Second Star to the Right

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Susan moved closer and said in loud, saccharine tones, “My, what a charming little star you’re wearing. And so appropriate.” She leaned close to the vice president of marketing at Hampton Tea in a confidential manner and lightly touched his sleeve. “Our founder, Leo Burnett, created a logo of a hand around a cluster of stars.”

  “That’s right,” added Bernard. “He liked to say, ‘Reach for the stars’!”

  “‘So you don’t come up with mud,’” Susan finished, casting a hooded glance at Faye.

  Faye reached up and clasped the gold star in her hand as a touchstone.

  Bernard shot Susan a warning glance, then smiled broadly, and boomed, “Well, shall we begin?”

  As the five important and powerful executives from Hampton Tea took their seats around the long, polished mahogany table, Faye felt suddenly too thin, too young, a mere girl among men. In contrast, Susan appeared very much at ease, leaning over to chat with Hampton-Moore on her left. Faye envied her panache, her style, and felt her own confidence waver.

  This is it, she told herself as she took deep steadying breaths through her nostrils and forced her hands to relax in her lap. You 're prepared. Ready. You can do this.

  At Bernard’s signal, she stood up and cleared her throat. The soft buzz of conversation quickly dissipated and, one by one, all heads turned to face her. Her hands trembled as she passed around the stack of reports, then, returning to her seat, remained standing. All eyes were on her.

  A gust of wind blew from the open window. Papers rustled and hands grabbed for them. A wind chime tinkled its bells.

  Then she saw it. It was her imagination, of course, but there on her shoulder she saw a dainty, saucy fairy, hands on hips, giving her a wink. Suddenly, Faye knew she wasn’t alone. She had Maddie and Tom. Wendy and Jack. No matter what happened today, she knew they’d still believe in her. Most of all, once again she believed in herself.

  She lifted her chin and stood straighter. Sweeping the men and women’s faces, she was arrested by Mr. Hampton-Moore’s bright blue eyes. They glimmered with wit and intelligence and a boyish charm that reminded her of someone.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” she began with a megawatt smile. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

  Faye delivered a clean and powerful pitch. The artwork was strong, the argument convincing, and everyone felt buoyed when she ended with a flourish. She was followed by Bernard, who concluded with a strong summation.

  Afterward, silence fell around the table. She heard several coughs, the clearing of a few throats, and chairs squeaking.

  “Very interesting,” said the vice president of marketing, hedging. He cast a glance at the CEO.

  “You’ve certainly done your homework,” added the new business director. “What did you think, Miles?”

  “Well, I...” he turned toward Hampton-Moore, playing to the senior man.

  All heads turned as eyes moved to focus on Mr. Hampton-Moore at the opposite end of the table. His round face appeared troubled, and he scratched at his temple with an index finger. The silence grew agonizingly long, but no one dared shift in his or her seat. Finally Mr. Hampton-Moore raised his tufted eyebrows and shook his head sadly.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, shrugging his rounded shoulders. “I simply don’t like it.”

  He didn’t like it. The words echoed in her mind. As each member of the Hampton Tea entourage left she felt her life’s blood poured out that much more. She was numb with realization, struck dumb with helplessness for, in fact, there was nothing left to say. It had all been said.

  He didn’t like it.

  She felt the tautness of her chair’s leather, the tightness of her jaw as she struggled to maintain a calm facade, staring straight ahead at nothing, thinking to herself through the white haze that it wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to have loved it. There were supposed to have been champagne and slaps on the back. Susan Perkins was supposed to eat her words, not glare at Faye like she had a few choice ones to spew out at this very moment. Most of her team had already quietly left, laying the blame squarely at her feet. Even Pascal slipped away without a word of cheer, carrying his artwork under his arm. Only Susan and Bernard remained with her at the enormous conference table covered with a few scattered reports and dirty teacups.

  Faye turned her head to look at Bernard beside her. His huge bulk was slumped back in the chair and he leaned to one side as he rubbed his jaw--a Titanic of a man struck a fatal blow to the smooth sailing of his career by this failure. By her failure. The realization left her feeling as cold as any iceberg.

