Out Of Love Part 2

Chapter 2.

Carmen grappled for the chirping phone on the bedside table, momentarily disoriented by her unfamiliar surroundings.

A cheerful voice told her it was six thirty a.m. and directed her to one of the restaurants downstairs for breakfast.

She collapsed back onto the bed with a groan. There wasn't a soul on earth besides her who cared if she made it to the treadmill this morning or not. It was grueling to work out on the road, but forty-seven was too young to throw in the towel on staying fit. Reluctantly, she dragged herself from bed and pulled on her spandex tights and trainers and walked out, sifting through the papers in front of her door until she found the Wall Street Journal.

The fitness center was already humming with a dozen people who seemed much happier than Carmen about being there. She claimed a treadmill in the corner farthest from the blaring tele-13 vision and put on her reading gla.s.ses to set the controls. When she reached her desired pace, she scanned the front page of the paper, where a small blurb directed her to an article inside on the a.s.sociation's meeting in New York. She skimmed it quickly, pleased to find her name as one of the plenary speakers. Her first instinct was to call her youngest brother Mark to brag. Of the six siblings, she and Mark were the only ones who hadn't followed their father into the medical field. Theirs was a friendly but intense compet.i.tion for achievement in their business careers.

Making the Wall Street Journal was a coup. Too bad her sister-in-law wouldn't appreciate a trumpeting call at this early hour.

Giving the keynote address this year was a s.h.i.+ning moment for Carmen and her company, a sign their work in research and consulting was worthwhile and appreciated by industry professionals. Not that she ever doubted it, but it was nice to get recognition from the group that mattered most.

She went on to read the story, barely noticing the figure that suddenly occupied the adjacent treadmill.

"Carmen Delallo!"

"Art." Art Conover, the last person she wanted to see . . . with the possible exception of Bill Hinkle. "Good to see you."

"You too. You're looking fit."

"Thank you." Art was a handsome man in his early forties.

Carmen considered him a gentleman, someone she might have enjoyed being friends with if he wasn't always trying to steal her clients. "We all have to work at it." She hoped their small talk might continue, but it was not to be.

"So . . . rumor has it The Delallo Group is rolling out something new . . . some kind of advertising tracker?"

In fact, TDG had put out a press release describing the features of the new software in detail. Art was just being Art, fis.h.i.+ng for whatever extra tidbit he might learn.

"Not a rumor at all. We'll have the demo out this afternoon in the exhibit hall. You should check it out."

14.

"Any secrets I can steal?"

Carmen laughed, appreciating his frankness. "Cathy Rosen handles all the patents and copyrights. You'd better check with her first."

"Maybe I'll ply her with a box of chocolates."

"Trust me. You'd be wasting your time. Her husband uses jewelry and expensive wine."

"I'll have to check my budget for that."

"Check your calendar too while you're at it. Maybe we can have breakfast on Sunday."

"Won't that get the tongues wagging?"

She hit the kill switch on her treadmill and grasped the rail as it slowed to a halt. "They've got to talk about something, Art.

Might as well be us."

"Good point."

"I'll have Cathy set it up and give you a call."

"Have her call my office in Dallas. They'll plug all the info in and send it to my Blackberry."

"Of course. I'll tell her." That was Art's way of letting her know he too was important enough to have a staff of his own to manage his schedule. "See you soon."

On the way out, she checked her appearance in the mirror, congratulating herself for her efforts. Her friend Brooke was right when she said b.u.t.ts didn't just tighten themselves. But then Brooke had a lot more free time than she did, exercising for hours a day with her personal trainer or Pilates coach. She was a living commercial for a tight b.u.t.t. Carmen had noticed.

Judith stepped onto the broad platform above her living room. She always thought she deserved an award for maximizing the s.p.a.ce in her apartment, which was barely over two hundred square feet. The loft she had installed held her clothes racks, shoes and stackable drawers, allowing her to clear the clutter 15 from her tiny living s.p.a.ce below. If only she didn't have to climb the steep stairs several times a day. But cramped quarters were a staple of life in Manhattan for people of modest means. Most New Yorkers simply adapted.

She had her three nicest outfits cleaned and pressed for the weekend, including the tan gabardine suit she planned to wear today. With its plain styling and a hemline just above the knee, it was her most conservative, perfect for a job interview. She tossed her brown dress shoes onto the futon below and carefully descended the ladder, clutching the rail erected alongside.

In the small bathroom, she opened the clear gla.s.s shower door and turned on the spray. It was anyone's guess how long the hot water would last, but after six years in this apartment, she was an expert at getting through her routine in a very short window. The key was to take the initial plunge while the water was still warming. She preferred that to having it run tepid before she had finished rinsing.

The four-cup coffeemaker gurgled through its cycle in the kitchen, well on its way to being ready by the time she finished her shower. Coffee and a toasted bagel with jam would have to last till lunch. She was too nervous today to eat more than that.

Her anxiety about the interview with Bob Durbin had cost her a couple of hours of sleep last night. She didn't want to blow this chance, because there weren't many jobs out there for travel agents at her experience and pay level. Though she preferred to work primarily with the gay and lesbian segment, she was open to whatever Durbin needed, even if it involved switching her specialty. Whatever she did, she couldn't afford to take a pay cut at this stage in her career, nor could she manage without health insurance.

It wasn't as if Judith was barely sc.r.a.ping by. Her apartment was rent-stabilized at twelve hundred a month, and she was far from extravagant when it came to clothes or other expenditures.

But like so many others her age, her main focus was saving for 16 retirement. She didn't expect the small pension Myrna had set up ten years ago to amount to much with inflation, especially in one of the world's most expensive cities. That's why she put away extra every month in a mutual fund.

