"What're you talking about?"
"You can't depend on me so much you can't follow me everywhere."
"You're not leaving me."
"Yes I am."
"If you go to San Francisco I'm going with you."
"You can't do that."
"Oh, yes I can."
When I left for work in the morning all the reporters were gone, and I decided this was a sign that things might work out for me after all.
Some new story had probably broken that was more interesting than Rebecca's, and pretty soon Rebecca's story would fade completely. As for Kenny, now that he was being questioned and maybe watched by the police he'd probably decide that trying to blackmail me was too much trouble. If I was lucky, I'd never hear from him again.
At work, I remained in my office most of the day, editing several articles. I also worked on my Prime Net article, which was getting even more positive. A few newspaper and TV reporters had left messages on my voice mail, but the Rebecca murder/suicide story definitely seemed to be petering out. Around lunchtime Angie dropped by, suggesting we go out, but I told her I was too busy. Later in the day I saw her talking to another reporter in the corridor outside my office, and I went in a different direction to avoid her.
On my way home, I said to Barbara, "Okay, you want me to become my own person I'll become my own person."
I stopped at a wine store on Amsterdam and decided I'd become a wine expert. I usually never spent more than ten bucks on wine, but I asked the owner to suggest a cabernet in the thirty-dollar range. At home, I sipped the Chateau Montelena with my eyes closed, trying to appreciate its nuances, and then I decided I'd have to make other changes in my life. I'd throw out my rock CDs and replace them with a collection of light jazz and classical. I'd redecorate my apartment, get classier furniture from Restoration Hardware or Ethan Allen. And I'd take a class at the Culinary Institute, learn how to cook French food.
Wednesday morning I was still feeling upbeat about myself and the future when I entered my office building and got the shit kicked out of me. It happened so fast I didn't realize what was happening until I was on my back in front of the revolving door and punches were landing against my face. Finally, a security guard pulled Robert Lipton off of me.
Lipton looked like a wreck his thin gray hair hanging over his scruffy face, his eyes swollen and puffy, as if he hadn't gotten any sleep in days. I realized that the edition of Manhattan Business with the negative article I'd written about Lipton's company had hit the newsstands.
"Son of a bitch!" he screamed at me as the guard held him back. "I'll kill you! I'll fuckin' kill you!"
He continued yelling, telling me that, thanks to my article, he'd lost three of his biggest clients. Two cops showed up. After the security guard explained what had happened, one of the cops asked me if I wanted to press charges. I declined. I didn't want any unnecessary involvement with the police, but I also felt bad about what I'd done to Lipton and I didn't want to screw up his life more than I already had.
The injuries to my face from Ricky and Rebecca had almost disappeared, but now I had a fresh welt on my left cheekbone and my upper lip was swollen and bleeding.
The security guard had given me a first-aid ice pack, but Lipton had gotten a few good whacks in and it didn't help much. I was hoping to lock myself in my office and stay there all day to avoid any attention, but Mike, the guy Angie had dated, had been downstairs in the lobby while the cops were talking to me, and when I arrived in the office he had already told everyone what had happened. Holding the icepack up to my face, I had to hold court in the office's reception area, giving my account of the incident. Everyone expressed their sympathy, and then Jeff took me aside and tried to persuade me to press charges.
"It's okay," I said. "I'd rather just forget about it."
"You sure?" Jeff said. "Because we could send that prick to jail."
I explained to Jeff that, given everything I'd been through lately, I didn't want any more turmoil in my life. Jeff said he understood, but he still thought I was making a mistake.
In my office, I tried to block out what had happened with Lipton and focus on work. A few articles had been e-mailed to me for editing, including one of Angie's. Since I'd been at Manhattan Business I'd always written my articles as quickly as possible, treating my work simply as a job, a means of making money. Now, as an editor, I worked much more diligently, laboring over every word, making sure each sentence was as good as it could possibly be. The only break I took from work all day was during my lunch hour, when I browsed the Net for information about upcoming wine tastings in the New York area.
Thursday was a repeat of Wednesday, minus the attack by Lipton. I was enjoying working late and spending a lot of time alone. For months I'd been so absorbed in Rebecca and our problems that I'd barely had time to myself, and now I enjoyed coming home to a quiet apartment.
Friday morning I was waiting for the elevator in the lobby when Angie appeared behind me. We exchanged hellos, and then the elevator arrived. Other people got on with us, so we didn't talk during the ride up. When we got out on our floor I said, "See ya later," and headed toward my office. Several minutes later I was settling in to start my workday when Angie entered and said, "Can I come in?"
"Sure," I said.
She came farther into my office, but remained standing.
"Look," she said, "I know awful things happened this week and I totally understand that, but I still don't understand why you have to treat me this way."
"What do you mean?"
"Come on, all week you've been blowing me off, pretending that I don't exist. Didn't you even notice we've barely been talking to each other?"
"I've been busy," I said.
"I can't do this anymore," she said. "I mean, if you just need some space I totally understand that, and if you want me to back off I will.
But if there's more to it I mean, if you're angry at me for something, or if I did something wrong»
"Have dinner with me tonight."
She waited, then said, "Really?"
"I'll come by your place at eight o'clock. Come on, what do you say?"
"Okay," she said, "but if you wanted to go out, why have you been blowing me off?"
"Because I was a jerk, that's why. I really want to take you out tonight. What do you say?"
She stared at me for a few seconds; then the corners of her lips curled into a slight smile.
"All right," she said.
"Great," I said.
She gave me her address on East Seventy-fourth, and I told her how much I was looking forward to tonight.
Later in the morning, I went downtown to interview the CFO of Prime Net Solutions. During the interview I kept zoning out, thinking about Angie and getting excited about our first date. Back at my office, I conducted a few phone interviews for the Prime Net article and had to edit the text for next week's Company Report section. I was going to stop by Angie's cubicle to say hi; then I had a better idea. I sent her a bouquet of virtual flowers with a message that read, Thanks for being so patient. After she received the bouquet she IM'd me, telling me how sweet I was.
I'd been staying at the office until seven-thirty, eight o'clock the past couple of days, but today I figured I'd leave at around six, which would give me plenty of time to go home, shower, and change before I went to Angie's.
Around five forty-five, I finished up my work and went to the bathroom.
At the urinal, Kyle from Sales told me a long story about his misadventures of trying to sell his East Side co-op. I continued chatting with him for a while outside the bathroom, then headed back toward my office, deciding that I'd take Angie out to a restaurant near her apartment, maybe to one of those little romantic Italian places off Second. It was going to be perfect, I thought, and then I entered my office and saw Kenny, reclining in my chair with his feet resting on my desk.