Shatterproof Read online

  Reuben leans back in his leather desk chair crosses his legs, one ankle firmly planted over the opposite knee. It feels like he’s creating an additional barrier between us, as if the desk weren’t enough. Then he crosses his arms over his belly. Fully barricaded.

  This can’t be good.

  “How was your weekend?” he asks, looking out the window. It’s 4 p.m. and the sun is low in the sky, but Reuben just got back from lunch. Judging by the extra color flooding his face, they finished the meal with scotch.

  “Fine.” I decide to take a direct shot at the barricades and see if I can blast through. “How was the partners’ lunch?”

  “Canoe’s always great,” he says, deflecting the shot easily. Leaning forward, he glances at my hands. He’s looking for an engagement ring, which happens to be buried under a stack of towels in my linen closet. For safe keeping. Its absence doesn’t deter Reuben. “I hear congrats are in order.”

  I can tell where this is going, and while my heart fills with despair, my head fills with righteous anger. Still, I try to keep it light. “You mean I made partner?”

  Reuben’s bushy eyebrows twitch. “I mean, congratulations on your engagement.”

  “I’m not engaged,” I say. “Am I a partner?”

  Shoving his chair back from the desk with his elbows, he creates a bit more space between us. He expected me to take this lying down, as I have every other time the partners spurned me in favor of some guy who works half as hard. I’ve always accepted his promises that my turn would be next. Worse, I’ve always believed him.

  I couldn’t help it, because Reuben and I have been the perfect team, professionally speaking. He’s a politician who manages clients with ease, and a visionary who sees the forest of a project, but can’t be bothered with the trees. I, on the other hand, dislike coddling clients, and prefer to focus on hacking my way through the woods, stump by stump. Reuben values my work, but he keeps me in the trenches because that’s where I’m most useful to him. I thought that was finally about to change.

  “I heard Noah popped the question last night,” Reuben says, eyes darting around the office. “He’s a good guy.”

  They’ve met a handful of times at company Christmas parties, and I make it a point not to discuss my personal life at work. “We’re not engaged,” I repeat.

  “No one could fault you for putting your personal life first now, Hudson,” he says. “You’re not getting any younger.”

  “I’ll think about it when I’ve made partner. Is that today?”

  I’m going to force him to say out loud that he’s burned me. I need to hear it.

  Reuben releases one hand to run it over his balding head. “Why get so caught up with titles? You make great money without the responsibility. This year you’re on track for a nice bonus.”

  In other words, a buy off. “So, I guess that’s a no.”

  He gives up the evasion. “Not this time, Hudson. The vote went to Ryan Peets.”

  Rage pushes words out of my mouth and I try my best to filter them. “Peets! He’s only been with NTA four years.”

  “Five. And he’s done some excellent work.”

  “He’s been a senior project manager for less than a year, and his last job went over budget. I have way more experience. For that matter, so does Baxter.”

  “Peets has brought in some business,” Reuben says. “And you know we’ve hit a dry spell.”

  Reuben always told me to focus on the project work, and the schmooze would come later. Now he’s rewarding someone for doing the opposite. There’s a hollow roar in my head, and the words surge past my filter. “You promised, Reuben. You promised if I went to Australia you’d make me partner. I kept my end of the bargain and it nearly wrecked my—” I stop before taking the conversation back where Reuben wants it.

  He completes the circle. “Then maybe it’s time to put your relationship first, Hudson. I had two kids at your age.”

  And a stay-at-home wife. Because he was already a partner.

  I swallow hard and lower my voice. “Did you pass me over because you thought I was going to get pregnant?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Because that would be grounds for a Human Rights complaint,” I say.

  His eyebrows nearly collide with his receding hairline. “You’re overreacting, Hudson. Why so emotional all of a sudden?”

  I’m probably playing right into the rationale the partners developed at lunch. “If by emotional, you mean angry, I have a right to be. You promised, I delivered. My performance was stellar, and you said so yourself.”

  He’s angry now, too. “I’m only one vote at that table.”

  “You promised,” I say. Instead of sounding assertive, it comes out as whiny, but the tone makes Reuben more placating.

  “Don’t worry, Hudson. This will all work out fine. You’ll be closer to home on your next project.”

  He waits for me to ask, but I don’t, because I know what’s coming.

  “Ottawa’s barely an hour by air,” he says.

  “So, you’re promoting Peets off the postal transformation and sticking me with it?”

  I can tell he’s taken aback by my attitude. In all our years together, I’ve never spoken to him this way. “It’s a good challenge.”

  “It would have been a good challenge for Peets, but I’m years past that. There are half a dozen project leads dying for that opportunity.”

  “This project’s important to the company,” he says. “It’s national, and good profile. We need you on it.”

  If I’m not making partner, the least he can do is let me stay home long enough to patch my ailing relationship.

  “I got back from Australia at Christmas. Before that it was Ohio. And before that, Vancouver,” I say. “Baxter was hardly on the road at all last year. Send him if you need someone overqualified.”

  “This needs your touch. It’s a huge project and you’ve got more of an eye for detail than Baxter.”

