Shatterproof Read online

Scott is laughing as I retrieve it. “Are you drunk?” he asks.

  “No, why?”

  “You’re wasted!”

  “You can’t tell from three lousy words.”

  “Actually, I pegged you at ‘hello.’ Not drinking alone, I hope?”

  “I just got back from a project kick-off.”

  “Drinking at a work party? Who loosened your girdle, Eleanor?”

  “Like you never drink at work functions.” It comes out as fuck-tions, and Scott laughs even harder.

  “Did you dance, too?”

  “Actually, I sang. I have a good voice, you know. Anyway, what’s wrong? I can’t remember the last time you picked up the phone to call me.”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to make sure everything’s okay after last night. I mean, with you and Noah.”

  It’s not like him to worry, which only worries me more. “I hope so,” I say. “Hey, do you think I should take singing lessons?”

  He guffaws. “Forget it, Number 1. You’ve got four corners.”

  “I am not a square.”

  “If it weren’t for us, you would be. Now, take that girdle off before bed. Don’t want you choking on your own vomit like some dissipated rock star.”

  I’m at Jiffi Auto Glass by 7:02 a.m. and there’s already a line up. I meant to be waiting when the doors opened but I had to take the subway to work to pick up the car first. After a martini and four shooters, I wasn’t in any condition to drive home last night. Worse, I’m brutally hung over. The headache is already breaking through the first two Advil.

  I help myself to the coffee from the urn on the counter, choosing to skip the milk substitute and drink it black. It scours my throat on the way down, adding to the acid that’s already swirling below.

  I am in deep trouble. Yesterday, for the first time in many years, there was no communication from Noah—despite two voicemails, one e-mail and five texts from me. My vague hope that things would simply right themselves was foolhardy. And when he hears about Ottawa, I suppose the ultimatum will be revoked, and a simple pink slip offered.

  The thought makes me set the coffee down to run my hands through my still damp hair, before covering my eyes briefly. How did it come to this, when Noah knew exactly what he was getting from the start? We met at the airport, after all. I had just returned from Seattle, and was leaving for Edmonton in my first stint as project lead. Noah had attended a conference in Tucson, and was heading for Edmonton to meet with clients of the bank he still works for. During a flight delay, we had a glass of wine in the executive lounge and argued about the best and worst airports, and shared tips about restaurants in far flung cities. We had itchy feet in common, as well as a powerful attraction that led us to meet for dinner in Edmonton the next night. By the end of the week, we were a couple.

  For nearly three years, we made conflicting schedules work for us. Every reunion had a frisson of excitement and rediscovery. Noah wooed me with flowers, and love letters, and little gifts packed into my carry-on to warm my heart in a cold hotel room later. We started a tradition of “dirty weekends,” where we’d use travel points to meet in different cities, emerging from the hotel only for nice dinners. And our annual getaway to an exotic locale was sacrosanct. Now that I think about it, our last big vacation was two years ago, to Fiji. Work was so heavy last year I didn’t take a real break.

  Aside from that, I’ve skipped out on many dinners and conferences that were more about politics than actual work to spend time with Noah. I tried to prioritize him, at the cost of my professional profile, and certainly over sleep, family and friends.

  I think we did okay until Noah got promoted into a job that required no travel. While he still worked long hours, he had more time on his hands and few hobbies. I encouraged him to hang out with his friends, but his closest pals had just had new babies. So, aside from regular pool sessions with my brothers, Noah spent most of his downtime at the gym or in his man cave. The love letters dwindled, and my guilt grew until I’d sometimes choose not to fly home for a weekend, because the tension would just be wearing off as I was about to leave again.

  I saw small cracks appearing in our relationship, but assumed they were shallow, containable, and typical of those any couple would accumulate over six years. It was only after the ambush proposal that I realized the tiny cracks had turned into a network—not unlike what’s happened to my windshield since yesterday.

  If I were the superstitious type, I’d be plenty worried right now.

  I could have taken the car to the dealership, which is closer to work, but there was something I liked about Vera. Her voice was reassuring, and her eyes twinkled, even when she was giving me a warning.

