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And sheer terror in her eyes. She shook all over.
Here? Why here, at one of her own events? What were the odds? Fate was having evil fun at her expense.
She lingered in the little room for as long as she dared, wiping off the toilet, cleaning up her face, adjusting hair, clothes and facial expression. She braced herself, and tried on a cheerful, professional smile. Oh, boy. Nix the smile.
She couldn’t fake or finesse this one. She didn’t even have her cell phone on her, to call Nick and bleat desperately for rescue. It was in her office, in her purse, way down the corridor at the end of this wing.
She tried to talk herself down. The man wasn’t going to stop chowing down on his poached salmon and take time out to murder her. Nor did he seem the type who would do his own murdering. He was, however, certainly capable of making a few discreet inquiries and then stepping around a corner to make a phone call. And that would be that for Becca Cattrell.
She would be, as Nick so expressively put it, so fucked.
She was not at all surprised to find Marla waiting outside, her taut rear end perched half-on, half-off the long marble vanity counter. Her arms were crossed, her brows knit. She looked furiously angry.
There were other women primping and washing, and Marla waited in stony silence for them to leave. Becca braced herself as the door closed behind the last woman, leaving them alone.
Marla lost no time. “You slept with him, didn’t you?”
Becca stared at the other woman blankly. That took her utterly by surprise, so beset was she by images of grisly death wounds and bullet holes. “Ah…huh? With who?” she floundered. “I—but I—”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” the older woman hissed. “I’m talking about Mathes. So that’s where you were all those days you didn’t come to work, hmm? The phone messaging, the slut lingerie? Did he give you a fake name, Becca? Did he not tell you he was married? Christ, what an innocent you are.”
Fuck a duck. Becca struggled to organize a coherent response. She just kept opening and closing her mouth as it sank in that the conclusion Marla had leaped to was a screamingly obvious one. Far more probable and believable than the awful truth.
Marla raged quietly on, her voice laced with suppressed anger. “That was his wife, Helen Mathes, beside him. Remember the tall blonde with all the bling? Big philanthropist, on all the charitable boards in the city? She attended the Mother/Daughter Tea you organized last year. With her nine-and twelve-year-old girls. Mouthy little blond brats, both of them. You don’t remember her?”
Becca shook her head. “I don’t remember her,” she whispered.
“I very much hope that you’re not thinking anything stupid, Becca. Like, for instance, that he’s going to leave his wife for you.” Marla’s eyes swept critically over her. “Please be realistic. You’re a very pretty girl and very sweet, but you’re hardly a femme fatale.”
“Marla, I’m not—”
“And now, damage control.” Marla dragged a handful of perfumed facial tissues out of the pink marble dispenser and shoved them into Becca’s hand. “I am very sorry that you’ve had not one, but two romantic disappointments in a single week. But this is an opportunity to show your true colors. I want to see how professional you can be.”
“But Marla, I—”
“Get out there and work, just like nothing ever happened. It’s the only dignified thing you can do,” Marla announced. “What’s he going to do? Whatcanhe do? Nothing, Becca. If he sees you, be classy. Smile. Pretend you’ve never seen him before. Smile big at his wife, too. Let him wonder what you’re capable of. Let him squirm and worry. He deserves it, the lying, cheating prick. But do not let him control you!”
Marla’s lecture was delivered in ringing tones that should have been accompanied by inspiring theme music. Becca stared at her boss’s stern expression, and found herself wishing desperately that she could do exactly as she was told. Just go with the flow.
After all. It seemed so lurid, so improbable. Maybe the whole episode had all been some sort of crazy hallucination. A bad dream she wanted so badly to forget. Or at least ignore. Maybe if she pretended…and hoped he didn’t notice her, or recognize her…?
No. Not an option. She’d seen what she had seen. She’d surfed on rivers of blood. She had to face it, own up to it, and deal.
“I cannot go back out there,” she said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”
Marla’s face tightened. “You’re running out on me in the middle of one of the most important events of the year because you slept with the wrong guy? For God’s sake, Becca! Everyone’s done that a time or two! Get over it! Grow up!”
I didn’t sleep with that slimy son of a bitch. I would rather die.
She wanted to scream it at the top of her lungs. She swallowed the impulse down, and it bumped like a big rock in her throat.
She both liked and respected Marla. Despite her sharp tongue and her bitchiness, she was protective and supportive, even maternal to her younger employee. Becca genuinely valued Marla’s good opinion.
But at this point, she had two options. Marla could think that Becca was a weak-willed, scared slut, or else she could think that Becca was a deluded paranoid nutcase. Both options were painful.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” she said, meaning it with every cell of her body. “I have my reasons. I just can’t do it.”
Marla’s eyes narrowed, and opened her mouth. At that moment, another woman came into the bathroom and headed for one of the stalls. Marla waited until the stall door clicked shut, and then leaned forward and whispered savagely into Becca’s ear.
