The Apartment

Chapter 13

When Abby got to L.A. on Wednesday afternoon, her parents were still at work, and she let herself into their home in Hancock Park with the key they had put under the mat for her. Maria, their longtime maid, had already left for the day. She only came in mornings now, and the house was quiet, but familiar and comfortable. Her mother had had it redone the year before with strikingly modern furniture and contemporary art. It wasn’t cozy, but it was beautiful. Abby wandered around the house, after she put her small tote bag in her room, and went to sit in the garden, thinking about what she would do now, and what she wanted to say to them. She knew they hoped she’d move home, now more than ever, but she wasn’t ready to do that. There were writing opportunities in New York too, and she was doing her best work, writing normal fiction, since the breakup with Ivan. She’d done a few short stories and was working on her novel. She hadn’t realized it for the past three years, but he had been holding her back, as she tried to meet his esoteric new-wave standards, which no longer felt right for her, and never really had. She was developing her own voice again, and she felt that her writing was getting stronger than ever before. Her parents had been very patient with her for a long time, and she hoped that they would be for a while longer. She still wanted their financial and emotional support to give her the time she needed for her writing.

There was a spare car in the garage that she used when she was home, an old Volvo from her high school days. It was ancient but it still worked. She drove around L.A. that afternoon, looking at familiar places, thinking about her life now without Ivan. It felt good to be home. And when she got back to the house, her parents were both there and excited to see her. She hadn’t been home in almost a year, since Christmas, and she was startled to see that her parents had aged a little. She always thought of them as young and vital forever. Her father was complaining about a bad knee he had injured playing tennis, and her mother was healthy, but seemed subtly older. They had been older parents when she was born, as a surprise, and now they were in their late sixties, but still going strong with no thought of slowing down, and Abby was glad to be spending the holiday with them.

They talked about her writing that night at dinner, and were relieved to hear that she had given up writing experimental plays to please Ivan, and was writing more traditional material again. They had ordered in fancy takeout food since her mother never cooked. They had an offsite chef who dropped off meals for them several times a week, based on healthy nonfat meal plans.

“So what do you think, Abby?” her father asked her gently. “Are you ready to come back and try your hand out here? Your mother could get you a job writing scripts on just about any show you want.” They thought in terms of commercial material, which was what Ivan had hated about them.

“I want to try to find work on my own,” she said softly, grateful for their help. And eventually, she wanted to be self-supporting too, it was her goal. And she didn’t want a job because she was someone’s daughter. She wanted to sell her writing or get work because of her talent, not her parents. “I don’t think TV is right for me,” she said honestly. “I’d like to finish my novel and sell some short stories. I could try screenplays later, but not yet.” She gave her mother three recent chapters of her novel that night, and the next morning she told Abby how much stronger her writing had gotten and said she was impressed by how much her style had tightened and matured. And she thought the work was very cinematic and would make a great film. Abby was pleased and respected her mother’s opinion. Coming from her, it was high praise. Abby knew there was still a dark edge to her writing, even without Ivan, but now she felt sure it was her own voice and not his.

“Would you mind giving me a little more time in New York to work on it?” she asked humbly. She was at her parents’ mercy financially, but they had always been supportive, and were still prepared to be. They both made that clear to her in their conversations and she was grateful to them. They had always been reasonable and kind, even during her three years of insanity with Ivan, and even more so now that he was gone. And she was clearly making progress with her writing without him.

They were having their usual Thanksgiving dinner the next day, with the strays her parents collected. She had learned her love of eclectic, interesting people from them—the difference was that theirs were often famous ones, not charlatans like Ivan, and Abby didn’t always know the difference. Her parents were nontraditional, and their Thanksgiving dinner normally consisted of twenty or so people who had nowhere else to be, and no family, and Joan and Harvey Williams had their dinner catered by Mr. Chow, with fabulous Chinese food, a lot of great French wine, and a combination of actors, writers, directors, and producers, who gathered at their table for an unconventional Thanksgiving. Abby had always loved it, and the people she met there. It was very Hollywood, in the best way. Some of the guests came every year and had for twenty years. Others were new. Some disappeared for a few years and then showed up again after they came back to town, finished a film, or wound up between relationships with no one to spend the holiday with. There was nothing mournful about it—in their own way they were all winners, even if some appeared to be misfits or very strange. Abby had grown up among people like them, which had given her an open mind and broad view of the world. And her parents may have been too busy to spend a lot of time with her, but she knew they loved her, in spite of the awful things Ivan had said about them. She felt guilty for listening to him now, and knew that none of what he said was true.

