“Marin’s here,” she announced. Marin stepped inside and had to bite her lip not to audibly gasp at the sight of Julian sitting in the chair opposite Hilton Wallace. Julian barely glanced at her, which stung, even though she knew he was doing the right thing.
“Close the door, would you, Carol? Thanks.”
Marin’s stomach tightened like a fist.
“Marin. Julian,” he said, nodding at them. What was this about? It took all of her willpower not to glance at Julian to see if he was anxious or if this was just business as usual. “I won’t insult the considerable intelligence of either one of you by pretending you don’t know why you’re here.”
Marin’s stomach dropped. With all her considerable intelligence, she suddenly did know why they were there. But where had they gone wrong? How had a senior partner found out about their relationship?
Julian and Marin, both trained negotiators, said nothing. Hilton, understanding this, nodded and steepled his fingers under his chin.
“I’m sure you are both aware of our firm’s policy on fraternization.”
Marin felt her morning coffee rise to the back of her throat. Should she speak up and deny it? She wished she could talk to her father, as if this were a game show and she was allowed one lifeline call. But this was no game, and there was no way out of what Hilton Wallace said next. “I’m asking you both to tender your resignations, effective immediately.”
Chapter Eight
The sound of a ringing phone roused Marin from a deep daytime sleep that felt like she’d been drugged. Her first thought, squinting against the sunlight streaming into the living room, was that she was certain she’d turned off the damn phone—had turned it off days ago. The last call she’d taken had been from her father, who’d told her to “get back on the horse” and come home to Philadelphia, where he would have to pull strings to get her a job. And there it was—her ultimate punishment. It wasn’t losing her job or even potentially losing Julian. It was her father’s disappointment.
The ringing, shrill and persistent. She realized it was the house phone; it must be the doorman calling up from the lobby.
Julian. Why had it taken him so long?
They hadn’t seen each other since the excruciating dismissal from Hilton Wallace’s office.
At first, walking out of Cole, Harding, and Worth with the security escort by her side, her laptop repossessed by the firm, a single box of her belongings in her arms, she told herself they would rally. They would both find new jobs. The firm would not be punitive; the partners simply didn’t want to risk a sexual-harassment lawsuit. They were being thorough—that was the nature of the business.
But Julian didn’t see it that way. He had actually said that his life was ruined. She didn’t have the nerve to ask if he meant by her, Hilton Wallace, or himself.
That first night, he told her he needed a little time alone.
“I have to process this.”
“You blame me,” she said.
“I don’t. I don’t blame you, Marin. If anything, I blame myself for being so reckless. And I just need some space to deal with that right now. Alone.”
She told herself this was a natural, understandable reaction. After all, she had things to figure out herself. They spoke on the phone a few times, but the distance between them was painfully obvious. This will pass, she told herself. It has to.
And then, two days later, the Page Six blind-gossip item: “Legal Lovebirds.” Which two rising stars at a top-notch law firm had a hard fall from grace when they fell for each other? Hint: The affair derailed more than their professional reputations. The lady lawyer was formerly engaged to UBS banker Greg Harper. But all’s well that ends well: Harper has happily landed in the arms of NY News1 anchor Sarah Stall.
It was officially public; it was officially ugly. She had cheated on her fiancé, she had slept with her boss. She had lost her job. (The one bright spot? Her guilt over breaking up with Greg was at least partially alleviated, seeing as he had already moved on. The news anchor was young and pretty and, well, what did she expect?)
She cringed to think of Greg reading the Page Six piece. She hadn’t told him there was someone else—had wanted to spare his feelings. And yes, she’d also been a little afraid that he would be vindictive. Greg was a Wall Street guy—he was type A. You didn’t make seven figures by age thirty by sitting back and letting things happen to you.
How had they gotten busted? She lay awake at night, replaying their relationship moment by moment, a film on a constant loop, looking for the slipup. Had it been the day she’d walked into his office when Hilton was there? Marin would probably never know. And, really, what difference did it make? The damage was done. And Julian blamed her. He said he didn’t, but she knew better.
She kept looking at the key he’d given her, a tangible reminder that he did care for her—this wouldn’t all just disappear. She was tormented by the constant temptation to go over there and see him. At least he hadn’t asked for the key back, she told herself.
Not yet.
She checked her phone obsessively, hoping for something from Julian. It was painful, not only because there was never a voice mail or text, but because every time she opened her e-mail, it was a minefield of well-meaning friends who had heard from so-and-so on Facebook blah-blah-blah.
And then, a voice-mail message she didn’t want: Rachel Moscowitz was coming to New York. On her way to see her biological father’s family. “They’re Portuguese,” she said. “And I guess, so are we!”
What a mistake to have called her. A moment of weakness. Oh, if only she could forget everything that had happened that last day in the office!
She reached for the phone, but it had stopped ringing. She dialed the front desk.
“You called?” she asked the doorman. It came out like a croak and she had to clear her throat. How long had it been since she’d spoken to someone?
“Yes, Ms. Bishop. Your mother is on her way up.”
Marin closed her eyes. Not Julian, but her mother. Of course. How long had she thought she could put off her mother? She looked around at her comforter and pillows on the couch where she’d fallen asleep in front of the TV every night this week and where she spent most of the day.
No more hiding. She dragged herself across the living room to open the door.
“Hi, Mom.”
Blythe strode in without a word, her blond hair perfectly coiffed, dressed in gray slacks and a lightweight baby-blue cashmere wrap. She dropped her car keys on the small wooden entrance table and pulled Marin into a hug.
“You’ve had me so worried. Are you okay?”
Marin knew Blythe could answer her own question just by looking at her daughter’s unwashed hair, her ratty T-shirt, the yoga pants she’d both slept in and worn during the day for the past week. She knew her cheekbones stood out. She’d had no interest in food and had barely eaten anything; her face had been carved into sharp edges.
Marin folded herself back onto the couch. Her mother sat next to her, moving aside a crumpled ball of tissues and the TV remote.