A POST HILL PRESS BOOK
Best Friend for Hire:
A Novel
© 2017 by Mary Carlomagno
All Rights Reserved
ISBN: 978-1-68261-260-6
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-68261-261-3
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.
Cover Design by Ryan Lause
Interior Design and Composition by Greg Johnson/Textbook Perfect
Post Hill Press
New York • Nashville
posthillpress.com
Published in the United States of America
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Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
A phone call at 9:05 on the first day back from holiday break can never bring good news, especially when it comes from the newly appointed, heavily coiffed, senior executive vice president Susan Thornton-Smith, dubbed STS by her corporate minions, who longed to create a sense of intimacy where none had previously existed. This, however, would not be the case for me. I was ready for my promotion; in fact, I had been at my desk for an hour already making sure everything was 100% perfect for today. My new hot pink crocodile iPad case was lined up with its office accessory family. The iPad itself was just one of the many things I was going to buy to celebrate my promotion to Publicity Director.
Being Assistant Director was a big job at my company, despite the fact that there had never been a director for me to report to. It had only taken me T-E-N Y-E-A-R-S to make it from Assistant to Assistant Director. When “STS” came up on my phone screen, my heart leapt in excitement. I got it, I thought. Maybe there was even a little surprise breakfast being planned. I dreamed of that office deliveryman bringing trays of treats to successful executives. Really successful people never sneak a bagel with a schmear at their desk, but are served mini-muffins on faux silver trays and drink their coffee out of real china cups and saucers. Finally, I thought, this would be me.
My fantasy was cut short by STS’s voice saying, “Please come to my office when you have a sec.”
When you have a second or “a sec,” of course, was “boss” code for right now. It’s like when you ask for the check or more water at a restaurant and you say, “When you have a chance.” Everyone knows you really mean now. I paused for just “a sec” and triple-checked my appearance in the mirror: Banana Republic navy pantsuit with a tasteful silk cream tank underneath—check. Tory Birch medium heel pumps—check. One piece of interesting, but not too interesting, jewelry—check. This outfit was the uniform for publicity girls in all the major publishing houses citywide. Like army lieutenants serving a higher-ranking officer, we needed to look neat and appropriate and blend in with the rest of the army. Like good little soldiers, we knew our place. That was all about to change today. Symbolic hot pink iPad case in hand, I marched toward my superior’s office with confidence.
Once in the inner sanctum of STS’s world, I looked around at what corporate success looked like, or in this case, corporate excess. Her new corner office had floor-to-ceiling windows framing Manhattan skyscraper views. As I entered, the Park Avenue interior designer was busy arranging and re-arranging seating areas, while Felicia, Susan’s assistant, hung pictures of Susan posing with the owner of the company, Susan with her dog, and a third picture, which appeared to be of the owner of the company and Susan’s dog. A steady stream of flowers was being delivered to congratulate STS on her new position. Did those same deliverymen have arrangements with my name on it, I wondered. Thinking for sure that they did, I tried to make eye contact, hoping there would be some secret recognition from one of them. You’re next, their knowing stare would indicate. Once the flowers had been delivered, I would sail in, only to have the department assistants hoist me on their shoulders and carry me down the executive hallway.
As I was creating my fantasy, my thoughts were broken by a sound like a record being scratched. Susan was disengaging herself from her headset, causing a piercing chirping noise. As she faced me, her smile faded as though she realized that she had some less celebratory business to take care of. I was beginning to sense a publicity tragedy that only I could handle. The job of the soon-to-be Director of Publicity is never over. Bring it on, I thought. I could solve this dilemma in a hot New York minute. We’ll have just enough time before we head into the conference room for my petite muffin breakfast.
Most of my publicity dramas revolved around Smith and Drake’s star author, Dr. Ursula, the self-proclaimed self-help guru whose career I had managed for the last five years. Her bestselling books kept the company afloat. I was convinced this meeting was to discuss the incident at the Holiday Gala event last week at the 92nd Street Y. Trying to head this sour news off, I offered, “Listen, I know what you’re going to say. I left a message for Dr. Ursula and she promised me that this would never happen again.” “This” was a heated discussion with Charlie Rose about who donated more this year.
“Already handled,” I reassured my new superior.
But STS was not interested in this story; in fact, it appeared that this was the first time she had heard about it. As she let out several long exasperated sighs, a long needle was being poised near my hot pink promotion bubble. She launched into the few words that no employee is ever equipped to hear, much less one who is expecting a promotion.
“I can’t believe I have to do this, Jessie.”
STS seemed off her game, clearly not a good start for the company’s number one public relations executive. With just a few minutes to go in her routine, she could still pull out a couple of additional jumps and stick the dismount, but the entry move would cause some deductions. This was clearly not the way either of us thought this morning would go. She was regaining her composure and realizing her place in her new office among her new furnishings. I was beginning a slow descent into unknown waters. I felt like I was slowly falling off a cruise ship, and we all know that once you fall off one of those ships, you can never get back on. They simply keep sailing without you.
