“But I’m most concerned about, well, the memory stuff.”
I tapped the wedge of cheese against the grater, releasing the shredded pieces stuck to the inside of the stainless steel pyramid. “What about it specifically?” I asked, keeping my tone even. I wondered where this conversation was headed.
Matt set the pasta noodles in boiling water. “When I told Jake about what was going on, I didn’t mention the part about you not remembering the office.”
“Idoremember the office, or at least the people in it,” I said. “And my job.” I was beginning to adjust to this routine—where people worried and I tried to justify why they shouldn’t. “Where should I put the cheese?”
“Right there is good. We’ll sprinkle it on after.” He went back to stirring the pasta, the chicken. “But what if you can’t remember the work, once you’re there? It seems like you’re expecting to sit at your desk and get right back to it. And I’m worried for you it won’t be like that. Even if you remember everyone’s names, you may not remember other important things.”
To be honest, I was also slightly worried about this. My work and Jameson Porter seemed to have survived from getting caught up in my false memories (if we took Matt out of the equation), but it was true I likely wouldn’t know for sure until I immersed myself back into it.
“I appreciate the concern. Honestly, I do,” I said. “But I remember the work, and our coworkers. I nailed the list.” Matt had added the names of our colleagues and some of the big clients at the firm to my memory confidence list and I’d had no problem recollecting any of it.
“That you did,” Matt said with a smile, draining the noodles. He started to assemble dinner while I got out plates and silverware. “Want a drink tonight?”
“Sure,” I said, reopening the cupboard door for wineglasses. Matt pulled the cork out of the bottle and poured the red wine, handing me one of the filled glasses. “Look, I know it might be a bumpy reentry. But what’s the alternative? I’m good at what I do, Dr. Mulder said I’m okay to go back and, to be totally honest, I’m starting to hate our apartment.” I sprinkled grated cheese on top of our plates of pesto pasta with my wineglass-free hand—the chicken strips looking deliciously crispy and also, for a brief moment again, guilt-inducing. I knew I was an enthusiastic carnivore, but I sometimes still felt like a vegetarian.
“I know how hard this has been, Lucy,” he said, carrying our dinner plates to the table. “And I don’t want to make anything worse for you.” The corners of his mouth turned down—classic consultant “fixer” Matt, when faced with a problem he wasn’t sure how to solve. I hated being responsible for that look.
“Okay, enough of this worry and angst. I get plenty from my parents.” I picked up my wineglass, held it high. “Let’s talk about something fun. Something happy, okay?”
“Cheers to that,” Matt said, clinking my glass. We tucked into the pasta, which was delicious. I was suddenly starving.
“Tell me how we ended up together,” I said. Matt looked at me sharply, midbite, like I’d said something I shouldn’t have. “What? I don’t remember, and I would like to.”
“I just thought...” Matt started. “I thought you wanted to talk about something that had nothing to do with all this.” He gestured in a wide circle between us, and I laughed.
“But that’s fairly tricky, isn’t it?”
Matt grinned. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
I swirled a few long noodles onto my fork. “Okay, so tell me how we went from friends tohere.”
“It was Halloween, and I didn’t have a costume...”
19
Lucy leaned against the entryway of Matt’s “office”—a cubicle, like every consultant at Jameson Porter had because they traveled so often closed-door offices were a waste of both space and resources—and waited for him to notice her. Which he finally did a few moments later.
“Oh, hey,” he said, his eyes back on his computer screen a second later. He swore under his breath and leaned forward, adjusting his glasses as he stared intently at whatever was up on the screen. Lucy smiled. Matt wore glasses only when he was working on the computer, but she’d mentioned more than once he should wear them all the time—they suited him.
Uncrossing her arms and pushing off the frame of the cubicle, Lucy walked into the small space and went to sit down in the chair in front of Matt’s desk until she realized her dress wouldn’t allow it. So she stayed standing. “How’s it going?”
“It’s not.” He sighed, leaned back and clasped his hands on the back of his head. He closed his eyes as he stretched his back into a deep arch against his chair. “The Rooneys are at it again.” Matt had been working on a strategy plan with the Rooney family and their large auto parts business for close to a year, and the infighting between the four kids and their founder father, Donald—who refused to let go of the reins, despite his inability to be nimble with the changing landscape of the industry—had been a source of constant frustration and setbacks. “I’m set to go back out Monday, but I’m not sure it can wait.”
It was Friday, and Matt had been in the office for only two days this week. He’d been spending nearly every Monday through Wednesday in Winnipeg at the Rooneys’ head office and plant, trying to help them implement their growth plan. The constant travel was normal for the firm’s consultants, and Matt rarely complained about the harrowing schedule—necessary to secure a partnership position in a couple of years—but the endless back and forth made Lucy glad she was in communications. The only time she had to travel was for the annual Jameson Porter retreat.
“Which ‘F’ is it?” Lucy asked, watching Matt tug the ends of his hair, back to worriedly scanning his email. Project problems within the office were described by one of two F’s—Fixable or Fatal (Jameson Porter took its internal cultural lingo nearly as seriously as the work itself)—and Lucy hoped for Matt’s sake the Rooney strategy could be stamped Fixable.
“Probably Fatal, but there’s a chance to turn it around if I can convince the siblings to oust Daddy Rooney. Three of the four are on board, but the fourth is digging his heels in.” He sucked in a breath, puffed out his cheeks, looked irritated. Matt had invested much time and energy into the Rooneys. If things went belly-up now, he would be devastated. “I don’t want to have to bring Jeremy in.” He cursed under his breath. Jeremy Darby was a partner and Matt’s mentor, though he was fairly hands-off—something Matt appreciated and didn’t want to change.
“Maybe I can help? Write a memo?” Part of Lucy’s job at Jameson Porter was drafting reports for the clients on behalf of the consultants, to aid with communication and to keep things moving forward with the project. “I can do it right now if you want.”
“I may need to take you up on that,” he said. Then he pulled off his glasses and glanced away from his screen, finally giving Lucy a good look. “Whoa. What’s happening here? What’s up with your hair?” he asked, gesturing to the left side of Lucy’s head, where she’d used nearly an entire bottle of gel to make her shoulder-length hair stick out straight to the side, like it was windblown.
Lucy laughed. “Glad you finally noticed.” She pointed to the skirt of her black dress, which was also sticking out to the same side and angle as her hair. She raised her eyebrows, pointed to her outstretched hair and skirt again. “Get it?”
He stared at her blankly, clearly getting nothing.
