I pick up my phone and call her, playing with the hem of my pencil skirt while I wait. Across from me, Tessa sits, pen poised above her notepad, ready.
“Hello,” a deep voice says over the speakerphone. I scrunch my brow because that’s definitely not Simone. Her voice is low and sultry, sure, but not a baritone.
I look at my phone screen to make sure I dialed the right number. It’s definitely hers. Tessa gives me questioning eyes, and I shrug.
“Um . . . Hi, is Simone available?” I ask, sounding like I’m back in elementary school calling my friend Molly from my mom’s phone to see if she can play.
“Hello, Miss Claire.”
There’s a warmth to that tone, almost a chuckle in his voice, and just the slightest hint of a Southern accent. And I know instantly who it is: Marcus Caldwell, Simone’s husband of fifteen years. He always calls me Miss Claire, and I kind of adore it and wish more people would refer to me that way. Maybe I’ll make it a personal policy.
Focus, Claire.
“Hello, Mr. Caldwell,” I say. “How are you?”
“I’ve been better,” he says. It’s his standard answer. I’ve only met him a handful of times at the holiday parties the firm throws, but every time he’s had the same response, like I’m an old family friend.
“Sorry to bother you, but can I speak to Simone? It’ll just be for a minute.” Long enough for me to tell her she has to come back to work immediately.
“No can do,” he says on a breath.
“What do you mean?” I ask, Tessa and I giving each other twin pinched-brow looks.
“Simone won’t be coming back to work for a while.”
My stomach drops.
“Wh-what do you mean?”
He sighs over the speaker. “Her blood pressure is dangerously high. Doctor’s orders—complete rest, no work, no stress. No exceptions.”
“Oh,” I say, my stomach dropping again, but for a completely different reason.
“So, I’m sorry to say, Claire, she’s no help right now. Not until we get this under control.”
I nod my head at the phone, even though he can’t see me. “Right.”
But I don’t really understand. This is so unlike Simone. I’ve seen no signs of stress from her. The woman barely breaks a sweat. She’s incredible under pressure. Obviously there was more going on than I realized.
“I’d pass on a message, but I’ve got her completely off her phone. No news, no social media, nothing. She doesn’t need the stress.”
Translation: a complete media blackout.
“She must be hating that,” I say, trying to be lighthearted. But imagining Simone sitting in bed, propped up and reading a book—imagining her doing anything other than eating lesser PR professionals for breakfast—is making my brain hurt.
“Oh, she’s been a beast to deal with,” he says, chuckling.
“Well, please tell her I’m thinking of her,” I tell him.
“I can pass on that one. Take care, Miss Claire.”
“You too,” I say before pressing the “End Call” button.
“Wow,” Tessa says, her eyes still on the phone.
I lean back in my chair, my thoughts all over the place. Simone, my powerhouse of a boss, has high blood pressure and won’t be coming back to work anytime soon.
This is terrible news. For Simone, of course. But also . . . for me. But obviously, mostly for Simone.