  “I’m sorry,” she told him, desperately meaning it.

  He turned to look at her, his face blank, but before he could reply Susan spoke up. “You’re sorry?” She removed her glasses and leaned forward, no longer attempting to disguise her dislike, speaking through thin lips. “You’re sorry? Well, we’re all sorry. Damn sorry!”

  “Susan, that’s enough,” Bernard snapped, but his usual bark was gone, indicating to Faye the depth of his defeat.

  “No,” Susan shot back mutinously. “It’s only the beginning, and you know it. You needed this account. I warned you not to leave it in her hands. But you wouldn’t listen to me. Even at the end, I told you to let me do the presentation. I have more experience. My British accent would have fallen more comfortably on their ears.”

  “The campaign was designed for the States. I wanted Faye’s Midwestern American accent.” He lifted his hand, his index finger out as though to make a point, then lowered it again in resignation, shaking his head. “Damn, Susan, you know it wasn’t about accents. Sometimes you win, sometimes you don’t. Nobody can explain why an idea sparks or doesn’t. In this case, it just didn’t. I’m not going to waste time casting blame. Maybe we can come up with another idea.”

  “Maybe, but not with her,” Susan said with such hostility that even Bernard was taken aback. “She’s out. You brought her in for the account over my head, and if I’m going to save this account, Bernard—and you know I’m the only one that can—I’m doing it my way.”

  She looked at Faye with a snooty confidence that was reminiscent of her ex- husband’s.

  Faye stared back at Susan’s glowering triumphant face. She knew the type well. The type that would never go second-class, the type that always ordered whatever was desired from the menu without thought to the host’s finances. The type that never picked up the check. This type couldn’t be bothered with that “Do unto others” bit of nonsense. Most of all, this type couldn’t suffer fools. Unfortunately, people like Rob and Susan never thought of themselves as fools. What was most pitiful was that they truly believed in their own greatness. Faye knew from experience that there was no rational dealing with such a person.

  “I understand,” Faye said calmly. She didn’t want to hear Bernard’s response, couldn’t bear his mumbled condescension to Susan. Faye did not feel the least beholden to Susan. She knew exactly who and what Susan Perkins was: Captain Hook. Glamorous on the outside, rotten to the core. Bad form all the way.

  “That was the deal all along,” Faye continued coolly. “No one wanted, or needed, this account more than I did. I gave it my best shot, and I lost. You, Susan,” she added, spearing the woman with a direct gaze, “have neither lost nor won anything. You never offered a single idea to the campaign, not a moment of your time, not an iota of effort. Not for one moment did you do anything to contribute to the good of the team. To you I offer no apology. Yes, I’m sorry. But I’m only sorry that I let my team down. That I let you down,” she said, looking at Bernard. She swallowed hard, thinking of two others that she’d let down. She was on her feet, gathering her papers and briefcase…

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have important people waiting.”

  * * *

  Riding the tube home, Faye smiled at strangers, offered her seat to an old man, and when he kindly asked her what she was smiling about, she told him, “I lost my job!” She knew when she saw his puzz
led expression that it was crazy for her to feel so cheery when common sense told her to feel crushed, splattered, a mere mat to be trodden upon. Except she didn’t feel any of those things. She felt lighthearted, ready to take wing. Free at last from the constraints of doubt and worry that had plagued her for so many years.

  She’d stood up to Susan Perkins, stood up for herself— even if she did lose the account. Well, so what? She’d get another job. It might mean packing up and moving back to Chicago or New York, but what were a few miles on a lifelong journey? Her worries and fears about her ex-husband had melted away in the heat of her new confidence.

  She laughed lightly to herself and clutched the gold star around her neck. Goodness, she was even beginning to think like Wendy!

  When she arrived at No. 14 she flung open her front door and found Mrs. Jerkins with her feet up, sipping tea, and reading a paperback novel. The children were nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Jerkins choked and sputtered, lunging forward and spilling tea down her dress.

