Czytaj książkę: «The Pact»
The Pact
Jennifer Sturman
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book would never have been written without Michele Jaffe, who had the great misfortune to read every draft and provided invaluable encouragement and input.
Laura Langlie, my agent, guided me through this process with a sure hand, unflagging confidence and good humor. She even pretended to take my theory of jinxing seriously.
I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to Farrin Jacobs, Margaret Marbury and the entire team at Red Dress Ink for (however clichéd it may sound) making a dream come true.
My college roommates—Anne Coolidge, Holly Edmonds, Heather Jackson and Gretchen Peters—kindly allowed me to steal bits and pieces of themselves and our past (liberally seasoned with artistic license, of course!). Rulonna Neilson, ad hoc image consultant, shepherded me through the jungle that is Bloomingdale’s cosmetics department and captured the moment for posterity. Meg Cabot offered the wise perspective of an industry veteran and more champagne than was probably good for either of us.
My mother, Judith Sturman, my sister-in-law, Lindsay Jewett Sturman, author Gini Hartzmark and friends Stefanie Reich Offit and Karen Bisgeier Zucker graciously served as early readers, critics and sounding boards. Finally, my father, Joseph Sturman, and my brothers, Ted and Dan Sturman, managed neither to laugh at nor tease me about the excellent use to which I was putting my MBA.
Thank you all.
This book is dedicated, with love and gratitude, to my parents.
PROLOGUE
I met Chris at the beginning of my junior year. He was tall and handsome, with thick dark hair and green eyes fringed with the sort of lashes that only boys seem to get but that girls covet. He sat next to me one September afternoon in Modern Art and Abstraction. I dropped my pen, he picked it up, our eyes met, and I fell head over heels in love with a sociopath.
Of course, it took nearly six months for me to realize that he was, in fact, a sociopath. He was a senior and a bit of a mystery to my circle of friends. He’d transferred to Harvard from a small liberal arts college out west, and he had an air about him that was part Mark Darcy and part James Bond. He swept me off my feet, and I was more than willing to be swept.
The first time I realized something was off was the night he figured out how to call in to my answering machine and play back the messages. I was at the library working on a paper, but he was convinced that I was cheating on him. A few months and a number of similar incidents later, I was out of love and desperate to be rid of him.
He wasn’t easy to break up with, but after several tedious conversations that began with “We’ve got to talk” and ended with him still thinking I was his girlfriend, he finally gave up. Soon I heard that he was dating a sophomore, who no doubt was just as enchanted by his attentions as I’d originally been.
The night my breakup with Chris became official, my four roommates and I rose to the occasion with a Girls’ Night Out, a ritual that we’d perfected since its inception freshman year. We would start with blender drinks in our common room in Lowell House and then embark on a pub crawl in Harvard Square, inevitably ending up at Shay’s, our favorite wine bar on JFK Street.
By the time we arrived at Shay’s that fateful evening it was after midnight. The tables were crowded with a mix of undergrads and some business school students from across the river, easily identifiable by their conservative dress and bottles of imported beer. We found seats on the front terrace and ordered the usual—a bottle of cheap red wine to be shared by everyone except Jane, who ordered a Black and Tan. As we waited for our drinks, I began lamenting my poor judgment for the umpteenth time that evening. “How could I have been so stupid?” I moaned. I was a little worse for wear after five hours of fairly enthusiastic drinking.
Hilary, never one to mince words, had a ready reply. “I don’t know. Was he that great in bed?”
Luisa exhaled a stream of cigarette smoke with impatience. “Have a little sympathy, Hil. Rachel was in love. Her first love. Everyone acts like an idiot the first time.”
Hilary snorted her reply but held her tongue while the waiter unloaded our drinks. Emma looked around the table expectantly. She was wearing a sleeveless Indian print dress and woven leather sandals, her mass of dark blond hair hanging loose down her back.
Jane took a sip of her Black and Tan and gave me a good-natured smile. “We all knew that you would come to your senses sooner or later. It happened to be later than we would have liked, but the important thing is that it happened.”
