Everybody Rise

by Stephanie Clifford

  “The statements.”

  “The statements.”

  Evelyn seized a second bottle of wine and took it over to the couch, where she plopped down and smiled. “Come sit, Char.”

  “No, I don’t want the session to time out.”

  “Listen, grab the wine opener and we’ll have another glass. Okay?”

  “It won’t take long.”

  “Really. It’s time for wine.”

  Charlotte pushed herself away from the computer, then walked into the kitchen. “I don’t see it,” Charlotte said.

  “The wine opener? Should be in the top drawer.”

  Evelyn heard a squeak of hardware, then silence. “You find it?” she said. Charlotte didn’t respond. Evelyn hoisted herself out of the couch, then walked to the kitchen, where she saw, it hitting her almost in slow motion, that Charlotte had tugged open her silverware drawer. When Charlotte turned around, Evelyn saw she was holding the telltale light-blue paper from American Express. Its empty envelope was teetering on the counter’s edge.

  They stared at each other for a minute. “Put it down. Charlotte. Put that down,” Evelyn finally said.

  They were locked in place. Neither moved. Neither spoke. A pigeon brushed against the window, clacking in terror.

  “Do you know what you owe?” Charlotte said. “Do you know what you owe?”

  Evelyn pressed her hands against the frame of the kitchen entry. “Put the bill down, Charlotte. You have no right to go through my stuff. No right.”

  “That’s neither here nor there, Evelyn. You need some help. Your credit card—and that’s just one—”

  “It’s fine. All right, Charlotte? It’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s not fine. It’s not fine.” Charlotte waved the papers. “I thought this was your rewards points, but you owe sixty-five thousand on your AmEx. Do you know what you’re—no, it’s okay, we’ll figure this out. We’ll sit down and figure out all the minimums you owe and transfer the balances—”

  “I’ve been paying the minimums,” she said loudly, though seeing Charlotte’s panic at just this bill, which was only one of several, sent a sharp knife of fear through Evelyn. This problem was huge. A loan from Charlotte wouldn’t fix it. Nothing would fix it.

  “No. No. You’re—do you see this? You’ve been late on your minimums, so the APR on this is up to twenty-two percent. That means you’re paying, you’re paying thousands of dollars just on fees on this one alone.” Charlotte grabbed a stack of unopened bills from the drawer, new bills that Evelyn hadn’t paid even the minimums on. The ripping sound as she opened them made Evelyn shudder. “Look, Barneys—and, Jesus, Visa—you can’t have all these credit cards that you haven’t paid off, Ev. This is going to massacre your credit rating.” Charlotte was frantically reshuffling the bills like she was hoping for a better hand.

  Evelyn looked at the ugly, unkempt sight of Charlotte, hysterical and judgmental over these papers, promising to help and instead making Evelyn feel worse. Charlotte’s nose was oily and porous, her hair erupting out of her ponytail. The pressure in Evelyn’s stomach was starting to rise, but she wouldn’t allow Charlotte to see she’d affected her. “A credit card gives you credit.” Evelyn spoke slowly, enunciating each word. “I am going to ask you to leave.”

  “No, Evelyn. Four thousand dollars from Gucci? Nine hundred from Saks?”

  “Get out of my stuff.”

  “Ev, your parents—they can help—”

  “You seem to have read all about my father, so you know that in fact they can’t. Please put those papers back now, Charlotte. Now.” Evelyn crossed to her and tore the envelopes from her hand, stuffing them back in the drawer and closing it with some difficulty against the bulging stack at the back. Charlotte opened her mouth but closed it, and took a step back, almost tripping on the threshold at the kitchen’s edge. Evelyn didn’t move, keeping her eyes trained on the drawer, as if constant vigil could keep the contents from filtering into her life. She eventually heard Charlotte pick up her things and then heard the door shut, but she stayed, watching, shaking with the effort it took to keep everything contained.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  People Like Us

  “This is a bad joke,” Evelyn said in a clipped tone to the wall, which was dark wood and covered with framed sports jerseys. Jin-ho had called in a favor with his front-office friend at the Rangers, and that had somehow, hideously, resulted in this People Like Us–sponsored Rangers-Devils game at a Midtown East bar on a Saturday afternoon in April. The beautiful, restrained People Like Us font and logo—a stylized fleur-de-lis that Evelyn had helped pick, meant to evoke a connection to European aristocracy—was now displayed on posterboards above two hockey helmets.