Her mother wandered into Abby’s bedroom before the guests arrived and hugged her daughter. “You know we love you, baby, don’t you? Sometimes I feel like we get disconnected with you living so far away.” And they never got to New York, they were busy in L.A. with their work, and got stuck there. “And I don’t care what kind of work you do. I just want you to be happy and feel good about yourself. Don’t let anyone pull you off your path or tell you what to do, not even us. You don’t even have to be a writer if you don’t want to be. Life is about following your own dream, not someone else’s, whatever that dream is. You know what’s right for you, better than anyone else. And we’re here to support you, whatever choice you make.” It was what they had done for the past three years, while Abby drank the Kool-Aid with Ivan, and she was so grateful they hadn’t given up on her, and were there for her now, stronger than ever.

“Thanks, Mom,” she said, touched by what her mother said. “I’m really trying.”

“I know you are. You’ll get there. I didn’t even start writing for TV until I was thirty-five. I was writing literary novels before that, and novellas, and believe me, they were awful. Your father was the only one who liked them, and that was because he loved me. So just hang in, and you’ll find the right writing form for you, and the right vehicle, if you really want that.” And they both knew it would be a lot easier without Ivan. They had been incredibly kind and supportive about the breakup without a single “I told you so.”

“I feel so stupid for wasting all that time with him,” she said with tears in her eyes, and her mother hugged her again.

“Don’t forget I was married for two years, before your dad. The guy started out normal when we got married, and became a religious fanatic, and founded a cult in Argentina, which was when I left him. We all do stupid things sometimes and get involved with the wrong people. It’s good to keep an open mind, but also to know when to cut your losses and close the gate. You did with Ivan. And it takes the time it takes.” Abby didn’t know what she had done to deserve such understanding parents, but she thanked God that she had them. She had forgotten about her mother’s first marriage. She never talked about it. There was no reason to. Her parents had been happily married for more than thirty years, and they still liked surrounding themselves with unusual people. It had never occurred to them that it would rub off on their daughter, to her detriment. Her father had said as much to his wife when they first met Ivan in the beginning, but they let her make her own decisions, for better or worse, and it had worked out in the end, after a three-year detour, but she seemed to be back on track again and even more dedicated to her writing, which had improved after what she’d been through.

People started to arrive at six o’clock, and by seven, there were twenty-six guests, in assorted casual outfits, drinking wine, and in earnest conversations in the living room and around the pool. The food was delivered at eight, and people sat wherever they found space, indoors, outdoors, on the floor, in chairs, and on couches, with their plates perched on their knees, enjoying talking to the other guests about various aspects of show business. It was a perfect Hollywood Thanksgiving, and typical of her parents, and seemed normal to Abby.

She was sitting on the floor, in jeans and sandals, wearing a Guatemalan peasant blouse that her mother had brought her back from a trip when she was fifteen, when a man with a beard and jeans and a camouflage jacket sat down next to her on the floor, and introduced himself as Josh Katz. He said he had produced a TV show with her mother, and was now making a feature film on location in South Africa, about the early days of apartheid. She knew it was the kind of project her parents respected. He had warm dark brown eyes and a slight accent, and later said he was Israeli, and he had a strong interest in work about oppressed people, particularly women. For a minute, she wondered if he was a better version of Ivan, with a more convincing line, but she also knew that if he was sitting in her parents’ living room, he had the right credentials and was for real. Her parents were allergic to phonies, which was why they had hated Ivan.

“How come you’re here?” Abby asked him, and then realized how that sounded and apologized. “I mean alone on Thanksgiving. Do you live in L.A.?”

“Some of the time. Tel Aviv, L.A., New York, and wherever I’m shooting. Johannesburg right now, but I’ll be back in a few weeks for postproduction. I have two sons here. I’m spending the weekend with them, but I was free tonight, so your parents were nice enough to ask me when they heard I was in town. And I’m starting a film here in six months, so I have to find an apartment, to finish this film and the next one. I’ll be here for a year and a half.”

“How old are your sons?” She liked him. He seemed interesting, nice, and offbeat, like her parents.

