Kathryn emerges now in yoga pants and an exercise bra. Her abdominals look like mine used to but I can’t remember the decade. She comes and sits before me, cross-legged.
“What you should be concerned with is hanging out with those women. They’re so non-contributing and they’re not at your level. They’re sucking energy from you and you should distance yourself. They’re giving you a bad reputation and you’re not like them.”
I know Kathryn is referring to the Glass Ceiling Club and I have a déjà vu moment, where my mother is telling me to rid myself of my fourteen-year-old friend Abigail Acuna because she wore bright blue eye shadow and Miss Sixty jeans.
“We aren’t exactly friends, Kathryn, we have a professional motive that unites us. We know we can change some things at Feagin. We never imagined these other firms getting brought to their knees like this, never foresaw where crummy loans and hedge fund rumors could get us. Seems like a bigger problem now than crappy treatment of women.”
“Oh, Belle, we aren’t some government agency, we aren’t a team. Nobody can succeed in these jobs without some ice chips in her veins. Your emotional lovelies weigh on you. Be free of them and any other baggage and you’ll find happiness.”
I think about this insight for a moment and find myself liking Kathryn just a little bit less.
“There’s nobody in my life I want to rid myself of,” I say bluntly. “I mean, maybe there are a few who should hit the road,” I say, sadly thinking of the two-faced Henry. “But I really like them all. So what if I’m spread a little thin?”
“Belle, look at you. You’re a wonder in that you’ve gotten so far despite your parade of dependents. Those women are hangers-on and completely disposable. Do yourself a favor and cut the cord.”
“Cut the cord with other women at work?”
“Cut the cord with everyone who isn’t helping Belle get everything she wants every minute of every day.”
I digest this odd thought for a moment. I review my list of dependents and codependents that I adore. I’m beginning to believe Kathryn is possibly the loneliest person I’ve ever met.
A door closes on the far side of the apartment and I hear the sound of barefooted steps. I turn to see a thirtysomething, dark-haired Adonis step forward. He’s a goateed, tight-white-T-shirted-with-tight-black-shorts guy. He’s carrying a green sludgy drink. Before he hands the drink to Kathryn he leans forward, never acknowledging me, and kisses her passionately, which flexes his sculpted thighs. As she holds the drink he rubs her shoulders and my own neck aches with sympathetic desire, not for Buffy Boy, but for touching of any kind. Kathryn does have a connection with another human! I’m relieved and happy for her all at the same time. Adonis moves behind her to get further down her back as she sips the slithering green muck.
“A visitor?” he inquires with a raised eyebrow tilted toward me. His tone is more accusing than inquisitive.
“This is Belle McElroy. We work together.”
“Together?” he asks with soft deprecation. “Kathryn Peterson works with nobody. She works for Kathryn.”
Kathryn seats herself on the couch, thoughtfully sipping. “Yes,” she responds, as if hypnotized. “I don’t know where that came from.”
“It came from the old Kathryn, the gone-away-forever Kathryn,” Adonis says.
“Yes,” she says dreamily. “Forgive me, it’s been so long since she was here.”
“Let’s make certain old Kathryn doesn’t come back.”
Quack-face comes around the couch to stand before me. He closes his eyes and does that yoga breathing thing, inhaling through his nose, holding it for several seconds, and exhaling through his mouth. He does this three painful times. I awkwardly extend my hand to a man who can’t see it.
“He’s testing your aura,” Kathryn whispers. “His name is Apollo.”
Apollo opens his eyes and shakes his head the way my father did when my brother took the car for a joyride at thirteen years old. There’s disapproval and then there’s that sigh that implies great disappointment in the person. It’s too much for Kathryn. She immediately stands up and walks toward the door. Something in her manner tells me I should be following her, as I clearly haven’t passed the Apollo sniff test. Kathryn pushes the closet door aside and we both enter to retrieve my coat.
“Well, you have a cute boyfriend,” I say, that being the best thing I can come up with.
“Oh, I don’t have a boyfriend,” she says as if I have accused her of insider trading. “Apollo just services me. It’s a mind-body connection that I pay for. I needed someone available by contract with no attachments and no drama. In fact, I believe he has a girlfriend or maybe she’s his wife.”
Again, I try to comprehend what she’s saying. Didn’t they just kiss? Is she saying she pays him to touch her?