Stone Cold Fox (47)
“Dave Bradford came up in conversation.”
“Oh yeah?” He sat up quickly, visibly perturbed. Excellent. “What about him?” Collin asked.
“There was a bit of debate about his rightful place on our invite list.”
“Rightful place?”
“That seemed to be the consensus, particularly where Gale was concerned. Your mother initially said she’d talk to you about it first, but then my maid of honor basically declared that it was nonnegotiable due to his notable stature amongst the in-crowd.”
“I like Dave,” Collin said. I could tell he meant it, but he was looking at the ceiling, conflicted. Then his eyes were back on me. “Wait, Gale is your maid of honor?”
“I thought you’d appreciate that. I know she’s very dear to you, and I couldn’t pick between your sisters, that wouldn’t be fair. And Wren, bless her, would be too hands-on for my comfort level. So yes, Gale seemed like she might be a good guide through the madness. I really think she’s come around on me anyway.” Laughable, but I sold it.
“Cool,” Collin replied, completely convinced. “I’m glad you guys are bonding after everything. And she’s right about Dave. He should be there.”
“Well, great. I can’t wait to meet him,” I said, only slightly concerned by the thought of Dave bringing up our elevator rendezvous on the UWS, when I pretended to be a completely different person, at my wedding.
“You love me, right?” Collin asked me, curling his knees up to his chest, looking like a small child again. I didn’t care for it at all.
“Collin! What kind of question is that? Of course I do,” I said, waggling my bedazzled ring finger in his face. He often enjoyed the playful side I presented, but this time he wasn’t cracking a smile.
“I know that. I love you, too.” He took my hand. “This is going to sound a little weird, but would you mind keeping some distance from Dave? For me? I mean, say hello, be polite and all that, just . . . don’t get too close. I like the guy a lot, we go way back, but he can be kind of . . . I don’t know how to put it. A troublemaker, I guess.”
“Well, I hate trouble,” I lied, kissing Collin on the neck. “At least any trouble having to do with you.” I moaned a little, signaling I was in the mood for some hanky-panky, expecting a warm reception from my fiancé.
“I’m still pretty tired,” he said, rubbing my back. “Do you mind if I get a few more winks in?”
“Sure,” I said, pulling away and picking up on the hint that he wanted me to leave my own goddamn bedroom. I was incensed. Why was he so tired? I just spent what should have been a leisurely weekend afternoon to myself with literal hellhounds in the suburbs. But I’d let him sleep. It would be of no use to me to pick a fight. Eye on the prize.
* * *
? ? ?
I SETTLED INTO the living room sofa with my laptop and shifted focus to my career to take the edge off. I hadn’t lost sight of raising a little hell with Len Arthur and the agency after the Collin kerfuffle. Some casual petty revenge laced with genuine career progression. After all, staying anywhere too long is just leaving money on the table. I gussied up my résumé and LinkedIn profile. I went through pending contact requests and accepted the ones I deemed appropriate, although most were from odd-looking men in middle management all over the country. A fact of life as a woman with an attractive online headshot.
I accepted Syl Austin’s earnest invitation to connect without any hesitation and then began to peruse the litany of vacancies at advertising agencies across the city. One of them would be so lucky. In the midst of hunting, I was surprised to receive a text from her. Strange, especially on the weekend.
Are you looking? I won’t tell anyone, the message said. So she kept up with the lurkers on her LinkedIn profile? Same, honestly.
Won’t confirm or deny, I responded, imagining her laughing.
If you are, I can email you a list of internal no-go agencies. Hayes has a known shit list. I’m assuming you’ll want to take us with you wherever you go? She ended the message with a smiley face.
I do love a long-standing feud. Yes. Please send, I replied.
How about that? Sweet Syl was looking out for me. My initial instinct was suspicion, but that was just my nature. I reframed my thought process, leaning into the logic over general mistrust. My fiancé was Syl’s boss. She wouldn’t screw me over.
Soon enough Syl inboxed me the rather robust list of agencies the Case Company refused to work with or had already worked with, unsuccessfully. Still, that left plenty for me to prospect, and I prepared twenty-seven emails to be delivered directly to the hiring manager of each agency on Tuesday morning around 11:30 a.m. Engaging in new business on a Monday was a fool’s errand. Tuesday late morning would be prime time. I assumed I’d have a new offer in hand within three weeks at the most, following several rounds of interviews. I practically foamed at the mouth, envisioning when I’d give my notice to Len. The devastation that would surely sweep across his wizened face would be such a lovely sight.
I was so productive that I deserved a reward.
* * *
? ? ?
DAVE BRADFORD’S SOCIAL media profiles were sparse, which I respected on a personal level, but selfishly, I wanted to waste away the remainder of the afternoon scrolling through his Instagram. I wanted all the fun of analyzing posts from years gone by so I could rip apart his old girlfriends and scan for visual evidence of his family wealth in the background. But he didn’t even have an Instagram. Just an old Facebook account that was relatively locked down, since we were not friends.