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CHAPTER ONE

 

“I don’t understand what Bruce Springsteen has to do with why you haven’t been on a date in over a year,” Hannah asks.  

“You haven’t heard the Thunder Road story?” Michael laughs.

“Everybody has a Thunder Road story,” I say, smiling at the approaching waiter as the single candle flickers in the scoop of very pink gelato.  My friends sing me Happy Birthday and I can’t help but smile.  They’re off key and terrible. 

“Make a wish!” Allison says.

A moment.  I close my eyes and breathe in. 

An elaborate photo album opens up inside my own mind.  You can wish for anything, Anna.  You’re forty now. 

Forty. 

The photo album shows me atop mountains, the breeze blowing my hair back.  The pages flip and now we’re in Paris, meandering through a farmer’s market.  Flip.  Drinking a pint of Guinness overlooking all of Dublin?  Flip.  A red gingham tablecloth, a picnic and the Jefferson Memorial.  The flips are growing more manic.  A gray shingled cottage in a small beach town along the California coast?  Flip.  Fresh, lavendery linens, a perfect Sunday morning with nowhere to go and a muscular chest beneath my cheek.  Flip.  I’m dressed to the nines and accepting the Clio. Flip. I’m lying on the grass and covered in squirming golden retriever puppies. 

I open my eyes.  All five of my friends are just staring at me.  Concerned.

“It’s just a wish not an exorcism,” Ferdie says, taking a swig of his beer.  My mind goes blank and I blow out the candle.  I’m forty years old and I have no idea what to wish for.

 My friends clap as I pull the candle from the gelato and lick the end.  Raspberry.  The other desserts arrive and we all dig in. 

“So, the Thunder Road story,” Allison asks, pulling the chocolate monstrosity she and Michael ordered closer to her.

“I went out to dinner with this guy who worked in my building.  He seemed nice enough.”

“Seemed being the operative word,” Nathan adds.

“Never a good sign,” Hannah says, taking Nathan’s hand in hers.  He makes no attempt to hold Hannah’s hand back.  She smiles and picks up her fork, digging into her tiramisu.  We all let her think we didn’t see.  We’ve been not seeing Nathan’s annoyance at Hannah for years now.

“Dinner is fine.  Not terrible.  Worthy of a second date anyway and as we’re driving home, Thunder Road comes on the radio,” I say, stopping to take a bite of my gelato. 

“That’s such a great song,” Ferdie says.

“Somehow I don’t think that’s where the story is headed,” Hannah laughs.  Nathan rolls his eyes. 

“I just wanted to put it out there.  It’s not the song’s fault,” Ferdie says. 

“Always the protective brother,” Hannah says. 

“He’s being protective of the song, not me.  So-” I say, nudging Ferdie.  “So this guy starts singing along – not really knowing the words, but enough.  Enough for me to think better of him, you know? 

“Knowing the lyrics to Thunder Road is a definite plus on a first date,” Michael adds.

“Right?  And it was one of those beautiful DC nights right before the summer turns evil and there we are: Windows down and singing along with The Boss. Then we get to that part-” Allison pulls her cardigan over her face, attempting to shield herself from what’s coming next.  Michael barks out a laugh and she continues to cringe as if I, and the story I’m telling, were some kind of horror film.  “We get to that part, ‘you ain’t a beauty, but hey you’re alright.’”   The table gasps in unison.  I continue, “And the bastard motions to me.”  I raise my eyebrows and hold my hand aloft, “YOU AIN’T A BEAUTY, BUT HEY YOU’RE ALRIGHT.”  And then I just sit back and nod. 

“Your wedding vows are writing themselves,” Michael says, cracking both of us up.

“No.  That… that didn’t happen,” Hannah says.

“Oh, yes it did,” I say, taking another bite of my gelato.

“And he just… he just kept singing?” Hannah asks.

“Like nothing had happened.   Like he was just hilariously acting out the song,” I say.

“Nonononono,” Hannah says, picking up her wine glass. 

