Shatterproof (3 page)

I scan the club. The theme appears to be upscale burlesque, with lots of red velvet and gilt, and torch songs playing in the background. The hostess is wearing a corset, frilly skirt and fishnets.

Noah puts a hand on the small of my back and guides me right past the hostess and into the restaurant. “Wait,” I say. “Don’t we need to—”

“It’s okay. I know where we’re seated.”

Despite his reassuring tone, I feel a twinge of anxiety. This flavor-of-the-month saloon isn’t Noah’s style, but it’s right up my brothers’ alley.

My feet hit invisible quicksand and slow.

Ahead, tasseled velvet curtains over a doorway ripple suspiciously. There’s an eye pressed against a small opening between them. A familiar brown eye.

“No,” I say.

Too late. The curtains swing back and there’s a loud chorus of “SURPRISE!”

Scott and Jasper, my identical twin brothers, snatch me from Noah’s grip and practically carry me into the room. I try to shake them off, but I’m no match for them—haven’t been since they turned 13 and gained eight inches on me overnight.

“What is this?” I say, my voice squeaking up a few octaves.

Scott points to a banner:  “ELLIE’S HALF-LIFE CRISIS PARTY.”

“Half-life!  What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“We thought if it said
mid
-life, you’d be mad,” Jasper says.

“I’m mad, anyway,” I say. “And my birthday was three weeks ago.”

They forgot it, as usual. People feel sorry for Christmas babies, when it’s the January birthdays that truly get overlooked because everyone’s tired of celebrating.

Scott turns on the high beam smile that melts the heart of every woman he meets. “We felt bad about missing it. So we’re making it up to you with a party.”

My father likes to joke that a cuckoo laid an egg in the Hudson family nest that hatched into me. With my fine blonde hair and grey eyes, I don’t resemble my brawny, dark brothers at all. Mind you, the baby cuckoo is supposed to push the other nestlings out and command its foster parents’ full attention; I certainly never managed that. In fact, I tend to be low-key and unobtrusive, at least in my words. My brothers have been known to call me “uptight and controlling,” but I don’t take it too seriously. Scott and Jaz are charming, energetic, unfocussed, and driven by one imperative: fun. From the moment they gave up their secret twin language at age four, they’ve spoken over each other. Even to my trained ear, they’re often unintelligible.

My full name is Ellis, but Scott and Jasper call me “Eleanor,” to conjure the image of a stiff, boring librarian. It’s true that I don’t care about flash or trends, but I always make a point of blowing out my hair and jamming contact lenses into my eyes when my brothers are around. Luckily I did that tonight for Noah.

 “No one wants to be reminded her life is half over,” I grumble to Jasper, noticing the deep tan from his recent guys-getaway in Jamaica.

Scott gives me a shove. “Seize the day, Eleanor. There’s food. There’s booze. There’s even a pool table. What more could you want?”

“A break?” I say. “I’m only 36, for god’s sake.”

“That’s midlife,” Scott says. “It’s all downhill from here, Number 1.”

He’s Number 2, six minutes older than Jaz, or Number 3.

Our parents descend on us, and it cheers me to see that Mom is tipsy. That’s Jasper’s doing. If I offered my mother a Cosmopolitan, she’d pucker disapprovingly and demand a diet soda. Jaz can coax her into trying almost anything.

“Happy birthday, again, Ellie,” Mom says, air-pecking my cheek. “You look cold. I’ll get your sweater from the coat check.”

I don’t know what annoys me more: that she’s fetching my sweater to cover me up, or that she instinctively knows I brought one.

“You look wonderful, sweetie,” my father says, “and certainly not middle-aged. Still, it’s good to celebrate any birthday as if it were your last.”

“Dad, that’s not helping.”

Scott ushers me to the bar and orders a dirty martini. “Make it a double,” he says.

“How did you pull this off?” I ask. “The room is packed.”

“Rent-a-guest. You don’t know half these people.”

I know he’s kidding, but I look around nervously anyway. I don’t keep in touch with many people. Most of the guests turn out to be my brothers’ pals, but a friendly face emerges from the crowd. It belongs to my oldest friend Mena.

“You don’t look a day over 20,” she says, punching Scott in the arm as he snorts.

“Ditto,” I reply. “I’m sure you told those idiots that a party was a terrible idea.”

“Many times, my fossilized friend,” she says, smiling as Scott makes a hasty retreat. “But they were set on it. I had a hell of a time getting a baby-sitter on such short notice, but I wouldn’t have missed your expression for the world. Charlotte’s here, too, and I don’t think she’s left the house since the baby was born.”

On cue, Charlotte swoops in for a hug. While Mena has more gray hair than the last time I saw her and Char’s verging on matronly, they look happy and energetic. I guess that’s what happens when you chase kids rather than a cursor.

“How’s little Lennie?” I ask Charlotte.

“
Leonard
,” she corrects. “He’s 14 months and gorgeous. I wish you’d visit, Ellie. He’ll be in college before you see him.”

“I’m watching him grow on Facebook,” I say. “That’s how it’s done now.”

Mena deftly changes the subject. “So how’s it going with the cult?”

That’s what we call Nolan Talese & Austen, or NTA, the international corporate consulting firm I’ve worked for since graduating from the University of Toronto with an Economics degree. Over nearly 14 years, I’ve clawed my way up the ranks from fledgling worker bee to the senior lead on massive business transformation projects. It’s taken a lot of effort and sacrifice, particularly since the best projects always seem to be farthest from home.