  “He’s a strong project lead, and he’s from Ottawa originally. It just makes sense.”

  Frustrated now, Reuben blurts, “The client wants you.”

  We all met with the executive director in the pitch session, and he’s a 6-foot-6-inch former military leader. In choosing between a woman and a gay man, I guess I was the lesser of two evils.

  “Baxter will win him over,” I say.

  Reuben places both palms on the desk and leans forward, his face redder than ever. “NTA didn’t suddenly become a democracy, Hudson. But if you’re asking for a raise, I can look into it.”

  I stare into his slightly bloodshot brown eyes, feeling lightheaded. All these years, Reuben has been my mentor and role model. For a long time, I revered him. That ebbed to admiration, and then respect with a hint of disdain. Today, he toppled right off the pedestal.

  “This isn’t personal, Hudson,” he says. “And it’s not like you to take it that way. You’re the consummate professional.”

  He’s hit my Achilles heel. My professionalism defines me. Without it, I don’t even know who I am.

  Sensing the weakness he presses. “I can guarantee you a five per cent raise.” He waits a beat, and adds, “Now, let’s go. The launch party is about to start. Time to meet your team.”

  I stare down at the undulating sea of faces, and briefly contemplate a stage dive. It would get me out of delivering this speech. And, if no one actually caught me, it would get me out of leading the project. With my luck, however, I’d end up maimed but still able to make the commute to Ottawa.

  Reuben slaps my shoulder. “They’re all yours, Hudson.”

  I hate public speaking, even when the audience is small. Tonight the crowd in the hotel ballroom exceeds 100, and most of the faces belong to preppy youngsters, fresh out of the company’s training program.

  I feel like a huge nerd, standing up here in my black suit and sensible pumps. But I am the nerd in charge, and as such, possibly the most popular woman in the room.

  Flipping t
hrough the notes Rueben gave me, I stall as long as possible, knowing that the moment I begin speaking, I’ve officially accepted the reins of a project that’s dull even by NTA standards. It’s saying “yes” to career stagnation, and “no” to happiness in my personal life. The irony is that while Reuben blackballed me as partner because he thinks I want to settle down, Noah will blackball me for accepting this project, taking it as proof that I refuse to settle down—especially when there’s no partnership offer on the table.

  “Come over and chat up the guys when you’re done,” Reuben says, pointing to the other partners who have joined us for the kick-off. “Partnership isn’t all about work, you know.”

  It certainly isn’t. At NTA, partnership is about smoking cigars and drinking single malt scotch, for example. It’s about long mornings on a hot driving range, evenings at play-off games, and dinners at pricey restaurants—all in the name of client management. Partnership is about politics. And most of all, it’s about testosterone.

  “They just spurned me,” I say. “I’m not going to suck up to them now.”

  “There you go, making it personal again. Can I give you a piece of advice?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Have a couple of drinks tonight.”

  “I don’t drink on the job,” I say. When you’re surrounded by sharks, you need a clear head.

  “Time to start,” he says. “But first, you need to pump up your team for the adventure ahead.”

  Rueben leaves the stage to join his cronies. The junior consultants look up at me expectantly, so clean-cut that this could pass Christian youth retreat. I consider turning and walking off the stage and out of the building but can’t summon the strength.

  Instead, I do what I always do. I step up.

  Taking off my suit jacket, I drape it carefully over the stool beside the lectern. Although NTA is slow to embrace new strategies, there’s been a recent movement in the company to warm up our management style. At a leadership session last week, the trainers used terms like “hands-on” and “team-building” while urging us to be more accessible to staff. It’s like learning a whole new language.

  “Welcome to the Integrated Service Project,” I begin. “I’m Ellis Hudson, your Project Director. You’ve been hand-picked for this project because you’ve got the skills, the energy and the personality for a challenge. There’s a lot of hard work ahead in turning the Canadian postal service into the best system in the world. I’m going to drive you hard, but I also want to bring out the best in each and every one of you. By the time the project ends, our group will be operating like a well-oiled machine. So, let’s give a big cheer for the Integrated Service Project Team.”

  Leaving the stage amid a rousing cheer, I look over at the partners, who are gathered in a clump of gray suits and somber ties. NTA introduced a casual dress policy months ago, but it will never take with the partners because the uniform is as effective as bug repellent at keeping the junior consultants at bay. I haven’t embraced the policy myself. My suit is my armor.

  Instead of joining them, I head to the open bar and follow Reuben’s advice by ordering a dirty martini. I’ve only had a couple of sips when he comes up behind me. “Good job, Hudson. I know you’ll want to take this opportunity to bond with your team. The sooner we get out of your way and leave you to it, the better. We’re heading to Lloyd’s Steak House.”

  My jaw drops. It’s just more evidence of their contempt for me. The partners always stay a couple of hours at a launch party. It’s the least they can do, when it’s the biggest gig we have. They must be in a hurry to ply Peets with Scotch and stogies.

  I mutter goodbye into my martini, and Reuben disappears into the crowd.

  Seagull Manager: An executive who flies in, poops over everything and leaves.

  “Your speech was great, ma’am,” says one rookie, sidling up beside me. He’s well-groomed, cute and earnest. In other words, standard issue.

