Your Big Break, Page 3

“I’ll make it my top priority.”

  “That’s the spirit! You’re going to have to do your damn best here, Dani,” he says, turning to go. “When I talked to Mr. Hirschbaum this morning, he was furious. It’s going to take a real—”

  “Don’t worry, Craig,” I say, cutting him off. “I’ll kiss his ass.”

  He smiles. It’s exactly what he wants to hear.

  3

  It’s Not You, It’s Me It’S Not You, It’s Me

  Evan Hirschbaum is quite possibly the world’s most prolific dater.

  As I sit in the reception area of Hirschbaum, Davis, and Klein: Attorneys at Law in the John Hancock Tower downtown, I mull over his never-ending list of exes.

  There is, of course, Sophie Kennison, who I’m here to discuss. Last month, it was Holly O’Henry. Before her, Shiri Friedman. And let’s not forget Annie Shields, Heather Canatella, and Tina Graber. Beyond that, my memory gets fuzzy. After a while, Evan’s gal pals start to blend together. They all have similar professions (wannabe actress/model/singer), similar appearances (drop-dead gorgeous) and similar shelf lives (six weeks, max). Evan keeps Your Big Break Inc. on retainer, which basically means we—usually me—remain at his beck and call.

  I’ve been waiting in the reception area for nearly forty-five minutes. I pass the time flipping through outdated issues of The New Yorker and sending text messages to my best friend, Krista Bruce, on my cell phone. Krista is the business manager for a small catering company in downtown Boston. We make plans to grab dinner at The Cheesecake Factory tonight after work, and then I put my cell phone away. I glance down at my watch again. I’m giving Evan fifteen more minutes, and then I’m bailing. I’d hoped to schmooze him via phone, but Evan’s secretary instructed me to come to the office. “This isn’t the sort of thing Mr. Hirschbaum is comfortable discussing over the phone,” she snapped.

  Which was news to me.

  Evan and I conducted most of our business via phone. We’d met in person only once before.

  I flip open my briefcase and pull out my Franklin Covey day planner and make a quick note: Call Lucy about Cape Cod wedding w/ Jason. I grimace. That’s going to be a tough one. Lucy is going to be pretty peeved when I ask her to see Jason one last time. I should have given him a flat no, but something in his face—desperation?—really stung me. I just couldn’t bear to see him so upset. My stomach growls. It’s almost 2 p.m., and I haven’t had lunch. I’ll have to grab a quick sandwich at Au Bon Pain on my way to Sophie Kennison’s apartment. I stand up and approach the receptionist’s desk to tell her I’m leaving.

  She clicks off from a call. “You can go on back now.”

  I head down the hall past a seemingly endless array of conference rooms and tiny cubicles. I don’t see one person who looks genuinely happy. I make my way to Evan’s gigantic office and rap lightly on the door. His head’s buried in a file.

  “Come in,” he says, not bothering to look up.

  I stroll inside and come to a stop in front of his enormous mahogany desk, which is covered with hundreds of manila folders, piled in stacks. I stand there for a minute before he further acknowledges me. “Dani, great to see you!” he says brightly, standing to greet me. We shake hands, and he holds my grip for a second too long.

  Evan’s tall with inky black hair and large dark eyes. He’s in his early forties and is strikingly handsome in a polished, intimidating way. When I first met him, I thought he looked like a soap-opera stud, not a Boston attorney.

  “Would you care for some water?” he asks, sitting down.

  I perch on the chair opposite him. “That’d be great.”

  He buzzes his secretary. “Martha, bring me two bottles of Trump Ice.”

  Evan Hirschbaum, I realize, is the only person I know who would actually drink bottled water with Donald Trump’s face on the side.

  A pretty young woman comes bustling in a second later with two waters. As soon as she’s gone, I begin sucking up.

  “Mr. Hirschbaum, I can’t tell you how sorry I am, sir—”

  “None of this ‘sir’ business. It makes me sound ninety. How long have we known each other, Dani? Four, five months?”

  “About a year.”

  There’s a long pause, and I’m afraid he’s going to argue with me. “So call me Evan.” He smiles. “We’re on a first-name basis now.”