“And it was right then – and you know I don’t care about looks, but I sure as hell know that the person you’re dating should think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world,” I say.  I catch Michael gazing at Allison as she finishes off their chocolate cake.  Hannah and Nathan can’t make eye contact.  Ferdie gives me that sheepish grin of his. I know he hates this story, but telling it helps.  “I needed a break.  Ever since the divorce, I’d been way too focused on moving on with the wrong kind of men.  But in that moment, I knew enough to know I was nowhere near ready for the right one.”

“So you put yourself-”

I interrupt Hannah, “On a Time Out, yes.”

“For a year?” She asks.

“I needed to take some inventory,” I say.

“You needed a training montage.  We get it,” Michael says.

“A training montage?” I ask, laughing.

“Yeah, you needed to run through North and South Philly while being thrown oranges and hitting sides of beef,” Michael says absently, taking a bite of his dessert.  We all just look at him.  He finally notices we’re not following. “Please tell me you know what I’m talking about.”

“Oh, we know,” Ferdie says.

“Oh, we got it,” I say. 

“Thank god, I thought I had to get a new group of friends there for a minute.  Who doesn’t know about Rocky?” Michael asks.

“The question is: are you at the Philadelphia Museum of Art yet,” Allison asks, clearly more used to Michael’s Rocky analogy than the rest of us. 

“That’s the only question?” I ask. She laughs. 

“No, I get it.  Are you ready for the fight?  Ready to step into the ring?” Michael asks.

“I think you’re taking this whole Rocky thing a bit too far,” I say.

“I mean, I don’t think Rocky analogies can ever be taken too far, but that’s just me,” he says. I laugh. 

“Kids have a way of making personal inventory taking impossible. Sadly, no training montages for us,” Hannah pipes up.

“Unless this is a training montage containing a series of clips where I try to figure out where all our money and sleep went,” Nathan says. 

“Sense of self, cleanliness, how many elastic waist pants you now own…” Allison adds.

“Chronicling all the neuroses you’ve clearly passed on to them as you watch them interact with other kids,” Michael says. 

“All soundtracked to old Survivor tunes,” Nathan adds.

“God, what ever happened to them,” Michael sighs. 

Everyone laughs, happy to move on.  Hannah’s eyes dart to her wine glass, her finished dessert and Nathan now looking at his phone under the table.  She looks back up at me and I smile.  Allison excuses herself to the bathroom and Hannah joins her.  I take this opportunity to check the time.   10PM. 

“You got somewhere to be?” Ferdie asks, eyeing me. 

“I have a plan,” I say.

“You’re Marpling someone aren’t you,” he says.

“What?” I ask, innocently.

“Without question,” he says.

I ignore him.  And I totally am. 

It was in my second year at the local community college when I came up with my Marple Theory. 

The Anna Wyatt Marple Theory is named after Agatha Christie’s Miss Jane Marple, the elderly lady detective who brought countless criminals to justice.  Miss Marple was effective because everyone underestimated her and no one ever noticed her observing, chronicling... working.  No one ever noticed her at all. Ergo, The Anna Wyatt Marple Theory was born:  If someone doesn’t perceive you as a threat, how will they see you coming?  They won’t. 

 A text from Audrey.  It’s an address on K Street.  From where we are in Adams Morgan, it won’t take me long at all to get over there.

“Your boss is texting you at 10PM on a Sunday?” Ferdie asks, craning over to see my phone.  

“Nosy,” I say, tucking my phone back into my purse.

“Marple away, birthday girl, Marple away” he says, finishing his beer. 

I smile at Ferdie and let him chastise me.  Thing is, my birthday dinner was lovely.  There were flowers delivered to my apartment this morning from Michael and Allison and I had a lovely lunch with a couple of people from work.  While I don’t regret or second-guess my decision to go on a dating sabbatical for the last year, I do welcome the prospect of not having to go home to an empty house just yet.  Michael’s words come roaring back.  Am I ready to step into the ring yet?  Guess that’s a resounding no.  I check back in just as Nathan is settling the bill, much to everyone’s chagrin. 

“It’s on me.  I insist,” he says, sending the waiter away.  Hannah beams.  We are all unfailingly polite and thank Nathan for his generosity.  We always do.  That’s the deal: he buys dinners and we act like he wasn’t a complete jerk the whole time. 