“Six and eleven,” he said proudly and showed her a photograph of them on his phone. They were cute boys. And he looked to be about forty. “My wife lives here. We got divorced two years ago, but I try to see my kids whenever I can. It will be nice living here for a while. I hear you’re a writer.” She nodded, looking vague for a minute. “What do you write?”

“I’ve been writing plays for experimental theater for the last three years. Now I’m working on a novel and some short stories. I’ve gone back to a more traditional style.” She smiled. “I’m trying to figure it out. I’m in transition,” Abby said and laughed.

“Sometimes that’s a good thing. It leaves you open to change. Sometimes you have to tear everything down to build a stronger structure. I find that to be true in life and movies too.”

“Then I’m right on track.” She laughed ruefully, and he smiled. He liked her, and he liked her parents too. They were good, honest people with talent and integrity, which were rare in Hollywood.

“Can I read anything you’ve written?” He was always looking for new material and found it in surprising places.

“My stuff isn’t representative of my current style and what I’m doing now. And my novel isn’t finished.”

“Have you ever written a screenplay?” She shook her head in answer. “It’s a pretty short jump from plays to screenplays—you’d probably find it easy. Can I see something you’re working on now? A few chapters of your novel?” He handed her his card before she could answer. “Send me something. You never know. I may know someone who’s doing something you’d be perfect for. That’s how it works. Networking. That’s how I met your mother, and I did some shows for her, which got me started. She gave me a chance.” Joan had always been brave about that, and had discovered some real talent, people who were famous now, and a few duds. She was willing to make mistakes, which made her more forgiving of others.

“Okay,” Abby said thoughtfully. He was very convincing, in a nice way, and very positive. She got pulled away by her mother then, to talk to someone else, an old friend of theirs she hadn’t seen since high school, who looked a hundred years old now, and was nearly unrecognizable after a face-lift. She was grateful her mother hadn’t had any work done and still looked like herself, even if slightly older.

Abby found Josh’s card in her pocket when she got undressed, and wondered if she should send him some short stories or a couple of chapters of her novel. She mentioned it to her mother the next morning when they had breakfast by the pool, sitting in the sun. Her father had gone to play golf, which he could still do with his bad knee.

“Why not?” her mother said easily. “He’s a very talented guy, and very open to new ideas. I knew we’d never keep him around for long. He’s too unconventional, and too creative, and he doesn’t like playing by network rules.” Her mother was good at doing that without compromising her talent or ideas, but not everyone could pull it off. She had a rare knack for walking a fine line between commercial and sheer genius, and the ratings showed it, despite what Ivan said about her. “Send him something,” Joan encouraged her. “Maybe he’ll have some good suggestions for you, and introduce you to someone making an indie movie, if that’s what you want.”

“Maybe it is,” Abby said, looking thoughtful. “I don’t know where I’ll wind up, maybe novels or film.” She knew she hadn’t reached her final goal yet. Her current writing was a work in progress.

Abby opened her computer that afternoon, and sent Josh an e-mail of the first two chapters of her book and one short story and said she’d enjoyed meeting him, and then forgot about it, and went shopping with her mother at Maxfield, and some of the vintage stores they both liked. Their wardrobes were very eclectic, and they loved borrowing strange pieces from each other.

The weekend flew by, and she was sad to go back to New York on Sunday. Her parents had told her that they were going to Mexico for Christmas and had invited her to join them, but she thought she should stay in New York and write, and she didn’t like Mexico as much as they did, she always got sick. In some ways, her parents acted like people who didn’t have children. They treated her more like a friend, and always had. But the flip side of that was that they accepted her independence and had always given her her freedom. They had always treated her like an adult, even as a child. And they were delighted to include her in anything they did now, but they had never adjusted their life to her. She was welcome to follow along, but they made their own plans, regardless of hers, like Mexico over Christmas.

She promised to come back soon, and her father drove her to the airport and hugged her tight when they got there.

“We love you, Abby,” he said, holding her for a moment. “Good luck with the writing.”

“Thank you, Dad,” she said with damp eyes. Even after the last three years of insanity with Ivan, which had been like joining a cult, they still believed in her. It was amazing, but that was the kind of people they were—always engaged in the artistic process, and profound believers in the power of the creative, even if they weren’t perfect parents. She loved them anyway. She waved as she walked into security, and a moment later she disappeared, and went to board her plane to New York. It had been a great four days.