  We are? This is news to me. Even Craig doesn’t call him Evan.

  “Dani, the reason I asked you here is simple. I’ve been paying for your services for a year, and I think that entitles me to a certain level of commitment.”

  I hate the way he says “services.” It makes me sound like a prostitute. “You can rest assured, s-Evan”—I just called him Seven!—“you’re our top priority.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He nods. “However, I didn’t feel like a top priority this morning. Can I assume Craig brought you up to speed with what happened?”

  “Yes, Craig filled me in on all the details. I understand Sophie Kennison caused some trouble for you during a binding arbitration.”

  “Trouble,” he scoffs. “She completely intruded on my workspace!”

  I grimace in sympathy. “I can’t imagine how horrible that must have been.”

  He takes a swig of Trump Ice. “Would you like to hear my life philosophy, Dani?”

  Not really, but what choice do I have? “I’d love to.”

  He stares straight at me. “Everything’s business. Everything. Treat your life that way, and the world’s your oyster.”

  “That’s interesting.” I take a quick sip of Trump Ice.

  “The problem with people is they let their feelings dictate how they live their lives. They become slaves to emotion. Me, on the other hand—I take nothing personally.”

  I’m not sure what to say to this. “That’s one way of looking at the world,” I finally offer.

  Evan shakes his head. “It’s not one way. It’s the only way. Do you see what I’m getting at? How this applies to Sophie?”

  He’s lost me, but I try to hide it. “I think I do, yeah.”

  He leans back in his chair and props his hands behind his head. “I trust you to keep my romantic relationships in order. Ideally, I prefer clean partings. But when messes occur, I trust you to clean them up promptly.”

  “I’ll handle Sophie.”

  He shakes his head. “She got to me today, and I don’t appreciate that.”

  “What exactly did she say when she barged in? I understand she was cursing?”

  Evan laughs. “Cursing isn’t exactly the right word, though it was bordering on profane. See for yourself.” He reaches into his Cole Haan trouser pocket and pulls out a Motorola cell phone. “It’s the first text on the screen.”

  I take the phone from his hands and open the message.

  Evan,

  I miss the way you kiss me, I miss scratching my nails down your back. I miss your eyes, your hands, your tongue, your two-hour hard-ons . . .

  I snap the phone shut. “I don’t really think I need to read the whole thing.”

  “But you get the picture.”

  Loud and clear. “So tell me about the part where Sophie burst into the room. How did the arbitrator react?” I ask, steering things onto less embarrassing ground.

  “She never came into contact with the arbitrator.”

  Huh? “But I thought she intruded on your case?”

  “It wasn’t a physical intrusion, per se.”

  I wish he’d just get to the point. “What do you mean, exactly?”

  “Sophie sent this”—he grabs for the phone—“semi-erotic text to me in the middle of the arbitration! I made the mistake of reading the damn thing right at a crucial moment.”

  “You had your cell phone on during a legal proceeding?” I ask. Surely that’s violating some law? At the very least, it’s incredibly rude.

  “I’m only human.”

  Could have fooled me.

  “And when I read Sophie’s text, I was utterly distrac
ted.”

  This from the man who takes nothing personally? “Craig said Sophie barged into the proceedings—”

  “She wasn’t there, but I felt her presence quite strongly”—he glances down at his lap—“if you follow.”

  Oh, Christ. I’m thoroughly grossed-out. I can’t believe this is what my life has come to. I have a master’s degree in communications from Tulane University, for crying out loud. “Look, sir . . . Evan,” I begin. “Sophie’s having trouble adjusting. She cared about you a great deal. I’ll talk to her, make sure she’s coping okay. And I’ll see that she doesn’t bother you again.”

  “Music to my ears.”

  I get up to leave. “I’ve got to run, but I’ll take care of this first thing.”

  Evan rises from his chair. “Why the rush?” He cocks his head to the side. “How about grabbing a late lunch with me? It would give us a chance to get to know each other better. I’d like to find out what makes you tick, Dani.”

  What makes me tick? Has he lost his mind?

  Evan strides around the desk and touches my shoulder. “It’s really a shame we aren’t better friends.”

