My lawyer then took over, mentioning the sale of a recent baby-product company they had all worked on. It was based in Pittsburgh but growing pretty big, and now was being sued for a patent infringement.
“Don’t worry, though, she won’t be acting like such a big shot anymore. I told her to tell the committee her boss changed her mind. There will be no donation from her, making it look like she’s in power. I’m the man, and all she does is write fluff shit.”
The words floated from behind me, and again, something in my spine tingled.
“I don’t doubt it, Long. We all know you wear the pants in your house.”
Tuning out the patent talk at my table, I was all ears. Our server showed up, and I told her to take everyone else’s order first.
“But I gotta say, I can’t see Margaret trying to assert herself. She’s always so meek at our events.”
“The way she should be. Quiet and in the corner.”
“Wish I had a setup like you.”
“It’s not bad, having a wife who puts up or shuts up, and a side piece who does what I want.”
My blood raged through my veins. I could feel the vein throbbing in my temple, and my earlier resolve to leave Margo alone quickly dissipated.
I couldn’t listen anymore. To think, the asshole was cheating. Margo’s choices probably haunted her day and night, and this ass was right at home with all of his behavior. He deserved everything coming to him.
“And you?” the young server asked, eyeing me like she’d like to order me.
Maybe a month ago, but now I was full-blown stuck in a love triangle, with a side of abuse to go with it.
“Steak salad. Medium. Iced tea,” I mumbled and went back to eavesdropping. My lawyer could catch me up later.
Margaret
Isat in the little coffee shop near the Paula, checking a few emails, my mind wandering.
I’d spent the morning interviewing two fashion designers over Zoom while sitting in the same seat at the window bar. With earbuds in, shutting out the world, my coat underneath my butt and my bag on the hook by my knees, I could almost forget the night before.
Paisley, the second designer, couldn’t believe that I didn’t have an intern or assistant after being a writer/journalist for well over a decade. It was kind of funny ... she was almost interviewing me.
Apparently, her parents had wanted her to be a writer, but she’d chosen fashion over a lackluster career. Her words, not mine. They told her fashion was a pipe dream and destined to be a dead end, especially the gender-neutral line. Of course, Paisley now had her very own young, hip clothing line and an intern, who she actually paid in addition to signing off on credit for her design program.
The interview left me with a ton of notes that required organization, for which I was grateful, and a newfound love of my own career. I might not have an intern or a full-time gig, but I had something to call my own, which I’d scraped and clawed to have ... and to keep.
After two hours of Q&A on the ins and outs of being an up-and-coming fashion designer, I still craved something more to take my mind off the true task at hand. Writing was not only my passion but my escape from reality.
I jotted down a few notes.
The field Paisley’s parents wanted her to get into is as important as the one she ended up choosing, although polar opposites. One involves creating something new and edgy, and the other is an age-old profession. Writing can be edgy too, but stepping outside the expected norms is risky. I guess the same can be said for fashion, but Paisley always had her sights set on clothing free from gender roles.
Damn, if I didn’t know that. I often wrote about the mundane, but my situation was unique. Held back by the man I was married to ... which brought to mind the task at hand.
Without thinking, I picked up the phone and dialed Sheila when I should have been calling Jane, my editor. Sometime in the middle of the night, I’d concocted a plan.
Sheila answered, sounding chirpy as usual. “Margaret, how are you?”
I imagined her sitting there, her red hair straightened to perfection, her lips painted on, and not a wrinkle from her head to her Prada heels. It was hard not to be jealous. Sheila seemingly had it all.
Pushing any thoughts of my messy self out of my head, I said, “I’m well, thanks,” turning on my manners before asking for a favor. It was a tactic I’d learned in college. Sadly, it didn’t work on Tommy.
“Have you found a dress yet for the gala?” she asked.
I rolled my eyes. Tucking my wavy hair behind my ear, I cleared my throat.
