Chapter 4
Jasmine wanted to meet at the Whitney, of all places. Not a coffee shop near the office, not a bar. She texted, "There's a bench by the elevators, second floor, it's quiet before noon." I looked it up on my phone while I stood outside the Hampton. Priya had told me not to meet without her, but then she'd said it was my call. I called her anyway.
"He told her to talk to me?" I said when she picked up.
"He told his lawyer he'd make Jasmine available," Priya said. I could hear paper shuffling. "That means he prepped her. If you meet, don't argue facts. Listen. Don't promise anything."
"Can I bring you?"
"I can be outside. Inside that museum you have witnesses and cameras. That's good. Don't record without telling her, it's not worth the fight. Just hear what she says and text me when you leave."
I took the downtown 1 train. My suitcase was checked again at the Hampton, checkout pushed to six. My silver gown was folded in the garment bag they gave me at the front desk, the beads catching even through the plastic. I kept thinking about the dressing suites at the hotel, that locked door. The Whitney was bright and cold, the stairs still wet from a morning mop.
Jasmine was already there. She was younger than I remembered, maybe twenty-six, dark hair pulled back, a navy work dress and flat shoes. She stood when she saw me and didn't hug me. She said, "Thank you for coming."
We sat on the bench. A security guard walked past pushing a stanchion. Jasmine's hands were clasped around her phone.
"I didn't know he was married the first time we talked," she said. "Not really. I knew there was a Claire, from Slack. I didn't connect it."
I kept my breathing even. Priya's voice in my head: listen.
"At the gala, he asked me to help him with his cufflink in the dressing suite," she went on. "The door stuck. That's why it was locked. Nothing happened. He asked about my review and I left. That's it. He said if I tell you that, this all goes away."
The words were too clean. Rehearsed. I looked at her shoes, at the way her thumb kept waking her phone screen and then letting it go dark.
"Did he tell you to say that?" I asked.
She flinched. "He said HR told him to have me clear it up. He said you posted on Slack that I was... that we were together. That post is hurting my job too."
"I posted what I saw," I said. "I saw you go into the dressing suite and the door lock. I saw him come out five minutes later adjusting his tie. I didn't write anything about what you did."
Her eyes filled. "I know. I read it. But people fill in the rest."
We sat in the white noise of the museum. Somewhere a kid laughed. I remembered my own Slack post, typed at 10:47 p.m. on my phone in the ballroom bathroom, the beaded gown bunched around my knees. Three sentences: "At the foundation gala tonight my husband went into a locked dressing suite with Jasmine Lewis from Sales. When I asked him, he told me to take this post down. I deserve to know what happened." It was still up. Forty-seven emoji reactions now.
Jasmine unlocked her phone. "I kept the messages because I was scared," she said. Her voice dropped. "He Slack DM'd me after you posted."
She turned the screen toward me. It was a Slack thread, his avatar, timestamped 11:31 p.m. last night.
Him: "Can you tell Claire nothing happened? HR looped in. Just say door stuck. I will handle post."
Jasmine: "I told you I didn't want to get involved."
Him: "Please. She mentioned divorce lawyer. Need you to say that. Quick call tomorrow?"
She scrolled. Another message at 8:14 a.m. today: "Offer still stands to talk to her directly. Keep it simple: nothing happened. Don't mention hallway bar."
My stomach went cold. Hallway bar. There was a small service bar by those dressing suites. I hadn't mentioned it.
"What's the hallway bar?" I asked.
Jasmine exhaled. "We got drinks there before. Just talking. Someone saw us. He told me not to mention it because it looks bad."
I didn't take the phone. I asked if I could take a picture of the screen. She nodded. I took two, one of each message block, my hand finally not shaking.
"I don't want to be in the middle," she whispered. "I liked the job before this."
"I know," I said. I meant it. "Thank you for showing me."
May you like
She stood first. She didn't ask me to take the post down again. On the elevator down, Priya texted, "You okay?" I sent her the photos before I answered.
Outside on Gansevoort, the wind off the river cut through my jacket. My phone buzzed, my husband: "How did it go with Jasmine?" I didn't reply. I walked toward the subway, the screenshots bright in my photo roll, proof that "nothing happened" was a line he'd fed her, and that there was more he didn't want named.
