He checked the time. He buzzed his secretary, managed to clear his
schedule for the rest of the day, picked up the eightpound file and
headed for conference room number nine, the firm’s smallest and most
secluded, where he could hide and work. He could do six intense hours,
go to the party, come back, work all night, hit the steam room, shower
and shave here, finish up the comments and have them on Alvis’s desk by
three, four at the latest. The little shit.
Six agreements later, Jack ate the last of his chips, finished off his
Coke, pulled on his jacket and ran the ten flights down to the lobby.
The cab dropped him at his apartment. He stopped cold.
The Jag was parked in front of his building. The vanity plate succEss
told him his soon-to-be date for life was up there waiting. She must be
upset with him. She never condescended to come to his place unless she
was upset with him about something and wanted to let him know it.
He checked his watch. He was running a little late, but he was still
okay. He unlocked his front door, rubbing his jaw; maybe he could get by
without shaving. She was sitting on the couch, having first draped a
sheet across it. He had to admit, she looked stunning; a real blue
blood, whatever that meant these days. Unsmiling, she stood up and
looked at him.
“You’re late.”
“I’m not my own boss you know.”
“That’s no excuse. I work too.”
“Yeah, but the difference is your boss has the same last name, and is
wrapped around his daughter’s pretty little finger “Mother and Dad went
on ahead. The limo will be here in twenty minutes.”
“Plenty of time.” Jack undressed and jumped in the shower. He pulled the
curtain aside. “Jenn, can you get out my blue double-breasted?”
She walked into the bathroom, looked around in ill-concealed disgust.
“The invitation said black tie.”
“Black tie optional,” he corrected her, rubbing the soap out of his
eyes.
“Jack, don’t do this. It’s the White House for godsakes.
it’s the President.”
“They give you an option, black tie or not, I’m exercising my right to
forgo the black tie. Besides, I don’t have a tux.”
He grimed at her and pulled the curtain closed.
“You were supposed to get one.”
“I forgot. C’mon, Jenn, for chrissakes. Nobody’s going to be watching
me, nobody cares what I’ll be wearing.”
“Thank you, thank you very much, Jack Graham. I ask you to do one little
thing.”
“Do you know how much those suckers cost?”
The soap was stinging his eyes. He thought of Barry Alvis and having to
work all night and having to explain that fact to Jennifer and then to
her father, and his voice got angrier.
“And how many times am I going to wear the goddamned thing? Once or
twice a year?”
“After we’re married we’ll be attending a lot of functions where black
tie isn’t optional, it’s mandatory. It’s a good investment.”
“I’d rather put my retirement funds into baseball cards.”
He poked his head out again to show her he was kidding, but she wasn’t
there.
He rubbed a towel through his hair, wrapped it around his middle and
walked into the tiny bedroom where he found a new tux hanging on the
door. Jennifer appeared, smiling.
“Compliments of Baldwin Enterprises. It’s an Armani.
It’ll look wonderful on you.”
“How’d you know my size?”
“You’re a perfect forty-two long. You could be a model.
Jennifer Baldwin’s personal male model.” She wrapped her perfumed arms
around his shoulders and squeezed. He felt her considerable breasts push
into his back and inwardly cursed that there wasn’t time to take
advantage of the moment. Just once without the goddamn murals, without
the cherubs and chariots, maybe it would be different.
He looked longingly at the small, untidy bed. And he had to work all
night. Goddamned Barry Alvis and the wishywashy Raymond Bishop.
Why was it every time he saw Jennifer Baldwin he hoped that things could
be different between them? Different meaning better. That she would
change, or he would, or they both would meet somewhere in the middle?