The Address(8)

“It’s already been taken care of. The important thing is you’re okay.”

“I’m sober now, so I’ll probably be twice as productive. I promise you’ll get a real bang for your buck.” God, she sounded like a used car salesman. “I’ll obviously take a pay cut. I understand that would have to be a precondition.”

If he didn’t take her back, she didn’t know where she’d turn. No other interior design firm would touch her now. Not to mention that she only had another week left to crash in the East Village before her Silver Hill roommate returned to claim it. Before Bailey’s epic breakdown, she’d shacked up with a boyfriend named Rocco, who, now that she had better clarity of mind, she could see was really a drug dealer, not a Basquiat-esque artist. So that option was out, as was slinking home so her father could point out that he had been right all along, that she should never have come to New York in the first place.

“Look, Tristan. I messed up. But you know I can run rings around anyone else here, when it comes to interacting with the clients, with the contractors, you name it. My eye is the best, you’ve said that yourself so many times. Even when I was strung out, I was great. Let me have one more chance.”

Tristan peered sideways at her through slitted eyelids. Not good. “Listen, Bailey. You put us through hell. We covered for you this past year. You have no idea how much we covered for you, because we love you and because, yes, you were good. You were the best, and you could have done amazing things here. We all party, we all have a good time, but you took it too far.”

The harshness of his words stung.

“Okay. Wow.” She looked down at the floor, hating the lucidity of sobriety more than ever. “I didn’t realize how bad it was.”

“‘Bad’ is an understatement. I love you, but I’m dropping you.”

Dropping her. Like she was contagious. “You’re being really harsh about this. If you don’t mind me saying it, you’re being an asshole.” She said it with a slight smile on her face, in the same way they used to banter back and forth.

Bad idea.

“You disappointed me then, and you’re disappointing me now. Do you actually have the nerve to waltz in here and practically demand to be hired back?” Tristan twitched his shoulders before tugging on the cuff of each sleeve, a familiar tic that meant the meeting was over. “I love you, and I always will, and that’s why we paid for you to go to Silver Hill, which, by the way, is fucking expensive. So don’t expect any more from us, okay? You wouldn’t fit in here anymore.”

She sat for a moment, too stunned to move.

“I’m sorry, Bailey. But we’re done here. You’re done here.”



Bailey stood outside on the sweltering sidewalk, trying not to think about how good a chardonnay would taste right now. The touch of the glass on her lips, the intense acidity followed by the velvet sensation that all was right in the world. Back when she drank, she could live in the moment. High on weed or on coke, the past and the future ceased to exist. While ensconced in the lush, landscaped grounds of Silver Hill, she was able to see that way of thinking wasn’t helpful, and she had talked about her past openly, more than she had with anyone. But here in the city, no one cared.

If she turned right and headed down the side street, she was sure to come upon one of the dozen Irish pubs that lined the blocks of Midtown. Places where office workers could escape from the monotony of their lives.

The room where they’d had group at Silver Hill was covered in mottos from the program. “One day at a time” and “No matter where you go, there you are.”

Well, here she was: a drippy, pathetic mess, desperate for a drink in a dive bar.

She checked her watch. There was no time for liquid distractions. She was due to meet Melinda at Cafe Luxembourg in the West Seventies in a half hour. That was truly her last chance. The train would be a steamy cauldron of humanity this time of day, the windows slanted open, like the heat of the tunnels wasn’t just as unbearable as the fiery furnace of the subway car. She couldn’t face it. Instead, she headed north on foot, cutting into Central Park at Seventh Avenue.

Before her mother’s death, Bailey and her parents would venture into the city a couple times a year from their house in New Jersey, usually to see a Broadway musical where dancers executed fast, furious combinations that took Bailey’s breath away while her father, Jack, squirmed in the too-small seat next to her. But Bailey and her mother always buzzed with excitement the morning before, choosing their dresses with care, as if they might get “discovered” during their big day out. Once in Manhattan, her mother would point out her old haunts, like the building where she attended some posh secretarial school for three months before getting married, and the Horn & Hardart Automat where she and Jack met.

During one excursion, having arrived two hours before curtain, Bailey had suggested they visit the boat pond in the park. She’d brought along a magazine with a photo of a gondola passing under an arched bridge, and thrust it between the front seats of their Volkswagen Beetle. “It’s so pretty.”

“No one goes in the park,” Jack warned. “It’s full of gang members, all dust and graffiti because the city ran out of money to take care of it. It’s a ruin, like the rest of Manhattan.”

Her mother studied the magazine. “What if we walk along Central Park West? We could stop by the Dakota and drop in on your relatives.”