“We’d better get going.  The babysitter is going to think we finally made a run for it,” Michael says.  Allison nods.  We gather our belongings, make our way out of the restaurant and say our goodbyes. 

“Happy birthday, Anna,” Nathan says. I situate my purse over my shoulder, hold onto my phone with the address to where I’m going and try to stabilize the beautiful handmade mug Allison made me inside the very elaborate pink gift bag it came in.

“Oh, thank you,” I say, reaching out and putting a hand on his arm.  He smiles and softens for the slightest of moments.  His salt and pepper hair ruffling in the summer wind.  He says his goodbyes to everyone and walks over to his awaiting car, beeping it unlocked.  Hannah’s smile falters as he strides away.  Michael and Allison remind me that our book club is reading Hamlet and that they’re making Danish Meatballs for our gathering.

“Don’t you mean-”

“We mean Danish meatballs.  They’re Danish,” Michael says as he hails a cab. 

“Even though they may very closely resemble Swedish Meatballs,” Allison adds.

“Let’s just say there will be plenty of dill and discussions about what exactly happened in that closet between Gertrude and Hamlet,” Michael says, arm held high into the night’s sky. 

“I thought we were reading Twelfth Night,” Ferdie says, scrolling through his phone.

“Nope, that’s next,” Allison says.

“Next?” Hannah asks.

“We’re reading Shakespeare in order,” I say.

“Nerds,” Hannah laughs.

“Proudly,” Michael says, as a cab slows in front of him. He opens the door and signals to Allison. 

“Happy Birthday, my darling,” she says, giving me a huge hug.

“Thank you,” I say, letting her warmth surround me.   One last smile and she walks over to the cab and climbs in.  Once she’s in, Michael walks back over to me. 

“Happy Birthday,” he says, towering over me one minute then engulfing me in a hug the next.  He bends down just enough to whisper, “And the rest is silence” in my ear.  I can’t help but laugh.  A quick squeeze and he’s climbing into the cab with Allison.  They wave and speed off. 

“I’m sorry about-“ Hannah says, gesturing over to Nathan as he starts up the car.  Ferdie walks a few steps away to where his bike is chained to a parking meter. 

“Oh honey, don’t worry about it. Birthday dinners for your wife’s friends are a scourge to couples everywhere,” I say.

“I keep thinking it’s a phase, you know?” she says, in a shocking moment of honesty.  One I will ask her about later and she will “forget” this conversation ever happened.  “How did you… how did you know it was over with Patrick?” I decide to answer with the truth.

“We were driving home from somewhere and having one of our fights – the same fight really.  Right?”  Hannah nods and allows a small smile. “Always the same fight. And then this calm passed over me. Completely out of place.  I remember it so vividly.  Like I could breathe again.  And then this germ of an idea:  I could get out.  It shouldn’t be this hard.”

“Marriage is hard.”

“But not all the time.” Hannah pulls a tissue from her purse and dabs at her eyes.  “I’d forgotten what being happy felt like.  Happy with him, anyway.  I filed for divorce a week later.” 

“Happy.  God, we were so happy,” Hannah says.

“I know.”

“I was much thinner back then!” Hannah laughs.

“Honey, you’re beautiful.  Stop with that,” I say, watching as Hannah pulls at her clothes, trying to smooth out her growing curves.  Curves made from trying to comfort herself in a loveless marriage.

“If I could just lose a little weight, you know?  Maybe we could-”

“Hannah-”

“Leave it to me to be the crying girl at your birthday,” Hannah says, looking back at Nathan.  She gives him the “Just a sec” sign and he nods.  God, they were so in love.  They were the couple you hated because they could never keep their hands off each other.  They were scandalous and hot and he was all she thought about and vice versa.  Now they can’t even look at each other. 

“You going to be okay?” I ask, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Yes.  Of course I am.  Now.  Enough of my histrionics, it’s your birthday,” Hannah says, giving me a big hug.  She was always such a good hugger.  “Happy Birthday,” she whispers in my ear. 