  I check his nametag. “Thanks, Dylan.” He’s probably just completed courses on relationship management and wants to practice on me. “You can call me Ellis.”

  “Okay. Well, listen, Ellis, I’m on the party planning crew and I have a favor to ask.”

  “Shoot.”

  “We’ve rented a karaoke machine and it would mean a lot to us if you’d do a number.”

  I nearly choke on my martini. That’s taking accessibility way too far. “Karaoke? Uh, no. I’m not much of a performer.”

  “Are you kidding? You were inspiring up there.”

  The kid’s head is so far up my butt it’s indecent. “There’s a big difference between speaking and singing.”

  Dylan hands me a shooter glass. “Try one of these. It’s the special project shooter we invented.”

  The shooter is layered and smells delectable. Tilting my head back, I pour it down my throat. “Yum. What’s in it?”

  “Raspberry schnapps, Grand Marnier and crème de cacao. We call it the ‘Go-Postal.’” He slides another one towards me. “I heard about you during training.”

  I swallow the second Go-Postal. “Really?”

  “Yeah, they said you were the best project lead in Canada and that we’d be lucky to work with you.”

  “Huh.” So, I’ve become a module on the basic training. That’s what happens when you’re the oldest living project lead, with one precisely-knotted exception.

  Midlife crisis: a period of emotional turmoil in middle age characterized especially by a strong desire for change.

  “I couldn’t wait to meet you,” Dylan says. “I hope you’ll be my mentor.” I look around and notice that a dozen others are listening to our conversation and nodding.

  “Save the flattery for the client, Dylan,” I say, although I can’t resist smiling. I should mingle with my people more often. It doesn’t even faze me that they have me completely surrounded.

  Dylan hands me a third shooter and tries his luck again. “So, how about the karaoke, Ellis? It would make you seem more accessible to the team.”

  This kid is gifted; he’ll make partner in record time. “I’ll think about it.”

  “We could do a duet. I’m in a band, you know.”

  “Still thinking.... Don’t rush me.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s one song. Do it for the team.”

  The crowd starts chanting “El-lis, El-lis,” and before I can grab hold of something, they push me back up the stairs and onstage. The whole maneuver was so carefully orchestrated I never really stood a chance. I’ve got my work cut out for me with this team.

  I expect some current pop tune I don’t recognize to appear on the karaoke screen, but instead, the machine strikes up my all-time favorite duet, Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around, by Tom Petty and Stevie Nicks. My Dad used to follow my mom singing this song when I was just a kid, and she’d shove him away, grumbling, “Oh, Keith, drag your heart out to the garage and start cleaning it.”

  It’s not an easy song, but knowing that Stevie was nearly unintelligible helps as I tentatively sing the first verse. Dylan joins in for the chorus, with a deep, strong voice that’s much nicer than Tom Petty’s.

  Staring up at him, I see a row of healed-over piercings in his ear and the blue lines of a tattoo peaking over his preppy collar. Turns out he isn’t standard issue NTA material at all. Rather, he’s a rocker who’s strayed far off the path of cool.

  Tossing Dylan a smile, I sing the second verse with more confidence.

  It's hard to think about what you've wanted

  It's hard to think about what you've lost

  This doesn't have to be the big get even

  This doesn't have to be anything at all

  It’s like a million possibilities of what might have been flash before my eyes, especially when Dylan chimes in with:

  I know you really want to tell me good-bye

  I know you really want to be your own girl

  Then we throw an arm around each other, down another shooter, and share the mike for the chorus:

  Baby
you could never look me in the eye

  Yeah you buckle with the weight of the words

  Stop draggin' my...

  Stop draggin' my...

  Stop draggin' my heart around.

  Some of the other consultants have gathered behind us to sing backup, and for a moment my worries fall away.

  But before the last notes fade, the “weight of the words” hits me. Noah’s face pops into my head and my eyes start to fill. I grab my jacket and bolt down the stairs.

  Outside the hotel, I’m struggling with my coat when Dylan catches up to me. I’ve already wiped away the tears by the time he asks, “Are you okay, Ellis?”

  He seems sweet and vulnerable. I want to tell him to run—run away from NTA while he still has his soul.

  “Sure,” I say. “Just had a rough day, that’s all.”

  I think about all that’s happened in 24 hours, and my eyes fill again. Dylan pats my arm uncertainly, and when the tears spill over, he leans down and gives me a hug. My arms hang loosely by my side but I rest my forehead against his shoulder, noticing he smells vaguely of cedar, like Noah. Finally, I put both hands on Dylan’s chest, and push myself away. In the same instant, he leans down and kisses me. His lips are sticky from the shooters. There’s no mistaking him for Noah now, and I give him a quick shove that breaks the seal.

  “Don’t be sad,” he says, slurring slightly. “You’re an amazing singer.”

  “Goodnight, Dylan,” I say, opening the hotel door to shove him inside.

  That’s when I see a flash of red, as Baxter and his cranberry tie disappear into an elevator.

  The phone is ringing in my condo. I race to pick up, hoping it’s Noah, and drop the handset while I’m saying hello.