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” Faye called, backing out of the room, not wanting to wait for her bitter explanation. “I know where to find the children.”

  Familiar with the entire house now as she was with her own flat, Faye burst into the nursery, flushed and happy, to find Maddie and her Tom nestled in the window seat, one on either side of Wendy. She craned her neck, but didn’t see Jack anywhere. At the sight of her, the children leaped up with a whoop and rushed to her open arms, asking relentlessly, “So how was it? How did it go?”

  Faye tried to tell them in an easy way that it didn’t go well but that it was all going to be just fine. They had nothing whatsoever to worry about. Her greatest triumph was the shine of faith in Maddie’s eyes. Looking over their heads she caught glimpse of Wendy’s face, soft with concern.

  “I saw a fairy on my shoulder,” she said in way of explanation.

  Wendy’s brows formed question marks as she searched Faye’s face. “Yes,” she replied, nodding in all seriousness. “I see the fairy on your shoulder now, too.”

  Maddie and Tom moved closer, squinting at her shoulder.

  “What about your position at the agency, dear? What shall you do now?”

  “I’ll figure something out. I’m not afraid.”

  “Of course you aren’t. Well, this has been an eventful day! Come sit down and have some tea, shall you? Just between friends. Then you can tell me all about it. Children, you will clear away your cups, won’t you? And if you wipe your hands after those sticky buns, you can begin the painting I promised.”

  Later, while the children dabbled at their paints and listened with half-interest, Faye told Wendy all about her morning. How Mr. Hampton-Moore simply didn’t like her idea, how disappointed her team was, how responsible she felt for putting Bernard’s job in jeopardy. There was no way to tell the details about Susan Perkins without sounding bitter and bitchy. When she was finished Wendy poured her a second cup of tea, oddly quiet. Faye leaned back into the plump cushions and stroked the silky, richly colored tassels, feeling much better for the telling.

  “That Earl Grey must have been a wonderful fellow,” she said, taking a sip.

  “Yes,” Wendy replied chuckling. “I’ve often thought that myself.”

  “You know it’s ironic. I’ve lost the tea account, but I’ve found a whole new appreciation for the product. I actually like tea now.”

  “It was bound to happen. It is a superior drink,” she replied in a distracted manner.

  She tilted her head and asked almost coyly, “Tell me, is there always only one idea that you can, how did you put it? Pitch a client?”

  “Sometimes, but not usually. In my case, however, Susan Perkins made it clear that I’d not get another chance. I’m out of the picture, out at third, deposed, cast out. I’ve been given the ax, the sack, the bum’s rush, the can. I am finito. She’s taking over the account herself.”

  “Bloody pirate!” Wendy muttered, her back straight and eyes narrowed. “There’s only one way to fight a pirate,” she said with contempt, stirring her tea in quick, neat circles. “A surprise attack!”

  Faye raised her brow, bemused.

  With the glory of battle in her eye Wendy lifted her chin, and asked, “Could you join me for tea tomorrow? Say at four? There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  * * *

  Faye arrived for tea precisely at four, knowing how Wendy liked to pour promptly. Entering the nursery, Faye balked. She was astonished to find Mr. Frederick Hampton- Moore squeezed like a sausage into a frilly, tasseled chair beside Wendy. The two sat elbow to elbow with their frothy white heads bowed close in deep gossip.

  “Come in, dear!” Wendy exclaimed cheerily, looking up and seeing her standing frozen at the door. “Come and join me and my dear old friend Freddy. He arrived early, and we’ve been catching up, having the best chat. Do sit down and have some tea.” Wendy waved her over with her little hands fluttering. “Just between friends.”

  Faye settled into her chair, clumsily she felt sure, half-wanting to laugh, half-wanting to throw up her hands with an, “Oh what the heck, why not?” and resign herself completely to fate, or Wendy’s version of it anyway. After the tea was poured and sandwiches eaten, Faye watched with a tender kind of pleasure as Wendy and Freddy giggled and reminisced like school chums, their cups of joy filled to the brim. From time to time she shared a joke or a memory and laughed right along with them, not feeling for a moment uncomfortable or awed by the powerful CEO of Hampton Tea. Up in Wendy’s nursery he was like everyone else, simply there for a cuppa and a good story.