  Today, her silver hair is held back with an elaborate barrette. Turquoise stones dangle from her ear lobes, and a string of matching beads circles her neck, over a simple white T-shirt and fuzzy grey cardigan. She seems like a free spirit. The opposite of square.

  The customer before me leaves, and Vera looks up and beckons. “The cracks have spread,” she says.

  It’s a statement, not a question. I peer through the window at the Lexus parked out front, and ask, “Someone’s already looked at it?”

  She shakes her head. “I could tell from your expression.”

  “That’s a hangover,” I say, reaching for the rest of my coffee and swallowing it. “But yeah, there are a few more cracks.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. I just drove it to work and left it in the parking garage overnight.”

  She smiles. “I mean, to give you a hangover on a Tuesday. And Valentine’s Day, at that.”

  My eyes widen. In all that’s happened, I’d forgotten Valentine’s Day. I don’t even have a gift for Noah yet. I’ll have to scrounge something up in the mall at lunch hour and hope he’ll accept it.

  “Sit.” Vera gestures to a chair to the left of the counter. “Jimmy’ll look at your car while you have another coffee.” She refills my cup, and waits for me to speak.

  My words start slowly, building to an uncharacteristic rush, especially given that the audience is a complete stranger who’s wearing far too much turquoise. I tell her everything, making no excuses for myself.

  “If Baxter saw Dylan kiss me, I’m screwed,” I finish. “I wish there was something like Wonder Glass for real life.”

  “I’m more worried about your boyfriend,” Vera says. “He sounds like a great guy.”

  “He is, but that proposal in front of my family and friends was emotional blackmail. He was backing me into a corner.”

  “People do things like that when they feel powerless in a relationship.”

  I stare at her. “He’s not powerless.”

  She shrugs. “Sounds to me like you’ve been calling all the shots. And he’s hurt.”

  “He’s known how important my career is to me since the very beginning.”

  Vera opens her mouth to say something, but stops when a guy in blue coveralls appears in a doorway behind her. She steps back to meet him, and as they chat, I check my e-mail. Nothing. Not even the usual “top priority” list from Reuben. After last night, it must be a slow start for everyone.

  Vera turns back to me. “Okay, there’s good news and bad news. Which do you want first?” She chuckles. “Wait, I know you want the bad news first. You go through life expecting it.”

  I scowl at her. “You sound like my brothers. But yeah, hit me.”

  “Your tiny chip has turned into a wicked web of cracks. Wonder Glass can only do so much, and there’s a forty per cent chance your windshield is too far gone to be salvaged.”

  I sigh. “Why not replace the whole thing straight off?”

  “Because sixty per cent is worth a try, no? Do you always give up so easily?”

  “It’s just a windshield.”

  “It’s more than that,” she says. “I’ll put Jimmy to work on your car right away, but it takes 24 hours to cure. Call me later for an update.”

  I get to my fee
t and she grabs my arm. There are chunky silver rings on every finger, and long nails with deep blue polish. “Not so fast.” Reaching under the counter with her other hand, she sets a small glass vial on the counter. It holds a couple of ounces of clear liquid and is plugged with a dropper.

  “Wonder Glass?” I ask.

  She gives me a conspiratorial smile. “Special take-out formula. Seals up the cracks in real life.”

  “Like magic,” I say, trying not to roll my eyes. Although she seems nice enough, she must be a huckster, preying on the stupid, selfish and lovelorn, like me.

  “Yes, magic,” she says. “A drop in the right place really can do wonders. It’s completely non-toxic and safe for both internal and external use. Best hundred bucks you’ll ever spend.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t believe in magic. I believe in facing up to my mistakes and trying to fix them.”

  “There’s no avoiding accountability completely, but Wonder Glass gives you a short cut.” She gives my arm a squeeze. “You seem to try hard to do the right thing, Ellie. Why not give yourself a break?”

  My breath catches in my throat. I do try hard to do the right thing. There just hasn’t been much payoff. “A hundred bucks for hope?” I say.

