“Lots more money,” I pointed out.
“Okay, lots more money,” Matt said, leaning back and putting his feet up on his desk. “But you make a ton already. And can I be brutally honest? You’re not looking so good these days.”
“Hey,” I said, wounded. Maybe I wouldn’t tell him black was his color after all. Maybe I’d say it was fuchsia. Unless he thought I was getting alarmingly thinner, in which case, all was forgiven.
“Do you even sleep?” Matt asked. “I got an email from you at two A.M. last week.”
“Psychology minors with detective skills,” I joked. “Lethal combination.”
“Linds,” Matt said, using his serious voice, the one he’d probably trot out when he was a dad and his kids had covered the dog with Crisco. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about this for a while, but you’re always too busy. I’m worried about you.”
“Matt, that’s sweet,” I said. “But I’m fine.”
I swiveled my head around again to check for Cheryl.
“See? You’re not even listening to me,” Matt complained. “You know you’ve got a lock on being VP. Even if Cheryl gets this account, which she won’t because you’re better than she is, you’ve still brought in tons more business than her. Everyone knows you’re getting it. Donna even sent around a card for people to sign for you. So can you just listen to me for two seconds?”
“Do people really think I’m getting it?” I asked excitedly. “Who did you talk to?”
Matt exhaled loudly, like I was trying his patience.
“You need a vacation,” he said. “When was the last time you took a vacation? And you need to start dating. You need to have something in your life other than work.”
“I do date,” I said indignantly.
“Two dates in the past six months,” Matt said, “doesn’t count.”
I couldn’t argue with that: One of my dates was with a marathoner who carbo-loaded his way through three bread baskets and spent ninety minutes talking about his training regimen—in a nutshell, it entailed putting one foot in front of the other. Scintillating stuff. I’d also gone out with a veterinarian, but since I’m allergic to cats and he hadn’t changed his shirt after work, I spent the whole night dabbing at my watery eyes as I sat beside him on a barstool. A table full of middle-aged women who’d clearly been around the block a time or two thought he was breaking up with me.
“He’s probably got a chippie on the side,” one of them hissed as they shot him dirty looks. All in all, a bit lacking in the ambience department.
“I just really want to be VP,” I told Matt. I picked up the tiny rake in the Zen garden I’d gotten him last year as a joke and smoothed new patterns in the sand (I’d written on the card: “This garden seems stressed. Can you help it?”).
I really didn’t want to have this conversation, not now, and it wasn’t fair of Matt to bring it up. I didn’t just crave the promotion, I needed it. If I didn’t get it now, it would be years before I had another shot. Vice-presidency slots were as rare as solar eclipses. And next time around, I wouldn’t be the agency’s golden girl. By then someone else, someone younger and fresher, would be nipping at my heels. If I slipped and lost my momentum now, I’d never regain it, no matter how hard I scrabbled for a new handhold up the corporate ladder. I might even have to go to another advertising agency and prove myself all over again, to avoid the stigma of having been passed over for a promotion. How could I explain to Matt that working hard didn’t scare me, it was failing that terrified me?
“Are you sure?” Matt asked. “Think about what it’ll mean for your life. You’ll be locked so tight into this place that you’ll never get out. Can you imagine still being here twenty years from now?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” I lied. Twenty years from now I wanted my name on this building. I wanted a house in Aspen and one in the Berkshires. I wanted a car and driver to take me to work every day, and to be waiting outside when I finished.
“Don’t you ever feel like you’re missing out?” Matt said, more gently this time. “Is this what you want?”
I dropped my eyes from his. So that one stung a bit. It was impossible not to notice that more and more of my friends were getting engaged. My old college roommate had just had a baby. They were expanding their lives, while mine shot like an arrow up its quick, straight path. But Matt knew how hard I’d worked for this. Why was he picking on me today of all days?
“I—” I began, but for some reason, my lower lip quivered. I cleared my throat and was about to start again. Then I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I never finished my sentence.
