Bitter Business

mean?”
    “I mean, did you ever do something terrible to him? You know, something for which he might want to exact revenge?”
    “Not that I know of. Why?”
    “I just got off the phone with Jack Cavanaugh. What a jerk. I can’t imagine why Babbage would dump him on you unless he was trying to punish you for something.”
    “What did Cavanaugh want?”
    “He wanted to talk to you. Now! When I told him that you were out of the office and unavailable, he threw a blue fit and started screaming at me. I hate guys who do that. The asshole would never raise his voice to you, his attorney. But I’m just a secretary, so he thinks it’s okay to treat me like dirt.”
    “Does he want me to call him back?”
    “No. You don’t have to. He didn’t really need to talk to you in the first place. It turns out he just wanted to set up a meeting between you and his daughter Lydia. I’d already set it up for nine o’clock tomorrow morning, just like you asked.”
    “Is he going to be there?”
    “I don’t know. He said he’d fax you instructions. I’ve got to leave for class in about half an hour, so I’ll just put them on your desk.”
    “Anything else?”
    “Anything else? There are so many elses I wouldn’t even know where to start. I’m running out of excuses. People are starting to notice how behind you’re getting.”
    My stomach churned.
    “I’ll be leaving here in ten minutes,” I said, looking at my watch. “Have Daniel’s secretary bring me the three most recent binders in the Superior Plating file and leave them on my desk—also all of their incorporation documents. I’m planning on working until midnight so that I can get caught up on some of this stuff.”
    “No you’re not. You’re meeting Stephen for dinner at L’Auberge at seven o’clock.”
    “Tell me you’re making this up,” I said. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I could have sworn that dinner with Stephen was Tuesday night.”
    “Today is Tuesday.”
    “Shit. You’ll have to call him and tell him I can’t make it.”
    “Last week when you told me to put this on your calendar, you made me swear a blood oath that I wouldn’t let you cancel. Those Swiss guys flew in especially for this.”
    “You’re right. I have to go.”
    “I guess it’s safe to assume that you forgot to bring clothes to change into. L’Auberge is very dressy and the Swiss are very formal.”
    I swore.
    “I guess you’ll just have to borrow something of your mother’s,” said Cheryl. There was no mistaking the amusement in her voice.
     
    I was standing in my mother’s dressing room in my underwear. Of the two of us, she was the one who was having a good time.
    “I can’t believe you wear that cheap-looking brassiere,” she lectured. “Wherever did you get it? Victoria’s Secret?”
    “It’s beige, for God’s sake, Mother,” I protested. “How can you look cheap in beige underwear?”
    “I didn’t mean that kind of cheap. I mean that it’s of poor quality. I don’t know what it’s made out of, but it’s probably some sort of synthetic. I believe they make it out of old panty hose. I don’t know how you expect your clothes to fit correctly when you don’t have the proper foundation garments.”
    I looked at her hard to see if I could detect even a hint of self-mockery, but for my mother the business of getting dressed was deadly serious. She turned to reach for a bare slip of a fuchsia cocktail dress with spaghetti straps.
    “Where’s the rest of it?” I demanded. “I can’t wear that to a business dinner with a bunch of pharmaceutical executives.”
    “Tonight, for once, you’re going to wear what I tell you to wear,” declared my mother, her eyes flashing with pleasure. “And after we’ve picked a dress, I’m doing something about your hair!”
     
    A cat on hot bricks is nothing compared to what I felt like by the time my mother had finished her ministrations with the hot rollers and her makeup bag. When at last she had declared herself satisfied, I practically flew out of the house, desperate to be free of her and anxious to get to the restaurant on time. The Swiss may be formal, but they are punctual as well.
    From the minute the parking attendant swung open the door of my car I knew that something strange was going on. The doorman practically clicked his heels as he greeted me. The maître d’ sprang to my side and gallantly swept my mother’s coat from my shoulders—a full-length Russian