“Thanks, Rog. That means a lot.”
After agreeing to firm up our plans in the next day or so, we sign off. I get up to boil water for tea. Daylight has faded, and lights are blinking on in the endless high-rises visible from the apartment. Living here, with this breathtaking viewof Manhattan at night, I’m always struck by how the building lights always seem dabbed on here and there at random, like the backdrop of a Broadway show.
I sip my tea and reflect on the conversation with Roger. I’m glad I asked for his help, and I’m grateful for the chance to see him even sooner than I’d hoped. But something makes my stomach knot, something beyond the fact that he’d planned to be in Manhattan and hadn’t told me. That Marion had surprised him with tickets? And then I realize I’ve completely forgotten Roger’s birthday. It was ten, no eleven, days ago.
Shit. It’s like Gabby said—I’ve been distracted, forgetful. Was it because of having so much on my mind lately, or a precursor to my memory loss?
I shoot him a quick email apologizing and order him a cookbook that I’d eyed for him months ago. Roger’s always been a bit of a bon vivant, someone who loves fine decor, the best wines he can get his hands on, and gourmet cooking.
Absentmindedly I glance at my phone and to my shock, notice it’s almost five. Sasha is due momentarily. I set my laptop on the dining table and open it to the research notes she’d emailed for the podcast. Two minutes later the concierge rings to say my guest has arrived, and I use the time Sasha’s on the elevator to swap my boots for ballet flats.
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” she says as soon as I swing open the front door of the apartment. “I more or less invited myself.”
“No, it’s fine. Come in.” She’s carrying a wrapped bouquet of flowers and a tiny shopping bag. “Let me take your coat.”
“First, these are for you.” She hands me both packages. “I thought the flowers could cheer you up. And I’ve brought chicken soup, too. I know this deli makes the absolute best in the city.”
“Sasha, you shouldn’t have.” On the surface it seems like a lovely gesture, but to me it’s excessive. And from what I’ve learned about Sasha so far, she often has a secret agenda. I know to keep my guard up with her.
“Oh please, my pleasure,” she gushes. “It’s so hard to be sick, especially when your plate is as full as yours is.”
For a second, I wonder if she’s gotten wind of what happened to me. People I know in the field might have heard via the rumor mill of my bizarre visit at Greenbacks, learned it was me who was rolled out on a stretcher. But her expression doesn’t seem to be alluding to it.
She shrugs off the strap of a quilted tote bag and slips out of her coat, revealing a striking drop-waist dress, black on top, with a row of black and white knife pleats on the lower half. It looks great with her blond bob. And it’s sleeveless, emphasizing her perfectly buffed arms.
An awkward moment follows in which I can’t take her coat because I’m holding her offerings. She ends up hanging up the coat herself and then follows me into the great room, where I set the soup on the counter and tear the paper off the bouquet. The flowers are a stunning orange, a type of rose I’ve never seen.
“These are amazing,” I tell her as I pull a glass vase from one of the cabinets.
“I remember you saying your apartment was all white, so I thought you’d enjoy a pop of color on a gloomy day.”
After I fill a vase with water and arrange the flowers, I carry it to the dining table, where I’ve gestured for Sasha to take a seat.
“Your place is absolutelygorgeous,” she declares, scanning the room. “How long have you lived here?”
“About three years. We bought it right after Hugh and I were married.”
“How did you two meet, anyway?”
“At a dinner party thrown by a mutual friend. Can I get you an espresso? Or a glass of chardonnay?”
There’s a beat before she answers, and I sense she’s considering saying wine, a chance to make the meeting more social, but fortunately she opts for the espresso instead. I’m not in the mood for chitchat. While I’m preparing our drinks, I talk over my shoulder, switching topics to the podcast.
By the time I set the two cups on the table, she’s spread out a sheaf of papers and begins to brief me. As planned, Sasha’s preinterviewed the main guest, Jamie Parkin, a female Wall Street veteran who’s written a book on developing everyday fearlessness, and drafted questions for me to ask. She’s also included a boatload of backup research on subjects such as grit and confidence in the workplace.
There’s way more than I need here. I’m a major fan of research—you have to be, with financial topics—but too many statistics can suck the freshness and spontaneity out of an interview. Though I’m briefly tempted to tell Sasha this, I bite my tongue. Being research-crazy is probably good for her at this stage, and the bottom line is that I need projects to occupy her time.
“Let’s focus for a few minutes on the last part of thepodcast,” I tell her. As a favor, I’m allowing her to participate in the final segment of the show, a ten-minute “chat” with me that I usually do with my producer, Casey. It’s my chance to riff on a current financial news headline or trend and offer insights as to how it might affect listeners.
“I’ve already made a list of things that are in the air right now, though that could change this week.”
“Actually, I’d like to try a different tack this week,” I tell her. “Since the interview is going to be mainly about career strategies, and not as much personal finance, I thought you and I could chat about the financial mistakes people make early on in their careers.”
“You mean like buying a toasted white chocolate mocha on the way to work instead of making coffee at home or in the office kitchenette?”
“That’s been overdone lately, so let’s talk about factors that have a much bigger impact. Credit card debt. Not opening an IRA. That’s always a big mistake.”
“If that’s what you want.” I detect a hint of sullenness in her tone. She was clearly banking on me going with one of her ideas.