Cheryl was strutting down the hallway toward the conference room. Apparently she’d been a bit absentminded this morning, because she’d forgotten to put on her shirt. Sort of thing that could happen to anyone.
“Holy shit,” Matt whispered in the hushed, intense way men do when they see their favorite athlete making an impossible play and saving the game. His feet fell off his desk and hit the floor with a thump.
Okay, maybe “forgotten” was an overstatement. Her shirt was there all right. All six inches of clingy, silky, backless black fabric. As she came closer, it became all too obvious that it was her bra she’d forgotten.
She looked fantastic, in an I’m-the-entertainment-at-a-bachelor-party kind of way. Her long hair was loose and wild, and her lips were so full I knew she’d had more collagen shots. Her heels were as high as skyscrapers, and she seemed like she was about to tip over, but that also could’ve been because of the front-loading. Was it possible she’d gotten more collagen shots in unorthodox places?
“What the hell is she doing?” I said.
“She’s playing dirty,” Matt said. “Don’t worry, it just makes her look desperate.”
“Really?” I asked eagerly.
He didn’t answer.
“Matt!” I hissed.
“Huh? Oh, sorry,” he said.
He moved his seat over a few inches for a better view. “I can see into the conference room from this angle. Do you want a play-by-play?”
“Yes,” I said, chewing on my only fingernail that had a little life left. “No. I don’t know.” I leapt up from the chair, sat back down, ran my hand across my forehead. “Does she actually think flashing her boobs is going to win her the account?”
“No, but putting her hand on Fenstermaker’s knee might,” Matt said.
“What?” I shrieked.
“It’s off the knee now,” Matt said. “She’s done with her greetings, now she’s launching into her presentation. Her storyboard’s up.”
“Why not just give him a blow job under the table?” I muttered.
“I think she’s saving that for the grand finale,” Matt said.
“Is he smiling?” I asked. “Does he look like he likes her? Is his wife pissed?”
“The wife’s on the other side of the table,” Matt said. “She can’t see what’s going on under the table. Plus, she’s looking into her hand mirror.”
“Oh, shit,” I said. I covered my eyes with my hand and sank deeper into my chair. “Fenstermaker’s wife is doing their pilot; I read about it on ‘Page Six’ when I was researching them. It was supposed to be a blind item, but it was obvious. Fuckity, fuckity, fuckity.”
“Fuckity?” Matt said. “Seriously?”
I leapt up again and started to pace while I shot questions at Matt like he was on the witness stand.
“How does Fenstermaker look?” I asked.
“He doesn’t look unhappy, let’s put it like that,” Matt said diplomatically.
“What’s the wife doing now?”
“Eating a grape,” Matt said. “One grape. Actually she hasn’t eaten it yet. She’s examining it like it’s a diamond.”
“Look up from the grape!” I willed Mrs. Fenstermaker the message.
Matt snorted, and I glared at him.
“Sorry,” he said.
“This is so unprofessional,” I hissed. “So .
. . so . . .”
“So Cheryl,” Matt finished for me.
My headache was back with a vengeance; I should’ve known Cheryl would’ve fought dirty. A few years after I came to Richards, Dunne & Krantz, when she and I were competing for a dishwashing liquid account, we went to Kentucky to do focus groups with stay-at-home moms. My campaign focused on speed—moms were too busy these days to scrub pots and pans, so our soap would get the job done in half the time. Cheryl went for a “same great product, new look” approach by redesigning the bottle. We sat there together, chatting up four different groups of moms, writing down their comments and thoughts and recommendations, and it was clear my campaign was the winner. Except when we got back to New York, hers was the one the client chose. I chalked it up to bad luck. Maybe the client had a thing for phallic-shaped bottles. Maybe he liked the new bigger, firmer bottle because of something missing in his own life (again, no bitterness).
Then, six months after the campaign aired, I learned Cheryl had switched the group’s comments before submitting them to the client. It wasn’t anything I could prove, just a whispered accusation from Cheryl’s assistant as she left for a new job.
