“We’ll see, okay? I’ll call you. Don’t worry. I love you.”
We hang up and before I can second-guess myself, I call Francesca and request the final guest list. In thirty seconds, my email bings, I tap it open on my phone and scan it. It looks the same as it did the previous Wednesday, no mention of Molly McKay or Gunther What’s-his-name. I call Francesca back and ask her if there is a way someone could have attended the benefit without being on the guest list. She is flippant.
“Sure, I think some sets of tickets were purchased as comps from corporations. That’s pretty common, an out-of-town colleague, the boss wants to show him a nice event, see how swanky New York can be? Benefit events are used as networking opportunities all the time. Why?”
I say no reason and we hang up. I log on to the computer with my phone still in my hand. I Google Gunther and the University of California, San Francisco, and the first hit has a picture. Gunther Rowe. The picture is dated this year. His face is sloped into his neck and his smile is wide, too ingenuous for a man approaching thirty. His teeth are gapped and the overall effect is cartoonish. He looks slightly older than my memories of him, a bit more rotund, but there’s no doubting who he is. A few more Google searches reveal Gunther and Molly were married a few years ago, a lavish west coast wine country wedding.
A few more searches, including Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn reveal Gunther is currently living in Mobile, Alabama, as a pharmaceutical sales representative for Gencor Pharmaceuticals. Another quick search shows me the home office of Gencor is on Lexington Avenue here in Manhattan. I puff out a breath. Okay, that mystery is probably solved. I contemplate calling Francesca back to confirm, but between my hasty exit last night and the phone call this morning, she probably thinks I’ve lost my mind. I feel irrationally stuck, claustrophobic. What if Molly and Gunther figure out who I am? It wouldn’t be difficult, really, I’ve become shamefully carefree. I imagine them staking out my apartment, possibly chatting easily with Walter, the doorman. How long have you known Zoe Whittaker? I put my head between my knees and take a few deep, calming breaths. I’m thinking of the pictures, God, I was so stupid. I want to bring CARE up a notch—I said that! What was I thinking? What if my face ends up in the newspaper? It wouldn’t be the first time.
Shortly after I came to New York, I was part of a feature that appeared in New York magazine for the flower shop where I worked, La Fleur d’Elise. I was a grunt, an intern. They stuck me in the corner of a group photo shoot, no matter that I tried to wriggle out of it altogether. I repeatedly turned my head at the last moment, until the photographer, exasperated, finally proclaimed he’d gotten a good one. Elisa had looked at me, rolled her eyes like she’d known I was the problem. When the feature ran, I sweat bullets for a month. But my face, my stupid, stretchy, involuntary grin was there, as recognizable as anything. Nothing happened.
I press my fist between my teeth. I’ve always had a problem with listening, even as a child. I was stubborn. Hilary will do what Hilary will do. A common singsong refrain from Evelyn, her round cherubic face, healthy and flush with color, tilted up, her mouth open, her finger wagging in front of my nose.
I remember something and fish through my purse. Pulling out a slip of paper, I dial the number scrawled on the back in my own hand. When the receptionist picks up and chirps New York Post, I ask for Cash Murray. His voice comes on the line after a small blip of hold music and I ask him to meet me for coffee. He agrees and picks a place a block from the office. I dress conservatively, in a white silk blouse and black pants, and I’m at the coffee shop ten minutes early. To my surprise, Cash is already there, seated in a corner booth, thumbing through the New York Times.
“Do you have to hide out in obscure diners to read that?” I say as I slide into the booth across from him. My pant leg catches on a ripped swath of red vinyl. I look down quickly and am relieved to see the fabric isn’t torn.
He gives me a grin, and I realize he’s much younger than I’d thought. He’s my age—a beefy man, the kind that spends an hour in the gym every day, but probably not more than that, a simple effort to fight off genetics. His elbows rest on the table and his arms are thick, his nails bitten to the quick. He moves quickly, the jumpy, alert markers of a journalist.
“To what do I owe the honor, Mrs. Whittaker?” He sips from his mug, raising one eyebrow. I flush, feeling transparent.