“Thank you,” I say, as we pull apart. 

“Don’t work too much tonight.”

“I won’t.”  Hannah reaches out and squeezes my hand.  “Call if you need anything,” I say. 

“I will.  Ferdinand Wyatt come over here and give me a hug.” Ferdie walks over and lets Hannah lunge into him with a hug, idly patting her back with his mitt of a hand.  She busts him about getting a real job and walks off to the car.  

Tonight’s festivities, while lovely in every way, still feel a bit off.  In transition.  There’s been a lot of that ‘in transition’ feeling over the past year.  On top of the dating hiatus, my training montage has also been about cleaning house of all the friends in my life that I’ve outgrown or just weren’t working anymore.  And while that may be empowering in the abstract and feel impressive as I wax rhapsodic about it to my therapist, the truth of it – the daily reality of it - is much quieter.  The lack of white noise in my life has been a bit harder to get used to than I thought it would.  Having people around that caused drama was, I’m finding, quite the hobby of mine.   Now that it’s gone?  It’s just me.  In my apartment.  Feeling evolved and valiant as I smugly troll the various social media of people who look like they’re having way more fun than I am. 

I haven’t been ready to step into the ring, so for right now it just feels lonely. 

I watch as Hannah closes the door behind her, pulls the seatbelt across her body and smiles at me. Nathan says something to her and she nods.  Then she looks down at her lap, her body utterly deflated.  They drive off and all I can do is watch. I’ll be very happy when I don’t have to act as though I like Nathan anymore.

“I have never been around two people who hated each other more,” Ferdie says, pulling his messenger bag over his shoulder and situating the strap across his chest.  My little brother still looks like he did when he was twelve.  Wild brown curls cut into this end of summer weird faux hawk thing that he does.  He’ll shave it all off within the week.  His tall, powerful frame from a lifetime of hockey still settling around a knee injury that left him hopeless as he disappeared into a fog of pot smoke, barroom brawls and nights in the drunk tank.  But tonight he’s cleaned up and clothed in khaki Dickies and a plain white t-shirt.  Nine years my junior and quite the surprise to our parents, Ferdie looks like every kid you screamed at to get off your lawn. 

“They weren’t always like that,” I say, hailing a cab.  

“Well they’re like that now,” he says.  He wheels his bicycle over and wraps the chain around his waist.   “So, where are you meeting Audrey?”  I pass him over my phone and show him the address.  “Here?”

“Yeah, do you know it?” I ask, waving down a cab.  

“Oh, I know it,” Ferdie says, handing me back the phone.  “I worked as a bouncer for them a coupla times.”  A cab pulls over and I tell him the address through the open window. 

“And?” I climb into the back of the cab and settle in. 

“It’s The Naughty Kitty,” Ferdie says, climbing onto his bike.

“Wait, what?”

“It’s a strip joint, Anna.”

“I…what?”

“Maybe you can make it rain for your fortieth,” he says.

“I don’t even know what that means,” I say, as the cab pulls away from the curb.

“You’re about to find out,” Ferdie yells after me.

As I ride to the Naughty Kitty, I allow myself to get excited.  I got the idea several months ago.  I‘d just finished pitching an ad campaign for this line of bras and panties – or “intimates” as the client insisted on calling them.  They’d been known as the relics your Grammy bought you for Christmas.  Now, thanks to me, they were going to be the line of bras and panties you – yes, you working professional – are thinking about buying for their function as well as form.  It’s a huge account and I nailed it.  I’ve certainly come a long way from when I first started at Holloway/Greene as a file clerk fifteen years ago. 

I was hailing a cab outside of this tiny bakery I treat myself to when I’m in New York when I did something I hadn’t done in years:  I looked around.  I’m always so focused and set on keeping up with the pace of New York that I never stop and look up, look around, take it all in.  It was a beautiful spring day.  Bright blue skies high above the buildings and a lovely snap of cold; a deceptively enchanting hold over from the brutal winter we’d all just endured.  The honking horns.  The sirens.  The beeping of some truck backing up.  I looked back down and realized I was standing across the street from the monolith that was the Quincy Pharmaceuticals building in Midtown.  It’s exactly the sort of imposing high-rise that you imagine when you think of New York.  I bit into my pan au chocolat, crumbs now all over my power suit and thought. I should be pitching in that building to Quincy Pharmaceuticals:  Forbes 500 list, some 110 subsidiary companies and sold in over 87 countries worldwide. The Quincy Pharmaceuticals with annual worldwide sales are upwards of $25 billion.