  “Friends?” I repeat.

  “Yes, you seem like someone I’d enjoy getting to know.”

  Oh, fuck, is Evan Hirschbaum hitting on me? I feel my face flame up. I’m not Evan’s type! As Jason Dutwiler so bluntly pointed out, I’m not exactly stacked. And for Evan Hirschbaum, that’s an important quality. His taste runs more Carmen Electra than girl-next-door.

  “I’d love to have lunch, but, unfortunately, I’ve already eaten. And I could eat again, except I had such a big, big meal.” My stomach, naturally, picks this moment to growl. “I ate pasta. At Bertucci’s,” I babble.

  “Do you always ramble when you’re nervous?” he teases.

  Oh, fuck, Evan Hirschbaum is definitely hitting on me! “I’m not nervous, I’m just . . . full.”

  “Another time, then.” He releases his grip on my shoulder.

  “Yes, another time.” Not if I can help it! “But now I’d better get over to Sophie’s place.”

  He shakes his head. “Sophie’s visiting her parents in Connecticut for two weeks. Which you would have known, had you read the entire text message.”

  “I’ll talk to her as soon as she gets back, then.” I begin inching toward the door.

  “Sophie’s a loose cannon, Dani. I don’t know what I ever saw in her in the first place.”

  “Beauty. Same thing you see in all your women,” I say before I can stop myself.

  Evan winks. “You make me sound shallow. As though I chew people up and spit them out.”

  “You do break a lot of hearts,” I tell him, and he beams, like he’s proud of it.

  “It may appear that way, but I’ve merely had a string of bad luck,” Evan says as he shows me out of his office. “Some women are too annoying, too fat, too clingy to merit a lasting relationship. I seem to know them all.”

  I can’t get out of there fast enough.

  I meet Krista for dinner at The Cheesecake Factory after work. I never did stop for lunch, and I’m absolutely starving. I’m about to crack a joke about how hungry I am when my cell phone starts ringing. I quickly pull it out of my purse and answer. “Hello?”

  “Hi, honey.” It’s my dad.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Not a lot. I was calling to see if you’re free to go shopping this weekend. I’d like to pick out something really nice for your mother’s birthday next week, and I could use your help.”

  “Sure, my schedule’s wide open.”

  He chuckles. “I find that hard to believe. I bet you’ve got a wild time planned with your friends.”

  Actually, I don’t. And it’s really more like friend. Singular, no “s.” Other than Krista, I don’t have a lot of close pals. I let a lot of my friends slip away when I was dating Garrett. It’s a mistake I’ve deeply regretted, and one I vow never to repeat.

  “I’m sure I can squeeze you in,” I tease Dad.

  “Great! How does Sunday sound?”

  We make plans to meet at two o’clock.

  “Sorry about that,” I apologize to Krista as I hang up the phone. “Looks like I’m hitting the mall with Dad this weekend.”

  Krista raises an eyebrow. “That’s weird. Since when is your dad the shopping type?”

  “Since he needs a gift for Mom’s birthday.”

  “He’s such a workaholic, I’m surprised he even remembered.”

  “Tell me about it,” I begin, then think better of it. “You know, Dad’s been a lot better lately. He’s been making a real effort to spend time with the family. It’s actually kind of cool. I’ve never gotten to know my father very well. Other than watching the occasional Bruins game, he keeps to himself. But he seems to be opening up a lot more these days.”

  “That’s great! I wish my parents would do the same. I barely see either one of them,” Krista says. “So, how was your day? Did you have to go see that Ethan guy again?”

  “Evan.” I grimace.

  “Sorry, I can never remember,” she apologizes as she thumbs through her menu.

  “I wish I could forget,” I say, thinking back to our bizarre conversation.

  4

  YBB INC. EMPLOYEE RULE #2

  Never reveal your last name.

  “Your suspicions are correct: I slept with your boyfriend. The sex was mind-blowing. I came five times. . . .”

  “I can’t go through with this,” I say, dropping my pen mid-sentence.

  Your Big Break Inc.’s newest hiree, Amanda Portney, looks up at me and grins. “You’re only giving the client what she wanted.”

