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  “And my degree is better than his,” I tell Adam, now indignant that I have been passed over for such a pathetic reason. “In fact, both of my degrees are better than his one degree, so it can’t be the degree issue. Come on. Give me some more to work with, here.”

  Maybe I’m too old, I worry, chewing on my bottom lip.

  “Oh, you know, er,” Adam bumbles on heartily in a too-jovial tone, and I feel sorry for him again. This is not his fault. It cannot be a pleasant task, breaking such bad news to your significant other.

  “William’s always on the look out for fresh, enthusiastic new blood.”

  So that is it. I am too old! And here I am fondly imagining that my life will begin at thirty.

  “It’s nothing personal. The management just feels that you might not be quite ready for this—maybe in six months’ time. Just bide your time, darli—Emma,” he says, and I think that he’s very distracted if he nearly called me “darling” at work. And he’s calling me “Emma,” instead of “Emmeline.” This is not a good sign…

  “Just keep your head down and come up with some more wonderful ideas, and I’m sure you’ll get it.”

  And then the telephone rings and Adam grasps it like a life jacket on a sinking ship. I’m still not really taking in the news he’s just given me. Or the fact that he really has forgotten my birthday.

  “Hello. Er, yes. Yes, of course.” He eyes me surreptitiously, his face slightly flushed.

  He keeps glancing across as he’s talking, very uncomfortable that he is taking this phone call while I am in the room. Which smells of dead rat.

  “No, not yet. She’s here with me now. Yes. Me too. Byeee.”

  And as he’s mumbling into the telephone, I’m getting an even stronger smell of dead rat. This is all wrong. And Adam only ever says “byeee” to me. It is our special good-bye phrase. I feel my heart sinking further into my mock snakeskin shoes.

  Abruptly, he gets to his feet and grasps his garment bag.

  And then I actually notice that he’s holding his garment bag and I am even more confused. This cannot be right.

  “Adam, where are you going? Why do you need luggage?”

  “I’m sure I told you I’d be away this weekend,” he tells me in his best “let’s be reasonable” voice.

  “No, you didn’t. I’d have remembered.”

  “I’m sure I did,” he says, stalking across the office to retrieve the lovely leather briefcase that I bought him for our three-months-together anniversary. “It’s a business weekend. Mainly meetings and golf. It’ll be boring, but frankly, we have to keep the clients happy.”

  I don’t believe this. He can’t have forgotten all the plans we’ve made. And I am about to open my mouth to tell him so when the telephone rings again, and Adam lunges for it with an apologetic, relieved smile.

  “It’s for you.” He frowns a few moments later as he passes me the receiver. “Your mother.”

  “Happy birthday, Emmeline.”

  My mother, like Adam, insists on using my full name at all times—I think she still hopes that I’ll turn into a radical feminist. I mean, of course I believe in women’s rights, but not to the point where I’m committing felonies and getting thrown into prison.

  “I wouldn’t usually call you at work, but George and I are off to the country for the weekend with the Smythe-Joneses—we’re doing a protest march on Sunday against fox hunting, and what with the time difference between England and the States, I thought I’d catch you now.”

  “Thanks, Julia,” I tell her as I anxiously watch Adam shuffle a sheaf of papers (my mother thinks that family labels are outdated and has insisted that I call her Julia instead of Mum since my sixteenth birthday).

  “Darling, I’ve sent you a card with details of your birthday present. I thought I’d make this one something special, seeing as thirty is such a landmark,” she tells me, and I wonder if she’s bought me another pair of shoes.

  It’s amazing, isn’t it? I’ve just been told that I’ve been passed over for promotion for no good reason whatsoever, my boyfriend seems to be suffering from amnesia regarding birthday plans, and all I can think about are new shoes.

  “You’ll love it,” my mother tells me in a no-nonsense, Mrs. Thatcher voice. “You’ve bought some goats for a village in Uganda to help the Msoze family become self-sufficient. I’ve sent them your name and address, I’m sure you’ll receive a lovely letter from them soon. Well, got to go—it’s eight in the evening and we want to get to the hotel in time for a late supper. I’ll call you next week to let you know how it went—bye, darling.”

