‘I don’t have man trouble, because I don’t have anything to do with men.’
‘Pity.’
‘Pity, schmity.’
‘You sure you don’t want to talk?’
‘Stefan,’ she snapped, ‘I’m not talking about this with you. We are not friends.’
‘Ouch.’ He feinted grabbing his bruised heart at that.
Izzie laughed. ‘What I like about you is that I can say anything and you can take it.’
‘I’d love you to say anything to me, but you always turn me down. Like that time I asked you to have early drinks with me before the Ford party…’
‘I had to work. Besides, when I turned up, you’d found yourself a date.’
She’d been tempted by the invitation at the time, during another date-drought, before she’d given up on men altogether. But Stefan had cut a swathe through more than one model agency. She’d often wondered if he had his own wall with model cards on it and a merit-rating system.
The night in question, she’d showed up at the party to find him being consoled by a Texan model who had legs up to her armpits, a curtain of platinum hair down to her coccyx and a body made for lingerie adverts.
‘She was on the subs’ bench,’ he said. ‘You were first team.’
‘You’ve an answer for everything, Stefan,’ she sighed. ‘You do realise that if it was anybody else but me, you’d be facing a sexual harassment suit right now? You’re lucky I’m so easy-going.’
‘You, easy-going? Hey Irish, never get hard-going, will you?’
‘Let’s concentrate on what we’re doing.’
‘Not over coffee,’ he groaned. ‘We’re supposed to be doing the brainstorming in the conference room.’
‘It’s hard to think creatively with that pair wrecking my buzz. Can’t you hire executives whose facial muscles allow them to smile?’
‘Point taken. They are kinda miserable. Hard to believe, but there’s a lot of competition to get on to the SupaGirl! team. Great package, great healthcare, gym in the basement…’ Stefan pretended to flex a muscle, ‘…guys like myself, looking decorative and available for dates because hot girls from the model agencies keep turning them down –’
‘That’s it!’ Izzie banged her cup down, spilling coffee on to the counter. ‘A competition. What about a find-a-model-for-SupaGirl! competition?’
Even as she was saying it, her mind was flipping the idea over. Was it a stupid idea or a clever one? There was such a fine line between the two.
‘Brilliant!’ said Stefan, clearly not thrown off track by his meanderings being interrupted. Izzie wanted to give him a hug. He might be a macho male in some respects, but he was an out-and-out professional.
‘Absolutely brilliant. Publicity and launch in one fell swoop.’
No, hugging would be a mistake, she reckoned. Stefan might misconstrue it. She patted his arm instead in a filial gesture. ‘Glad you like the idea.’
‘Like it? I love it.’
‘Perfect-NY will represent the girl who wins and we’ll help you set up castings all around the country,’ Izzie went on. No point in her coming up with a fabulous idea and letting the SupaGirl! executives take over.
She almost danced out of the building an hour later and was on her cell phone to the office before she’d got a cab.
Everyone was on a call, so she left messages on people’s voicemails and then sat back on the scuffed black seat and realised that she had nobody else to phone. Carla was her closest friend and she’d just left an ecstatic message on her voicemail.
But there was no one else to talk to. No special someone to phone and murmur that she’d had a brilliant idea, nobody to tell her they were proud of her. Gran loved to hear about her work, but she felt a shaft of misery at the idea of phoning home in order to connect with people who loved her. The deep gloom that had lifted briefly in the conference room descended again.
Before Joe, she’d never needed to phone anyone to tell them her news. But she’d got used to it with him, and now, without him, she felt the lack of it deeply. Damn the rest of the coupled-up world. She was fed up with them.
When she got to the office, the team happily discussed Izzie’s idea before people raced off on their lunch breaks.
‘Hey, you going out for lunch?’ Carla asked her.
‘No.’
‘Good. I want to talk to you.’
Carla led a dead-eyed Izzie out on to the fire escape for a bit of privacy.
‘Yeah, what’s up?’ said Izzie, wrapping her arms around herself. She felt cold – no matter what she did, she hadn’t been warm since last night. It was like the combination of rain and sheer emotional pain had sent a chill into her bones. Even the buzz from the SupaGirl! idea couldn’t warm her up.
‘There’s a bit of prime gossip going around,’ Carla said, ‘’bout a certain married Wall Street gentleman who’s having a hot thing with a model-agency booker. Seems somebody’s driver said to another driver who said it to a hairdresser who told a client – possibly lots of clients. Hey, you know this town, everybody loves to talk – and this particular everybody happens to be a friend of mine and said it to me.’
‘New York whispers are like Chinese whispers, only deadlier, huh?’ Izzie quipped nervously. There was no way Carla could know about her and Joe.
‘Tell me it’s not you,’ Carla said.
Izzie bit her lip. It was only a momentary pause, but it was enough for Carla.
‘Oh fuck, it is you, isn’t it?’
Izzie didn’t want to look Carla in the eye. She couldn’t face the reproach she knew she’d see there. How could she explain this?
I didn’t know the full story that first day – dumb, I agree, but I didn’t know. I didn’t think. He was so charming and sexy and we connected, and by the time he said he was with his wife but not with her, well, I was hooked…
‘Izzie, you cannot be serious! What has happened to you? I should have known,’ Carla raged. ‘I knew something was wrong and I hoped you’d tell me what it was, but I never thought it was a man. A married man! Are you nuts? How many women do we know who’ve gone that route, and it always ends up bad. Always. The only person who wins is the guy.’
‘Look, he’s married, but they’re not together –’ began Izzie, thinking that it was a bit rich that her secret was out now that she’d finally decided it was over between her and Joe.
‘Puhleese!’
‘It’s not like it sounds,’ snapped Izzie. ‘You know me, Carla: I’m not the sort of woman who’s looking for a Fortune 500 guy to tear him away from his wife so I can cut up my subway pass and never work again. I just thought he was a guy, he liked me, we saw each other and –’
‘– and he told you it was over with her?’
‘Living separate lives. Together for the kids.’
Carla actually hit her forehead with the palm of her hand, the international ‘you are a moron’ gesture. ‘And you believed him?’
‘Yes! He’s not a liar, honestly.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me about him, then? I heard nothing ‘bout Mr Wall Street. Why? Because you knew something wasn’t right, didn’t you? And you knew I’d talk you out