Conversely, across the pond UK-Connection management nit-picked with Julian over everything from proposed budgets to sales projections. When in London I often sensed they were wary (and maybe weary) of the boys’ chumminess with me, as if I were a distracting romance. I understood better than most how jealousy and envy could undermine working relationships.
Ethan stayed flat out with coaching agendas, recurring locker room bullying, and phone tag with grandparent guardians or mostly single, mostly female parents who still gave me pause. When I walked through our apartment door, I never knew what mood awaited me. In all fairness, neither did he. How should couples communicate outside the bedroom? What elements did a healthy marriage require? Neither of us had a clue.
Chapter Twenty
My Mayfair traveling nearly mimicked living with Ethan’s baseball schedule. The make-up sex in lieu of conversation made for a pleasant Valentine’s Day. I stripped down to my Victoria’s Secret tidbits and into Ethan’s visual foreplay, but comfort in immediate gratification did nothing for long term solutions. Our marriage continued to drift back to phone messages, scribbled notes and deepening emotional crevices.
Fifth Avenue window dressers had barely removed their heart-themed displays when snow buried the east coast and put Manhattan at a crawl. By the time conditions improved to the inevitable freezing slush and slide, I’d lost my temper with most of my commuting-delayed staff. Bill spent two nights in the sleeping bag on his office couch and I popped my own Xanax as the crucial, final presentation with UK-C loomed.
At the end of the gruelling week, Ethan and I met friends for dinner at Mickey Mantle’s on Central Park South, easing our way to a booth through the din of singles letting loose after work and weather. Over the burgers Ethan grew surprisingly chatty. After describing the difficulty of coaching high-risk teens with dysfunctional parents, he mentioned considering pro level coaching jobs in Washington State.
“Really?” I said.
“Really.” He glanced at me and back across the table.
We returned to our apartment pleasantly buzzed. “You’re seriously considering another coaching openings? Since when?” Annoyance shifted his expression. “It could be good to get back out there on a higher level. You know this high school gig can be a shit storm. It’s important to keep my options open if I want to pursue coaching as a real career.”
“I understand.”
“You don’t. You’ve been pissed since I brought it up at dinner. The MLB meets at Park Avenue headquarters this week. Nothing’s set in stone. I’m only going to hear them out.”
“Don’t commit until we talk about it.”
“Right. When you’re home long enough to sit and listen.”
By then I’d accepted that Misha Baskin lacked Alyssa’s drive and attention to detail. Since my Marsha days, leaving domestic issues to someone else had been a godsend but Misha struggled to replicate our three-day-a-week routine. Being closer to our age, more social, and flexible became the trade-off. She shared coffee with Ethan during his school snow days, and we jumped at her offer of semi-regular meal prep. On nights I staggered home at nine or ten, this provided sealed leftovers for me and kept Ethan from junk-laden sports bar meals.
Wednesday, the day of Ethan’s MLB meeting, I marched home along Fifth Avenue for some head clearing as I breathed through the Burberry cashmere scarf double wrapped around my face, chin to nose. The gritty, slushy cold reminded me of my post-Marsha job scrambling and ever-evil Carmine. My return to London loomed large and Julian had provided Ethan with tickets to a Las Vegas baseball memorabilia convention at Caesars Place. Before we parted I was determined to sit down and listen, as Ethan had put it. Over Misha’s leftover chicken and roasted butternut squash, he brushed off my interview inquiries with one-word answers. They’d talked; he’d listened. Spokane, Paco, Tacoma. Not a good match.
“Just as well,” I tried. “On the way home I thought about the amazing things you’re doing for Iron Hills High and those kids.” His reply was half-hearted so I entertained him with UK Connection boys’ anecdotes in my very bad attempt at their accents. “Thank God for Julian and Mayfair Beauty and the shitload of salary that lets you stay here.”
He shrugged. “I also have an email from a Paul Jacoby. His outfit fills coaching positions California Triple A teams.”
“It must feel good to be able to turn him down,” I said.
“I didn’t.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sure I like what I do and the MLB thing didn’t pan out, but Jacoby’s outfit suits my credentials. More my speed. If I can make this work—” He stood up. “Are you even listening?”
“Listening? Listening for the zillionth time. Could we please not go through this?”
“‘Go through this?’ I just listened for the zillionth time how you’re to manage the final UK-Connection development meeting before you authorise beginning of production.”
His perfect quote and vitriol stopped me. “You’re right; I’m sorry. I’m totally wrapped up in Mayfair, but this is what you wanted, too. Big time.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” he muttered.
We carried our plates to the galley kitchen in silence until I opened the clean and still loaded dishwasher. “Damn! How long was Misha here today?” He shrugged. “Nine to whenever she left. Five, probably.”
“She didn’t even unload the damn thing.”
“A meltdown over clean dishes?”
“Her dusting’s pitiful; she can’t get the dry-cleaning downstairs half the time. Alyssa would never have left—”
“Hell, Emma, she made dinner. Stop being so self-righteous, like you don’t know how it feels to work a crap job to survive.”
“Crap job? I pay her a ton of money. Maybe if she didn’t spend so much time talking to you she’d be able to remember.”
“I’m a diversion; she’s a talker. Guess what? Her company’s nice when I rattle around in this always-empty apartment.”
“You suddenly like conversation, Mr Don’t-Ask-Me-to-Socialise? You barely talk to me about anything.”
“Admit it, Emma. This is so not about Misha. It’s about me. It’s always about me.”
“Or both of you. I come home fired up to listen to you. Instead I get one-word answers and more pipe dreams. You two sit at our table having long discussions all afternoon. And god knows what else,” I added under my breath.
“And god knows this is really about the ‘what else.’ When are you ever here? Never! So what if we talk? How many times have you and Julian been to dinner alone? Am I supposed to believe you’re never camped out in his priceless, historic, exclusive, fabulous Winston Churchill Penthouse? That Jane Austen you read every night probably cost thirty thousand dollars. Who in holy hell gives an employee a gift like that? And on top of the hundred other perks. You’re fucking him.”
“Of course, I’m not.”
“Then you will be.”
“That’s not even worth answering. The same person who gave me the book gives you the best seats for sports events, private jets… Now another trip to Vegas for an entire convention and gambling, hanging around strippers—”
“Well, here’s something else I haven’t mentioned. I can’t fucking turn anything down. Do I really need to attend an entire baseball memorabilia convention? Yes incredible perks. Yes, I thought this would be your best job ever for what I’d get out of it. I admit it. But it manipulates my private life. Julian Petrenko’s breathing down my neck from thousands of miles away.”