“But why didn’t I listen to you?” I asked. “You all tried to tell me what a nightmare he was—God only knows how many times—and I just didn’t want to hear it.”
“You were doing what you wanted to do,” said Jane.
“Even though what you wanted to do was completely fucked up. I mean, it was clear the guy was bad news from day one.” Hilary poured wine into her glass and passed the bottle to Luisa. “He was so full of himself.”
“He was not bad news from day one,” Jane protested. “He did a lot of things right at first. Remember all of the flowers? And when he took Rachel to Walden Pond? You have to give him at least a few points for that.”
“He’s a man,” said Luisa, stubbing out her cigarette and preparing to light another. “It’s a waste of time to dissect what he did right and what he did wrong.” She pointed the end of the unlit cigarette at me and locked her dark-eyed gaze on mine. “The most important thing is to learn to enjoy men but also to take care of yourself. Next time you’ll know better.”
“But what if I don’t know better?” I asked. “What if the next one is equally awful but in a different way, so that I don’t recognize that he’s awful?”
“Maybe next time you’ll listen to us,” said Jane.
“That’s right,” agreed Hilary. “You’ll remember what a fool you made of yourself with Chris, and you’ll listen.”
“You know, Hil, you haven’t always had the greatest judgment yourself. Remember Tommy Fitzgerald? And what about that guy from the Owl Club? What was his name again? The one with the—?”
“You’re one to talk, Jane. Remember freshman year when you and Sean were taking a ‘break’ and you started going out with that asshole from the crew team?”
“Okay, enough,” said Luisa. “We’ve all made mistakes—there’s no need to catalog them.”
“Luisa’s right. None of us has a very good record on assessing the men in our lives. And when push comes to shove, the rest of us always figure it out before the one who’s actually in the relationship.” Emma was so quiet that when she did speak people listened closely. We were all silent for a moment, considering her words.
“Well, the point is that if any of you come to me and tell me my boyfriend’s an asshole, I promise I’ll listen,” said Jane. This was easy for her to say, given that Sean was as close to the ideal boyfriend as a mere mortal could be. Still, her voice held a challenge in it for the rest of us. She looked around the table.
“Me, too,” said Emma, thoughtfully. “In fact, I’d even make a pact on that.”
“Well, I’d probably already know the guy was an asshole, but I’d listen to you,” said Hilary. “You can count me in.”
“No argument here, especially if it means that I never have to go through a relationship like this again,” I said.
“Luisa? What about you?” asked Emma.
She gave a slight shrug. “We’ve made so many pacts that it’s hard to keep them all straight. Remember the one about giving up caffeine? That lasted about five minutes. Why should this one be any different? What happens if we all promise to listen to each other but then we don’t? Then what?”
“Then the rest of us take matters into our own hands,” replied Hilary. “Obviously. We waste the guy.”
That made everybody laugh. “Come on, Luisa, don’t be such a skeptic,” said Jane. “This one’s serious.”
“Fine, fine.” She caved in to our pleading with another shrug of her shoulders. “I’m in.”
“Good. Then it’s unanimous. We’re making a pact,” said Emma.
“A pact,” agreed Jane.
“Let’s toast!” urged Hilary.
We laughed and clinked our glasses together—all except Jane, who hated when people clinked. In unison, we drank.
None of us would have guessed where this pact would lead.
CHAPTER 1
Perhaps the only thing worse than getting drunk by accident is not being able to get drunk on purpose. I’d switched from champagne to vodka tonics during the second course, but I still felt as clearheaded as the valedictorian at an AA graduation. And somehow calling for tequila shots seemed unseemly in these staid country club surroundings. Instead, I asked the waiter for another vodka tonic, meeting his raised eyebrows with an innocent smile and a request to go easy on the tonic.
The Fates were conspiring against me this evening, I all too soberly reflected. Here I was at my best friend’s rehearsal dinner, and rather than overflowing with joy I wanted to put my head down on the crisp linen tablecloth and weep. And not because of the bridesmaid’s dress I was scheduled to wear the following evening at half past six. (Although I was still curious as to how Emma, who I sincerely believed had only honorable intentions towards us all, had managed to find a style and color that didn’t flatter even one of her four bridesmaids.)