  “I know, but it seems so . . . cruel.”

  “Read me the rest,” Amanda prompts, kicking her feet up on my desk.

  It’s Monday morning and we’re sitting in my office, conspiring to end a six-year friendship. Amanda just started at Your Big Break Inc. last week, and we’re still training her on the finer details of terminating relationships. She’s going to be working for us on a part-time basis while she finishes her psychology degree at Boston University. Amanda’s primary duty is to maintain our website, but she still needs to know what we do and how we do it, so I’ve included her in this drafting session. Her official title is Assistant Support Specialist.

  Which, as my colleague Trey so eloquently pointed out, spells ASS.

  With the addition of Amanda, Your Big Break Inc. is now a five-man operation. There’s Craig McAllister; Trey Shaunessy, my fellow Communications Specialist; me; Amanda; and Beverly, our administrative assistant. We work on commission, so the hiring of more personnel is both a blessing and a curse.

  “Okay, so the next paragraph starts, ‘We were like two rabbits, constantly humping—’”

  “Take out the rabbit part,” Amanda weighs in. “Too gross.”

  “That’s a direct quote. The client specifically instructed me to use that line.”

  Amanda makes a face. “It’s a disgusting image. Is that what you’re aiming for?”

  “Not exactly.” I flip through my notes. “I’m aiming for drama, bitchiness, and major shock value. She wants the letter to sound like it was written by a soap-opera vixen.”

  “A soap-opera vixen who’s into bestiality,” Amanda cracks.

  I ignore this and continue reading aloud,“‘Your fiancé and I have been carrying on a torrid love affair for two months.’”

  “‘Torrid love affair’?”

  “I’m going for high drama, remember?”

  Craig pokes his head into my office. “What are you two chicas meeting about?”

  “I’m teaching Amanda how to break up a friendship.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “I thought platonic relationships were my man Trey’s department.”

  “Usually. But Trey’s in Milwaukee this week,” I remind him.

  “Milwaukee? When did I agree to let him take a vacation?”

  “His mother’s having knee replacement surgery
, remember? He went there to help out.”

  “Oh, right,” Craig mumbles, looking embarrassed. “Gimmie the four-one-one on this case you two are working.”

  “Two twentysomething girls from Brookline—friends for six years, roommates for two—had a bitter disagreement over a guy.”

  “What other kind of bitter disagreement is there?” Amanda asks.

  “Our client, Jamie, discovered that her best friend, Lyndsey, was sleeping with her fiancé. So Jamie bedded down Lyndsey’s boyfriend, and now she is kicking Lyndsey out of her apartment and her life.”

  “A revenge affair,” Craig muses. “I like it!”

  “Shows style, huh?” Amanda chimes in. “What I wouldn’t give to see the look on Lyndsey’s face when you deliver that letter.”

  Oh, yeah, it’s going to be a real treat. Maybe Lyndsey will slap me across the face out of anger. A few months ago, one jilted woman spit on my shoe after I informed her of her new single status. And a mortified ex once commanded her dog to attack me. But it was Pekingese, so the only casualty was the left corner of my Dooney & Bourke tote.

  “Good work, ladies,” Craig calls, ducking out of my office.

  “So, do you wear a Kevlar vest when you go out on a job?” Amanda jokes.

  “Funny.” I roll my eyes. “No, I don’t. But that being said, make sure you always follow rule number two.”

  “Rule number two?” she asks, giving away the fact that she hasn’t read the company handbook very carefully.

  “Rule number two is: Never reveal your last name. It’s not that you’re in any danger, but you don’t want to open yourself up to potentially harassing situations—angry exes phoning your house or leaving a flaming pile of dog poop on your front door. That kind of thing.”

  Amanda shrugs and wrinkles her nose. “I’m glad I won’t be working in the field.”

  Steering us back to where we were before Craig interrupted, I resume my instructions.

  “Breaking up friendships is the same as breaking up lovers: The most important thing is to adhere to the client’s requests,” I explain. “We’re here to make the parting as easy for them as possible, yet we have to keep their preferences in mind.”