I was hoping for a report of a drama, waning sales, or a threat to leave; any of these would be welcome problems to alleviate the cloud of doom that, thanks to STS, was now hovering over my head. In that fraught environment, I grasped for something to control, adjusting and re-adjusting my leather notebook, fiddling with the clasp on my “statement” piece of jewelry. Holding on to some sort of corporate ritual that would root me back here where things were normal and familiar. But as STS began to stammer and employ phrases like, “It’s not you, it’s the company,” and “The company is belt-tightening,” and “You had a good run,” the purpose of our meeting was becoming as clear as the meaning of these corporate clichés. Sensing the finish line in sight, STS abruptly hit the speaker button and talked directly into the phone.
“Let me go ahead and call Rita in Human Resources. She can help you sort out the details.”
>
STS offered her trademark smile, one used many times before on unsuspecting recipients. Then, in an attempt at closure, she swept from her side of the desk to mine with her arms wide open. She waited for me to move forward to be enveloped in a farewell hug. She held on a bit too long for comfort, reminding me of a reality show where the competition has just been voted off while the cameras are still rolling. I was so caught off guard by the display of affection that I reciprocated by patting the Armani-clad executive on the back. I could feel the bones of her back as STS began to disengage from me. It was like hugging a xylophone.
My mind raced. Did I just get fired? Grappling for some sense of understanding and, at the same time, feeling badly for STS and her awkward bony embrace, I could not think of anything to say.
“Don’t worry, Susan, you’ll be all right,” was all I could come up with.
As if STS suddenly became aware of herself and her position, she broke off the embrace and quickly stepped back to her side of the glass-and-chrome desk. It was as though I was contagious and she wanted to set up a buffer zone between the two of us before she could be infected too.
Within 15 minutes, I had gone from the A-plus list to the F-minus list, left on the exit ramp with no idea how to get back on the highway. Stunned, confused, and still wondering if I, indeed, had just been fired on my first day back from vacation, I replayed the chain of events that had brought me to this moment. I retraced the precise wording, but the words, “you are fired, canned, finished, terminated, as in you no longer work here,” had never been spoken. But I was certain that I would not be attending any of the launch meetings scheduled for later that day, nor would I be lunching with the rest of the marketing department tomorrow. Clearly, I would not have to kick in for Bob in accounting’s birthday party later in the week, nor would I take part in the company Super Bowl pool. All these calendar details would be left open-ended, as a result of this overarching news item. It was doubtful that Rita or anyone else could sort out any of these details.
Perhaps it was a misunderstanding, a fledgling hope that dissipated as soon as Rita in Human Resources explained COBRA, severance, and stock options all tied up neatly in my farewell package from Smith and Drake. My 10-year corporate career was wrapped up in two sheets of letterhead that required one signature. The package, as it were, did not even merit its own presentation folder. I took the two stiff pages and awkwardly placed them in my hot pink crocodile iPad folder. They did not fit in there, either, so I just jammed them in. But the pages still stuck out, making it impossible for me to zip the folder closed. My need for everything to fit in its proper place would have to wait; the more pressing issue was that I was clearly out of a job.
I left the executive wing quickly, hoping not to be seen by anyone. I was going against traffic; a swarm of employees was heading into the conference room. I hugged the wall with a smile plastered on my face, acting as though I had to go back to my office to retrieve something. But my façade was not convincing. Those who did see me looked at me sympathetically. Perhaps they were on that cruise ship, prepared to leave me behind as well. As I made my way back to the publicity pit to gather my things, I heard STS regain her composure completely as my former officemates sang, “For she’s a jolly good fellow.” I knew then that the boat truly had sailed on without me. The croissant deliveryman arrived, and Smith and Drake carried on. For everyone but me, it was business as usual.
At my desk, I tried to stuff the accumulated detritus of my career into a canvas book bag. None of the items seemed to have anything to do with me: a Walt Frazier basketball, a memento for putting Walt on tour; a call sheet proving the number of times I had called Good Morning America to book Dr. Ursula (proof of work that would only be needed in this office); a copy of Strunk and White’s Elements of Style. As a first-time fired person, I was uncertain what was mine, fearing I would be escorted out by guards on the lookout for purloined office supplies or proprietary files. Would a lobby tug-of-war erupt if I were to take my Jessie De Salvo stationery or a rollerball pen that was clearly property of the company, not this former employee?
To make matters worse, I had no one to confer with. Most of the company employees were down the hall eating a catered breakfast courtesy of STS, my corporate husband Daniel was out on tour at the nation’s colleges with three feminist authors and my assistant Emily was out of the office that day looking at wedding venues in New Jersey. Otherwise, both would have been in at 8:30 a.m., as they were every day. Daniel’s office was dark, its door closed, and Emily’s computer was off, which only increased my feeling of abandonment. I now worried about their future, as well. With the entire pit empty, I peeked up one last time from my desk and swore I heard someone say, “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.” Only this time, instead of being at The Garage in Hoboken at 3 a.m., I was stone cold sober and had no place to go at all. And so I picked up my canvas tote bag and my basketball and left the office. For the first time since college, I was without a job and without a clue.