“I think I’m about to make partner,” I say, holding up crossed fingers. “The senior partners are flying in tomorrow, and my boss has been dropping hints.”

“It’s about time,” Mena says, hugging me again. “You’ve worked hard for it.”

If hard work was all it took to get ahead at NTA, I’d have made partner years ago. Unfortunately, there’s been a microscopic stumbling block:  a Y chromosome. NTA has been publicly sanctioned for its glass ceiling, but the partners blithely deny it exists, citing the company’s sole female partner. The other one left to head up a competing company last year, and tried to recruit me. I declined, mostly out of loyalty to my boss, Rueben Fulford, who’s taught me so much. Besides, with the brass ring in reach, it seemed stupid to start over somewhere else as a near-unknown.

“I hope it will mean more time in Toronto,” I tell my friends. “I miss you guys.”

“And Noah?” Charlene says, slyly. “Maybe he’ll finally make it official.”

Mena answers before I can. “Ellie’s married to her job. And bigamy’s illegal in Canada.”

“I am not married to NTA,” I say.

“Well, Reuben, then,” Mena says, smirking. “Something’s cast a spell over you.”

“Not Reuben,” I say, shuddering slightly. “It’s the cult conditioning. It’ll take an intervention to get me out.”

“Your mom suggested we set one up,” Char says.

“I bet she did,” I say. It would be interesting to hear Mom describe what I do for a living. All she knows is that I earn good money and am away too much.

“I showed her pictures of Leonard,” Char says. “You know she wants grandkids.”

“Yeah, she’s mentioned that a few hundred times,” I say.

“She should cut you some slack,” Mena says. “Even in high school we knew you weren’t cut out for the traditional husband-and-kids scenario.”

The comment stings, although Mena’s not being deliberately harsh. In fact, I think she sometimes envies my footloose life. She married her college sweetheart and supported him through medical school while working as a teacher. They have two rambunctious boys, aged five and three, and the odd time she stays overnight at my condo, it’s like the shackles fall away.

“Maybe not traditional,” I say. “But I do want kids. I think.”

“It might be too late,” Charlotte says. “I read that women over 35 have less than a 1 per cent chance of getting pregnant each month.”

“Keep your stats to yourself, Char,” Mena says. “Ellie has a great life. I’d love to fly all over the world like she does, and I’d kill for that condo.”

“You’d find it a tight squeeze with a husband and two kids,” I say.

Mena laughs. “Not if they didn’t come with me.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Charlotte says. “Being a mother is the best job on earth.”  Char gave up her job when she delivered Leonard. Prior to that, she had claimed that being a market research strategist was the best job on earth.

Peering over Charlene’s shoulder, I do a double take at the sight of a slim man in a dark suit, white shirt and gray necktie—the NTA uniform.

It’s not.

It can’t be.

“Baxter?” I call, and he turns. Fantastic. My nemesis made the guest list.

Mena and Char fade into the crowd while I walk over to my colleague.

“Happy birthday, Ellis,” he says, air-kissing each cheek. “Scott called reception and asked if any of your work friends might like to come tonight.”

“How resourceful of him.”  I set my martini down. With Baxter in the house, I’ll need to be on high alert.

At one time, Baxter Thorpe and I
were
good pals, but that ended years ago, when I got promoted to project lead before him. He’d been with the company longer and was ready for the move. I said as much to Reuben, who said it was his choice to make and promoted me. After that, Baxter has sabotaged me constantly. Privately, Noah and I call him “Backstabber Thorpe.”  Publicly, I make every effort to get along. As the old expression goes, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

“Nice top,” Baxter says. It’s the first time he’s seen my shoulders.

“Thanks,” I say. “Nice tie.”

Baxter and I share the same goal—to become NTA partners—but while he has the required Y chromosome, he has a different barrier:  he’s gay. Not that he’s said so. It’s mainly the neckties that give him away. For starters, he owns over a hundred, many in bold colors or featuring an elegant touch of whimsy. More damning is the full Windsor knot. I’ve heard it’s difficult and uncommon, yet Baxter’s tie is precisely knotted every day. I believe it’s the full Windsor that holds Baxter’s brittle pieces together.

Reuben has never commented on Baxter’s orientation, but like the other partners, he gets a little pinched around the full Windsor. And while there are many reasons they
should
be uneasy around Baxter, his sexuality isn’t one of them.

NTA is a homophobic, misogynistic dinosaur that Baxter and I, for some reason, persist in trying to tame.

“You should wear your hair down more often,” Baxter says. “Makes you look younger.”

“Maybe I will,” I say. “Cheaper than Botox.”

Baxter’s eyes narrow slightly. He was a few years older than the average recruit when he joined NTA. But he’s aged very well. Too well.

“So you’re back in Toronto for awhile,” he says.

“Looks like. I’m so glad Ryan Peets got the post office transformation.”

Baxter points a swizzle stick at his jugular. “If I had to spend two years in Ottawa, I’d off myself.”

“You’re
from
Ottawa,” I say.

“And I couldn’t wait to leave.”

Neither of us raises the obvious question of what we’ll do next. The post office project is the biggest thing NTA has on the books right now, because the company’s taken a hit in the current economy. As partner, I’ll need to spend more time marketing, and while I hate the schmooze, it will be good to have a little distance from Baxter.