I’d been in the trenches with that inane pop star’s new clothing line that looks like it was inspired by cotton candy and all we need is artwork on that terrible kombucha that my ad piece assures you “tastes great” even though it resembles pond scum.  Pitching to the people who work in a building like that would mean I could stop being relegated to the pink ghetto of Ladies Only products.

I went back to the office and started digging.  Researching anything and everything about Quincy Pharmaceuticals.  I had to find a way in.  It wasn’t until summer rolled around that I finally found it: Luxe Shower Gel, a sad little pink sparkly soapy-goo that the company had all but forgotten.  No ad agency attached. It was ripe for a rebranding.  And I was the woman to do it.  Of course they didn’t know that yet. 

I’m walking through the Naughty Kitty’s dirty, vomit soaked parking lot when I’m almost hit by a speeding car.  It screeches into a parking space and I’m getting ready to yell at the driver when I realize I know him. 

“You almost killed me,” I say, my stupid pink gift bag not helping my outrage.

“Anna!  You’re in a strip club parking lot!  Just like me!” Chuck Holloway.  Maybe twenty-five years old, looks twelve, acts eight. 

“What are you even doing here?” I ask.  He shuts the driver’s side door behind him and looks at himself in the side mirror.  By the time he gets his blonde bangs juuuuuuust right with the precision of a surgeon and tightens his tie I’ve waited so long I’m positive I’ve caught Chlamydia from this parking lot.  “Chuck.  What are you doing here?”

“Pop called me.  It’s got to be about the car account, right? He called you, too?” My stomach drops.  No, “Pop” or who the rest of us mortals get to call Charlton Holloway IV, current Senior Partner and part of the Holloway advertising dynasty, didn’t call me and no, it’s not about the car account.  I’m here trying to finagle approval on a goofy little shower gel no one cares about, thank you very much.   We approach the two extremely large bouncers who guard the red velvet curtains that hang over the Naughty Kitty’s entrance.  My kingdom for a black light. 

“IDs,” one of the bouncers says.

“Dude,” Chuck says, digging his wallet out of his jacket pocket.  He produces his ID and hands it over.  “Twenty four.  Read em and weep.”  Twenty. Four.  I can’t…

I pull mine from my wallet and hand it to the bouncer.  He takes it, looks at it and then hands it back. I want to kiss him full on the mouth for not making some joke about my age or not even asking for my ID at all. 

“What’s in the bag?” The other bouncer asks. 

“A mug,” I say.

“Why a mug?” The bouncer asks.

“It’s… it’s just a mug,” I say, pulling it out of its pink depths.

“Why are you bringing a mug into a strip club?” Chuck asks.  The bouncers await an answer.

“I’m not.”  They wait. “It’s a gift,” I say, putting the mug back into the pink gift bag.

“Who are you going to give a mug to?” The other bouncer asks.

“No one.  It’s my birthday.  This is…  I got the mug as a gift at a birthday dinner.  I just came from there. I took a cab,” I say, trying to hide my annoyance. 

“So you had to bring it with you,” the bouncer finishes. 

“Yes,” I say.

“So the mug is for you,” The other bouncer says. A line is now forming behind us.

“Yes.”

“Ohhh.”  They all nod in unison, proud.

“Go on in,” the bouncer says, finally pulling the red velvet curtain back.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Hey, happy birthday,” he says, his attention now on the businessmen queuing up just behind us. 

“Thanks.”  I try not to touch the velvet curtains as I finally walk inside The Naughty Kitty.   

The music is loud, but not deafening. It takes a second for my eyes to recalibrate to the darkness.  I slow my pace, with Chuck right at my heels.  Finally I can make out the bar all along the left wall.  To my amazement, it looks like any other bar with men and women sitting and leaning, drinking and flirting.

