The Opposite of Me Read online

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be out of town for a few days. Can you come in a week from Monday at two? I’d like to talk to you again, and I’d like our agency president to meet you.”

  A week from Monday would also give Ms. Givens time to check my reference, but Mr. Dunne had promised me. He’d promised.

  I couldn’t look too eager; Ms. Givens had to think other companies wanted me, too. I paused a moment, mentally shuffling around my imaginary schedule to create a hole, then I smiled.

  “A week from Monday it is,” I said. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  Her phone rang. She glanced at it, and I quickly said, “I’ll show myself out.”

  By the time I was halfway to her door, she was already chatting with a client, setting up a dinner meeting for that night. I stepped into the hallway as a huge smile erupted across my face. I was going to get this job; I was certain of it. Ms. Givens wasn’t the type to waste time. She wouldn’t have asked me back for a second interview unless she was dead serious about me.

  I walked down the hallway, toward my lucky elevator, barely containing the impulse to kick up my heels. As soon as I left this building I was going straight to the nicest restaurant I could find and buying an extra-large cappuccino and chocolate croissant to celebrate. I’d still call a headhunter this afternoon like I planned—one could never be too careful—but I knew in my bones this was a done deal. I felt it.

  I was meant to work here; everything I knew about this agency fit in with my life plan: the overseas offices; the select, impressive client list; the prime space in a building on K Street, in the hub of the nation’s capital. I’d start on the creative team, and within six months, Ms. Givens would wonder how her agency had survived this long without me. They thought I worked hard in New York? They hadn’t seen anything yet. I was being given a second chance, and I knew how rare those were. This one wouldn’t slip through my fingers; I’d hold on to it too tightly to ever let it go.

  Just before I got to the reception area, I passed a door to the ladies’ room. Blame it on nerves; suddenly I really had to go. I stepped into the bathroom and checked my reflection in a mirror—excellent, there hadn’t been a piece of Pop-Tart between my front teeth during my interview—then I ducked into a stall. Even the bathroom stalls were nice here; they were enclosed from floor to ceiling, and the walls were tiled in what looked like hand-painted Italian porcelain. Oh, yes, I could slip back into this kind of life again very quickly.

  I was still smiling when I heard the door swing open.

  “She isn’t following us, is she?” a woman said.

  “I don’t think so,” another woman said. “But if we’re in here longer than a minute, she’ll probably unleash the bloodhounds.”

  That voice—I’d just heard it. It was Ms. Givens’s assistant, the woman with no initiative. Inside the stall, I froze.

  “She’ll be gone tomorrow,” another woman said. “Then we won’t have to hide out in the bathroom.”

  “Only for a few days,” the assistant moaned. “She’s spending four hours in San Francisco. She’ll probably call me every hour. Then she’s going to Hong Kong for two days. Who goes to Hong Kong for two days? Doesn’t it take two days just to get there and back?”

  “I know how you can torture her,” the colleague said. “Knock one of her magazines out of alignment.”

  The two women burst into laughter.

  “Just because she doesn’t have a life, she resents it if anyone else does,” the assistant said. “Can you believe I had to beg to get time off for my kid’s school play? She made me stay late Friday night to make up for it.”

  “Is she gay?” the colleague asked. “I’ve always wondered.”

  “Who knows?” the assistant said. “She never gets any personal phone calls, and she works late every night. I think she’s asexual. Who would want to sleep with her anyway?”

  “Especially because she probably pencils it into her day planner: Foreplay from oh-nine-hundred hours until nine-oh-five. Penetration from nine-oh-six until nine-twelve.” The colleague giggled.

  “And too bad if the guy isn’t done by then,” the assistant said. “She’d probably write a performance review and tell him he needs to work on his efficiency. Hey, want to grab lunch tomorrow? I might actually be able to eat it this time.”

  “I think I have an opening from twelve-oh-four until twelve-sixteen.” The colleague laughed as the door shut behind them.

  I stayed put, still not daring to move. I hadn’t been aware that I’d been holding my breath, and when I let it out, it echoed off the tiled walls of my little stall.

