Mad River Road by Joy Fielding Page A

its usual resonance. She wondered if he was still in intensive care and if his wife was still standing guard. Hang up, she thought.
    “Don’t hang up,” Tim said, as if reading her thoughts. “Please, Jamie. Just hear me out.”
    “I see you’re still alive,” she said coldly.
    “I’m so sorry, Jamie,” he began, a tremble in his voice that threatened tears.
    Jamie shook her head, feeling her body sway, knowing she was perilously close to getting sucked back in. They’d been together for over four months after all. He’d been her lover, her confidant, occasionally even her friend. And now he was in the hospital, having barely escaped death.…
    What’s the matter with me? she berated herself, slamming her fist onto the computer’s keyboard, causing the screen to go instantly blank. He was a married man, for God’s sake, and he’d lied to her. Had she no pride, no sense of self-preservation? Had her marriage taught her nothing at all? “What are you sorry about, Tim?” Jamie snapped, thinking of Selma Hersh, deciding she could use some of that old woman’s gumption right about now. “That you lied to me, or that you got caught?”
    “Both,” he acknowledged after a pause.
    “What did your wife tell you?”
    “That I had some visitors from the office. It didn’t take a genius to figure out—”
    “Are you getting a divorce?” Jamie interrupted.
    Another pause, slightly longer than the first, then, “No.”
    Jerk, Jamie thought. You picked a hell of a time to start telling the truth.
    “That must have been some scene last night,” he said, chuckling softly.
    “You bastard,” Jamie said slowly. “You’re enjoying this.”
    The laugh quickly degenerated into a cough. “What? No, of course not.”
    “You’re flattered, you miserable son of a bitch.”
    “Jamie, you’re overreacting.”
    “Go to hell.” Jamie slammed down the receiver.
    In the stillness that followed, Jamie gradually became aware of other sounds: the hum of her computer; the slightly grating sound of Mary McTeer’s voice as she conferred with a colleague; the clicking of Karen Romanick’s fingers across her keyboard; the rhythmic breathing of someone standing directly behind her. Jamie swiveled around in her seat, knowing who was there even before she saw the long, manicured fingers that were Mrs. Starkey’s trademark. They tapped impatiently against the sleeves of her beige silk blouse.
    “What an interesting way to deal with clients,” Mrs. Starkey remarked, cool hazel eyes glaring at Jamie from behind a pair of square, tortoiseshell glasses. “No wonder you’re so popular.”
    “I’m sorry,” Jamie began, not quite sure what she was apologizing for. For being such an idiot, for having an affair with a married man, for sleeping with a stranger, for taking personal calls on company time? Any or all of the above? What the hell—take your pick. She was sorry for her whole misspent, stupid life.
    “My office,” Mrs. Starkey snapped, turning on her brown flats and marching off without looking back.
    “Damn.” Jamie glanced at her blank computer screen. “Damn,” she said again, unable to move.
    “Just go in there and listen and don’t answer back,” Karen advised out of the corner of her mouth.
    “I don’t think I can deal with her right now.”
    “I don’t think you have a choice.”
    “Damn.”
    “You’ll apologize, you’ll grovel, you’ll keep your job,” Karen said.
    “I don’t want this job,” Jamie said loudly.
    “What are you saying?”
    Jamie pushed herself away from her desk, rose quickly to her feet. “I’m saying I don’t want this job.”
    “What are you
doing?”
    Jamie began emptying her desk of any personal items—a telephone-address book, a tube of pink lipstick, a nail clipper, a spare pair of pantyhose. “I’m quitting.”
    “Without talking to Mrs. Starkey?”
    “She’s a smart lady—she’ll figure it out.” Jamie bent down to give her startled colleague a hug.