You yelled at Nick last night. Screamed at him. Did exactly the thing he accused you of, the thing you promised you’d never do: You lied to him, the same way you lie to the press.
But what was the alternative? Tell him the truth? I didn’t know it myself! And maybe he was completely right. Maybe I didn’t want to see him with one of his exes. And maybe I wanted him to pretend because I wanted him all to myself.
No! That was outrageous!
My thought process was literally: he decided to go along with my PR plan then walked abruptly away...so I found the most wretched girl in the world to stick him with.
In what possible dimension did that make sense? What impulse in the world had possibly inspired such a ludicrous lapse in judgment? And then I yelled at him on top of everything else?
I was lucky he hadn’t fired me on the spot.
Don’t worry about that...there’s still time.
With the speed and coordination of a shell-shocked turtle, I managed to yank some clothes over my head, stick my feet in some shoes, and head out the door. My purse was still packed with all my work equipment from the day before (thank goodness—so I didn’t need to do my customary ‘racing all over the apartment to find things’ routine), so without another moment’s delay, I hailed down a cab and headed into the office.
“Morning,” I mumbled to the cabbie, before giving him the address. “And I know everyone says this—but if you could hurry, that would be greatly appreciated.”
The man’s eyes twinkled as he glanced at me in the rear-view mirror.
“Late night, sweetheart?”
I fought back another wave o
f nausea, and twisted my grimace into a smile.
“...you could say that.”
He chuckled and pulled out into the gridlocked rows of cars.
“Don’t worry about it. You’re not the first walk of shame I’ve driven into work today.”
Walk of shame?
I looked down at my clothes in dismay, only to see that in my zombie-esque state, I’d pulled on a sundress—not my usual work dress. The thing twisted up in a halter, before dropping just beneath my knees. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I’d also pulled it on backwards.
“Oh, that’s just perfect,” I muttered, “because nothing says New York City winter like halters and daisies...”
For a second, I considered yanking the thing around right there in the car. Then I saw the cabbie was still watching with a little smirk.
...probably best to wait until I’m at the office.
Ten minutes later, we had arrived. I over-paid the man, too hungover and embarrassed to count out the correct bills, then climbed out and waved him on his way with the world’s biggest tip. From there, it was just a quick, freezing dart inside to the elevator.
“Morning Ms. Wilder,” Joe—the doorman—called out as I ducked inside. “Late night?”
For the second time, I glanced down at the sundress with a scowl. It was only then that I noticed the two mismatched pairs of shoes. My cheeks flushed and I glanced back up, ready with a hasty excuse, only to see him smiling. I flipped him off instead and hurried to the elevator.
That bastard. Guess who’s not getting a Christmas card from me this year...
By the time the doors opened on my floor, I was in a particularly foul mood. My head was spinning, my stomach was queasy, and freezing gusts of air kept flying up the skirt of my ridiculous summer dress. The interns recognized the look and ducked for cover.
Allison, my unassuming secretary, was not so lucky.
“Messages?” I snapped, pausing at her desk to remove my coat.
Her eyes widened slightly at my ensemble, but she said not a word. She also had the good sense to hand me her own cup of coffee.
“Harold called from the Times, said that he’ll retract the lobster piece, but he wants a sit-down at the company’s annual party on the Fourth of July.”