All You Could Ask For A Novel - By Mike Greenberg Page 0,38
silence I said, “It was my birthday yesterday,” and then wished I hadn’t.
“That’s right, of course. I’m sorry I didn’t send anything, been so damn crazy with everything here.” He came around the desk and gave me a quick hug. “Happy and healthy and many more.”
“Thanks,” I said. I knew damn well he didn’t know it was my birthday. “I’m forty.”
“How about that,” he said, back on his side of the desk, his hands clasped behind his head. “We’re getting up there, aren’t we? I’ll be forty-seven soon enough.”
“Next Thursday.”
“That’s right. Listen, happy birthday. You do anything special for it?”
“I’m going to, that’s what I’m here to tell you. I’m going to take a month off.”
“Really,” he said. The look on his face was priceless. “When are you thinking of going?”
“This afternoon. I’m taking my assistant for the whole time, at full pay. And I’d like to take the Gulfstream. You’re not using it until Friday.”
If there is any benefit to working for a man who once broke your heart and knows it, it is this. When it comes to anything personal, I tell him what I want and he never equivocates. I’m not exactly sure why; it is not as though if he told me I couldn’t take the company jet I would cry and say: “It’s bad enough you married that bitch you cheated on me with, now you’re going to make me fly Delta?” But there is still a little bit of that in there, somewhere, and whenever I can use it to my advantage, I do.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Aspen,” I said. “I haven’t been there since I was a girl. I’m going to climb a few mountains, ride a few horses.”
“I can’t remember the last time you took any time off.”
“It’s been a while,” I said, and stood up. “I’m going to get a few things in order and I’ll be out of here around noon. Please have them ready for wheels-up at three. I’ll be at Teterboro a little before that.”
He gave me a nice smile, one I almost never see anymore. “Have a good time,” he said. “Be safe.”
Then I was back in the anteroom, nodding to Danielle.
“I’m taking some time off,” I said to her as I passed. “Milton would have wanted me to.”
WHEN I TOLD PHIL I needed a few hours before I could take off for Colorado, I was telling the truth, but not the whole truth. The implication was that I needed to tidy up a few affairs and pack, while the truth was I had been up most of the night doing both of those. But there was one important meeting I needed to attend before I could go to the airport, one I would never tell Phil about, even though he is my boss. In fact, I wouldn’t tell anyone about it, not even Maurice.
Dr. Gray is my own little secret.
You don’t have to say it, I already know: there is no reason to be ashamed of therapy. And, really, I am not ashamed. Maybe it’s more “embarrassed.” Or “protective.” However you choose to characterize it, I do not acknowledge to anyone that I have been in intense psychoanalysis pretty much my entire adult life. You see, I exist in such a competitive world that to admit to needing help would be tantamount to admitting weakness. I know all the men I work with, and who work for me, are looking for my flaws, looking to find a soft spot, and so fuck them, I refuse to show one. And while I know there are no similarities between the two, the reason I keep my therapy secret is the same reason I don’t walk into a board meeting and complain about menstrual cramps, because anything that puts me on even less of a level playing field than I already am seems like it is best left out of the discussion.
Dr. Gray is comparatively new, and I love her. I have seen a long list of New York’s finest and most discreet shrinks. I’ve been at it so long one of them retired and another recently died. I have also read just about every significant book on self-help and mental health published in the last twenty years and some older than that, everything from The Road Less Traveled to Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff, and I’ve learned bits and pieces from all of them. I have delved deeply into my past, time and again, always reaching the