I hurried to the staircase to avoid bumping into people near the elevator. On the first two flights going down, my heel caught on my pant leg, causing a tear that nearly made me do a header all the way down to the lobby. As I gathered my shoe in my hand, my basketball freed itself from my grasp and began its noisy descent to freedom, its thump-thump-thump echoing up and down the stairway. I made a feeble attempt to chase it and lost the entire contents of the bag, just barely catching the hot pink, now wholly symbolic, iPad case. The rest of my desk contents were strewn between the sixth and seventh floors, waiting to be gathered up again, stuffed back into the bag to be set in their usual positions in my new place. In my mania not to be seen by the judgmental eyes of former co-workers, I had grabbed items blindly, this would prove to be a problem.
Standing in line at the New York Waterway Ferry waiting for the one that would take me home, I searched in the sudden downpour for my missing umbrella, which was the only item I needed. To make matters worse, the rip in my pant leg was threatening to turn my pants into a skirt, and my shoes were so waterlogged from the rain that I might have been better off going barefoot. I still had not located my umbrella as another problem unveiled itself. A recent Keratin hair treatment, which was designed to calm my curls, was beginning to backfire. Between the rain and humidity, the curls had decided to stage a protest, and now my hair was curly on top and poker-straight on the bottom. Crossing the Hudson can sometimes be a wonderful adventure, one that people even pay money for on vacation, but today this journey was about as pleasant as crossing the River Styx.
Soaked, cold, and alone, I began to make my way back to Hoboken. The rain was subsiding a bit as I made my way off the Ferry. The Manhattan skyline was now behind me and, equipped with only my office essentials, I trudged toward my apartment. Washington Street, the main street in Hoboken, was also going through some changes. The majority of business in this stepsister to Manhattan had predominantly been bars and clubs. In the last 10 years, these old-school, former mom-and-pop shops and seedy saloons were now sushi bars, day spas, and baby stores. It used to be that Hoboken was a quick stop where post-college kids who could not afford “the city” did a few years’ stopover on their way to greater things, like a better job that could afford them more expensive and cooler apartments in the city, or a marriage that would eventually beckon them to the suburbs of New Jersey or Long Island. These post-college kids were now mommies and daddies and had no plans of leaving anytime soon. Now the entrance to what used to be Kelly’s Tavern on upper Washington Street was a hip wine bar boasting a mommy lunch with a complimentary glass of wine. Outside a stroller valet lined up the expensive trolleys with names like Bumble Ride and UppaBaby.
Despite the fact that it was only 11 a.m., a tavern that was near Derek’s studio apartment—he was my on-again, off-again boyfriend—seemed a better choice than sitting in my apartment, alone. The last conversation I had had with Derek was two weeks—or wa
s it two months—ago. Grasping for something familiar, I was certain that he would be in town just where I left him, working away on his screenplay. Going to a bar on a Monday morning would normally be unthinkable for a working girl like me, but obviously there were others who did not share this belief. Inside the darkly lit tavern was a group of people who did not work in offices. Many had set up shop here, pounding at their laptops. What were they working on? Novels, job searches, online dating profiles? Among these purposeful, yet casually dressed, day workers was a cozy couple nestled in the corner banquette, deep in discussion and drinking impossibly large café lattes. Their breakfast was a deep contrast to the mini-muffins and small croissants that I had left behind at Smith and Drake just an hour ago. Things already seemed out of joint. In my heart, I was hoping a TV journalist would pop out of the shadows and tell me this had all been a big joke. But life is never really like a reality show, and no one should know that better than a publicist.
I plopped myself down on the first bar stool I could find and summoned the heavily tattooed, mutton chopped bartender, which was no easy task since he was transfixed on an impossibly tall woman who looked as if she just walked off the pages of German Vogue.
“What can I get ya, ma’am?”
Ma’am? Was he talking to me? When did I become a “ma’am?”
My reaction may have startled him, because he stopped for a moment and really looked at me as if trying to figure me out. And then, much to our mutual surprise, I ordered a mimosa. As he reengaged in the witty repartee at the more fashionable end of the bar, I struggled not to make comparisons in our appearances. Suddenly self-conscious, I headed off to the bathroom to assess the damage of this morning’s events. I wanted to fix myself up a bit before seeing Derek. Even though we had not been as close recently, I knew that he would be willing to meet me for a drink and some sympathy. There would be a great reunion as he would sweep me into his arms and let me know that even though I was a workaholic, he would take care of me, look after my well-being, and generally become an entirely different person. He would get a day job and with that money support me until I got back on my feet. Confidence can often be increased on an empty stomach and a strong morning cocktail.
Best Friend for Hire Page 1