Fresh from the shower, she pushed a comb through her light brown hair and shook her head at her non-existent options.

Some people had the luxury of wearing their hair in different styles according to their plans for the day. Not Judith, whose hair wouldn't hold a curl or wave, no matter what she did to it. Her friend Celia had just the opposite problem. Celia's hair curled to the point of wild abandon, despite dozens of treatments and styles. Both women had finally given up, Judith settling for a flat-tering cut just above her collar that showed off her hair's thick-ness and natural s.h.i.+ne.

As she dried her hair, she thought again about Celia's decision to switch over to corporate travel. Maybe that was the right idea.

It wasn't a glamorous job, but it paid better and had decent benefits. Judith figured if she got in with the right company, she might even be able to finish out her career in one place.

No matter what she decided, it had to be soon. She wouldn't put it past Todd to weed out the senior agents like her who were making more money.

She checked her makeup and b.u.t.toned her suit coat, satisfied there was no more she could do to look better or more professional. If she made a good impression on Bob Durbin, today could be a turning point in her life.

Carmen twisted the valve to stop the hot, pulsating spray, then stood on tiptoes to inspect the showerhead's configuration.

One of these would be nice in the master bath at her apartment, she thought.

Since she traveled at least ten days a month for business, Cathy usually booked her in first-cla.s.s accommodations. It 17 wasn't that she was particular about things or self-important, but Cathy felt she deserved pampering because she worked so hard on the road. Carmen had learned to appreciate the extra touches, even to depend on them to help her relax so she could be at her best when she met with clients.

She grabbed a towel off the top rack and vigorously rubbed her head, squeezing as much water as she could from her thick black hair. Then she pulled it off her forehead and peered into the steamy mirror to examine the graying strands. She didn't mind a few gray hairs here and there, but that bit Cathy always gave her about it making her look distinguished was c.r.a.p.

Carmen would never have been successful in business without Cathy's help because she would have burned out long ago. In the early years of her company, work-related stress landed her in the hospital with high blood pressure, chest pains and fatigue.

That's when Cathy, who had been her college roommate, came on board to take control.

Fifteen years ago TDG was a simple consulting firm consist-ing of Carmen, her two a.s.sistants and a secretary. Back then, they shared office s.p.a.ce above a restaurant with a personal injury attorney who advertised his services on cable TV late at night.

Now they were the major supplier of sales and marketing information for the travel industry, with luxurious offices, a dozen full-time staff, hundreds of clients and millions in annual billings.

"I'm ordering breakfast. Have you eaten?" The subject of Carmen's ruminations made her presence in the adjacent parlor known.

"Not yet. I was going to," she shouted back through the open bathroom door. She waited until she heard Cathy hang up the phone. "Are you by yourself?"

"You mean is the whole staff here to watch you parade out of your bathroom naked? Afraid not. You'll have to settle for an audience of one."

18.

Carmen laughed and wrapped herself in a long towel. "I have a robe around here somewhere, but I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'm going to put it on for you."

"You've got nothing I haven't seen a thousand times."

Still toweling her hair, Carmen walked into the parlor and slumped into one of the stuffed chairs. This room, with several couches and chairs, a conference table, a wet bar and refrigerator, and a half bath, would serve as the company's headquarters for the weekend. Boxes of bound reports and marketing materials were stacked against the wall, and a projector and laptop were set up on the table. "Is your room nice?"

"Not as nice as yours."

"Want to trade?"

"No, I'd rather complain."

"I knew you were going to say that."

"I got you this at the coffee kiosk in the lobby." Cathy held out a paper cup with a plastic lid. "I'm getting too old to travel with you."

"How can you say that? We're the same age."

"But you didn't raise three kids."

"The h.e.l.l I didn't! You can't spit without hitting one of my G.o.dchildren-including one of yours."

"Speaking of G.o.dchildren, did Brooke find you?"

"No."

"That tells me you probably haven't turned your cell phone on since your plane landed. How are people supposed to get in touch with you?"

"That's what I have you for."

"Don't get used to it."

Carmen ignored her friend's surly mood. "I bet I know what Brooke's calling about. Healey's at my place this weekend with Prissy and I told her Craig could stay too, as long as they didn't . . .

you know . . . in my bed."

Cathy let out a raucous laugh. "That's definitely one conver-19 sation I don't want to miss, but I don't think she was calling about that. I got the feeling there was some kind of trouble in paradise."

Carmen put her bare feet on the coffee table and leaned back, sipping her latte. "That hasn't been paradise for three or four years. She probably needs to vent some more about Geoffrey."

"She needs to find a good therapist and quit dumping on you."

"I don't mind."

"I know you don't, but that's not the point. If she really wants things to work with Geoffrey, they need professional help."

Carmen had always been protective of Brooke, taking her side automatically with no questions asked. She thought Cathy was hard on Brooke, not cutting her any slack for what she had been through as a child. Sometimes the best way to deal with Cathy on this was to change the subject.

"I ran into Art Conover down in the fitness room this morning. Can you set up a breakfast with him Sunday morning?"

"Here?"

"I'd rather do it in the restaurant."

"And give everyone a heart attack thinking you two are going to merge or something?"

Carmen laughed. "That's what he said. It doesn't hurt for us to play nice. Oh, and send Richard to check out his booth in the exhibit hall. I want to know what he's hawking this year."

"Richard will like that. He'll probably manage to break something."

"What's on our schedule today?"

Cathy flipped open her leather folder. "The Seattle people are coming here at nine to talk about the Asian project. I've ordered coffee and pastries, but you don't get any of either. And you wanted to sit in on Priscilla's panel at ten thirty. Then there's the staff meeting at lunch, the plenary at two, and you're meeting the Cayman group at four in the bar."