It may be after hours, but there’s still a hum of energy about the cubicles. Even the industrial carpeting seems alive at night. Sounds stupid, yes, but it always seemed that way to me. This office is where things happen. Where people become important. Doing well here is all I’ve ever wanted.
So why doesn’t that feel like enough anymore? I turn on my computer monitor and notice, as it boots up, that my reflection has streaks of mascara running down its cheeks. Fantastic. I grab some tissues and clean myself up before I get lost in some emails I forgot to take care of this morning. This is what I need. Work. Lots of work. Everybody’s workin’ for the weekend. Or on the weekend, whichever comes first.
“Ms. Young?” someone above me says. I look up, a ball of tissues still crumpled in my hand. A young man stands above me, his eyes looking owlish behind his round glasses. “Were you just humming something from Loverboy?”
“Uh. ‘Everybody’s Workin’ for the Weekend,’” I mutter. Man. 80s nostalgia really is at its damn peak.
“We’ve met before,” he says, registering my look of total not-remembering. “Ed French. I’m working on your budget.”
Right. The guy who’s so anal about managing every penny, he asks us to verify what brand of rubber bands we’re buying. Ed sniffs and slides his glasses back up his nose. He’s a good-looking man, mid twenties, with oiled hair that’s perfectly in place. Which leads to my next question.
“What are you still doing here?”
“Work never sleeps,” he says, sounding pleasant about it. Pursing his lips, he takes out a linen handkerchief—actual linen—and leans down to wipe some smudgy fingerprint marks off my desk. “I’m working for you, as a matter of fact. Your Rustic Renovations has gotten some incredible buzz.” He looks proud. “Sherilyn, our social media coordinator, says your Instagram in particular is getting huge. Which is great. That’s the 18-25 demographic that we were—”
He then proceeds to list a bunch of facts and figures that I’m not quite sure I understand. At the end of it all, Ed grins even wider. “I’d hoped to speak with you tomorrow, but I’m glad I have a chance now. I probably shouldn’t say anything more; Mr. Davis wants to mention it himself.”
“Mention what?” I snarl, about to strangle this poor guy. Another surprise from Davis is the last thing I need.
“You’ve been preemptively picked up for a second season,” Ed says, still smiling. My jaw drops open, which pleases him even more. “We’re all very excited, of course. Mr. Davis is so sure we have a hit that he already has next season all plotted out.”
“All plotted out?” I echo, spinning around to face him more fully. Ed’s enjoying his moment as a gossipmonger, I think. I get the impression not many people talk to him.
“You’ll be back as a co-star. That’s already been arranged. They were thinking also of taking the production to Alaska—get more of the rural demographic’s interest, the Dirty Jobs people—but there’s time still to discuss.”
“So I get to go to Alaska?” I ask, my tone undeniably dry. We’d be shooting in winter, most likely. “Oh boy. I can’t wait to not see the sun for eight weeks.”
“Mr. Davis seems to think a promotion is in order,” Ed whispers to me, smiling in a knowing way. “I know that he’s been talking about you at the executive level.”
For the first time in this conversation, Ed French has my full and undivided attention. I stand up for no reason. “Executive?” I can barely breathe the word.
“Word has it that they’re waiting to find out if the second season does as well as we expect the first to do,” Ed says, leaning in like we’re conspirators. “If it does, you could be looking at a fast shoot up the corporate ladder.” He chortles. Actually chortles. “Shoot. Ladder. See what I did there?” My silence doesn’t please him. His face falls a little. “Chutes and Ladders. Don’t tell me you don’t like board games.” I get the feeling Ed plays a lot of them. But that’s not the point right now.
“I could be an executive?” My voice catches in my throat.
“The first woman in Reel World’s history.” Ed smiles again. “I think you’d do an excellent job.”
All I’ve ever wanted, and this adorable little anal-retentive man is offering it to me. Well, he’s not, but Mr. Davis is. I could finally have everything I’ve been promising myself I could have since I first headed to LA with two suitcases and a bad haircut, a dream in my heart and a glint of pure steel in my eye. Everything I’ve ever worked for.
And all it will cost is working with Flint McKay nonstop, all hours, day in and day out for months. Work with the cheating bastard who seems to think that taking advantage of my desperate libido and poor decision-making skills is perfectly all right. I’ll continue to not trust my own judgment. I won’t want to make bad decisions. But I probably will. And it’ll drive me completely out of my mind.
“Isn’t it great?” Ed says, beaming.