  In the meantime, Adam has just about made it out of the door and looks positively disappointed when I put down the receiver. Tough. He has some talking to do.

  “You know how much I hate these things.” He tries to cajole me. “But work is work. Oh, review the Burgoyne file over the weekend, will you? See if you can come up with some ideas for the new advertising campaign—their CEO isn’t keen on the stuff we’ve already suggested. And I’ve left you a list of e-mails to be deleted from my computer.”

  My mind clicks and whirrs with disbelief.

  “I have to go, Emma, or I’ll miss my flight.” He smiles, his teeth positively glittering, and before I can draw breath, he disappears out of the door. See? See? Again Emma instead of Emmeline.

  And then he reappears again, two seconds later.

  “Oh, and do remind your mother that personal calls during working hours are frowned upon.”

  Trust Adam to turn the situation around and find fault with me.

  “Yes, I know,” I tell him, finding my tongue. “But I think they’d make an exception for a girl getting an international call from her mother, on her thirtieth birthday. Don’t you?”

  And his smile falters ever so slightly, and then he gives me the full beam of his perfect teeth.

  “Well, I know that, silly.”

  See? See? He’s just called me silly. He’s forgetting about work/personal life boundaries again. This is not good.

  “I didn’t want to mention it because I thought you were a bit oversensitive about not being in your twenties anymore.”

  Nice recovery, but I’m not buying it.

  “Adam, I’ve talked about nothing else for weeks. Haven’t you been listening? What about our plans for dinner? What about my birthday party? Everyone’s expecting you to be there.”

  Particularly me, I think. And then another thought occurs to me. What about that entry on his Visa statement?

  “Keep your voice down,” he says, glancing furtively around the main office to check for eavesdroppers.

  No one at work knows that we are an item. According to Adam, William Cougan disapproves of personal relationships in his workforce, although Jacintha Bridges from Human Resources and Guy Pirelli from Marketing have just got engaged, and William doesn’t seem to mind their personal relationship. In fact, I did hear on the grapevine that he’s offered them the use of his luxury home in the Bahamas for the honeymoon. But they don’t work together like Adam and me. I suppose that does make a difference, Adam being my boss and everything.

  “Emmeline, your friends don’t like me,” Adam tells me in a reasonable tone, as if I am a fractious child making unreasonable demands, and this annoys me intensely because there is nothing unreasonable about me wanting him there for my birthday celebrations.

  “Tom and Katy are touchy-feely hippies who think that anyone who votes Republican must be from Pluto. Rachel makes snide remarks, Tish barely even speaks to me, and David flirts with me, which pisses off Sylvester, who just scowls at me. Which makes me very uncomfortable.”

  Is this true? I just thought it was because they didn’t know him very well. Although I do know that David thinks Adam’s a bit of a hunk, because he mentions this quite a lot.

  “Anyway.” Adam glows brightly at me. “I’ll bring you back a beautiful little something from my trip.”

  But I thought he’d already bought me a beautiful little som
ething. From Tiffany’s.

  “We’ll have a fabulous celebration at La Trattoria next week, to make up for me missing the fun. Because I’m not going to have fun, you know, it’s all business this weekend. Boring and humdrum. Well then, have a good time tonight—gotta dash. See you Monday night.”

  And then he truly is gone.

  And with complete incomprehension, I sink into Adam’s lushly comfortable chair, inhaling the smell of the expensive leather and trying to make sense out of the strange conversation I’ve just had with him.

  I am so miserable I can’t feel anything, so I pick up the list of business e-mails Adam asked me to delete and turn to his computer. He was so anxious to escape me, he has forgotten to exit his private e-mail. And despite the fact that I am numb with misery, I cannot resist the urge to peek at his private e-mail. And I discover two very interesting facts.

  Adam got the credit, and a very fat bonus, for his work on the Kitty Krunch and Perfect Pantyhose accounts. Okay, he is Director of Advertising, so as the top dog he gets the credit, but there is no mention in this e-mail of the fact that I did a lot of the work for him.