  Okay, so they hated Ms. Givens. What employees didn’t gripe about their boss? So Ms. Givens was a control freak. And a workaholic. How else would she have risen to the top of her field? They were probably just jealous of her corner office and posh lifestyle.

  So what if Ms. Givens was a demanding boss? I could deal with a demanding boss; that didn’t frighten me. She wouldn’t be able to find much of anything to criticize in me anyway. I didn’t take off time for personal issues, and I never balked at staying late or working on weekends. Hell, I did it voluntarily. In New York, my first boss had actually told me I should use more of my vacation time instead of always cashing it in.

  My palms felt sweaty, and my hand slipped off the lock when I tried to open the door to the stall. I fumbled for the lock again as the walls of the stall started swaying and buckling in on me. Suddenly a powerful attack of claustrophobia was upon me. Get out, my brain screamed. I tried to suck in air as I pushed my shoulder against the door. I finally realized I had to pull it open. I burst out of the stall, my legs so unsteady they could barely hold me up.

  I had to get a grip, quickly, before someone else came in here and saw me all wild-eyed and shaky. I walked over to the sink, ran cold water on a paper towel, and patted it on my forehead and cheeks. I took slow breaths, forcing my body to calm itself.

  My claustrophobia had been sparked by residual nervousness from the interview, I told myself, turning on the water again to wash my shaking hands. There wasn’t any reason to read anything else into it, to analyze the situation and jump to conclusions, like Matt would’ve been itching to do.

  Yes, I wanted to be in Ms. Givens’s position in ten years. But that didn’t mean I’d be anything like her. I didn’t want that kind of a sterile, lonely life. And I wouldn’t have it, I assured myself, lifting my trembling chin a notch higher. There were plenty of women who juggled work and families, and did it well. Plenty of successful women who had rich, fulfilling personal lives. I pushed away the nagging little voice that wondered how I’d even find time to have a baby, to have a family, when I couldn’t get away from the office for a weekend.

  I’d just about convinced myself everything would be fine when I looked down at my hands. They were still compulsively washing each other.

  Eleven

  MY CELL PHONE VIBRATED in my pocket as I lifted my cup of cappuccino to my lips for my first sip. The buzz jolted me, and I sloshed some foam down the front of my suit jacket. The cute guy sitting three tables over hid a grin behind his newspaper.

  It was Alex, of course.

  “Can I ask a favor?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I said, dabbing at my jacket with a napkin as the waitress deposited a huge chocolate croissant on my table. Memo to cute guy: I’m a glutton and sloppy—sure you don’t want to hit on me?

  “Will you come over and look at my wedding dress?” Alex asked. “I need an honest opinion.”

  I glanced at my watch. I had a lot to accomplish today, now that the nonsense in the ladies’ room was over. I wanted to fully research Givens & Associates, plus I needed to make contact with that headhunter. If I could line up another interview or two fast, word might get around to Ms. Givens. Being in demand couldn’t hurt when it came time to negotiate my compensation package.

  “Today?” I hedged.

  “No, I was thinking in July, after the wedding,” she said. “C
’mon. Even you can take off for lunch. And we barely got to talk the other night at my party.”

  “Fine,” I said, mentally reshuffling my day. Alex and Gary’s house was in Georgetown. I could hit a cybercafe afterward and work there the rest of the afternoon, instead of going back home. I’d probably get more done anyway, considering Mom and Dad’s dueling televisions were pitting soap operas against SportsCenter. Dad had had the volume up louder when I’d left the house, but those daytime divas were giving the Redskins a run for their money.

  “I’ll order in some sushi for lunch,” Alex said.

  I snapped my phone shut, surprised. Why did Alex want me to see her wedding dress? She made no secret of the fact that she thought I dressed way too conservatively. I wouldn’t have thought my opinion mattered to her. And the whole thing about us not having a chance to talk . . . I mean, come on. It’s not like we were the kind of sisters who talked every day. I knew there were some who traded confidences and hung out on weekends and called each other with every breaking detail of their lives, but Alex and I had never had that kind of relationship. We weren’t even close enough to have rip-roaring fights, like other sisters I knew. I was happy with that arrangement, and thought she was, too. So why did she want to see me now?