—

When Claire got to San Francisco, nothing had changed. And the occupants of the house never changed either. Her parents’ house was a small, slightly shabby Victorian in Pacific Heights. It needed a coat of paint, but Sarah kept it looking fresh inside, even when she had to paint a room herself, which she sometimes did. And she used her least expensive upholsterers to re-cover the furniture so her husband wouldn’t complain about the expense. Her father looked depressed, and was grousing about the real estate market. He hadn’t sold a house in eighteen months, which Claire thought was due to his personality, not the economy. Who wanted to buy a house from someone who told you everything that was wrong with it and the world? And he hated the broker he worked for.

Her mother was making chirping noises, and had the house looking bright and pretty, with flowers in Claire’s bedroom. She had bought a turkey, which was slightly too big for them, as though they were expecting guests, but they no longer entertained, and rarely saw their old friends. Her father had eliminated them over the years, and her mother no longer tried to convince him to have a social life, so she met her women friends for lunch. She did a lot of reading at night. And no one ever mentioned the fact that her father drank too much, which contributed to his depression. He was never falling-down drunk, but three or four scotches at night were too many, and Claire and her mother knew it, and never said it out loud. They just let him do what he wanted, and after the second scotch, he sat alone in front of the TV, which he did every night until he went to bed.

Claire’s mother wanted to know all about George when Claire got there, and she could see how excited she was about him. He hadn’t called her yet from Aspen.

When Claire didn’t hear from him when she arrived, she assumed that George was already skiing, or afraid to intrude on her with her parents, and she was sure she would hear from him later that night. When she didn’t, she called him from her room on her cell, and the call went straight to voicemail. With the time difference between San Francisco and Aspen, she figured he was already asleep, so she left him a loving message.

He didn’t call the next day on Thanksgiving, probably for the same reason. He was skiing for sure that day, and he knew she would be having Thanksgiving dinner with her parents, and he didn’t know what time. Claire sent him a text, and he didn’t respond.

It didn’t start to worry her until the next day. They hadn’t spoken since he dropped her off late Tuesday night, which was very unusual for him. He liked to keep track of her all day, with calls and texts, and to know what she was doing. After three days of silence, she wondered if he hated holidays so much that he had retreated into his cave in a mild depression. She didn’t want to push him, or intrude or insist. So she sent him another loving text and said she missed him, without trying to make him feel guilty for not calling. He obviously needed space, and they would be home in two days, on Sunday night, and were planning to spend the night together.

Her mother’s questions about him continued through the weekend, and Claire tried to answer as honestly as she could, that she had no idea what the future would bring, but that it appeared to be serious for both of them, and he was wonderful to her. She didn’t tell her that he had asked her to be the mother of his children the night before she left, or that she hadn’t heard from him in three days. She was sure that that was a momentary aberration—they had never been closer than the night before she left for San Francisco.

On Saturday, she felt a mild flutter of panic, and began to worry about him, and that something might have happened. What if he was sick, or had been seriously injured skiing? He might have broken both his arms and couldn’t use his cell phone, or had a head injury, since he said he didn’t wear a helmet but was an avid skier. But she thought he would have had someone call her if he was hurt, or texted her himself if he was sick. She had to believe that holidays were even harder for him than she had thought. He had cut off all communication with her, and was obviously depressed. She was concerned that she might have offended him without realizing it, but nothing on their last night together indicated it. He had hardly been able to tear himself away from her when she got out of the car on Tuesday night, and an hour before that said he wanted to have babies with her. How angry could he have been, and over what? Clearly, his silence was not her fault, but it was alarming anyway.

She was careful not to let her mother see how upset she was, as she continued to field her questions, and gently deflect them. And by Saturday night, Claire tried calling him several times, and left him messages saying how worried she was about him and how much she loved him. He did not respond.

She still hadn’t heard from him when she boarded the plane to New York on Sunday morning. She was due to arrive at JFK at four o’clock, and to meet up with him after that. She called him from the car, and neither his cell phone nor the landline at his apartment answered. She knew the staff was off, and she didn’t want him to feel that she was stalking him, but there was a knot in her stomach the size of a fist now. What had happened, and why wasn’t he calling her?