No, the dress and the prospect of wearing it were just fanning the flames of my distress. And while I dreaded the toast I would shortly have to make, it was merely fuel for the fire.
The horror, I thought. The horror.
If I turned my head to the right and counted over three seats, I could see the reason for my silent anguish in the flesh, smugly resplendent in a custom-made charcoal pinstriped suit and vivid Hermés tie, his black hair slicked neatly back from a widow’s peak.
Richard.
He was talking to a client who’d stopped by the table to say hello. He suddenly looked my way, as if he could feel the weight of my eyes upon him. He met my gaze with a smarmy wink and returned to his conversation.
I didn’t know then that a smarmy wink from Richard should have been the least of my worries compared to everything else the weekend held in store. I stifled a shudder and took a big gulp of my fresh drink, trying to ignore how much it tasted like insect repellent and fighting off yet another pang of anxiety. The clock was ticking, moving inexorably toward disaster; the ceremony that would bind Emma to Richard was to take place in less than twenty-four hours.
I sent a desperate glance around the table for moral support, a reassuring word of some sort. The seat directly to my right was empty, reserved for the best man, whose flight from the West Coast had been delayed. Not that I expected any friend of Richard’s to be remotely comforting in this situation. Emma, sitting next to Richard, had turned in her seat to greet one of the many well-wishers who’d come by to speak to her. She’d been so busy with the stream of visitors that she’d barely touched the food on her plate, and the shy smile on her face was starting to look more than a little forced.
To my left sat Matthew, the sort of guy you could always count on to help you out of a difficult spot. Tonight, however, he’d be the least appropriate person to turn to. He hated Richard as much, if not more, than any of us. With good reason. Matthew was the one Emma should be marrying. Unfortunately, this was glaringly obvious to everyone except Emma. I felt indignant on Matthew’s behalf but more than a bit frustrated by his seemingly calm acceptance of the situation. If only he’d made Emma realize how right they were for each other, had taken action years ago, then everything would be different. But the patience and sensitivity that made him such a good doctor seemed to have rendered him tragically unassertive in his personal affairs. And if he was upset tonight he was hiding it well, slicing into his apple tart with surgical precision and chatting good-naturedly with Jane, who sat on his other side.
A cousin of Emma’s sat between Jane and Hilary, and Hilary was trying her best to flirt with him, although his attempts at risqué banter were painfully bland. Still, Hilary felt it was important to practice even on the most unpromising of males. The flush that had stained his cheeks from the first glimpse she’d offered him of her cleavage had yet to subside. I almost felt sorry for him.
Hilary and her cleavage were flanked by Jane’s husband, Sean, who was flanked in turn by Luisa. From the stoic set of Sean’s usually relaxed features, I assumed that he had chivalrously assured Luisa that her cigarette wouldn’t bother him at all. They were swathed in a blue halo of Gauloises-scented smoke. A colleague of Richard’s who was serving as a groomsman the next day occupied the remaining seat at the table. I’d spoken to him during the cocktail hour and ascertained that he was entirely harmless but equally dull. He was listening to Sean and Luisa with a glazed look.
Everyone was deep in conversation with somebody else. Except, of course, me. Alas. I belatedly remembered that I’d promised myself the last time I went dateless to a wedding weekend that I would never do it again. There was nothing more depressing, nothing that could make me feel more like a total freak of nature, than to be hopelessly alone at an event that celebrated coupledom, however mismatched this particular couple was. It was fine for Hilary—she was fiercely protective of her single independence; it would never occur to her to wallow in self-pity just because she didn’t have a boyfriend by her side. Luisa had Isobel, her partner of nearly three years, waiting for her when she returned to South America. All she had to worry about was fighting off her parents’ pressure to marry and procreate. Jane and Sean had celebrated their tenth anniversary in June, just another in what would certainly be a long line of anniversaries commemorating their happy pairing. And I could hardly take comfort in the knowledge that while Emma had Richard, she was embarking on the biggest mistake of her life.
