The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men (23 page)

I sighed. "His name is Dean Stanton. He's the head of New Edge Cinema. And apparently, he sleeps with his nannies."

I half expected John to explode right out of his skin. But when I looked over at him, he was unusually quiet and pensive.

"What?" I teased. "Not the big celebrity you were hoping for? I'm sorry it wasn't Brad Pitt. Next time I'll try harder to impress you."

But he just shook his head absentmindedly and continued to stare off into space with a disturbing look on his face. "When did he fail the inspection?" he asked, his voice suddenly calm and serious.

"Friday," I replied, keeping a wary eye on him. "Why?"

But John just shrugged. "No reason."

"John," I stated in a warning tone, "what's the matter?"

He let out a little snort and looked at me as if I were going crazy. "Nothing."

"You're going to keep your word." It was more of a threat than a confirmation. "Because if this ends up in the tabloids next week, I
am
going to kill you, you know?"

He laughed at this. "I'm not going to tell anyone. Relax." And then before I could question him further, he turned to Sophie and said, "So are we going to finish these honeymoon photos or what?"

Sophie was more than willing to oblige and immediately launched into day three of Operation Honeymoon. But it was hard for me to concentrate on the photographs that filled the screen or the verbose stories that accompanied them. I kept stealing subtle glances in John's direction, trying to figure out what was going on in that scheming little brain of his. But I knew it was a pointless undertaking.

Eventually, I relinquished the battle and downed the rest of my wine, quick to pour myself another as Sophie reached day four. I swiftly finished that one off as well. And by the time the final Athens skyline flashed off the TV screen, I was completely inebriated and in no condition to drive.

John and Sophie helped me out of my business suit and into one of Sophie's T-shirts and a pair of ratty nineties-style sweatpants that she'd had since college. John headed home, muttering something about having work to do, and Sophie set me up with a pillow and blanket on the sofa. She kissed me tenderly on the forehead as if she were tucking in a child who'd played too hard on the playground that day and was now utterly exhausted and barely coherent.

Sleep came quickly for me that night, and I was relieved. Thankful that I no longer had the alcohol tolerance of a professional whiskey shooter. A year ago, that much wine never would have knocked me out like this. And I was grateful for small favors.

I knew there was no way I'd ever be able to admit to myself that I'd drunk too much on purpose. But I was happy nonetheless to be sleeping on someone else's couch for a change.

"Okay, first things first," I said, sliding into my chair at the head of the conference table the next morning. "I'd like to welcome back Katie from her extended tenure as the Stantons' live-in nanny."

Katie popped her strawberry bubble gum loudly. The smell of it wafting through the air was somewhat nostalgic. "Thanks, boss lady. It's good to be back. Did you miss me?"

I laughed politely. "Yes, you were definitely missed. Now why don't you tell us what happened at the Stantons'. I assume everything went smoothly since the last time we spoke."

"Yes," Katie replied confidently. "The nanny has officially left the building."

I smiled. "Good. What happened, exactly?"

Katie quickly launched into a long, dramatic telling of her nanny diaries and was careful not to leave out any excruciating detail about the "demon spawns" that she had to deal with on a daily basis and her expert opinion on how
not
to raise children.

"And so then Friday night," Katie was recounting, "Mrs. Stanton went to some charity fundraiser event, and Dean claimed that he was feeling a little bit under the weather and opted to stay home. So after I had put the two monsters to bed, succumbed to all their demands for water, night-lights, action figures, and trips to the bathroom, I was just heading into my room when Dean asked if I wanted to watch the Netflix movie that had arrived that day. Of course, I accepted his invitation and joined him on the couch, praying that he would finally make a move so that I wouldn't have to be there when the demon spawn woke up the next morning. And I guess my prayers were answered because about fifteen minutes into the movie—which was a really bad independent film, might I add. Just because you have access to a camcorder doesn't mean you should be on Netflix," Katie paused a moment to grimace at the memory of her cinematic experience. "Anyway," she continued, giving her shoulder-length blond hair a toss, "about fifteen minutes in, I noticed he was starting to subtly inch his way closer to me. And I had to struggle not to laugh because it was seriously so eighth grade. Then he kind of just leaned in and kissed me, and not long after that, he was climbing on top of me."

I nodded patiently as she spoke, all the while taking detailed notes so that I could report the entire story back to Melissa Stanton when she undoubtedly paid me a visit this week. "Okay, so then how did you end it?"

Katie just shrugged. "I didn't have to, actually. She did."

I stopped writing and looked up at her. "What do you mean, 'she did'?"

"I mean, Mrs. Stanton came home and caught us in the act."

And immediately I stopped writing and put down my pen. Apparently, I wouldn't have to relate the details of the evening to her after all. She had already come face-to-face with the hard truth herself. "Really?"

