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Superwoman and the Driver
I stepout into the unusually warm morning air and straighten my Chanel skirt that I borrowed from Daphne. Check my nails one last time for chips or breaks.
I won’t even try and lie about the fact I went to great lengths to make sure I was polished, shaved, buffed, and plucked. I want to be the girl he met that night in the back of the bar. The girl who came from a silent auction and was somewhat put together for once, just looking for a couple drinks, to listen to a mediocre band and people-watch. I needed to wash the aristocratic residue off.
It’s a good thing he didn’t meet me at the grocery store after a long week of work. Or at Mr. Wong’s China House to get takeout for the millionth time. He would have found a different creature who uses dry shampoo way longer than socially acceptable, wears closed-toe flats to disguise the fact she hasn’t bothered to change her polish in weeks—or longer, and leggings so she doesn’t have to shave. That girl would have been looked over. That girl wouldn’t have had a shot in hell with Jake Mitchell. What parts of me that are attractive and charming and razor-sharp were also thankfully heightened by his multiple Jack and Cokes.
Thank you, Jack. I salute you. You make it possible for us sevens in a sea of tens in the bars and nightclubs of Atlanta.
The lobby of the most expensive hotel in town is surprisingly quiet, save a man running one of those buffing machines over the floor. I head to the front desk, the staccato sound of my heels ping-ponging off the walls and floors and ceiling. Carefully, I fish a blonde curl from my lipstick, thanks to the wind from the revolving door. It leaves a red mark I don’t have time to wipe away, so I tuck the strand behind my ear, hoping it stays put. “Ms. Reed from the AJC for Mr. Bojangles, please.” I cringe as I say it. Celebrities and their stupid incognito names at hotels. But these are the instructions his manager gave me when I made the call Monday, so I have to say it.
As the front desk clerk clickety-clacks away on his keyboard, a rush of heat swallows me. My stomach churns.
In just a few short minutes, I’ll be face to face with him again.
I just wish it was under better circumstances. But thanks to my boss and my eagerness to get in good with her again, my freshly lacquered hands are tied.
A wave of nausea rolls in behind the heat and I hold my stomach. Swallow against bile. Delivering bad news is not my forte. I once had to tell Stephen I saw his boyfriend cheating, and I threw up margaritas and Taquitos all over his balcony. And the balcony below.
And a little in his flowerpot.
The clerk picks up the phone and dials a quick series of numbers. “Ms. Reed is here for Mr. Bojangles.”
A female on the other end says, “Send her up.”
I fightanother rush of memories as the elevator zips me up to the penthouse suite. It wasn’t this hotel we went to that night, but right now, a hotel elevator, any elevator apparently, is enough to coax the memories forward.
When I reach his floor, I hurry off in the direction of his suite. The sudden change in flooring from tile to padded carpet makes the heels of my stilettos drag, and I teeter forward. Somehow catch myself on the wall.
I bite out a cussword and smooth my skirt.
Get it together.
I start for the penthouse door again, and on the way there I realize I’m far too tattered. A thread-pull away from completely unraveling. So, I do the thing my boss taught me to do before speaking to a crowd or before a big interview; I back against the wall because…heels. I close my eyes and situate my hands on my hips. A Superwoman pose, if you will.
Take a deep breath.
I am capable.
I am calm.
Exhale.
I’m a professional.
I’ll go in there, say the things that need to be said, and leave.
Inhale.
You’ve got this. You’re a journalist. It’s your job to report the facts.
You’re a shark.
You’ve got—
A voice pulls me from my meditation. “Are you…the reporter?”
OhmyGod. I step out of the Superwoman pose like it’s a perfectly normal thing to be found doing in a hallway.