She never heard from him that night, waiting at her apartment. Abby came back from L.A. and said she’d had a great weekend with her parents, and Sasha and Alex were back from Chicago, and Sasha said it had been a perfect Thanksgiving. Claire’s weekend at home had been predictably depressing, and even more so faced with George’s inexplicable silence, but she didn’t say a word to her friends. And Morgan said they’d had a lovely Thanksgiving dinner at Greg and Oliver’s. Everyone’s holiday had gone well except her own. She was sure there was a simple explanation, and George would apologize for his lack of communication when he called. But in the meantime, not knowing the reason for it was agony, and she lay awake until four A.M., hoping to hear from him. Even a booty call after midnight would have been welcome—some sign of life from the man she loved who had wanted her to be the mother of his children only five days ago, and hadn’t spoken to her since. It made no sense.

She woke up two hours after she fell asleep, long before her alarm, and waited until eight A.M. to call him. His staff didn’t come in until nine on Monday mornings, so no one answered when she called his apartment, and he still wasn’t answering his cell, and he had to be home by then, unless something serious had happened.

She dressed for work hastily, without coffee or breakfast, and felt disorganized and a mess and distracted when she got to her office. She waited until just after nine and called his office, knowing that he always got there by eight-thirty to prepare for the day. His secretary answered on the private line and said that he was in a meeting. Claire said to just tell him she had called. And now she was sure he would call her.

She could hardly think straight until lunchtime, and she snapped at Monique when she set foot in Claire’s office. She was in no mood for her today. And providentially, Walter never came into her office.

Claire called George again at lunchtime and was told that he was out to lunch, and would be in meetings off-site all afternoon, and would not be back in the office. His assistant’s voice gave nothing away. She was pleasant and cool, and when Claire hung up, there were tears running down her cheeks. Something was clearly very wrong. But what? And why? He was stonewalling her, and she had done nothing to deserve it. She was so panicked and in so much pain from worrying about it, she was breathless.

She left work half an hour early and told Walter she was coming down with the flu and had a fever. It was easily believable, she looked awful.

She went to bed as soon as she got home, and just lay there, until she heard Morgan come home hours later, and went to find her in her bedroom.

“He won’t talk to me,” she said in a hoarse whisper, as Morgan stared at her in amazement. She looked like she had been beaten, or had a serious illness.

“Who won’t talk to you?” She couldn’t imagine.

“George. I haven’t heard from him since I saw him on Tuesday night. Everything was fine, and I haven’t heard from him since then. He won’t take my calls or answer my texts. Nothing. Silence. Do you think he dumped me?” She could hardly bear to say the words, but Morgan might know more than she did. Maybe he had told her.

“Of course not.” She brushed the thought aside. “He’s crazy about you.” She looked puzzled for a moment. “I know he gets weird about holidays, and sometimes he just disconnects for a few days. If things get too stressful at work, sometimes he takes off and goes somewhere for a day or two, and when he comes back, he’s fine. Did you two fight about something?”

“Not at all.”

“I saw him in the office today, and he looked normal. He was laughing with one of our clients. I think he had a busy day, but I’ll admit, that doesn’t explain it. Maybe leave him alone, and see what he does. Don’t chase him. He’s not injured, he’s not dead, he’s alive. He’ll call you.”

But two days later he still hadn’t. She hadn’t heard from him in eight days, and there was no explanation for it.

Claire had taken two days off from work, still claiming to have the flu. Everyone in the apartment knew by then, and they were tiptoeing around as though someone had died. Claire emerged from her room as seldom as possible, not wanting to see anyone, and Morgan asked Max what he thought about it that night.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Men do strange things sometimes. Sometimes they move too fast and scare themselves to death, and then they run. But he’s a serious guy, with a responsible business. You’d think if he was backing out, or changed his mind, he’d have the balls to tell her.”

“Maybe not,” Morgan said quietly. They were having a late dinner at the restaurant, and the crowd was thinning out. She just hoped George didn’t walk in with some other woman, but she couldn’t imagine he’d have the bad taste to do that. And she couldn’t ask him at the office. He was her boss, and had never discussed the relationship with Claire with her. Whatever she knew, she had heard from her roommate. George was not one to discuss his private life with his employees, no matter what they read on Page Six. “He’s dumped a lot of women over time. I think he’s somewhat relationship-phobic. But there’s no reason to just cut her off. He should say something. The poor thing is going nuts, and she looks like she died.” Morgan was upset about it, and even knowing him as she did, she couldn’t figure out what was going on.

“I can imagine,” Max said, looking sympathetic, and then Morgan thought of something she’d been meaning to ask him, but kept forgetting and hadn’t found the opportune moment.