Katie chomped ferociously on her gum and pulled her knees up onto the chair. "Yep. Personally, I don't think she even went to the charity thingy. I think she was just tired of paying to keep me around when I clearly knew nothing about child rearing and was giving her husband the opportunity to do what she already knew he would do. She was probably waiting outside the window the entire time. A little creepy, if you think about it, but hey, whatever the client wants, right?"

I glanced around the room. Everyone was fully engaged in Katie's story. Even Teresa had set down her latest issue of
Vogue
to listen in.

"So what happened after that?" Cameron asked, looking riveted.

I turned back to Katie. "I'm assuming you packed up and left at that point."

Katie smiled deviously. "Yes, and I wasn't the only one."

"She kicked him out?" Lauren joined in on what had now officially morphed into an interactive post-assignment review.

Katie nodded, enjoying the attention. "Yep. He's staying at the Chateau Marmont as we speak." Then she looked at me and quickly added, "And the only reason I know this is because he whispered it to me as I was walking out the door, as if I might actually be interested in joining him there. I still don't think he knows it was a setup."

"Okay, then. I suppose that's that." I picked up a crimson folder from the stack in front of me and handed it to Katie. "Here's something new for you for this week."

"Let me guess," she conjectured sarcastically. "You've got me working at a doggie day care for the next six weeks."

I smiled. "Sorry to disappoint. It's just your run-of-the-mill happy hour this time. Adam Bennett likes to go out drinking with his male colleagues after work instead of coming home to his wife and kids. Meet him at their favorite bar tonight and find out what these so-called
work
functions consist of."

Katie breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God. Something normal for change."

I continued around the room for the next ten minutes, taking detailed notes on the outcomes of all the previous assignments and distributing folders with the details for the next ones.

For Shawna, I had scheduled the bachelor party of Graham Hawkins, a financial analyst from Arizona, who was getting married in two weeks and celebrating his last night as a single man with his closest friends in Hollywood this weekend. Lauren received an assignment in Toronto, Teresa was headed for the Hamptons, and Cameron was scheduled to start attending the same yoga class as Nick Warren's bored housewife.

By the time the meeting was over, I had successfully distributed all of the case files in front of me . . . with exception of two.

These I had saved for myself.

After everyone had filed out the door and I was left alone in the empty conference room, I sat with the two glossy folders in front of me, fingering the tops of their smooth surfaces with my thumb.

"This is my choice," I said quietly to myself, picking up one of the folders and holding it between my fingers. "This is what I want to do. What I've always wanted to do."

I sat there for a few minutes, perfectly still, perfectly quiet, feeling the weight of my decision in my hand.

Then I got up, gathered my things, and headed out the door toward my office.

"Um, Ashlyn?" I heard Hadley's voice behind me, and I turned around to see her jogging to catch up with me. "There's actually someone here to see you."

"In my office?"

"No. In reception." She nudged her chin back in the direction of her desk. "She didn't have an appointment, so I told her she'd have to wait out here until you got out of your meeting."

I backtracked toward the reception area, genuinely intrigued. Mostly because when I'd passed by a second ago, I hadn't seen anyone out there except Hadley.

And I soon realized why.

The person who was waiting for me wasn't as tall as most of the visitors who entered this office. In fact, her head barely cleared the top of Hadley's desk. It was no wonder her four-foot-ten-inch frame had gone unnoticed when I'd stepped out of the conference room.

"Lexi Garrett . . ." I sighed as she stood up to greet me. "So nice to see you again." I made no attempt to inject my words with sincerity.

She shifted the weight of her backpack on her shoulders. "You're a bad liar, you know that?"

I nodded. "So I've been told. What are you doing here?"

She held up a tiny square piece of blue plastic, no bigger than a guitar pick. "I told you I'd be back when I had proof."

"A piece of plastic."

She rolled her eyes and let out an impatient sigh. "It's an SD card. I stole it from my dad's phone. Well, after I transferred his schedule for this weekend onto it." She looked mighty proud of herself as she described her Nancy Drew escapades. "I was trying to get to all of his scandalous midnight text messages, but apparently he's too smart to leave those on his phone. But he's going to Palm Springs with his friends this weekend for a 'golfing trip.'" She drenched these two words with so much skepticism, it almost sounded as though she doubted the authenticity of the words themselves. As if "golfing" and "trip" probably weren't even in an official English dictionary.

She slung her backpack off one shoulder, unzipped the top compartment, and pulled out a single piece of white paper, placing it atop the stack of items in my arm with a firm pat. "I printed out a copy for you. It's the perfect time and place for my dad's fidelity inspection."

Hadley was observing this exchange from behind her desk with great interest. When I glanced up at her, she quickly dropped her head and pretended to be absorbed in paperwork.