  Maybe she was reaching out.

  I rolled the unfamiliar idea around in my mind, testing it. Alex and I would never be best friends—we were too different—but if she was trying, I supposed I could meet her halfway. We were grown-ups, and living in the same city for the first time since high school. Now that my life was veering back on track, it wouldn’t kill me to take more of an interest in Alex’s. I could start with her wedding, I supposed.

  Besides, I could spare the time, I thought with satisfaction. I’d had a hugely successful morning, plus I’d spent the previous weekend whipping my parents’ house into shape. I’d even tackled their refrigerator, scrubbing down the shelves and tossing out a petrified, clove-studded orange I recognized from a few Christmases ago.

  I leisurely finished my cappuccino, then called the headhunter and managed to catch him at his desk. We chatted awhile and he asked me to email him my résumé, then promised he’d be back in touch within a day or so to talk about job prospects. Right after I hung up, my phone buzzed with an incoming text message from Matt:

  Breaking news . . . Cheryl’s implants exploded when she was on Fenstermaker’s plane and it depressurized . . . funeral details to follow. (Separate services are being held for her implants; donations to the Silicone Society are suggested in lieu of flowers.)

  I grinned and paid the bill the waitress had dropped on the table, leaving a good tip to make up for camping out for so long. Fifteen minutes later, I was getting out of a cab in front of Alex’s place.

  From the outside, it looked deceptively small, since the houses on the narrow Georgetown streets were all packed in tightly together, like subway commuters at rush hour. But once Alex opened the door, I realized the façade of the house was an optical illusion. Inside it was high-ceilinged and roomy, with glass doors leading to the green oasis of a big backyard terrace. Toward the back of the house, I could see a cleaning woman in a white uniform mopping the wooden floors.

  Alex had told me Gary’d hired a top interior designer when he bought the house, which made sense, because the French country—inspired decor was far too elegant and immaculate to have been conceived by Alex. When we were growing up, her bedroom was a complete pit, with open bottles of nail polish hardening on her dresser and so many clothes tossed over her bed it was a wonder she didn’t get buried alive at night. Someday soon I’d have a house like this, too, instead of my scrotum-ceiling bedroom, I vowed, looking around.

  “Nice place,” I said.

  “I hate my dress,” Alex announced. Her hair was swept up in a ponytail, and she was wearing a pink bathrobe.

  “It is a little informal for an evening wedding,” I agreed.

  “Shut up,” she said. “Come on. It’s upstairs.”

  I followed her up the graceful spiral staircase, into her dressing room, which was roughly the size of Mom and Dad’s living room. Now this room looked like Alex. Dozens of pairs of shoes were scattered across the floor with the heels pointing up like lethal little spikes, a hidden speaker played Amy Winehouse, and an entire wall was covered with a giant mirror. A table in front of the mirror held more makeup than a Clinique counter. Alex still left off the tops of her bottles of nail polish, I noticed, but now she wouldn’t have to beg Dad for extra allowance or go shoplift new bottles when her old ones dried up. From the looks of this place, Gary could buy Sally Hansen herself.

  “I want you to be brutally honest,” Alex said.

  She shrugged off her bathrobe unself-consciously, and I averted my eyes. But not before I’d glimpsed what seemed like acres of smooth, glowing skin and a pale lavender thong. Who wore a thong around the house with a cozy bathrobe? It would be like putting a thumbtack in your bedroom slippers.

  “The wedding planner talked me into this dress,” Alex said, her voice muffled as she pulled it over her head.

  “Alex!” I scolded, hurrying over to help her. “Jesus, don’t tug on it like that. You’re going to rip it.”

  “It’s just a sample,” Alex said. “They still haven’t fit the real one on me.”

  I smoothed down the layers of her dress, then stood back.

  “So?” she said. “What? Why are you looking at me like that? Do you hate it, too?”