“I know this sounds crazy, but a few weeks ago, I found something unusual in a file the accounting department gave me by mistake. It jumped out at me off the spreadsheets. Money that was put in the wrong account, another smaller amount that was withdrawn and then returned a week later. Nothing was missing, but it was shuffled around and in the wrong accounts. What do you make of something like that? Do you think some kind of funny business is going on there?” George was always so meticulous about their accounts that it had surprised her. “And he invested funds in a company where one of the directors was indicted by a grand jury a few years ago, and then it was dropped. Do you think something weird is happening?”

“No, I don’t. He’s too smart to do something dumb like that, and he’s a standup guy. He’s got a golden reputation. He’s not going to screw that up and risk getting in trouble. I think more likely someone just messed up in accounting, and then fixed it.”

“I thought that too,” she said honestly, “but you never know. Sometimes strange things happen in my business. Look at Bernie Madoff.” He had been the ultimate financial criminal of all time, and had been sentenced to 150 years in prison, for bilking banks and clients out of billions. But not in her wildest dreams could she imagine George doing something like that. Nor could Max, which reassured her. She trusted his judgment, and he had keen instincts about people.

“George is no Bernie Madoff.” Max smiled at her, and then looked serious again. “I’m not worried about his cooking the books, but I am worried about Claire. After eight days, it’s not looking good, and there aren’t a lot of possible explanations, except a bad one for her. I feel terrible for her,” he said gently. He was very fond of Morgan’s roommates. They were all nice women, and he liked them better than some of his own sisters.

“I feel awful about it,” Morgan said too. “It’s a hell of a blow. I think she trusted him completely and is really in love with him. I don’t know how she’ll get over it if he never shows up again.”

“She may have to,” Max said sensibly. “He owes her an explanation, but it doesn’t sound like he wants to give it to her. By now he would have contacted her, if he was going to.” Morgan nodded, as they both thought about it.

It pained Morgan to see how normal George looked in the office. He acted as if nothing had happened. And while he joked and chatted and went in and out of meetings, Claire was dying a thousand deaths in the apartment, staying in bed, and looked like a zombie.

Two weeks after Thanksgiving, Claire had still never heard from him. She had thought of going to his office to demand an explanation and confront him, but it seemed too melodramatic. She wrote him a letter asking him what she had done to offend him, and told him how much she loved him, and dropped the letter off at his apartment. She had written him several e-mails. It was impossible to understand. He had told her he loved her, that she was The One, and he wanted her to be the mother of his children, and then he had vanished. It made no sense and sounded crazy to all of them. If he had changed his mind, it would be awful, but all he had to do was tell her. It was obvious to everyone by then, and most of all to Claire, he had scared himself to death, panicked, and run. But he had been the one to set the pace and move so quickly. He had been the one to pursue her and convince her while he wooed her, and tell her he loved her almost on their first date. But whatever his reasons, he was gone, in silence. After two weeks, Claire could no longer make excuses for him—it was over. And she had never lived through as much pain. It was like a death, of hope and dreams, and love, and everything he’d promised. She had lost ten pounds and looked like a woman in deep mourning.

She had gone back to work after a week, and to make matters worse, Walter was torturing her. And even he could see that something terrible had happened.

“What’s going on?” Alex asked Sasha the first time he saw her after Thanksgiving. “Did one of her parents die?” He couldn’t imagine any other explanation for the way she looked, unless she was sick herself, and he hoped not.

“It would appear that she got dumped. George never said anything to her—he just disappeared.”

“What do you mean disappeared? As in left town?”

“No, as in he wouldn’t talk to her or see her. He just shut her out without a word of explanation.”

“What a shithead,” Alex said, looking angry. “He was giving her the full-court press the whole time we’ve been dating. How can he not say something to her?”

“I don’t know. But that’s what he did.” The others were trying to comfort her just by being around. But Claire was going straight from work to bed every day, and sleeping all the time.

And two days later Walter called her into his office. It was ten days before Christmas, and she thought he was going to hand her her end-of-the-year bonus. She had worked hard, and their numbers had improved slightly. And much to her delight, Monique was going back to Paris. Her internship was over.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while,” Walter said, playing with two paper clips on his desk, which seemed to have his full attention. “I was going to talk to you two weeks ago, but you were out sick. You still look like hell, by the way. You should get checked out.”