I sighed and flipped through my notes one more time, praying for a sudden natural disaster that could save me from making the toast. An earthquake was more than I could hope for in this part of the country, but perhaps I could bribe a waiter to pull the fire alarm? Not my waiter, of course. He made it clear from the way he set down my most recent drink that he wasn’t doing me any more favors tonight, no matter how sweetly I smiled up at him. If it weren’t so noisy I would have sworn he clucked his tongue as he moved on to the next table.
Resigned, I turned my attention back to the careful outline I’d made. I wasn’t afraid of public speaking, not by a long shot. In my line of work, the ability to comfortably address large groups was almost a prerequisite. My colleagues in Mergers and Acquisitions at Winslow, Brown, as well as the board members of assorted clients, hostile dissenters at shareholder meetings—even full auditoriums of Harvard Business School students, eager to learn more about how to gain entrée to a top-tier investment banking firm—I’d stood before them all and delivered talks ranging from detailed slide presentations to improvised monologues. I was skilled at laying out the facts about a merger or joint venture in a professional and persuasive manner and in beating back questions that were designed to embarrass with logic, composure, and eloquence. Yet none of that was enough to prepare me for toasting the imminent merger of my best friend with Satan.
I was pushing away a mental image of the shrieking mouth in Munch’s The Scream when Emma’s mother caught my eye from her seat at the next table and discreetly tapped her watch. It was customary, I knew, for the maid of honor to give the first toast at the rehearsal dinner, and Lily Furlong was a stickler for tradition. There was no escaping it—the time had come.
I sighed again and drained the last of my vodka tonic for one final drop of liquid courage. Slowly, I scraped my chair back and stood, champagne glass in hand. My knife rapping against its crystal made a sharp, pinging noise that echoed in the cavernous room, and the hum of voices from the tables around me faded into an expectant hush.
Richard had spared no expense this evening, I noted, although I wouldn’t be surprised if he was planning to write the entire affair off as a business expenditure. This rehearsal dinner was by no means a small gathering for the family and wedding party. Rather, Richard had been sure to invite everybody who was anybody among both his friends and those of the Furlongs, which was likely a far more fruitful hunting ground. None of Richard’s family was present, although I secretly wondered if he even had one. It was entirely possible that Richard had crawled out from under a rock somewhere, already fully formed. Meanwhile, half the Social Register was in attendance, not to mention the leading lights of the New York arts and literary scene, seated at round tables covered with starched white linens and graced with extravagant floral arrangements. Perhaps the even greater surprise was that so many of them had made the long drive up to this remote corner of the Adirondacks, committing themselves to a weekend at one of the handful of motels and overly cutesy bed-and-breakfasts the area had to offer, not to mention battling rush-hour traffic on a Friday afternoon in August to make it here in time for cocktails and dinner. This was surely more of a tribute to their great esteem for the Furlongs and Emma than any warmth of feeling for a swine like Richard Mallory.
I cleared my throat once more, deliberately stalling to make sure that any natural disaster had ample time to strike. But none was forthcoming. I plastered a brave smile on my face, took a deep breath, and reluctantly launched into my toast.
“I’m Rachel Benjamin, and I have the honor of serving as Emma’s maid of honor tomorrow afternoon.” This simple declaration was met by friendly applause.
“I first met Emma our freshman year at Harvard. Actually, we met the very first day. We were assigned to the same dorm room, and we were each eager to establish ourselves as the most considerate roommate. Neither of us wanted to confess whether we preferred the top or bottom bunk, the left side of the closet or the right side of the closet, the desk by the window or the desk by the door, for fear that we would offend the other.” An appreciative chuckle bubbled up from the audience. It was an easy crowd, I sensed, despite the impressive pedigrees scattered throughout the large dining room of the country club.
“We resorted to that most scientific of methods, one that you would expect to be used at only the most elite institutions of higher learning, to figure out who should take which bunk, which side of the closet, and which desk.
“I’m referring, of course, to the sophisticated discipline known colloquially as Rock, Paper, Scissors.” Much merriment from the audience at this. I briefly debated ditching my cushy corporate career on Wall Street and my steady, sizable paycheck to take my act on the road.
