“How’s work?”
“Great. Other than being up to my neck in details: costumes, wrangling parents, soothing spiders and pigs that haven’t learned their lines yet. The third grade is doing
Kelly smiles. “I love that book! Your job sounds so idyllic.”
“It does?”
“Oh, yeah. I would love to get out of the rat race. Every night there’s something going on. I know it seems glamorous-the client dinners, box seats for the Giants, passes to concerts-but it’s exhausting after a while. Well, you know how it is. You’re an advertising widow from way back.”
I look across the room and catch William’s eye. He heads toward us. He’s a tall, well-built man, his dark hair graying at just the temples, in that defiant way some men gray (as if to say to hell with the fact that I’m forty- seven-I’m still sexy as hell and the gray makes me look even sexier). I feel a rush of pride as he crosses the room in his charcoal suit and gingham shirt.
“Where did you get your boots?” I ask Kelly.
William joins us.
“Bloomie’s. So, William, your wife isn’t familiar with the term
William frowns. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Where have you been, Alice?”
“She’s been right here, suffering Frank Potter, in fact,” says Kelly.
“You were talking to Frank Potter?” William asks, alarmed. “Did he approach you or did you approach him?”
“He approached me,” I say.
“Did he mention me? The campaign?”
“We didn’t talk about you,” I say. “We didn’t speak for long, actually.”
I watch William clenching his jaw. Why is he so stressed? The clients are smiling and drunk. There’s a lot of press. The launch is a success as far as I can see.
“Can we get out of here, Alice?” asks William.
“Now? But the band hasn’t even started. I was really looking forward to hearing some live music.”
“Alice, I’m tired. Let’s go, please.”
“William!” a trio of attractive young men circles around us-also members of William’s team.
After William has introduced me to Joaquin, Harry, and Urminder, Urminder says, “So, I was ego surfing today.”
“And the day before,” says Joaquin.
“And the day before,” says Kelly.
“Will you allow me to finish?” asks Urminder.
“Let me guess,” says Harry. “1,234,589 hits.”
“Dumb-ass,” says Urminder.
“Way to steal his thunder, Har,” says Kelly.
“Now 5,881 sounds pathetic,” pouts Urminder.
“10,263 definitively does not sound pathetic,” says Harry.
“Or 20,534,” says Kelly.
“You’re all lying,” says Joaquin.
“Don’t be jealous, Mr. 1,031,” says Kelly. “It’s unbecoming.”
“50,287,” says William, silencing everybody.
“
“That’s because you won that Clio,” says Harry. “How long ago was that, boss? Nineteen eighty-?”
“Keep it up, Harry, and I’ll take you off semiconductors and put you on feminine hygiene,” says William.
I can’t hide the startled look on my face. They’re having a competition over how many hits their names bring up. And the hits are all in the thousands?
“Now look what you’ve done. Alice is appalled,” says Kelly. “And I don’t blame her. We’re a bunch of petty narcissists.”
“No, no, no. I wasn’t judging. I think it’s fun. Ego surfing. Everybody does it, don’t they? They’re just not brave enough to admit it.”
“What about you, Alice? Googled yourself lately?” asks Urminder.
William shakes his head. “There’s no need for Alice to Google herself. She doesn’t have a public life.”
“Really? And what kind of a life do I have?” I ask.
“A good life. A meaningful life. Just a smaller life.” William pinches the skin between his eyes. “Sorry, kids, it’s been fun, but we’ve got to go. We have a bridge to cross.”
“Do you have to?” asks Kelly. “I hardly ever see Alice.”
“He’s right,” I say. “I promised the kids we’d be home by ten. School night and all.”
Kelly and the three young men head for the bar.
“A small life?” I say.
“I didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t be so sensitive,” says William, scanning the room. “Besides, I’m right. When’s the last time you Googled yourself?”
“Last week. 128 hits,” I lie.
“
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
“Alice, please, I don’t have time for this. Help me find Frank. I need to check in with him.”
I sigh. “He’s over there, by the windows. Come on.”
William puts his hand on my shoulder. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
There’s no traffic on the bridge and I wish there was. Heading home is usually something I relish: the anticipation of getting into my pajamas, curling up on the couch with the clicker, the kids asleep upstairs (or pretending to be asleep but likely texting and IM’ing away in their beds)-but tonight I’d like to stay in the car and just drive somewhere, anywhere. The evening has been dislocating, and I’m unable to shake the feeling that William is embarrassed by me.
“Why are you so quiet? Did you have too much to drink?” he asks.
“Tired,” I mumble.
“Frank Potter is a piece of work.”
“I like him.”
“You
“Yes, but he’s honest. He doesn’t try and hide the fact. And he’s always been kind to me.”
William taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the radio. I close my eyes.
“Alice?”
“What?”
“You seem funny lately.”
“Funny how?”
“I don’t know. Are you going through some sort of a midlife thing?”
“I don’t know. Are
William shakes his head and turns up the music. I lean against the window and gaze out at the millions of lights twinkling in the East Bay hills. Oakland looks so festive, almost holidayish-it makes me think of my mother.
My mother died two days before Christmas. I was fifteen. She went out to get a gallon of eggnog and was struck by a man who ran a red light. I like to think she never knew what was happening. There was a screech of metal hitting metal, and then a gentle whooshing, like the sound of a river, and then, a peachy light flooding into the car. That’s the end I’ve imagined for her.
I’ve recited her death story so many times the details are stripped of their meaning. Sometimes when people ask about my mother I’m filled with a strange, not entirely unpleasant nostalgia. I can vividly summon up the