  I shook my head.

  “You really like it?” Alex asked.

  I nodded.

  “But isn’t it too . . . poufy? I always said I’d never wear a poufy dress. But Toothy Tori the wedding planner kept saying, ‘It’s the one time in your life when you can wear a poufy dress without looking ridiculous.’ Toothy made me try on a hundred of them, and by the end of it I was so exhausted I just gave in. That’s how they do it, you know. They show you millions of hideous dresses, then they pull out one that isn’t half bad and you jump on it because your perspective is completely screwed.”

  “Alex,” I said, finally finding my voice. “Shut up. It’s perfect.”

  And it was.

  I’d expected Alex to go for something sleek and sexy, maybe a thin silk gown with a big slit up the thigh. I’d thought she’d want to show off her body in something form-fitting. But the dress she’d chosen was a winter white silk with three-quarter-length lace sleeves, a scoop neck, and a tightly nipped waist. It reached the floor, but it didn’t have a train. It was simple yet classic, elegant without being frumpy. Even with her hair in a ponytail and her feet bare, she took my breath away.

  “I don’t know,” Alex said, frowning. She twisted around me to see herself in the mirror. “Really?”

  “C’mon, Alex, you know you look great,” I said, growing impatient. Was this all a game called “Let’s reassure Alex she’s as gorgeous as ever”? Because if it was, I didn’t want to play.

  “Now I have to figure out how to wear my hair,” Alex said. “How do you think it would look up?”

  If she expected me to stand around, oohing and aahing while she experimented with it, then that ponytail was too tight and it was cutting off circulation to her brain. It was one thing to talk to Alex about her wedding, entirely another to try out for the job of president of her fan club.

  Alex hadn’t asked me anything about my job yet. She hadn’t asked me how it felt to leave New York. She only wanted to talk about herself. Or, more specifically, she wanted our conversation to revolve around her looks.

  Why had I thought today would be any different? Why had I thought our relationship could ever be any different than it had been when we were growing up?

  “Don’t you have six months to decide about your hair?” I asked, plopping down on a leather ottoman and picking up The Washingtonian magazine from the floor. I skimmed the cover lines before noticing Alex was on the cover in a blue bikini. I let the magazine fall to the floor.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Alex
said. “There’s just so much to do. It’s kind of overwhelming.”

  “You’ve got a wedding planner,” I pointed out. “Isn’t she supposed to do the work for you?”

  Alex thought she had a lot to do? It was noon and she was still in her bathrobe while a maid mopped her floors and a deliveryman brought her sushi. She probably had nothing lined up for this afternoon but a facial and a session with Sven the personal trainer.

  Okay, maybe that was a tiny bit unfair. Her personal trainer was probably named Mike. Fine, fine, so Alex did work, and her job required her to look good. She even got to write off those facials. Still, my annoyance flared. This is why Alex and I couldn’t spend two minutes together. She’d always been a bit spoiled—too much attention will do that to you—and for some reason, her self-absorption chafed me more than usual today.

  “So what’s it like, living with Mom and Dad?” she asked, nudging me with her foot. I shifted over on the ottoman, and she sat down next to me.

  I rolled my eyes at her question, then sighed and shook my head.

  “It’s exactly what you’d think,” I said. “Mom stands outside my bedroom door yelling questions at me, but she thinks because she doesn’t come barging in she’s giving me plenty of space. She even called me on my cell phone yesterday. From one room over.”

  Then a memory came to me and I smiled.

  “What?” Alex demanded.

  “The other day at lunch the three of us all ordered glasses of wine,” I said. “So Dad pulls a pencil out of his pocket and starts scribbling on the tablecloth, trying to figure out if it was cheaper to get it by the glass or carafe.”

  “The druggie hostess place?” Alex asked.

  “Unwashed fork,” I said.

  “Ah,” Alex said. “Antonio’s. When Gary first met them, we went there, too. They got out of their car and stood on the sidewalk arguing for five minutes about whether Dad had remembered to lock the car door.”

  “So much simpler to walk back and check,” I said.