Actually, Noah dumped me. Because of the Ottawa gig.”

Reuben leans back in his chair. “I don’t believe you.”

“Have you ever known me to lie to you?
For
you, yes.
To
you, no.” I pause before adding, “I even lied to your wife about the girl in Australia.”

Reuben’s florid face blooms. “Let’s not bring up ancient history. Anyway, that girl reported to you, not me. This Dylan kid was your direct report and it showed poor judgment. I’m surprised at you, Hudson.”

Looking down, I find my hands clenched into fists. What he’s saying is that my credibility is shot. I will never win back enough support to be named partner, no matter how well I do my job.

I briefly consider trying to dose Reuben with Wonder Glass, but decide against it. If he’s told EC and the other partners, the spider web is simply too big for the amount of serum I have left. Besides, I need those drops for Noah.

It’s suddenly become as clear as glass what my priorities are, and NTA is no longer on the list.

Reaching for my purse, I get to my feet so that I can look down at him. “Reuben, I quit.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t quit.”

“I’ll write the letter in the morning. I’m in a hurry, now.”

Warning lights start flashing in his eyes: 
we’re losing one!

“Sit,” he says, picking up the phone and pressing a few numbers. EC, no doubt. He knows the deprogramming sequence has begun. “You’ve been working flat out for ages and the stress is getting to you. What you need is a break. An easier project.”

In short, a demotion. “Don’t bother with EC,” I say. “I’m of sound mind and body and I quit the cult. I’ll get my things and go.”

Reuben drops the phone and tries a different tack. “Look, is everything okay? I’ve barely known you to take a misstep in all the years you’ve worked for me. I’m worried about you.”

Unstable
: 
Not stable; easily upset; unreliable; emotionally unsettled.

I glance at the door and see Baxter hovering just outside, while Sherri tries to herd him away. I’ll give him something worth the trouble of eavesdropping.

“Hey Reuben, do you know what people call NTA?
No Tits Allowed
Consulting.”

Reuben gasps, although it can’t be the first time he’s heard it. “Hudson, there really is something wrong with you.”

“I’m just commenting on the double standard that allows you to paw at women and make sexist jokes, and deny me partnership because I might want the kind of life-balance you have. My opportunities are limited here. It’s constructive dismissal.”

Beads of sweat form on his forehead. He may be smooth with clients, but he doesn’t have a clue how to handle this discussion. “Obviously your birthday set you off,” he says. “It must be a mid-life crisis. Can’t you just buy yourself a sports car, like I did?”

“Expect a call from my lawyer,” I say. Reaching for a notepad and pen, I write:  “I, Ellis Hudson, hereby resign from NTA Consulting.”

I sign and date the page, tear it off and slide it across his desk.

Back in my office, I throw my things into a cardboard box. It’s wasting precious minutes, but I don’t
want to come back, ever. After taping the box shut, I write TRASH on the side with a marker. Then I spray the desk with cleanser and wipe it down, trying to erase every sign of my existence.

Finally, I grab the only two things that have meaning anymore—the silver model planes—and slip them into my pocket, alongside the Wonder Glass.

On my way out, I stop in Backstabber’s doorway. “Goodbye and good luck,” I say.

“What happened?” he asks, still oblivious to the damage he caused. I stare at his perfect tie, and remind myself he’s at just as much of a disadvantage as me. The only difference is his complete lack of integrity.

“Change companies, Baxter,” I say. “You’re good at your job, and you’re losing your way from fighting against the current.”

He looks at me as if I’m crazy, and says, “I’m not leaving.”    

“Then pack up your wooly neckties, because Ottawa’s cold this time of year.”

T
he gentle swirl of snowflakes that began around noon has turned into a massive, traffic-stalling blizzard. Darkness has fallen, and aside from snow-covered hats and mittens, it’s like all the color has gone out of the world.

I call Noah as I walk to the subway and get his voicemail. “Hey, it’s me,” I say. “Remember the flowers in Fiji—the purple beach morning glories, the red hibiscus, and the yellow orchids? I just want to say that without you, my life is black and white, and shades of gray. I really hope you’ll give me another chance. Just leaving the office now, so please let me know where to find you.”

I follow that up with a shorter, less corny text message, before trying to head down the stairs to the subway. The crowd surging back up the stairs warns me that the subway is out of order, and a long delay predicted.

Standing on the sidewalk, I compete with the other commuters to flag down the few cabs skidding along two deep ruts in the middle of this normally busy street. After several futile attempts, I give up and start walking. It’s after 5, now, and I have to reach Noah with the Wonder Glass before it loses its power. To complicate matters, I have no idea if he’s at home, the office, or drinking away his sorrows in a bar. I just have to keep moving and hope that he’ll eventually let me know where to find him.

I slip and fall for the first time at Bay and Wellington. It’s amazing I made it this far, because the pumps I’m wearing have no treads and the snow is over my ankles. I didn’t check the weather report this morning, and expected to have the car back by now anyway.

Clambering to my feet, I trudge a few yards before stopping to text my brothers with icy fingers:  “Help!  Find Noah now.”

I make it a full block before the next tumble. This time, I stay down for a couple of minutes, refusing help from passersby. Flat on my back, I stare up at snow so thick you can’t see past the second floor of the skyscrapers.

It’s tempting to just lie here until the snow covers me. There’s no reason to get up. I’ve lost my boyfriend, my career, and my integrity. What’s the point in plodding on?

The buzz in my purse stirs me to life. I struggle to get up, my thrashing arms creating an involuntary snow angel on the sidewalk. Finally I roll over on my side and manage to hoist myself to my feet. My shoes and legs are soaked, my tights have a hole in the knee and there’s mud tracking up my black coat from the spray of slush at the curb. I’ve lost my hat and one glove.

I dig out my phone and see the text is from Scott: “We’re on it, Number 1.”

Glancing around to get my bearings, I notice something surprising. Every restaurant, café and bistro is lit up and crowded. It takes me a second to remember it’s Valentine’s Day. Heavy snow hasn’t prevented couples from coming out in droves. In fact, the fun’s started early.

I keep walking till I get to Cecile’s, an intimate bistro Noah and I have visited often. There are strings of lights around the front window and red paper hearts laced together with pink streamers. Every table is occupied by happy couples, clasping hands and gazing at each other over tea candles. As I watch, a man plucks an oyster from its shell with a fork and feeds it to his giggling girlfriend. At the next table, a woman is running her bare foot up her date’s leg, something only I can see. Meanwhile, to her right, a man reaches across the table to cradle the chin of a pretty blond woman.