“She’s bending over in front of Fenstermaker,” Matt said. “I think she’s pretending to drop something.”
“What’s Fenstermaker doing?” I asked.
“Watching her pick it up,” Matt said. “Either that or putting a dollar in her G-string.”
“She’s so pathetic,” I sputtered. “She’s actually a very smart woman. She does good work. Why does she always pull this crap?”
“Because she’s Cheryl,” Matt said. “Hey, she must be wrapping up. Mason just stood up.”
“What’s Fenstermaker doing?” I asked.
“He’s getting up, too,” Mason said. “Whoops—he’s following Cheryl into the bathroom for a quickie.”
“What?” I squealed.
“Kidding,” Matt said. “He just shook Mason’s hand and they’re all heading for the elevator. Hang on a sec. I’ll go take a walk past them and eavesdrop.”
Matt stepped out of his office while I let out all the air in my lungs with a whoosh and dropped back into my seat. I felt as weak and dizzy as if I’d run a marathon. Had I eaten dinner last night? No, I remembered, unless you counted the frozen burrito I’d microwaved when I finally stumbled home. It had tasted like the cardboard tray it came with so I’d tossed it in the trash after one bite and gobbled down enough Cherry Garcia to hit the food pyramid’s recommended fruit allowance for the day. I needed to pick up some vitamins. Maalox, too; my stomach felt like someone was twisting it in knots and setting it on fire. It was probably the ulcers my doctor had warned me were in my future. By now it felt like I had a family of ulcers living in my stomach, who were all biting their nails.
What the hell could be going on in the hallway, anyway? Had Fenstermaker made a decision yet? I twisted around and peered out Matt’s door just as he walked back in.
“No verdict,” Matt reported. “But I heard Fenstermaker tell Mason he’d call soon.”
“Soon?” I demanded. “In an hour? Next week? Next month? What the hell does soon mean?”
“Lindsey, knock it off,” Matt said. “I told you, no matter what happens today, it’s in the bag.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re my shrink,” I said, but I couldn’t help smiling.
I stood up from my chair slowly, every bone in my body suddenly aching. It had to be postpresentation letdown; I couldn’t be getting sick. At 6:00 A.M. tomorrow I was flying to Seattle to lead focus groups for a brand of sneakers whose sales were inexplicably lagging in the West. I needed to identify the problem and restructure the campaign quickly, before we blew any more money on our old ads. From there I was flying directly to Tokyo for thirty-six hours to oversee the shooting of a cologne commercial featuring a B-list celebrity. It was going to be a nightmare; like most washed-up former sitcom actors, he gobbled Ativan like popcorn, so I’d have to babysit him during the entire shoot. In between all this, assuming I won the Gloss account, I’d need to finalize details for our TV and magazine shoots and buy ad space and oversee the production.
“I’ve got a ton of work,” I told Matt. “I’d better get back to my office.”
“Hey, Linds?” Matt said.
I turned around.
“You never answered my question.”
“Can we talk about it later?” I said, massaging my neck again.
By now I couldn’t even remember what Matt’s question was. There was so much to do before tonight, which was good. I needed the distraction so I didn’t go crazy worrying about the announcement. Dozens of emails were waiting for me to sift through on my computer, plus I needed to review the point-of-sale displays and store promotion samples my team had put together for a new line of wine coolers and make sure we were on the same page as the client, who made Donald Trump look calm and humble.
I’d already proposed five different campaigns, all of which the wine cooler mogul had impatiently shaken his head at while he shouted into the cell phone that was permanently affixed to the side of his face, “I don’t give a shit how expensive it is to harvest grapes! Tell him if he raises the price again I’ll harvest his fucking nuts!”
I needed to light a fire under my team so we’d come up with something spectacular to appease him. I also had to ask Donna to book my flights. I made a mental note to remind her not to put me on a red-eye; the flight attendants always turned off the lights, and it was impossible to get anything done. Didn’t they realize the cocoon of an airplane was the best place for uninterrupted work? Oh, plus I had to shake some sense into Oprah, stat.