  Just between friends.

  Then the idea hit her.

  It sometimes happened like this, a bolt from the blue when least expected. A clicking of tumblers after two turns left and one turn right, or the neat fitting together of a puzzle after lifting a few pieces high into the light, turning them every which way before placing one down and having it simply slip right into place. Faye’s breath caught in her throat; she sat straight in her chair. It was all there, a new concept for the tea campaign, in neon in her brain. She could see it all now, friends—good friends—young and old, women and men, boys and girls, maybe even dogs and cats for a laugh, all sharing stories and secrets, good and bad, happy and sad, over a steaming, fragrant, pot of Hampton Tea. Each sip as delicious as the news shared.

  Shining with enthusiasm Faye told all this and more in an excited rush to Freddy, who sat far back in his seat with his apple cheeks flushed, his blue eyes sparkling behind spectacles, and his expression beaming.

  At the conclusion he took Wendy’s hand in his own and, looking into her eyes, told her with a tremor of emotion in his voice, “That’s exactly how I feel, you know.”

  Then reaching for Faye’s hand as well, he slowly repeated the slogan of his new ad campaign, “Just between friends.”

  * * *

  “I got us another chance!” Faye exclaimed proudly to Bernard after she’d marched into his office the following morning, placed her hands squarely on his desk, and leaned far forward. An hour later she repeated the big news to the entire team, quickly assembled by Bernard in the conference room, along with pots and pots of steaming-hot Hampton Tea. With her hands making wide gestures in the air, she told them in ringing voice how the new campaign idea had hit her in the middle of a tea party and how her new pal Freddy had not only liked it, but loved it!

  The team had gathered in a ring around her, standing shoulder to shoulder, each with a look of exultation, and, she sensed, a tremor of excitement. This campaign focused on emotion and nostalgia. At last, an idea they could rally around!

  Basking in the afterglow, she watched Patrick and Harry huddle in the corner, whipping copy ideas back and forth. Jaishree and Pascal were leaning over the table, sketching out a media concept, and even George opened his mouth and ventured an opinion in public.

  Only Susan stood alone at the far side of the table, saying nothing. They stood separated by a length of polished wood. Faye
lifted her chin. Susan clasped her hands, as though to prevent herself from picking up the pot of hot tea from the table and smashing it.

  “How did you arrange to meet with Hampton-Moore?” Susan asked accusingly.

  “The stars arranged it,” Faye blithely replied.

  “How would someone like you know someone like him?” Her voice was becoming shrill. “You’re ... you’re nobody.”

  Faye didn’t reply.

  “Well the whole concept is preposterous. ‘Just between friends,’ indeed. It will never sell. It’s too simple, too gushy warm and sickly-sweet. The market today wants something fast-moving and hip, not emotional and nostalgic.” Clicking her fingers, she added to the others, “We have to think, brainstorm, come up with something that zigs and zags.” She looked around for support but was met with blank stares.

  “What, are you completely mad?” This was from Patrick. Faye had to cover her mouth and cough to disguise her laugh of surprise. “This idea is super. It’s really going to fly.”

  “Absolutely,” chimed in Jaishree, sending a commiserating glance toward Faye that warmed her to the marrow. “Take a look at these drawings Pascal has already made. First-rate. I think...”

  Then, knowing her end was in sight, Susan made a fatal error.

  “Listen, all of you,” she interrupted, advancing toward Faye and Bernard. “It’s my account now. I’ll be the one to say what goes and what doesn’t.”

  She said it as a direct challenge, not to Faye but to Bernard, and Faye could only wonder as to the extent of their relationship. He frowned and pulled back his shoulders, a great general shriveling his lieutenant with a stare of such imperious command that most would have gone weak in the knees and capitulated. But Susan had come too far to back down now.

  “Surely you have to agree with me,” she pressed on, her voice conciliatory.