“You know how I feel about you, don’t you, Tina?”
“I think so.”
“I’ve always felt comfortable with you. Since the first time you walked through that door, I felt I could trust you. That’s why I hired you.”
I heard myself gulp.
“Now, let me ask you something. Are you familiar with Margie Fischer from Accounting?”
I hesitated.
“Big lady,” he said. “Talks too loud.”
“Yes,” I said. “I know who you mean.”
“Has she been bullying you in any way?”
“Bullying me?” I swallowed down the acid making its way up my throat. “No.”
“No?”
“Uh-uh.” I shook my head like a toddler. “I hardly have any contact with her at all.” Though the Titan security-camera feed from the previous weeks would have reported otherwise.
“Good,” Robert said. “If she does start bothering you at all, asking you questions, anything like that . . .” Robert stared deep into my eyes, still with his leg up. “Because you know there are a lot of people out there who would like to see me hurt, so I can only surround myself with people I can trust.”
“I don’t want anything to do with Margie Fischer,” I said. “I’ll come to you immediately if she—”
“Good.” Robert stepped back and took his balls out of my face. “That’s all I wanted to hear. Now go on home.” He turned toward his office.
Finally, I exhaled. What the hell was that about? I shut down my computer and prepared my escape from the building. At least it wasn’t Emily he was asking about—or anything I’d done. But, still, whatever had prompted that could not be good for any of us.
I checked for my keys, wallet, phone; glanced one last time at Robert, whose eyes were glued to the many flashing flat-screens in his office; and headed for the elevators—and by the time I reached them, an idea had formed: Could I pin all this on Margie Fischer and get out unscathed? And even if I could . . . could I?
It was me and Dillinger heading down in elevator C, but all we did was nod at each other and then stare dead-eyed ahead. How much would I allow this situation to change me? I wondered. It seemed to have changed me already, but in many positive ways. I was becoming more assertive, figuring out how to be in charge of stuff—but was there a point of diminishing returns? Was I about to cross over into being a truly hardened criminal, a Tony Soprano, a Walter White, a Martha Stewart, willing to take out anyone in order to save myself?
The elevator door opened and Dillinger let me exit first. No man who worked for Robert would ever exit an elevator before a woman. It was both gallant and totally annoying.
No. I came into this a halfway-decent person, and that’s how I’d leave it. Margie Fischer didn’t mean much to me, and she did harass Emily and me that day at Michael’s, and she’d told Lily about us, and there was that one time she scolded me for sniffing the cafeteria half-and-half, but I couldn’t just throw her to the dogs. She was doing the best she could, like everyone else. She meant well, just like me. I meant well, didn’t I?
On the way down the escalator to the main doors, I tried to calculate how many more weeks we had before I’d shut everything down. A complicated equation filled my mind: 3 of us contributing (me + Ginger + Wendi) + 1 signing/approving (Emily) + 2 who it was safe to assume would keep their mouths shut from here on out (Margie + Lily) = X.
The sun and heat of the outside struck my face.
X = Approximately four weeks. Also known as one month.
One month, thirty days, the amount of time it takes for the moon to complete its lunar cycle; for rent to be due again; to form a new habit (according to The Oprah Magazine). But I wouldn’t let it be enough time to turn me into a sociopathic, amoral misfit. I had no interest in becoming an antihero—or a villain, for that matter. Even if Martha Stewart had somehow managed to find her way back.
17
SOMEHOW, SUMMER FINALLY began giving itself over to the fall. A drop in the temperature, oranges and browns where there had been green, a light jacket added to my V-neck sweater and button-down. I’d never made it to the beach, I realized, probably because I was too busy worrying all the time—I’d worried Ginger’s debt all the way down to four figures, which as far as I was concerned was way better than ending the summer with a suntan and a brag-worthy vitamin D count. Sure, Kevin had tried for a trip out to Southampton, and then Montauk, and then Fire Island, but on account of not owning a bathing suit that wasn’t part T-shirt, I always talked him into al fresco tacos and frozen margaritas instead.