All I Ever Wanted(82)
“Ian,” I blurted. “Um… Do you want to come in? Raid the mini bar, share a Toblerone? Maybe, um…talk? Or other things, too?”
He hesitated, but the answer was already written on his face. “I appreciate you coming to Laura’s wedding, Callie,” he said carefully, “and you really were…helpful. But maybe this isn’t the right time for Toblerones.” He paused. “Or anything else.”
I took a quick breath, mortified that tears were stinging my eyes. “Okay. Sure. Yup. Well, sleep tight, Ian. See you in the morning. Um, if we could leave on the early side tomorrow, that would be great. I have a lot of things to do.”
“Sure,” he said, and with that, he slid his card into the door and went into his own room.
“Shit,” I whispered. “Shit on a shingle, shit on rye.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
GREEN MOUNTAIN WAS subdued the following week with the news that M&M were making it official. Mark avoided me, acting chipper and professional when we did have to talk and, on the two or three occasions when we happened to walk in at the same time, suddenly remembering he’d forgotten something, requiring an about-face. I heard him and Muriel laughing behind his office door one morning, and another day, the elder Rousseaus came in to take their son and his fiancée out to lunch. I still couldn’t believe it. Not that Mark was getting married…but that out of all the women on earth, he’d picked her. That he loved her enough for a lifetime.
Though I tried to stay out of any true gossip, it was clear the rest of my coworkers weren’t thrilled about the engagement, either. “He can marry her if he wants,” Karen said as we walked in together on Wednesday, “but I wish to holy hell that she wasn’t working here.” Yesterday, Muriel overheard Damien referring to her and Mark as M&M. “Oh, that’s so cute!” she said. “We should rename the company. M&M Media. What a great name, don’t you think, hon?” Mark had murmured an answer, and later that day, I’d seen Muriel playing with the words M&M Media in different fonts on her computer.
Muriel may have been a tad more pleasant, but the sight of her running our weekly staff meeting was off-putting. Apparently, she’d given up trying to be creative director and was moving into production.
“Callie, what are you working on this week?” she asked, her eyes giving me the customary scan-and-judge. She was clad in a winter-white wool dress, wide black belt and gorgeous black patent leather pumps.
“I’m working on your dad’s Web site and some of the downloads for—” I began.
“Please call the company by name,” she said mildly, ticking something off her notepad. Damien snorted and went back to studying his manicure. He used to run our production meetings and was making his irritation known through deep sighs and eye-rolling.
“Anything else?” Muriel asked.
“Yep. The hospital ad for the Globe and the pitch for that construction company in New Hampshire,” I said. “Tomorrow we’re shooting the fall footage for Hammill Farms, so I’ll be going to that, too.”
“Do you really need to? Mark and I will be on site,” she said, looking up with a fake smile.
I glanced at Mark, who was staring out the window. “Well, since I came up with the concept and wrote the script,” I said calmly, “I’d say the answer is yes, I do need to go.”
“Now, Callie,” she said in a placating tone. “You don’t need to be hostile. Everyone agrees that your commercial is wonderful. I’m just not sure if you really need to come, or if you can delegate once in a while. After all,” she added, “your boss will be there. I’m sure you can trust his judgment.” The insincere smile remained on her face.
“Mark?” I asked.
He snapped to attention. “Um…well, uh, I could use you here, actually.”
“Okay,” I said after a beat. “I guess I’m staying, then.”
“Great,” Muriel said, her diamond eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “Fleur? What are you up to this week?”
Fleur straightened. “Muriel, those shoes… Prada, yeah?”
“Suck-up,” Damien muttered.
Fleur shot him a glare, but Muriel smiled. “Chanel,” she said.
“Right-o. Well, I’m nearly done with the copy for the BTR catalog, as you asked. Anything else you’d like me to do?”
“No, that’s fine, you keep at it. I love what you’ve shown me so far.”
My stomach knotted. Fleur was smart, and political, and if it felt a bit like she was a traitor, well, she was just looking out for herself. “And, Pete,” Muriel said, just as Pete was yawning hugely. “What are you working on this week?”
“I’m trying to get my USB into a certain port,” he said, nudging Leila who, as usual, was fused to his hip bone.
“Maybe you need a converter,” she giggled.
To my surprise, Muriel smiled, a real smile this time. “You guys are so cute,” she said. “I guess love is in the air.”
I LEFT WORK A LITTLE EARLY, and Bowie greeted me with his usual astonished joy that so great a miracle as my return had occurred. “Where’s Noah, huh, Bowie?” I asked. “Where’s your Grampy?” Noah’s truck wasn’t in the driveway, but my dog failed to elucidate. Noah must’ve had some errands to run, though he usually got me, his slave, to do that for him, as he wasn’t fond of “the great unwashed,” as he liked to call the public.