  Adam didn’t recommend me for the promotion. He recommended against me getting it. There it is, in black and white, almost word for word what he said to me. My lack of experience, blah, blah, ending with the possibility of a review in six months.

  Oh God! What about the Tiffany’s box? It’s obviously for someone else. It’s for another woman.

  Adam’s telephone rings again and I nearly don’t pick up. What could be more important than my breaking heart? How could he do this to me? Why has he done this to me? Who is she?

  And while my thoughts whirl chaotically, I pick up the receiver.

  “Emily, this is Stella Burgoyne. Put Adam on.”

  I hit my forehead with the base of my palm. The last thing I need is Stella Burgoyne, CEO of Burgoyne’s Fine Paper Products. Stella, the curse of the conference table. Stella “I-can-get-you-fired” Burgoyne. Definitely a man’s woman. This woman has met me no less than six times and she still gets my name wrong, but I cannot afford to make an enemy of her and so I am nice (but ironic—just my little joke).

  “I’m sorry, Stella,” I say, with saccharine sweetness, knowing full well that she prefers to be addressed as Ms. Burgoyne by minions such as myself. “Adam’s gone for the weekend. Can I take a message?”

  And if she wants revenge for my having had the audacity to call her Stella, she could not deliver a more crushing blow.

  “No, Emily,” she gushes, swiftly moving in for the kill. “I’m meeting Adam at the airport for our little rendezvous—I just wanted to be sure he left on time. The Bahamas are so beautiful at any time of year, don’t you think? Gotta run, or Adam will think I’ve stood him up.”

  And with a tinkling little laugh, just to rub salt in the wound that is my bleeding heart, she hangs up.

  I take a good look at myself in the art deco mirror. For once, no one would mistake me for being younger than my years because I am stooped and defeated, the air of world-weary misery surrounding me is palpable.

  How did our relationship disintegrate so quickly?

  3

  When Emma Met Adam

  If someone were to ask me now how Adam and I met, I would have to say that it started with a death.

  And a pair of ripped pantyhose.

  I wish it had started with something more romantic—like a kiss. Yes, a kiss definitely sounds much more appealing—a romantic tale to tell to our children and grandchildren in the years to come…

  Oh, God, how can I tell our children and grandchildren in the years to come? Our love is doomed…I should have guessed that the death thing was definitely not a good sign. I should have known it could never work for us…But I was blinded by my image of the perfect boyfriend. Obsessed with my stupid list of what I thought I should achieve by age thirty.

  And lust, of course.

  This is what happened.

  Adam came to work at Cougan & Cray a year ago (apparently a whiz kid, head hunted from Sezuma Advertising, our chief competitor). And the moment he sauntered into the office, with his blond good looks and Peter Pan boyishness (and immaculately cut Armani suit), the entire female workforce (and some of the male) fell as slaves at his feet.

  Me included.

  The second I set eyes on him, I just knew that I wanted him, that I had to have him. He was perfect. My dad and Peri would love him. My friends would love him. Julia would appreciate his aesthetic, athletic male beauty and ask me if he was any good in bed.

  So I would love him.

  And besides, Adam was the perfect candidate for my Goals by Thirty list, and time was running out.

  I fell hard.

  And so the whispered speculation started. Is he married? Is he dating? (Is he gay?) Is there a significant other? Fortunately for me, because of my friendship with Tracey in Human Resources (she is the central point for all gossip and speculation), I was able to get the scoop on him.

  Single. And straight. Y-e-s! Y-e-s!

  Apparently, he’d been involved in a long relationship with some girl from a good Boston family, but she’d practically ditched him at the altar. She found true love with a street artist from South Street Seaport. (Word has it that he could juggle knives and eat fire like you wouldn’t believe. I think I saw him once.)

  Stupid, stupid girl. Poor, poor Adam and his broken heart.

  But lucky me.