  Evelyn sighed as loudly as she could, though she was too far away from the other people there—the busty girls Jin-ho had hired from some event-marketing firm, and the staff setting up chairs and pitchers of beer—for anyone to notice.

  Evelyn turned toward the dirty glass door, where chilly air was coming in from outside, and dialed Camilla.

  “You’re psychic,” Camilla said by way of greeting. “We’re just about to go to lunch at—where is this place? I don’t know, somewhere in Chinatown, where we’ll eat soup dumplings and get totally drunk on cheap wine. Come join us. No, the snakeskin, please,” she said to someone at the other end of the line.

  “I’m at, get this, a sports bar in Midtown East. It’s the worst.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “People Like Us is having a membership event here.”

  “Yawn. Phoebe says this is the best Chinese food in town. A total dive. Then we’re going to find a Chinese herbalist that will keep us forever young. I told you about the fleece flower root, right? Do I want a pair of green snakeskin pumps?”

  “It’s so dreary, Camilla.”

  “These are a really pretty shade of green.”

  “No. This PLU event. I’m seriously about to lose it.”

  “Then get out of there. Come join. We’ll get that foot-acupuncture thing afterward. It’s the first not-freezing day in about a century.”

  “I can’t. I’m supposed to be doing recruitment at this event, but it is so massively wrong for PLU, I can’t even tell you.”

  A girl from the event-planning firm, who was wearing a shrunken T-shirt that proclaimed PEOPLE LIKE US! in magenta cursive over her large breasts, grabbed Evelyn by the elbow. “Excuse me. People Like Us, right?”

  “I’m on the phone,” Evelyn replied.

  “We need you to help with some collateral.”

  “I’ll work on it once I’m off the phone.”

  “We need you to work on it now; the guests are arriving in ten minutes.”

  “Hold on.” Evelyn spoke back into the phone: “Milla? Sorry, some girl in a baby tee is pestering me for something. I’ll call you when I’m leaving, okay? Maybe we can meet at Bar Sixty-eight?”

  “I’ll probably be napping, but call.”

  “Thanks for the compliment on my T-shirt,” the woman said in a sickly sweet voice as Evelyn pressed end.

  “Anytime,” Evelyn said in a matching tone. “What was it you wanted?”

  “I was told you were going to help with some of the marketing flyers.”

  “People Like Us doesn’t have marketing flyers. That’s part of the point.”

  “There are flyers, and your bosses wanted them distributed in person to the guests.”

  “Flyers? Who made the flyers?”

  “Our firm did, at People Like Us’s request.”

  “This is absurd. I didn’t even know about this and I’m the head of membership.”

  “Maybe you should try on one of our baby tees and see where it gets you,” the woman said. “See Simon at the back of the room for the brochures.”

  Evelyn stalked back to where someone who had a HELLO, MY NAME IS … SIMON name tag stood. He was holding a stack of flyers, and Evelyn snatched one from the middle of the stack, sending several o
f the rest to the floor. As Simon scurried to pick them up, Evelyn got as far as “People Like Us, a new social network to connect with other fans of * sports music television shows” when she heard Jin-ho’s voice behind her and whirled around.

  “What the hell is this?” she said, pinching the brochure like it was a used Kleenex. “Connecting with music and TV fans? I thought this beer-hall outing was bad enough in itself, but really? This?”

  Jin-ho was irritatingly calm, taking the flyer from her and placing it neatly on the table. “We asked for membership growth, and we didn’t get it, so we’re trying something else,” he said.

  “Without consulting me?”

  “We asked you over and over to revamp the strategy, and your response was that your social friends wouldn’t like it.”

