I’d had plenty of time on the cab ride over to cycle through all the self-pity, righteous indignation, and relief that my exit had brought me, and by the time I tipped the driver I had settled into a low steady thrum of anxiety about the text message—I’d put out so many fires this week alone, what could possibly have gone wrong now?—and a grim determination that whatever had gone wrong, I was going to grab it by the neck and get it back in line.
Yeah, I know—I bitch a lot about work, but at the end of the day, Kate is right: I’m married to it. Maybe it’s not the healthiest marriage, but this company has done so many great things in the past; I just know that it could do more in the future. And I could be a part of that. I could be a pioneer, charting new waters, ushering in a whole new world of— Okay, okay, I’ll stop it with the speechifying. Let’s just say that despite the downs part of the ups and down—and no, it’s not a small part—I’m committed to my job, and I’m in it for the long haul.
The doors to Devlin Media Corp whooshed open when I flashed my work badge across the reader, and I stepped into what looked like a medium-sized spaceship. I’ve worked here for a few years now, and maybe it’s goofy of me but that first view always takes my breath away. The wide-open space that opens up before you as you step in, modern art chandeliers with environmentally friendly light-bulbs shining down on all that chrome and white marble and crystal, sculpted in sophisticated curves, framed by exotic wood paneling polished to a deep glow…
I hurriedly made my way to the boardroom, where the architects had continued the theme of‘what if the starship Enterprise were made of polished exotic wood and marble?’ Not even the dimmed lights and the janitor’s bucket in the corner could diminish the majesty of this place. Even being called here with a cryptic text message in the middle of the evening couldn’t pop my bubble.
No, it would take my lovely supervisor Jacinda to do that.
“Where the hell have you been?” she shouted, jabbing her long lime-green fingernails in my face.“You need to take this job seriously, this isn’t some Intro to Basket-Weaving class you can blow off when you feel like it—”
“I was here before you—” I began, too startled to remember the first rule of Surviving the Supervisor: don’t engage.
“Don’t make excuses!” she snarled, revealing the popcorn kernel trapped in her Invisalign braces. Lovely.
“I wasn’t—” I know, I know, I should have quit while I was only slightly behind, but in my defense, that gross popcorn kernel was really distracting.
Jacinda got up in my face, so close I started to worry that her rage might fling the popcorn kernel out of her teeth and onto my face.“There are lots of girls out there who’d kill for this job,” she hissed,“girls who know how to show proper respect to the chain of command, girls who respect workplace dress code—”
“I came straight from a date—” I protested, because when you’re fighting a losing battle, you might as well throw fuel on the fire of your enemy’s victory and really piss them off, right?
I’m kidding; actually she just made me so angry that she fried the connection between my brain and my mouth. I completely forgot anything to do with phrases like‘disengaging,’ ‘common sense,’ and‘oh god Lacey shut up before she has a nuclear meltdown.’
“—girls who actually earned their degrees with their brains instead of on their knees! Now sit down there—” she all but shoved me towards the broken chair in the dimly lit corner of the room—“and take notes. And I better not catch any spelling mistakes this time!”
“On what? My laptop is—” I started to gesture towards the office.
“Sit!” she snarled.
I sat. I dug a steno pad out of my purse with a mental thank-you to my mom, whose complete cluelessness about modern-day admin assistant jobs was now coming in handy (I think she got her ideas from Mad Men)—and, oh shit, no pen? Fine, Jacinda was getting these notes in eyebrow pencil.
What’s going on?” one of the suits leaned over to whisper to me. I shrugged, taking to the higher ground of not replying, A bitch rampage, obviously.
Even though it would have been the perfect comeback. Sometimes the higher ground is just not very comfortable.
Jacinda made a speedy circuit around the table, slapping down newspapers with the next day’s date on them. The pictures on the front pages of the various newspapers revealed that this was not the case. They showed Grant Devlin, sole heir of Devlin Media Corp and our boss on a pleasure cruise on his speedboat, working on his tan, consuming his weight in champagne while a bunch of bikini-clad refugees from the Playboy Mansion hung on his arm, wearing so little you’d think there was a fabric shortage and— Oh shit.
The biggest photo, the one on the bottom, the one I somehow hadn’t seen while I was obsessing over my boss’ taste in bimbos— His speedboat was smashed. Completely totaled. Chunks of fiberglass littered the sand and there was a stain on the helm—was that—no, it couldn’t be—blood?
“Is he okay?” I blurted before I could remember Jacinda’s order to keep silent.
Elephants never forget and neither did Jacinda; she was glaring daggers at me.“What did I tell you—” she started through gritted teeth.
“Your concern is touching.” In strolled Grant, picking at a loose thread on the cuff of his thousand dollar suit. Not a scratch on him, the bastard. I took a deep breath and tried to slow my speeding heart. I hadn’t been worried, not me, move along, nothing to see here. The asshole was fine. He was always fine.
And also fine, if you take my meaning. Which made the asshole thing insult to injury.