Free Love, Accidentally by Sarah Pekkanen Page A

her? Is his wife pissed?”
    “The wife’s on the other side of the table,” Matt said. “She can’t see what’s going on under the table. Plus, she’s looking into her hand mirror.”
    “Oh, shit,” I said. I covered my eyes with my hand and sank deeper into my chair. “Fenstermaker’s wife is doing their pilot; I read about it on ‘Page Six’ when I was researching them. It was supposed to be a blind item, but it was obvious. Fuckity, fuckity, fuckity.”
    “Fuckity?” Matt said. “Seriously?”
    I leapt up again and started to pace while I shot questions at Matt like he was on the witness stand.
    “How does Fenstermaker look?” I asked.
    “He doesn’t look unhappy, let’s put it like that,” Matt said diplomatically.
    “What’s the wife doing now?”
    “Eating a grape,” Matt said. “ One grape. Actually she hasn’t eaten it yet. She’s examining it like it’s a diamond.”
    “Look up from the grape!” I willed Mrs. Fenstermaker the message.
    Matt snorted, and I glared at him.
    “Sorry,” he said.
    “This is so unprofessional,” I hissed. “So . . . so . . .”
    “So Cheryl,” Matt finished for me.
    My headache was back with a vengeance; I should’ve known Cheryl would’ve fought dirty. A few years after I came to Richards, Dunne & Krantz, when she and I were competing for a dishwashing liquid account, we went to Kentucky to do focus groups with stay-at-home moms. My campaign focused on speed—moms were too busy these days to scrub pots and pans, so our soap would get the job done in half the time. Cheryl went for a “same great product, new look” approach by redesigning the bottle. We sat there together, chatting up four different groups of moms, writing down their comments and thoughts and recommendations, and it was clear my campaign was the winner. Except when we got back to New York, hers was the one the client chose. I chalked it up to bad luck. Maybe the client had a thing for phallic-shaped bottles. Maybe he liked the new bigger, firmer bottle because of something missing in his own life (again, no bitterness).
    Then, six months after the campaign aired, I learned Cheryl had switched the group’s comments before submitting them to the client. It wasn’t anything I could prove, just a whispered accusation from Cheryl’s assistant as she left for a new job.
    “She’s bending over in front of Fenstermaker,” Matt said. “I think she’s pretending to drop something.”
    “What’s Fenstermaker doing?” I asked.
    “Watching her pick it up,” Matt said. “Either that or putting a dollar in her G-string.”
    “She’s so pathetic,” I sputtered. “She’s actually a very smart woman. She does good work. Why does she always pull this crap?”
    “Because she’s Cheryl,” Matt said. “Hey, she must be wrapping up. Mason just stood up.”
    “What’s Fenstermaker doing?” I asked.
    “He’s getting up, too,” Mason said. “Whoops—he’s following Cheryl into the bathroom for a quickie.”
    “What?” I squealed.
    “Kidding,” Matt said. “He just shook Mason’s hand and they’re all heading for the elevator. Hang on a sec. I’ll go take a walk past them and eavesdrop.”
    Matt stepped out of his office while I let out all the air in my lungs with a whoosh and dropped back into my seat. I felt as weak and dizzy as if I’d run a marathon. Had I eaten dinner last night? No, I remembered, unless you counted the frozen burrito I’d microwaved when I finally stumbled home. It had tasted like the cardboard tray it came with so I’d tossed it in the trash after one bite and gobbled down enough Cherry Garcia to hit the food pyramid’s recommended fruit allowance for the day. I needed to pick up some vitamins. Maalox, too; my stomach felt like someone was twisting it in knots and setting it on fire. It was probably the ulcers my doctor had warned me were in my future. By now it felt like I had a family of ulcers living in my stomach, who were all