I’d wanted so much to seal up the Gloss account before tonight’s announcement, but I had to be patient. No matter what Matt and everyone else said, I wouldn’t feel confident I’d won the promotion until I heard Mason announce my name. Not knowing whether I’d won was a loose end.
Loose ends made me nervous.
Skipping a Beat
What would you do if your husband suddenly wanted to rewrite the rules of your relationship?
Julia and Michael meet in high school in their small, poverty-stricken West Virginia hometown. Now thirty-somethings, they are living a rarefied life in their multimillion-dollar Washington, D.C., home. But one day Michael stands up at the head of the table in his company’s boardroom—then silently crashes to the floor. Though a portable defibrillator manages to jump-start his heart, what happened to Michael during those lost minutes forever changes him. Money has become meaningless to him—and he wants to give all of theirs away to charity. Julia is now faced with a choice: does she walk away from the man whom she once adored but who, to tell the truth, had became a stranger to her long before his near-death experience—or does she give in to her husband’s pleas for a second chance and the promise of a poorer but happier life?
Read on for a look at Sarah Pekkanen’s
Skipping a Beat
Currently available from Washington Square Press
Excerpt from Skipping a Beat copyright © 2011 by Sarah Pekkanen
1
WHEN MY HUSBAND, Michael, died for the first time, I was walking across a freshly waxed marble floor in three-inch Stuart Weitzman heels, balancing a tray of cupcakes in my shaking hands.
Shaking because I’d overdosed on sugar—someone had to heroically step up and taste-test the cupcakes, after all—and not because I was worried about slipping and dropping the tray, even though these weren’t your run-of-the-mill Betty Crockers. These were molten chocolate and cayenne-pepper masterpieces, and each one was topped with a name scripted in edible gold leaf.
Decadent cupcakes as place cards for the round tables encircling the ballroom—it was the kind of touch that kept me in brisk business as a party planner. Tonight, we’d raise half a million for the Washington, D.C., Opera Company. Maybe more, if the waiters kept topping off those wine and champagne glasses like I’d instructed them.
“Julia!”
I carefully set down the tray, then spun around to see the fretful face of the assistant florist who’d called my name.
“The caterer wants to lower our centerpieces,” he wailed, agony practically oozing from his pores. I didn’t blame him. His boss, the head florist—a gruff little woman with more than a hint of a mustache—secretly scared me, too.
“No one touches the flowers,” I said, trying to sound as tough as Clint Eastwood would, should he ever become ensconced in a brawl over the proper length of calla lilies.
My cell phone rang and I reached for it, absently glancing at the caller ID. It was my husband, Michael. He’d texted me earlier to announce he was going on a business trip and would miss the birthday dinner my best friend was throwing for me later in the month. If Michael had a long-term mistress, it might be easier to compete, but his company gyrated and beckoned in his mind more enticingly than any strategically oiled Victoria’s Secret model. I’d long ago resigned myself to the fact that work had replaced me as Michael’s true love. I ignored the call and dropped the phone back into my pocket.
Later, of course, I’d realize it wasn’t Michael phoning but his personal assistant, Kate. By then, my husband had stood up from the head of the table in his company’s boardroom, opened his mouth to speak, and crashed to the carpeted floor. All in the same amount of time it took me to walk across a ballroom floor just a few miles away.
The assistant florist raced off and was instantly replaced by a white-haired, grandfatherly looking security guard from the Little Jewelry Box.
“Miss?” he said politely.
I silently thanked my oxygen facials and caramel highlights for his decision not to call me ma’am. I was about to turn thirty-five, which meant I wouldn’t be able to hide from the liver-spotted hands of ma’am-dom forever, but I’d valiantly dodge their bony grasp for as long as possible.
“Where would you like these?” the guard asked, indicating the dozen or so rectangular boxes he was carrying on a tray draped in black velvet. The boxes were wrapped in a shade of silver that exactly matched the gun nestled against his ample hip.
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