“What do you need?”
“Nothing,” she says. She sits up slowly, squinting her eyes to the pain. “It’ll pass.”
“I think you should eat something.”
As if we’re being bugged, Svedka appears at the door. “You want to eat?”
Bella nods. “Maybe a sandwich? Do we have cheese?”
Svedka nods and exits.
“Does she have you on a baby monitor?”
“Oh most likely,” Bella says.
She sits up farther now, and I see that she’s bleeding. There is a dark crimson stain on her gray pajamas. “Bella,” I say. I point. “Stay still.”
“It’s fine,” she says. “It’s no big deal.” But she looks woozy, a little bit nervous. She blinks a few times rapidly.
Ever alert, Svedka returns. She rushes to Bella, pushes up her pajamas, and, as if she were a clown, pulls gauze and ointment from her sleeve. She replaces Bella’s bandages with fresh white wrappings. All new.
“Thank you,” Bella says. “I’m fine. Really.”
A moment later, the door opens. Aaron comes into the bedroom. His arms are laden with bags — errands, gifts, groceries. I see Bella’s face light up.
“Sorry, I couldn’t stay away. Should I make Thai or Italian or sushi?” He drops his bags and bends down and kisses her, his hand lingering on her face.
“Greg cooks,” Bella says, her eyes still locked into his.
“I know,” I say.
She smiles. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”
I think about the pile of paperwork I have, Aldridge’s email. “I think I’m going to head out. You two enjoy. You might want to put on some armor before entering the kitchen,” I say. I look toward the door at Svedka, who is scowling.
As I gather my things, Aaron climbs into bed with Bella. He gets on top of the covers, still in jeans, and he gently shifts her so she’s in his arms. The last thing I see when I leave is his hand on her stomach — gently, tendering, touching what lies beneath.
Chapter Twenty-Five
It’s Monday morning. 8:58 a.m. Aldridge’s office.
I’m sitting in a chair, waiting for him to return from a partner meeting. I’m wearing a new Theory suit with a silk high-necked camisole underneath. Nothing frivolous. All severity. I’m tapping my pen to the corner of my folder. I’ve brought all our recent deals, the success I’ve helped and in some cases overseen.
“Ms. Kohan,” Aldridge says. “Thank you for meeting me.”
I stand and shake his hand. He has on a custom Armani three-piece suit with a pink-and-blue shirt and matching pink-trimmed detail. Aldridge loves fashion. I should have remembered that.
“How are you?” he asks me.
“Good,” I say, measured. “Fine.”
He nods. “Lately I’ve been noting your work. And I must say—”
I can’t bear it. I leap in. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve been distracted. My best friend has been very sick. But I’ve brought all my case work to the hospital and we’re still on schedule with the Karbinger merger. Nothing has changed. This job is my life, and I’ll do whatever I can to prove that to you.”
Aldridge looks puzzled. “Your friend is sick. What’s wrong?”
“She has ovarian cancer,” I say. No sooner are the words out than I see them, sitting on the table between us. They are bulking, unruly, bleeding. They ooze all over everything. The documents on Aldridge’s desk. His gorgeous Armani suit.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” he says. “It sounds serious.”
“Yes.”
He shakes his head. “You’ve gotten her the best doctors?”
I nod.
“Good,” he says. “That’s good.” His eyebrows scrunch, and then his face descends into surprise. “I didn’t call you here to reprimand your work,” he says. “I’ve been impressed with your initiative lately.”
“I’m confused.”
“I’ll bet,” Aldridge says. At this, he chuckles. “You know Yahtzee?”
“Of course.” Yahtzee is one of our tech companies. They’re primarily known as being a search function, like Google, but they’re relatively new and building in interesting and creative ways.
“They are ready to go public.”
My eyes go wide. “I thought that was never going to happen.”
Yahtzee was created by two women, Jordi Hills and Anya Cho, from their college dorm room at Syracuse. The search function is outfitted with more youthful terminology and results. For instance, a search for “Audrey Hepburn” might lead you first to the Netflix documentary on her, second to E! True Hollywood Story, third to her presence in modern CW shows — and the ways to dress like her. Down the list: biographies, her actual movies. It’s brilliant. A veritable pop-culture reservoir. And from what I understood: Jordi and Anya had no intention of ever selling.
“They changed their minds. And we need someone to oversee the deal.”
At this, my heart starts racing. I can feel the pulse in my veins, the adrenaline kicking, revving, taking off—
“Okay.”
“I’m offering you to be the key associate on this case.”
“Yes!” I say. I practically scream. “Unequivocally, yes.”
“Hang on,” Aldridge says. “The job would be in California. Half in Silicon Valley, half in Los Angeles, where Jordi and Anya reside. They want to do as much work as they can out of their LA offices. And it would be quick; we’ll probably begin next month.”
“Who is the partner?” I ask.
“Me,” he says. He smiles. His teeth are impossibly white. “You know, Dannie, I’ve always seen a lot of myself in you. You’re hard on yourself. I was, too.”
“I love this job,” I say.
“I know you do,” he tells me. “But it’s important to make sure the job is not unkind to you.”
“That’s impossible. We’re corporate lawyers. The job is inherently unkind.”
Aldridge laughs. “Maybe,” he says. “But I don’t think I’d have lasted this long if I thought we hadn’t struck some kind of deal.”
“You and the job.”
Aldridge takes off his glasses. He looks me square in the eye when he says: “Me and my ambition. Far be it from me to tell you what your own deal should be. I still work eighty-hour weeks. My husband, god bless him, wants to kill me. But—”
“You know the terms.”
He smiles, puts his glasses back on. “I know the terms.”
The IPO evaluation begins in mid-November. We’re already creeping further into October. I call Bella at lunch, while bent over a signature Sweetgreen salad, and she sounds rested and comfortable. The girls from the gallery are over, and she’s going over a new show. She can’t talk. Good.
I leave work early, intent on picking up one of David’s favorite meals — the teriyaki at Haru — and surprising him at home. We’ve been strangers passing in the night. I think the last time I had a full conversation with him was at the hospital. And we’ve barely touched our wedding plans.
I turn onto Fifth Avenue and decide to walk. It’s barely 6 p.m, David won’t be home for another two hours, at least, and the weather is perfect. One of those first truly crisp fall days, where you could conceivably wear a sweater but because the sun is out, and still strong overhead, a T-shirt will do. The wind is low and languid, and the city is buzzy with the happy, contented quality of routine.
I’m feeling so festive, in fact, that when I pass Intimissimi, a popular lingerie company, I decide to stop inside.
I think about sex, about David. About how it’s good, solid, satisfying, and how I’ve never been someone who wants her hair pulled or to be spanked. Who doesn’t even really like to be on top. Is that a problem? Maybe I’m not in touch with my sexuality—which Bella, casually — too casually — has accused me of on more than one occasion.