“How’s business been?” Margaret asked.
“Okay for this economy. Looks like I might be picking up some more work with the Hamilton Group. A furniture manufacturer.”
Margaret nodded enthusiastically. She took a personal interest in Ben’s career, which he mildly resented. “I read in the City Journal that they won a few new big contracts.”
“So it would seem,” Ben said. “I think they’re still dickering a little. I helped with some initial concepts on one project, but they’re on radio silence now.”
“Same old story. Hurry up and wait.”
Ben nodded and took a roll from the basket.
“I’m working with a software company that needs a fresh set of sales tools to promote a new release.” She set a small portfolio where an extra place setting had been cleared and opened it to a set of matching brochures. “I was thinking something along the line of these pieces. At least conceptually.”
“You do these?” Ben asked.
“I did,” said Margaret, a little color rising in her neck. “Almost a decade ago.” Ben knew that she had a quiet pride about her old design work. She had given it up after surgery for carpal tunnel didn’t help. But she had a good business as a marketing consultant.
“They have a little of that ‘nineties wave-of-the-future look, but they’re pretty good pieces,” said Ben. She always appreciated his professional assessment of her past work. He wondered if she suspected that he quietly pulled his punches.
“You obviously see how the look and feel match, but there’s a sort of visual progression from one product to the next.”
Ben suppressed a yawn. It wasn’t so much the talk that was making him tired, but the glare coming through the glass.
Boom. Ben jerked in his seat, and Margaret nearly knocked over her water glass. A large, flat hand lay pressed against the outside glass where it had struck. The opposite hand twiddled its fingers in a smarmy wave. The two hands belonged to Sidney Alstead. He walked along the front of the restaurant and came inside.
Margaret glanced at Ben, raising her eyebrows.
“It’s okay, a friend of mine,” Ben said and immediately regretted it.
Sidney walked up the aisle, shaking his head and motioning for Ben to stay seated. He towered above them. “How are you, Ben?”
“Not unwell. This is Margaret Chase.”
“Margaret,” said Sidney, nodding curtly. Neither held out a hand.
Ben waited through an awkward silence, then finally asked, “Do you want to sit down? We already ordered.”
“Okay,” said Sidney, pushing into the booth next to Margaret. “But just for a second. I’ve got a meeting with Wilson.”
“Wilson?” Ben couldn’t stop himself. “You’re doing some work over there?”
“Well, sure. You knew that.”
Ben nodded hastily. “I didn’t realize they got you on board so fast.”
“Like that,” Sidney said, snapping his fingers. “It’s almost more than I want at this point.” He glanced at the open portfolio. “Your work?” he asked Margaret.
“It is,” she said.
Sidney turned down the corners of his mouth, quickly turning through the portfolio’s pages. “But you’re not designing anymore?” It was more a statement than a question.
“That’s true,” said Margaret. “I had to give it up. Carpal tunnel. You figured because the products are all old?”
“No.” Sidney shook his head. “I figured because the work is crap.”
Margaret looked as if she had just been slapped — angry and astonished.
“Christ, Sidney,” said Ben, “That’s a bit much.”
“Hey, no hard feelings.” He smiled at Margaret. “It’s not personal. You’ve given it up anyway. I’m just calling it like I see it.”
“Maybe,” Ben leaned forward, “you’re not seeing too well.”
Sidney held his palms up. “I’m not going to argue about it.” He slapped the table and slid out of the booth. “I’m sure Ms. Chase has lots of other skill sets to keep her going.” He winked openly at Ben. “I’ll see you next Friday at the Hamilton Christmas party.” As he walked out of the restaurant, waiters had to press themselves against tables to let him pass.
Neither of them said anything for a minute or more. “That’s a friend of yours?” Margaret finally asked.
“Not really. Not at all,” said Ben. “We just met at one of those Ad Federation meet-and-greet events.”
“I didn’t know that they made them like that anymore.”
“Apparently they do,” said Ben.
Margaret zipped up her portfolio and set it next to her in the booth. Ben ate his soup and sandwich when it came, but he hardly tasted the food. Margaret offered small, friendly talk, but Ben found it hard to imagine that she would want to work with him now. He would just remind her of this very unpleasant experience. Ben thought he might not like to work with her either. Did she think that Sidney had taken over his work at Hamilton? It wasn’t true. They had a lot of projects and many clients.
Besides, Ben had to admit, there was more than a little truth in what Sidney said, as impolite as he had been. He had to compromise his artistic standards when he worked with Margaret. She always wanted the most pedestrian designs. Ben should’ve told her long ago that she needed to defer to his judgment on visual matters. If she did want to work with him in the future, he would tell her just that.
When the check came, Ben suggested that they split it down the middle.
When Sidney called on Tuesday afternoon, Ben was mocking up some designs for Margaret Chase after all. The Hamilton project was still in limbo, and he had time on his hands. It went against his grain, but if he completed some initial layouts, she might be willing to forget the whole incident, like the proverbial bad dream.
It was hard though to imagine Sidney as some illusory netherworld figure when his name showed up on the caller ID.
Ben picked up the phone. “Hello, Sidney.”
“Got your spy phone working, I see,” said Sidney.
“What’s up? I’ve got a rush project.”
“I hope not for that bimbo.”
“No,” Ben lied. “Something else. But that so-called bimbo commands a lot of business in this town. And she knows a lot of people.”
“Not an issue for me. Looks like I’ll be going in-house at Hamilton. Starting next Monday. Thought I should let you know.”
Ben beat his fist quietly into his thigh. He was glad Sidney wasn’t there to see the expression on his face. “That’s great. Going in as an associate designer?” He imagined Sidney would at least be stuck with the worst rote production work.
“Come on. Those days are behind me. It’s a senior designer position.”
Ben couldn’t reply, but Sidney was rambling on. “I wasn’t sure if I should take it. I like my independence. At least you’ve got that. But a few good years with Hamilton, and I could start my own agency.”
“What would you call it?” Ben whispered.
“I don’t know,” said Sidney. “I haven’t thought about it.” He paused for a moment, but couldn’t come up with an answer. “Look, once I’m inside, I should be able to throw some work your way.”
Ben rolled his lips against his teeth, then managed a simple, “Okay.”
“I owe it to you.” Sidney laughed offhandedly. “I’m responsible for you since I, you know, saved your life.”
“My life?”
“Forget it,” said Sidney. “I’d better let you get back to your rush job. See you Friday night at the Walpole.” He hung up.
Ben set his phone slowly back in the cradle. For a second, he imagined moving to another city and starting over again. Or starting some other career. One where he’d never cross paths with Sidney Alstead.
His invitation to the Hamilton Group holiday party had never arrived. Ben considered attending under the premise that Sidney had invited him. But Sidney didn’t work there yet. He could almost certainly crash, but it would be humiliating if they were checking a guest list or had assigned seating.