At 7:45, I’m still the only person on the floor that I know of. I do one last touch-up of my lip gloss and stride to the videoconference room. In there, I pick up the remote and consult the list to make sure I have the right number to dial in to get Jude. I press the numerical buttons and hit the green “call” button. After a series of beeps, I see a room with a round table and six chairs around it. But I don’t see anybody in the room.
“Cheers, Lisa,” Jude says dully from somewhere off-camera. “How’re things in the good ole U-S of A?”
My heart flutters when I say, “That’s twice now you’ve called me ‘Lisa.’”
Suddenly he ducks into the camera’s view. “Crikey! Libby! I didn’t even look up at the telly. I thought Lisa was setting this up.”
“She couldn’t make it,” I explain simply. I don’t want to waste time talking about her.
“A big sacrifice for you, I take it?” he says, joking about the early hour as he dunks a teabag up and down in the mug in his hand.
I’m too uncool to play it cool convincingly. “No. I, uh, volunteered. I don’t mind.”
He laughs. “Oh, is ‘early riser’ a new personality trait?”
I blush and hope it’s not visible on camera. “No, I just meant, I was happy to get a chance to see you.”
“Ah,” he nods. “Right. Well, you look well. All suited and booted, aren’t we?” When I stare blankly at the camera, he interprets, “Dressed up.”
“Not really,” I deny lamely, chagrined at how obvious I am. “Anyway, you look good too. Only six more months of winter there in the U.K., right?”
We joke about the weather some more while I examine him from head to toe. His hair is longer again; probably no time to “faff around” with haircuts. He’s wearing a suit with a vest, although it’s a gray one I’ve never seen before. It’s slightly shiny and cut a lot slimmer in the legs. European, I’m guessing. It’s nothing I would have picked out for him, but he wears it well.
He inquires, “What’s the latest gossip there in the Windy City office? Anybody giving someone else a good seeing to? Who’s the current office fanny magnet? I always thought that Bruce bloke in the mailroom fancied you.”
I laugh nervously. “I don’t know. I don’t really socialize much. I think there’s a guy in IT who’s popular, since he’s under 25 and has a full head of hair.”
“Ah, yes. I seem to remember him. Ginger bloke,” Jude acknowledges. “I feel so out of it over here. I see Lisa once in a while when she sets up these calls, but she’s not very chatty with me. Did you tell her something nasty about me, Foster?”
I know he’s joking, but his question reminds me of the make-believe conversation I had with him. “I haven’t told anyone anything,” I say a touch more defensively than I intend to. “I mean, like I said, I pretty much come to work, do my job, and go home.”
“Yeah? And how’s Sandberg, the pompous bastard? Glad to be shot of me, I’m sure.”
Just then, Gary walks into the conference room. “Jude! Sorry I’m late. Bad accident on the highway this morning. Traffic back to BFE… Anyway, how are things there? I got a call from a Geoffrey something-or-other…”
“Haversham,” Jude supplies smoothly. “Right. He wants us to submit a proposal on a project in a very up-and-coming part of the city. Plenty of potential for other jobs if developers there see and like what we’ve done.”
“Excellent. That’s what I like to hear. Oh, excuse me a minute, Jude.” He turns to me as I’m exiting the room. “Libby, you mind grabbing me a cup of coffee? There wasn’t any made yet.”
“No problem,” I reply brightly. “I’ll be right back.” As soon as I clear the door, I grit my teeth and mumble, “Anything else? A shoe shine, perhaps?”
The office is filling up now, a lot of people talking about the accident that Gary mentioned to Jude. While I make the coffee, I wonder—as I always do—about the people involved. To everyone else, a traffic accident seems to be just a major inconvenience, something that causes them to be late for work. But I always whisper a little prayer to help those involved get through what may be the worst day—or several days, weeks, months, and years—of their lives.
As I’m pouring Gary’s coffee and putting two scoops of sugar in it, as he likes (and ruing the fact that I know this), Leslie walks in, giggling with the computer guy I was telling Jude about. When she sees me, she mock-sobers. “Oh, Libby. There you are. Jude was asking for you.”
I can’t resist perking up at the news, but I immediately regret it when she continues, “Yeah, he asked for me first, but I was busy, so he said you would do in a pinch.”
Her barely post-pubescent companion snickers as he buys a pop for breakfast. Leslie smirks and licks her lips to try to keep from laughing out loud.
“Funny. I get it.”
She looks concerned. “Are you sure? Because I can explain it to you: he slept with me first, but I found him boring, so he moved onto you. And you seemed to suit him just fine, for a while.”
It takes every ounce of my self-control to resist splashing Gary’s scalding coffee into her face. But rent’s due in a week.
I do say, though: “Leslie, is this ever going to get old for you? Because I have to tell you, it’s not very classy for you to be so proud of being a one-night stand.”
“Who said anything about one night, honey?”
Her comeback throws
