And until tonight, Harry had never seen her as anything other than perfectly composed, sharp suits, sharper decisions. The kind of woman who commanded respect without raising her voice. But something had changed in the past few weeks. The divorce, people whispered. 15 years of marriage ended because her husband had been sleeping with a 26-year-old marketing coordinator from his firm.
Harry watched as Cara reached for another glass of wine, her movements unsteady, her eyes glazed and unfocused. A few of their colleagues glanced her way, then quickly found somewhere else to look. No one wanted to be the person who dealt with the boss when she was falling apart. 652. He needed to leave now if he was going to make it.
Harry grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and started toward the exit. He was three steps from the door when he heard the crash. Carara had knocked over her purse, its contents scattering across the polished floor. She dropped to her knees to gather them, and Harry could see her hands shaking as she fumbled with lipstick tubes and scattered receipts. When she tried to stand, she stumbled and nearly fell.
A waiter rushed over, asked if she needed help. Cara waved him away with a slurred, "I'm fine." That convinced no one. Harry stood frozen at the door, his car keys already in his hand. This wasn't his problem. Cara was a grown woman, his boss, someone with more power and resources than he would ever have.
She could call a cab. She could ask someone else. She could figure it out. But as he watched her struggle to her feet, he saw something that made his chest ache. She was searching through her purse with increasing desperation, pulling out her wallet, her compact mirror, a pack of tissues.
Her phone screen was cracked and dark. Dead battery. And from the way she kept digging through the same pockets over and over, it was clear she couldn't find what she was looking for, her keys. Harry glanced around the room. The other executives had conveniently migrated to the far corner of the restaurant.
The junior staff were pretending to be deep in conversation. No one was going to help her. He thought about Ella waiting backstage in her costume, searching the audience for his face. He thought about what it would mean if he left Carara here, a woman too drunk to stand without her phone, without her keys, without anyone willing to take responsibility for her. And he thought about what it would mean if he stayed. a black man, a subordinate, taking his drunk white female boss somewhere private.