  “For you, hon, seventy-five.”

  It’s closing in on 9 when I enter the hive, and the buzz is stronger than ever. Only today, it isn’t comforting at all. In fact, it sounds vaguely threatening.

  Sherri isn’t in her seat, so I dump my things and head over to Baxter’s office to confront him directly about what he knows. He’s behind his desk, flipping through a manual.

  Waiting.

  Even his sky blue tie seems coiled and ready to spring.

  “Morning,” I say, perching across from him.

  He makes a show of checking his watch. “It’s nearly afternoon for you.”

  “Car problems,” I say. “Had to take it into the shop.”

  “Isn’t that what fiancés are for?” he asks, with a sly smile.

  “I wouldn’t know,” I say. “Are they?”

  “On the rocks already? Is that why you were inspecting the tonsils of the new conscript last night?” His smile grows. “I arrived just in time to see it.”

  My heart flutters in my chest like an injured bird. A spotless 13-year record is about to go up in smoke, all because of a careless mistake witnessed by the wrong person.

  One person can destroy everything I’ve worked for. Yes, Dylan knows even more than Baxter, and might possibly defend me, but junior consultants have no credibility at NTA. No one will take him seriously for years.

  On the other hand, Backstabber’s word is suspect, too. Reuben knows he undermines me every chance he gets, and although he dismisses it as petty rivalry, his sending me to Ottawa instead of Baxter is a perverse compliment. Reuben trusts me.

  So if I could somehow manage to disarm this one nuclear warhead, I might be able to salvage my formerly impeccable reputation.

  “Nothing happened, Baxter,” I say. “The kid was drunk and probably did it on a dare. I sent him home with a stern warning. If you want me to report him, I will.”

  “It’s not him I’m worried about,” Baxter says. “If you’re fraternizing with subordinates, stress must be getting to you. Maybe you should talk to EC.”

  EC is Employee Counseling, the team we call in if consultant conditioning starts to wear off. I’ve sent many wayward consultants to EC myself when I sensed they were straying from the path of righteousness. The bright-faced, upbeat EC folk convince fallen consultrons how fortunate they are to be a part of this great hive and send them back refreshed. How they accomplish this is the best-kept secret in the company.

  Raising the specter of EC now is a blatant threat.

  I stare Baxter straight in the eye. “Isn’t my getting sentenced to the postal project enough for you? You’ll get first dibs on every good project that comes up.”

  He stares back at me. “I’m just worried about you, Ellis. Seems like you need some downtime.”

  In other words, he won’t be satisfied unless I’m completely out of commission. Because as long as I’m around, I’ll be Reuben’s favorite.

  For all the good it’s done me.

  The phone rings and Baxter checks call display. “It’s Reuben. Do you mind?”

  Dragging heavy feet through the door, I hover within sight at the water cooler. My hand brushes against a lump in the pocket of my suit jacket. I reach inside to touch the vial of Wonder Glass. Looking back at Baxter, I see him gesturing for me to give him five. Taking two cups from the tray beside the water cooler, I fill them with water. Then I surreptitiously pull out the dropper and let a couple of beads of Wonder Glass fall into one cup. I add another drop for good measure.

  It’s ridiculous, and I feel like a fool, but I seem to be out of options.

  I stroll back into Baxter’s office despite his waved objections and take my seat. To my relief, his attempt to book time with Reuben fails. Hanging up, he glares at me. “Does the concept of privacy escape you?”

  “Baxter,” I say. “You seem stressed, too. Are you dehydrated? You look tired.”

  He touches his face. “I do?”

  “Stop worrying about me and take care of yourself.” I slide the cup of water across the desk. He seizes it and swallows half in one gulp.

  I raise my glass to him, and say, “Eight cups a day will keep us young.”

  Baxter chugs the other half, and straightens his tie. “I don’t have time to socialize, Ellis. What did you want to talk to me about?”

  Judging by his expression, he can’t remember why I’m here. “Last night’s launch party,” I say.

  His Botoxed brow shifts but can’t quite furrow. “I only had one drink, but the night’s a blur. I guess these launch parties are all the same. They’re only fun for the newbies.”

