above the name. Patient. Well, I assumed P meant patient, as Jonah’s universe wasn’t peopled with peony growers or philosophers.
“One more suggestion?” Andrea said. I nodded. “Drink your coffee. You need some . . . you don’t want to sound so”—she combed her straight blond hair off her forehead with her fingers—“so down.”
“I am down. I’m terrified.”
“Susie, I know that. You know that. But if your cell rang and it was Jonah saying, ‘My car went over a cliff—’”
“Where are there cliffs between Manhattan and Long Island?” I snapped.
“I’m talking in, you know, whatever that stupid fucky word people always use—something terms.”
“Metaphorical terms?”
Andrea was hostile to words over three syllables. “Right,” she said. “So let’s assume he’ll be fine. And if he is fine, you don’t want him saying, ‘I hear you called Dr. Schwartz’—I’m sure there’s always a Dr. Schwartz—‘asking about me. Schwartz said you sounded totally down, like you’d lost all hope.’ I mean, if I know Jonah, he wouldn’t be thrilled.”
“No. He’d be humiliated.” I came close to smiling at the thought of Jonah clapping his hand to his forehead, jaw dropping, when he heard I’d called the names in his phone book. Then it hit me that he might be not embarrassed but proud I’d taken such initiative. On the other hand . . . Angry, definitely angry. I know you must have been frightened, Susie. But calling everyone . . . God! Can I ask you one simple question? Why couldn’t you have waited twenty-four hours? What the hell am I going to say to all these people?
“Humiliated?” Andrea said. She had seen Jonah’s flash of temper—rage, almost—when I’d said or done something to hint that maybe he had a flaw or two. “No. He’d be pissed beyond belief. But it’s not just about Jonah getting mad that you called his entire phone book sounding like the ‘Before’ in an antidepressant commercial. You need to get some caffeine into you so you don’t sound like you mainlined Ambien.”
I picked up the mug. Andrea had paid for them herself because she believed clients should know that Florabella had a profound understanding of what beautiful was. L’Objet mugs were, in her view, irrefutable proof. I’d vetoed them, telling her yes, they weregorgeous, but Bergdorf’s could get four hundred thirty-two bucks for six coffee mugs from someone else, not us. But they did get it: from Andrea herself. Self-indulgence came easy for my partner, because she’d married a hedge fund. Well, technically, she’d married Hugh Morrison, whom most people called Hughie. She called him Fat Boy. I’d pointed out to her that “Fat Boy” was cruel as well as pointless; anyone seeing a three-hundred-pound guy whose ankle flab hung over his Italian driving moccasins could figure out his nickname wasn’t Slim.
“You might want to start phoning the people you’ve marked off already, because some of them will have to call you back. Especially the doctors.”
“Do you think I should leave my home phone number when I call? If I’m on my cell getting an important lead, I don’t want to be interrupted by call waiting. But if the police want to reach me, or if Gilbert John or Layne hear something, I need to know right away.” I set the mug on the worktable as a wave of the morning’s dizziness came back. Not a tidal wave, but I pictured myself saying, “I was wondering if you’d spoken to Jonah recently . . .” to some snooty ENT guy while my cell vibrated with another incoming call and I wound up cutting off the ENT and missing the other call, which would turn out to be Jonah, and in the end all I’d have were his final inexplicable words on my voice mail: “I love you, Su—” Then silence. “And there’s another problem. When I’m talking and a call comes in, I know I’m supposed to push the Send button, but half the time that doesn’t work.”
“Calm down,” Andrea said.
“One more suggestion?” Andrea said. I nodded. “Drink your coffee. You need some . . . you don’t want to sound so”—she combed her straight blond hair off her forehead with her fingers—“so down.”
“I am down. I’m terrified.”
“Susie, I know that. You know that. But if your cell rang and it was Jonah saying, ‘My car went over a cliff—’”
“Where are there cliffs between Manhattan and Long Island?” I snapped.
“I’m talking in, you know, whatever that stupid fucky word people always use—something terms.”
“Metaphorical terms?”
Andrea was hostile to words over three syllables. “Right,” she said. “So let’s assume he’ll be fine. And if he is fine, you don’t want him saying, ‘I hear you called Dr. Schwartz’—I’m sure there’s always a Dr. Schwartz—‘asking about me. Schwartz said you sounded totally down, like you’d lost all hope.’ I mean, if I know Jonah, he wouldn’t be thrilled.”
“No. He’d be humiliated.” I came close to smiling at the thought of Jonah clapping his hand to his forehead, jaw dropping, when he heard I’d called the names in his phone book. Then it hit me that he might be not embarrassed but proud I’d taken such initiative. On the other hand . . . Angry, definitely angry. I know you must have been frightened, Susie. But calling everyone . . . God! Can I ask you one simple question? Why couldn’t you have waited twenty-four hours? What the hell am I going to say to all these people?
“Humiliated?” Andrea said. She had seen Jonah’s flash of temper—rage, almost—when I’d said or done something to hint that maybe he had a flaw or two. “No. He’d be pissed beyond belief. But it’s not just about Jonah getting mad that you called his entire phone book sounding like the ‘Before’ in an antidepressant commercial. You need to get some caffeine into you so you don’t sound like you mainlined Ambien.”
I picked up the mug. Andrea had paid for them herself because she believed clients should know that Florabella had a profound understanding of what beautiful was. L’Objet mugs were, in her view, irrefutable proof. I’d vetoed them, telling her yes, they weregorgeous, but Bergdorf’s could get four hundred thirty-two bucks for six coffee mugs from someone else, not us. But they did get it: from Andrea herself. Self-indulgence came easy for my partner, because she’d married a hedge fund. Well, technically, she’d married Hugh Morrison, whom most people called Hughie. She called him Fat Boy. I’d pointed out to her that “Fat Boy” was cruel as well as pointless; anyone seeing a three-hundred-pound guy whose ankle flab hung over his Italian driving moccasins could figure out his nickname wasn’t Slim.
“You might want to start phoning the people you’ve marked off already, because some of them will have to call you back. Especially the doctors.”
“Do you think I should leave my home phone number when I call? If I’m on my cell getting an important lead, I don’t want to be interrupted by call waiting. But if the police want to reach me, or if Gilbert John or Layne hear something, I need to know right away.” I set the mug on the worktable as a wave of the morning’s dizziness came back. Not a tidal wave, but I pictured myself saying, “I was wondering if you’d spoken to Jonah recently . . .” to some snooty ENT guy while my cell vibrated with another incoming call and I wound up cutting off the ENT and missing the other call, which would turn out to be Jonah, and in the end all I’d have were his final inexplicable words on my voice mail: “I love you, Su—” Then silence. “And there’s another problem. When I’m talking and a call comes in, I know I’m supposed to push the Send button, but half the time that doesn’t work.”
“Calm down,” Andrea said.
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