“I’m fine,” she said bleakly, waiting for him to hand her the check so she could leave his office.

“I know you don’t need this job anymore, with your fancy boyfriend waiting in the wings. You’re going to be a billionaire any day now.” Claire wanted to throw up as he said it, but it was none of his business that George had dumped her, and she didn’t intend to tell him. She didn’t comment. “But whether you marry the guy or not, I know this isn’t the kind of company you want to work for. You want to work for one of the big high-fashion companies, Jimmy Choo, Manolo Blahnik, one of the sexy brands.” He glanced up at her then. “And to be honest, you’ve got the talent. I hear you’ve been sending your CV around, and I’m sure one of them will snap you up. The truth is, your talent is wasted here, and I can’t afford you. I’m letting you go, Claire. I’m sorry. It’s not personal, it’s business. We do best with our own classic styles. We just don’t need a high-powered designer on staff, who wants to make changes. And our numbers are going to be a lot better without you. I can make whatever modifications we need myself.” She was staring at him as though she didn’t understand him, as though he were speaking another language.

“You’re firing me?” Her voice was a squeak, and he nodded. “Because I’ve been sending my résumé around?”

“No, I’ve wanted to let you go for six months. Keeping you doesn’t make financial sense. You need to go make your sexy shoes for someone else. I’m sorry. Good luck. You’ll probably marry the guy anyway, and won’t want to work anymore. But whatever you do with him, I can’t afford you. I wish you all the best.” He stuck out his hand to shake hers, and she shook it, feeling numb, and then turned in the doorway.

“Are you giving me my end-of-the-year bonus?” He shook his head. “Severance?” She had worked for him for four years, and hated every minute of it. She should have gotten combat pay for that.

“Two weeks,” he responded in a flat tone. “It’s not personal, it’s business,” he said again. He was giving her as little as he could get away with. She couldn’t believe it. She was in shock. She walked into her office, put her sketches and personal belongings in a cardboard box, and walked out carrying it, and once in the street, she hailed a cab. It was snowing, and she was soaking wet when she got in.

“You look like you’ve had a rough day,” the driver said, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.

“I got fired,” she said with tears and melted snow running down her face with her mascara. She looked a mess.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and threw the flag on the meter to stop it. He took her home and didn’t charge her when she glanced at the meter. It was blank. “Merry Christmas,” he said, looking sorry for her, and she wished him a merry Christmas too, with tears pouring down her cheeks as she walked upstairs to the apartment. The other girls were there when she walked in, saw her, and were startled by how bad she looked.

“What happened?” Morgan asked her as she came to help her with the box, and Claire stared at her in amazement.

“I just got fired. ‘It’s not personal, it’s business.’ Two weeks’ severance, no end-of-the-year bonus.” It was one blow too many after the hellish weeks of mourning George after he dumped her. And she had no idea what to say to her parents when she went home.

And that night, as though he had radar and needed to add insult to injury, she finally heard from George. He sent her a text. She read it in disbelief, but now nothing surprised her. “I’m sorry, I got in over my head. It’s my fault not yours. I’ve thought about it carefully. This is the right decision for me. We don’t belong together, Claire. I don’t want a long-term relationship, marriage, or kids, or a partner. I’m a lone wolf at heart, and want to be. Best of luck. Merry Christmas. G.” She stared at it for a long time and read it over and over, and then she started laughing hysterically. She walked into the kitchen, holding her cell phone, while the others stared at her, terrified that she was finally losing it.

“It’s official. I just got a text from George after almost three weeks. He dumped me. By text. He said it was the best decision for him. And merry Christmas.” She sat down at the kitchen table with them, feeling mildly hysterical. “Wow, dumped and fired in the same day,” she said, sounding as though she was in shock. Abby put an arm around her without a word as Claire burst into sobs. But she was strangely relieved to have heard from him. At least it was nothing she had done. He had set the pace, he had wanted her so desperately and convinced her to go out with him, said he loved her and wanted to have babies with her, and now he had dumped her. The irony and the cruelty of it was almost unbearable, and she knew that she would never trust any man again. Her roommates put her to bed that night, and sat with her. Sasha lay on the bed next to her. Abby sat on the floor and stroked her hair. Morgan sat at the foot of the bed, looking miserable, watching her, and occasionally patting her foot under the covers. They were there with her—there was nothing else they could do. And Claire finally cried herself to sleep.