  “That was not what I was saying, and you know that perfectly well. I was saying that we had to differentiate the site from the dozens of other sites out there. And pardon me if I don’t think a televised hockey game and some stock-photo flyers are the way to do it. I’m sorry, but this is absurd. There is beer on the floor, there is sawdust, the bathrooms are a gigantic health-code violation, and soon we’ll have commuters coming to get loaded before they take the four-fifteen to Paramus. These are not, by definition, people like us.”

  Evelyn watched as Jin-ho’s ears turned pink. “I’m frankly not surprised at your response, Evelyn. Your attitude has been terrible for weeks, if not months, and you’re not doing what we ask you to.”

  “I brought you guys the best members possible. Excuse me, Camilla Rutherford? Bridie Harley, who gets a front-row seat at Oscar and Carolina Herrera and she’s only twenty-eight? Caperton Ripp, whose family basically created Charleston?”

  “That was when you started. What have you done in the last three months, Evelyn? Really? Point to one thing.”

  “I’ve pitched one idea after another and heard nothing but no.”

  “Your ideas aren’t particularly suited for our site.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I was under the impression that People Like Us members, I don’t know, were well educated. Or well traveled. Or interested in the arts. In part because that’s who you told me you wanted for the site, and that, Jin-ho, is who I got. So forgive me for thinking that this hockey game you’ve arranged with your Rangers friend is massively off-brand.”

  “Yes, Evelyn, you’re quite familiar with this group, as you never cease to remind us. You haven’t been doing what we’ve been asking you to do, however, which is increasing the membership to the levels Ulrich wants.”

  “It will cheapen what People Like Us does,” Evelyn said. Jin-ho was just standing there, and she stared at him, waiting for him to admit he was wrong.

  Jin-ho was looking behind her; Simon had vanished, and the busty girls were squeezing by to get supplies from the bar’s kitchen. “This isn’t working out,” Jin-ho said. “We’re going to have to let you go.”

  “You’re firing me?” she said.

  “Yes. Ann will call you Monday re the paperwork.”

  “You’re firing me at a bar? Outside the bathroom in a bar?”

  “I’m sorry if it doesn’t suit your high standards.” Jin-ho’s ears were now a deep red, though his face had little color in it at all. “Your performance has been subpar for some time, Evelyn, and if you can’t be bothered to participate in a membership event that we think is key to the site’s future, that tells us everything we need to know.”

  “I want to talk to Arun.”

  “Arun agrees with me. We were going to do it when you were back in the office, but why drag this out?”

  “Look, I can do this job. My ideas were really good. If you’re that serious about these sports events, fine. I’ll get on board with sports events, though I want to be on record saying they’re a mistake.”

  “We’re a small staff and we need people who are team players, frankly, not socialites playing at a day job.” He looked at his watch. “I need to get things ready for this event. Good luck.” He walked behind her to the kitchen.

  Evelyn stood for only a couple of seconds before she got shoulder-checked by a baby-tee girl. She whirled around, grabbed her purse, and walked through the bar and out into the treeless section of Madison, blinking hard at the mirthless April sunlight. Half of her thought she should go plead her case to Arun, always the more sympathetic of the two co-CEOs. But then what? She’d keep marching to that dingy office while her friends bloomed and grew in their soft-lit lives? The M2 bus pulled up to the curb, stopped, and wheezed its dirty exhaust at her. The brown ad on the side of the bus was for Cellino and Barnes, injury attorneys. The M2’s doors opened and started beeping, pressing her for a decision. They thought she was a socialite? They dismissed her very good ideas because of that? Fine. She’d be a socialite.

  Evelyn started stalking uptown. Madison was so dreadful here, loaded with dentists’ offices, kaiser-roll sandwich shops, and would-be luxury retailers that couldn’t afford the rent farther up, that after two blocks she walked west instead of heading east toward her apartment. Fifth Avenue opened up, broad and proud, Central Park in the background, the trees beginning to push out green leaves and closed buds. She crossed the street, feeling tourists’ eyes on her: Who is that? Is that someone? Yes, she told them in her head and, to show them that she was, pushed the door open at Bergdorf’s.