“I always thought it was weird that women come to strip clubs, you know?” Chuck yells over the din. 

“I do know,” I say, continuing to scan the room for the Holloway/Greene group.  I look to the right and that’s when I see the long, mirrored runway coming out from the large stage.  There are smaller tables all around the runway, crowded with men in various stages of arousal or boredom or drunkenness or all of the above.

“You’re here on business though,” Chuck says.

“I think a lot of people here are doing business,” I say, watching an ancient old man, whom I recognize as a Senator, receiving a lap dance.  The woman on the runway finishes her dance with a flourish and the crowd applauds.

“Let’s give it up for Titty Titty Bang Bang!” The emcee says, as the woman spins her silver pistols around wearing nothing but a pair of cowboy boots, an American flag g-string and a holster. 

“There.  Over in the corner,” I say to Chuck.  He nods and yells out a “HEY-O!”  thrusting his arm high in the air.  And like any other wildlife, his brethren respond in kind.  Hey-os ring through the Naughty Kitty like roars on the African plains. 

 Holloway/Greene is in its own VIP section and we have to go through another set of bouncers to finally make it to the drunken bacchanalia that is whatever is happening with the car account.  I always thought my career promised land would have less pasties. 

“Anna!!”  Audrey says, walking over. Audrey Holloway is the kind of woman who, if she deigned to do her own grocery shopping at all, would absolutely leave her cart in the middle of the aisle while she studied the different brands of quinoa with the focus of a diamond cutter.   She never loses that air of calm that makes her look as though she’s in a constant state of smelling cinnamon rolls baking.  And then she sees Chuck.  Audrey’s cinnamon roll air evaporates immediately.  “Oh, Chuck.  I… didn’t see you there.” 

“Hey, sis,” he says, scanning the room.  A chill.  A forced, polite chill.  Audrey Holloway is the eldest child from Charlton Holloway’s first proper marriage with the china patterns and the good families.  Chuck Holloway is the eldest male child, but he’s from Charlton Holloway’s second marriage to a buxom secretary named Stormy. Let’s hazard a guess as to which the elder Holloway is leaning toward to take over the family business. 

“Chuck!  Get over here, son!” Charlton Holloway IV yells from the corner of the VIP section.  Chuck says his goodbyes and scrambles over to his father and the stripper who’s giving him a lap dance.  A Hallmark moment, to be sure.   

“Get us another round, huh?” A very drunk car executive grabs Audrey by the arm, pulling her to sit on his lap. 

“Easy tiger,” I say, pulling Audrey off his lap and maneuvering a barmaid in front of him.  I pass the barmaid a $20 bill in the process. 

“Get us another round, huh?” The man says to the barmaid as if he’s just repeating himself to the same woman.

“Thanks…. Thank you,” Audrey says, straightening her skirt and gathering herself as the barmaid deftly takes the man’s order, unmolested. 

“Don’t worry about it,” I say.

“I didn’t know Dad called him,” Audrey says.  The black tailored suit.  The silk blouse.  The tasteful accessories.  The shampoo commercial, shiny brown hair and the alabaster skin of someone who always, to quote Audrey herself, “wore a hat whenever they went sailing” which I imagine is much the same thing as trying not to get sun burned while playing in the sprinklers in my underpants with my younger brother.  Audrey Holloway looks like she was bred to christen large seagoing vessels and donate entire hospital wings.  But tonight she’s spending her evening in the Naughty Kitty trying to draw her father’s attention away from a woman in a thong. 

“Me, either.  He pulled up when I did,” I say, eyeing Charlton Holloway IV over in the corner.

“Thanks for the heads up about tonight, “ I say.

“Oh, no worries.  He’s plenty distracted, to be sure.  Good luck,” she says.  I nod and stride toward Charlton, practicing my speech.  This is familiar territory.  I use it to my advantage.

The music kicks in as a woman named Ace Bondage takes the stage wearing way too much black leather for this humidity. 