  I fondly imagined myself listening to his tale of heartbreak with understanding and sympathy. And then, when he’d talked out his grief, I would soothe his wounds with the balm of my kindness and beauty. He would forget all about his cheating, WASP fiancée and fall in love with me…

  Adam was a dream come true—my dream come true. Tall, gorgeous, successful, sexy. And with a loft apartment in Greenwich Village, too. Thank you, God!

  From that day forward I made it my mission in life to look as fabulous as possible every day. You would not believe how much money I spent on new outfits to tempt him. Or how early I had to get up in the morning to get ready for work. I rode the elevator at the times I knew he would ride the elevator (after having carefully watched him to ascertain this information). I visited the coffee cubicle whenever I thought he would get the urge for liquid refreshment. But it seemed that all, alas, was in vain. Although charming and polite whenever our paths happened to cross, he would smile and say, “Hello, how are you?” in the same manner as he would say, “Hello, how are you?” to the rest of the smitten workforce.

  I was a desperate woman. So desperate, in fact, that I began to accidentally-coincidentally visit the ladies’ room at the same time as he got the call of nature. (Yes, I know this is sad, but I was getting to the point of losing hope.)

  I was so anxious to make some sort of breakthrough with him, and so mesmerized by his handsome face, that on one occasion I nearly followed him into the men’s room. When he paused at the door and turned to me, I thought, Hel-lo, here we go, and gave him my best beaming smile (all the while mentally thanking my dad for insisting on expensive orthodontic treatment). But instead of asking me out for dinner, he pointed at the MEN sign on the door, smiled right back at me and said, “You sure you want to do this?”

  God, I nearly died.

  From that moment on, I left him to ride the elevator, drink coffee, and visit the bathroom alone, ashamed and embarrassed that I’d been such a fool. Plus, my face would flush strawberry red whenever he was near, and this is not a good look for me. So I avoided him like the plague.

  And just when I’d completely given up on ever making any progress with Adam, Lady Luck smiled on me. My boss, Johnny Cray Senior, did, in fact, die.

  Now this may sound very hardhearted and callous of me, feeling lucky at the death of my boss, but Johnny Cray Senior lived a full and active life. He passed away while having a very good time on honeymoon with wife number four (a pretty, blonde, twenty-eight-year-old ex-cheerleader, Babette). And although I was (obviously) s
ad to learn of his passing, Johnny Senior was eighty-four and died of a mid-orgasmic heart attack. Apparently, in his excitement, he’d forgotten to take his heart medication. But still, what a fabulous exit!

  If I had to select my own time and method of death, I would choose this particular fashion to depart the mortal coil. Can’t you just see my obituary?

  Ms. Emmeline Beaufort Taylor (women’s rights activist and campaigner for Human Rights and World Peace), age ninety-eight and spinster by choice, departed this life while cruising the Greek islands with her close, personal friend, Hans Schwarz (male model), age twenty.

  “She vas ze most beautiful woman in the world—ze best lover I ever had,” said the distraught Mr. Schwarz, as he sobbed over her grave.

  It is rumored that Ms. Taylor will posthumously receive the Nobel Peace Prize for her many humanitarian works.

  Of course, I was very sad about poor Johnny. I’d been his secretary for two years and had developed a tolerant fondness for the way he could never remember my name (he called me babe—he called all women babe). Yes, I remember well the affectionate way he would pat my butt whenever I forgot that he liked to do this and got too close when taking him coffee…

  So how can this possibly have any relevance to my romance with Adam? This is what happened next.

  It is the day of Johnny’s memorial service and all the staff at Cougan & Cray are expected to attend. Because Johnny was a prominent member of the community, it’s taking place at St. Thomas’s Church on Fifth Avenue (opposite Nine West). I am wearing a simple black shift dress (Jones New York), with a black blazer (also Jones New York).

  This is a very good look for me.

  The black brings out the blonde highlights in my short, artfully tousled hair. Plus, my grandmother’s pearls, at my neck and in my ears, enhance the creaminess of my skin. I’m also wearing my favorite shoes—Manolo Blahnik four-inch heels, to give me added height and to enhance my small but well-formed ankles.