  She tamped down the mincing thought that she shouldn’t be spending money. When things were rotten, you had clearance to do whatever you needed to do to get by, she was fairly sure Camilla had said once: throw money at the problem. She would get stock options from People Like Us, and probably some kind of severance or exit bonus. She was only going to get lunch, only going to create a glimmer of niceness in this day.

  Up on the seventh floor, Evelyn ordered a Gotham salad and a chenin blanc. This was where she was supposed to be, up here off the dirty streets, with people who were actually like her, not People Like Us. Evelyn was feeling back to herself by the time she ordered an espresso with a twist of lemon and laid down her pretty silver Visa.

  A few minutes later, as she glanced away from the Central Park view, she noticed the waiter hovering at her shoulder, mustache quivering.

  “Yes?” she said coldly.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, do you have another credit card we could try?”

  The “ma’am” distracted her, as it made her feel old, and it took her a moment to process what he was saying. “Pardon? What?” she said, making a Mitford fix.

  “The credit card was declined.”

  It sounded like he had raised his voice on purpose, and she frantically scanned the tables of chignoned blondes around her to see if they heard.

  “That can’t be right,” Evelyn said. “Please try it again.” She had brought only the silver Visa with her because she knew she’d paid the minimum on that one, at least. Hadn’t she? Visa couldn’t stop letting her use it when the minimum was maybe one or two months late, could they? Wouldn’t they have sent her a letter? Had they sent her a letter? Wasn’t the point of a credit card to have credit? The silver card winked at her, taunted her, and she was glad when he took it away.

  A piano played something insistent and Russian sounding, and Evelyn blinked. A young girl bumped into her chair, whining to her mother that they were already late for spinning, and Evelyn saw the girl was wearing a current-season Marni jacket. If the bills were as bad as Charlotte had thought they were—but no, they must not be—yet just on Thursday, she’d received a letter saying her April rent was past due and needed immediate payment. She tried to do what the Equinox yoga instructor said to do and thank each thought for coming, then let it float away, but the thoughts were not floating away and she couldn’t force them away, not even here, where she was supposed to be able to escape.

  Evelyn clenched and unclenched her jaw. The waiter came back and, before Evelyn could even sit up straight, handed her the card, on a silver tray. There was no receipt.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said.
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  “Excuse me, please, while I sort this out,” Evelyn said.

  He took a step back but remained at the table. “I said excuse me,” Evelyn said. “I’ll need a few minutes.” He turned on his heel and walked off.

  She gingerly picked up the card and examined it. On the back was an 800 number, and she turned toward the window and discreetly punched the number into her cell phone. “Customer service,” she said quietly when prompted. “Customer service. Customer service. Customer service. Customer service!” On the other end of the line, someone with an unplaceable accent greeted her.

  “Hi, my credit card isn’t working? I just need you to clear this up so I can charge my lunch,” she said.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” the woman on the line said. This “ma’am” sounded warm and inviting, not at all the judgment she was expecting. “While I bring up your account, I’ll be glad to tell you about special offers and services customized for you. Ma’am, yes, ma’am, you have a past-due minimum-payment balance, and until that balance is paid, we’ve been instructed to withhold authorization. Would you like to pay that balance now?”

  Evelyn scooted her chair closer to the window and leaned into the phone. “The thing is, I need to pay for lunch, and they’re declining the card. Can we fix that?”

  “Well, ma’am, our records show that a payment on this card has not been made since February and the outstanding balance is—”

  “I didn’t know it was that long. Honestly, I have a lot going on right now. I’ve been meaning to pay it.”

  “I see, ma’am. We are always glad to help our valued clients. I am authorized to create a payment plan for you at this time.”

  “Listen, the thing is, I’m at lunch right now and I just switched wallets so I only have this one card with me today. I had to go to this dreadful thing at a sports bar earlier, you see, so I kind of have to pay for lunch with this card. Isn’t there something you can do?”

  “Yes, ma’am, please hold, and let me see which offers we can bring you today.” After a couple of minutes of Hall & Oates, the woman was back on the line. “I can authorize further charges at this time with a transfer of your balance to our Pewter Card, which is a new card specially created for credit-challenged consumers like you. Now, with this offer does come a higher APR and annual fee. Would you like to hear the details of this offer?”