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His recovery is astounding; I’m still trying to confirm that I’m not hallucinating or dreaming. His rigid form relaxes back into his chair. His mouth curves into a soft frown. And he cocks his head to the side, examining me like I’m a sexless business entity and not like he’d seduced me mere days ago in a boozy train car.
We stare at each other for a long, extended moment that could last ten minutes or ten seconds. Everything seems to be going in slow motion. I’m torn between so many different things that I want to say — apologies, accusations, questions — that each struggle for control and result in speechlessness.
I work myself back around to some semblance of self-control. Okay, pitch meeting. Seafarer. Cruise ships. Don’t think about long, thick fingers tickling my palm. Don’t remember those lips inches from my ear, whispering tantalizing words. Definitely don’t think about the way he looked at me right before he stormed out of the car.
At last, Nick speaks, and of all the things I expect him to say this isn’t on the list: “So you have a pitch for me?”
His voice is low and relaxed. He’s fully in control. I almost sputter indignantly, but a distant alarm bell in the back of my brain tells me that I’m already blowing this big time.
So he doesn’t want to acknowledge our history? Fine. I can roll with that. I can pretend like this is the first time I’m laying eyes on his stupid, arrogant, perfect face.
“I did,” I say. I’m impressed by how nonchalant I sound. “But you made me leave it in the lobby.”
His face is impassive. “I don’t like video presentations,” he remarks.
“You would have liked mine.”
“You sound confident in that fact.”
“You seem pretty confident you would have hated it.”
A beat.
Then Nick steeples his fingers and leans forward in his chair. He’s seated and I’m six feet tall and yet it still feels like I’m looking up at him. I suddenly wish there was a chair to sit in. Standing I feel like a child before a principal.
“I almost didn’t take this meeting,” he says finally. “I’m sure you know that I just fired Alan Kimball.”
Kimball is the head of one of the largest ad agencies in New York. I do know this and I also had heard the rumor that the partnership ended when “Mr. Madison” used a butane cigar lighter to set fire to a draft of an ad in the middle of a meeting.
“I was under the impression that he quit,” I reply.
“That’s what he wants people to think.”
“The alternative isn’t any better,” I say.
“I’d disagree.”
I cross my arms. “Tell me. How many agencies have quit — sorry, been fired — over the last six months?”
“Five,” he says slowly, waiting for my angle.
“And after five agencies out the door, I believe the finger starts to point at the common denominator.”
Nick’s eyes harden, but they relax almost as quickly. “And yet you’re here all the same. If I’m so demanding, so difficult, why try to throw your hat into the ring?”
“Why don’t we call it a limitless belief in my own abilities,” I say.
For the first time Nick smiles. It’s wolfish and teasing, self-satisfied at catching me in a lie. “That’s not what you said on the train,” he says. “I believe I remember quite a few nerves then.”
I clench my jaw. So we are going to bring up the train then.
“A lot of things were said on the train,” I say.
“Of course. You also called me a whiny rich boy.” For the first time I hear something other than cool nonchalance in his tone. He sounds a little annoyed.
I leap on it, grasping for the upper hand in a conversation I’ve so far only floundered in. I take an exaggerated look around his black steel office. “I’ve yet to be contradicted,” I say.
“If you could see where this company started,” he says, “you’d be singing a very different tune.”