  “I hear you,” I say, getting to my feet.

  He’s still looking at me, dazed. “You got Ottawa, right?”

  “Unfortunately. Any chance you’d take it for me?”

  Laughing, he says, “Not in a million years. I’ll hold the fort for you here.”

  “You do that,” I say, touching the vial in my pocket.

  Thinking outside the box: To offer a fresh perspective on an issue.

  I head downstairs to Starbucks and order one of their fancy drinks topped with a swirl of whipped cream that a guy like Dylan should find irresistible. Then I check the map at the door before entering the maze of cubicles and heading for the heart of the hive.

  Dylan starts when he sees me, his drawn face indicating that his headache is worse than mine. Holding a finger to my lips, I beckon, walking ahead of him to the closest meeting room. When he joins me, I close the door and gesture to a chair. He drops into it, and asks, “Am I in trouble?”

  “That depends.” I remain standing, staring down at him. The kid still has color. It will fade as the years pass, never to return until he makes partner and takes up golf. The tattoo will need to be lasered off first, of course, and he’ll have to let his wonderful voice go to ruin. There’s no room for such things at NTA.

  Under the fluorescent lights, Dylan looks small and meek. What was I thinking, allowing him in 10 yard radius? I should never have taken off my suit jacket.

  “I’m sorry,” he blurts. “I know it was inappropriate.”

  “It was,” I say. “Did you tell anyone?”

  “Just Mike and Andrew,” he says. “My friends.”

  If my stomach had further to sink, it would. They’ll tell their friends and pretty soon it’ll infect the entire hive.

  But it’s early, yet. I may be able to contain the toxin.

  “All right, Dylan. You seem to realize how unprofessional it was, and I don’t want to call EC. So let’s keep it between us, okay?” He nods and I slide the spiked caramel macchiato across the table to him. “Here. Take my drink. It looks like you could use something sweet. Bottoms up.”

  Dylan’s eyes become more g
lazed with each sip. Finally, he says, “Sorry, ma’am. I don’t have my notes for this meeting. Could you give me a few minutes?”

  “No worries,” I say. “Let’s reschedule.”

  Sherri is peering around with a frantic expression. “Come here,” she whispers.

  I bend to stare at an e-mail in her inbox. It’s from the generic company-wide mass mail account, and the subject line reads, “EC 911.” Attached is a file that Sherri clicks to open. It’s a grainy cell phone photo of Dylan kissing me. My hands are on his chest, but it doesn’t look like I’m resisting at all.

  Leaning on Sherri’s desk, I gasp for breath.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “I don’t... I don’t know.” It can’t be good that my middle-aged heart is pounding this hard.

  “It had to be Backstabber,” says Sherri, the only other person who knows the nickname.

  I manage a nod. “He saw me shoving the guy away. Sherri, I wasn’t on the distribution list. Can you recall the e-mail?”

  “I did,” she assures me. “I caught it by 8, but some people had probably already opened it. It was sent at five in the morning.”

  No wonder Baxter looked so tired.

  “Okay,” I say, pushing myself upright. “Give me a second to think.”

  Heading into my office, I pull a card out of my pocket and pick up the phone.

  Vera’s voice is soothing at the other end of the line. “Honey, relax. Calm down and tell me what happened.”

  I babble for a few minutes about the crap-storm swirling through NTA. “I might as well clear out my desk now.”

  “I’m so glad I gave you the large vial,” Vera says. “Sounds like you’ll need it. Now, I want you to figure out who sent the e-mail and squeeze a drop onto the keyboard. Easy, right?”

  “This stuff works on technology?”

  “Of course, hon. With so many young fools sending around nude photos of themselves, I’ve had to tailor the recipe. It works on nearly anything. But hurry. You’ve got to get ahead of the cracks.”

  Sherri agrees to decoy Baxter and his admin assistant down the hall, and I dash in to drop Wonder Glass onto Baxter’s laptop. Suspecting he implicated the admin assistant, I douse her desktop on the way out.