I reached out and placed a tender hand on Lexi's shoulder. "Honey, I'm not going to send someone to test your father. I'm sorry. If you're really that worried about your dad's behavior, you should talk to your mother."

"I'm not leaving here until you agree to take on my case," she grumbled as she planted herself back into one of the waiting room chairs.

I raised my eyebrows. "And what happens when you don't come home for dinner, won't your mom get worried?"

Lexi grunted and crossed her arms over her chest, attempting to make some kind of statement. As though she were sitting in for gay rights or something.

I simply sighed and turned back in the direction of my office. If my fourteen-year-old niece, Hannah, had taught me anything about kids her age, it's that they thankfully have very short attention spans. And I fully expected her to be gone by lunchtime.

What I
wasn't
expecting, however—and what I never could have predicted in a million years, despite my knack for making predictions— was for my cell phone to ring at two-fifteen that afternoon and for Jamie's name to appear on the caller ID.

I held the phone in my hand and stared helplessly at the screen for a good five seconds, not knowing whether I was supposed to answer it or just let it go to voicemail.

I had already made the decision to move on. That was a done deal. But I was still desperate to know why he was calling. What if he wanted to apologize? What if he thought he had overreacted and wanted to work things out between us? How would I respond to that? Would I even
want
to work through it?

In the end, my curiosity got the better of me and I decided to answer the call. But by the time I came to grips with my decision, the phone had stopped ringing.

The voice mail chime dinged a few moments later, and I immediately jabbed my finger against the "Listen" button on the screen.

The voice mail lady announced the message with her usual introduction. Time, date, etc., and then Jamie's voice came on the line. The first thing I did was try to categorize his tone. "Hesitant" was the only word I could come up with that seemed to fit.

"Hey there, it's, um . . . me. Jamie. I just wanted to let you know that I was planning on stopping by your place later on today. Maybe around four."

My pulse quickened and my death grip around the phone tightened until I could swear my fingers were bleeding. I pressed it even closer to my ear as I drew in another breath.

Jamie's
hesitant
message continued. "I still have a few things there. Some clothes in the closet and, um, some stuff in the bathroom. I figured it would be easier if I picked them up while you were at work. Please let me know if this is a problem. Otherwise, I'll assume that it's fine. Oh, and I'll leave the key behind when I go. Okay, well . . . bye." There was an awkward pause, and then he added, "Take care," as if the "well . . . bye" wasn't painful enough. Then the line clicked.

Well, I guess that answered the question of whether or not he wanted to get back together.

After being in a relationship for over a year, things belonging to the other person automatically start to accumulate around the house—most of the time without you even realizing it. A DVD on top of the television, a few books on the shelf, coffee mugs in the kitchen cabinet. These things don't necessarily stick out as foreign or out of place; they sort of just naturally assimilate into the environment, blending in effortlessly over time, until you forget whom they initially belonged to.

Which is why I couldn't even
picture
the stuff he was referring to. After the boxes disappeared from the hallway and his clothes disappeared from my closet, there was nothing left that particularly stood out in my mind as uniquely
his.
But I knew that the moment I walked through the front door later that night, the absence of those items would call out to me like a spotlight in a dark room, drawing my attention to the empty spaces that had once housed all evidence of my life as half of a couple. And those vociferous voids would insist on being acknowledged, forcing me to recognize the fact that no matter what I tried to fill those empty spaces with, it would never replace what had been there.

I listened to the voicemail lady ask me what I wanted to do with the message. Apparently, there were only two options, delete it or save it for later. When I didn't respond right away, she repeated the question. I knew that her voice hadn't changed—that it was just a computer program designed to sound like a human being—but the second time around, she sounded just the slightest bit more persistent.

And I suddenly felt as though it wasn't just the voicemail she was asking me to delete.

I was struck with an overwhelming influx of emotion that seemed to be oscillating between sadness and anger. And since the two felt so inherently different, I had trouble deciding which one to feel at any given second.

As more tears fell down my face, contrasted darkly by the fuming smoke I was sure was coming out of my ears, I searched for something to erase it all. Something that would dull both emotions. A magic pill that would swallow it all down to a place where I couldn't feel it anymore.

I glanced around my office and was immediately reminded of my purpose for being here. The very reason all of this marriage stuff wasn't meant for me. Because let's be honest here, you can't break up relationships by day and try to keep one together by night. Somewhere along the line, you're going to run into . . . well, this.

Then my eyes fell upon something in the trash under my desk. It was the printout Lexi Garrett had handed me earlier that morning. The details of her dad's scheduled trip to Palm Springs. I had thrown it out the moment I'd entered my office. And before my mind was given the opportunity to start dissecting everything all over again, I sprang into action. I pressed the number 7 on my cell phone and listened as the voicemail lady confirmed my irrevocable decision: "Message deleted."