It wasn’t exactly what she wanted to do, but she was tired of working outside and freezing her ass off. She could have landed on Claire’s doorstep, but she had a decent life with Don. Miranda didn’t feel right barging in on it. They were living above a pizza place somewhere, sleeping on a pull-out couch in a one-room apartment. She had some secretary-type job, he’d lined up something at the Ford plant. You could make good money there. Someday, he said, they’d get a nice house out in the country.
Miranda was happy for Claire, happy that she had a boyfriend who loved her. They were probably going to get married, that’s what Claire had told her. Miranda didn’t want to mess that up. She had to try to make it on her own. She’d been put down all her life, but she still had pride. She wouldn’t allow her parents to steal that from her.
“You can stay with us,” Claire told her. “Really.”
But Miranda said no, don’t worry, she had plans.
Going to Canborough and trying out to be a stripper, that was her plan.
She hitchhiked up there, carrying everything she had in a backpack she’d found in a secondhand store. Got herself cleaned up in the washroom of a McDonald’s. Someone must have told, because just as she was finishing up, this short woman in a brown uniform and nametag that said “Lulu” came in, said, “This ain’t the Y, sweetie. Scram.”
Then she went to the Kickstart. “Heard you’re looking for dancers,” she said.
“You done any dancing?” This was some short, nasty-looking fellow who kept sticking his finger up his nose.
“Sure,” she said. “But, you know, not on an actual stage or anything.”
“Let’s see ’em.”
“What?”
Rolled his eyes. “Jesus, you come in, want to be a dancer, you don’t know what I’m talking about when I say ‘Let’s see ’em’?”
So she showed ’em.
“Whoa,” he said. “Not bad. Rack like that, we got other ways you can make money too. Upstairs. Nice chunk of change to be had.”
“I don’t think so,” Miranda said. “I’ll just dance.”
“Suit yourself,” he said. “But when you see the other girls pulling down major bucks, you’ll be begging me, you wait and see.”
And then, almost as an afterthought, he said, “What’s your name?”
Miranda had already thought about this part. “Candace,” she said.
9
SARAH SENT ME AN E-MAIL .
“Working late. Will grab something to eat on the way home. S.”
She wasn’t more than seventy or eighty feet away from me, in her office, but she decided to send me a message rather than walk over and just tell me. True, she couldn’t actually see me at my desk the way she could when I was working in the newsroom. I was now down the hall and around the corner, working in Home! But honestly, was this what Bill Gates had in mind? That the greatest technological advances in history would be used to make it possible for people who were within shouting range of one another to not speak face-to-face?
I clicked on “Reply” and started to write something and then couldn’t decide what. Finally I opted to say nothing and canceled my reply. Sarah had plenty of reasons to be angry with me, but her e-mail pissed me off. If she had something to say, she could damn well find her way Home! and say it.
“How’s the linoleum thing coming?” Frieda asked, passing by my desk, being extremely cheerful.
“Frieda,” I said, “you only gave it to me an hour ago. Is it a fast-breaking linoleum story? Is page one looking for it?”
She looked hurt. Her face fell. I instantly felt like a shit.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was only asking.”
This was the difference between working in the newsroom, where sarcasm and angry outbursts are the norm, and toiling away in Home! or travel (called “Away!” at the Metropolitan) or our new shopping section (“Spend!”). It was more like a typical office back here. Someone made tea. A card got sent around for everyone to sign when it was someone’s birthday. People were friendly, sociable, decent to one another.
I had to get out of here.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Really, I’m sorry, Frieda. I was just being a dick.”
Her eyebrows jumped. I guess people didn’t refer to themselves as “dicks” around here, either.
She left before I could say anything else to offend her.
I went online, looked for some contacts in the flooring industry who could fill me in on the latest developments in linoleum, and as I did so, this sense of hopelessness washed over me. How could it have come to this? It had only been days since I’d written a major piece for the paper about this gang of nutcases who’d planned to set off a bomb at a small-town parade. It was page one, above the fold. The TV stations picked it up.
I was golden.
But that was how it was in the newspaper business. You were only as good as your next story. So what if you got a big exclusive on Thursday. What are you going to do for us Friday?