“Mr. Holloway,” I say.  His face is a tangle of confusion, annoyance and a side of enraged, paused arousal.  “I wanted to confirm the status of the pop singer’s account and-“

“You’re talking business?  Here?” Charlton laughs.  If he weren’t creeping out over some stripper right now, you’d just as soon think he was trying to sell you life insurance during your nightly viewing of Jeopardy.  Charlton Holloway IV looks like every sitcom dad from the 90s.

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“Which is why you weren’t invited, Diane,” Charlton says.

“It’s Anna, but-”

“Anna?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s a shame you have to be leaving.”

“I’ll make it quick then, sir.  Luxe Shower Gel is shopping around for a new agency.  They’re taking pitches this week.  I want to handle ours,” I say.  This, of course, is only partially true.  Okay.  None of this is true.  Charlton’s eyes move over the woman bending down in front of him. 

“Why couldn’t this have waited until tomorrow?” He asks.

“Because she thought of it tonight?” Chuck asks.

“Yes, I can see why one would think scrubbing myself clean would be at the forefront of my mind tonight,” I say to myself, side stepping to avoid touching Chardonnay as she finishes her lap dance and letting Chuck tuck a $100 bill into her G-string before sauntering off.  “I wanted to move forward as quickly as possible.”

“Will saying yes to you make you stop talking?”

“It will,” I say.

“Then yes,” Charlton grunts.  My heart soars. “And goodbye.” And then plummets to the ground.  But, it doesn’t matter.  My plan worked.  Ask when one’s boss is clearly not paying attention and he’ll just want to get rid of me.  I’m sure Warren Buffet gave that advice somewhere in one of his books.

“Thank you,” I say, turning to leave. 

“Wait,” Charlton stops.  Sighhhh.  I turn back around.  “What’s in the bag?” Charlton asks, motioning to the bright pink gift bag.

“What?” I ask.

“The bag?  What’s in the bag?  You bring me something?” Charlton asks.

“What?  No,” I say.

“Are you seriously not going to tell me what’s in the bag?” Charlton asks.

“It’s a mug,” I say, pulling Allison’s handmade mug from the bag with a flourish.

“Why’d you bring-” Audrey walks over and stands next to Charlton. 

“It’s my birthday.  I was at my birthday dinner before coming here.  The mug was a gift,” I say, tucking the mug carefully back within the folds of the pink tissue paper.

“I knew it was a mug,” Chuck says.

“You did,” I say.

“Happy birthday,” Charlton says.

“Thank you. So, the pitch is this week-” I say, not knowing why I feel the need to elaborate on a lie. 

“You’re talking about business again,” Charlton says, trailing off before he calls me by the wrong name again. 

“Anna,” I offer.

“Anna,” he says.  “Time for you to go.”

“Yes, sir.”  I turn to walk out again.  Charlton continues, “This is forty for you, right?”  I turn back around, not mentioning that for someone who wants me to go he certainly is doing everything he can to keep me from doing just that.

“I think she looks great for forty,” Audrey says. Ace Bondage finishes with a crack of her whip and the crowd applauds or whatever it is that strip joint audiences do when they’re--- you know what - let’s stick with applauds.  A woman in a Catholic School Girl’s uniform strolls out on stage and I’m happy to learn that her name is The Lori Hole. 

“At least you’re younger than Audrey over there,” Charlton says.  Audrey is thirty-eight years old.  Just turned actually.  We had an office party.  Charlton attended – gave a speech even – as he’s wont to do. 

I nod and stay quiet, not wanting to take Charlton’s bait or be privy to whatever it is that Ms. Hole there does to earn her that moniker.   Audrey slinks away without a word. 

“You, too.  Off you go,” Charlton says.

“Yes, sir,” I say, my eyes flipping from Charlton to Chuck and then to the countless other Holloway/Greene ad agents whose pockets are filled with ones and sport crooked Ivy League colored neckties around pressed sweat stained Brooks Brothers shirts.  And then I see Audrey.  Old Maid Audrey  - according to Charlton – over in the corner buying another round of drinks and lap dances for everyone. 

I continue walking. 

Little do they know?   

They’ve all been Marpled.

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