“I don’t mean to embarrass Emma in front of you all—she did her best. But she was no match for me. I handily beat her, two out of three. And, trying to endear myself to the woman with whom I’d be sharing those less-than-spacious quarters, I tried to choose the options that she seemed to want least.
“She’d mentioned that she was a painter—I assumed that she’d want to be able to gaze out the window, so I took the desk by the door. I also chose the left side of the closet, the side farthest from the mirror and the bathroom.
“And then came the most important decision of all—should I take the top or bottom bunk?
“My noble intentions warred with my most base desires. As a small child, I begged for a bunk bed. Nothing seemed more glamorous than to sleep high above the floor in a top bunk. Tantrums, hunger strikes—even being nice to my brothers—none of my efforts could melt my parents’ stony resistance. My pleas fell on deaf ears, and I had to make do with a beruffled canopy until well into my teens.” Hilary emitted a mock moan of sympathy. I paused to glare at her before continuing.
“Here I was with this tempting opportunity—away from home for the first time, the world my oyster, and the top bunk beckoning me upward. I was torn, but I made the right choice, the selfless choice, and opted for the bottom bunk—I gave the top bunk to Emma. In fact, I insisted that she have it, despite her protests. And her protests were quite vehement. But I could see through her words, and I held firm to my generous choice.
“For the entire year, Emma climbed up to the top bunk while I tried to suppress the envy that threatened to overwhelm me. When she offered to switch midyear, I swallowed my impulses and told her that wouldn’t be necessary. After all, there would be other dorm rooms in the coming years. But the next year we moved into a large suite with Luisa and Hilary and Jane—we all had single beds. Ditto the next two years. My one opportunity for a top bunk—selflessly sacrificed to the cause of friendship.
“The summer after we graduated from college, Emma and I traveled to France. On a sunny June day, we found ourselves at the Eiffel Tower. There was a long line of tourists, but I wanted to see the view from the top. Emma waited patiently next to me for nearly two hours before our turn came. We squished into the elevator with our fellow sightseers and waited until the doors opened onto the top deck of the monument. I rushed to the railing, excited to see Paris spread out below us. But after a few minutes, I realized that Emma wasn’t beside me.
“Instead, she was standing with her back against the wall, as far from the railing as she could be, her eyes screwed shut and her complexion a decidedly unbecoming shade of green.
“It was only then that she admitted to me that she was terrified of heights. ‘But what about freshman year?’ I asked. ‘You loved having the top bunk.’
“‘No,’ she confessed. ‘It’s just that I thought you wanted the bottom bunk.’” The room erupted in laughter. They couldn’t understand how Emma’s absurd need to please had manifested itself in so many other, less humorous ways. I waited for the laughter to subside before I went on.
“I tell this story for a couple of reasons. First, I wanted to make it clear that trying to beat me at Rock, Paper, Scissors is a waste of time. I always, always win.” More laughter. I took a deep breath and steeled myself for the mushy part.
“Second, and more importantly, I wanted to give all of you a sense of what sort of person Emma is. The list of glowing adjectives could go on forever, starting with giving, loyal, and trusting. But I worry that the story doesn’t do justice to all of the other traits that make her so special—her quiet insight, her subtle wit, her incredible talent.
“I feel privileged to have Emma for a friend. I think I speak for all of her bridesmaids when I say that we are honored that she wants us to stand up with her tomorrow, and that we hope that she has some small inkling of how much we want her to be happy. I trust that Richard realizes how very fortunate he is to have Emma in his life.” I hesitated, wondering if my last sentence had sounded sincere. Richard was far too arrogant ever to understand how lucky he was to be sitting at the same table as Emma tonight, let alone marrying her.
Raising my glass, I scanned the assembled guests. “Please join me in drinking a toast to Emma.”
“To Emma,” the crowd joined in. I sat down amidst a cascade of clinking glasses.
Embarrassed, I looked over at her. A silent tear rolled down her face. “Thank you,” she mouthed.
“Of course,” I mouthed back. What else could I do?
