Ex-Con Times Two

by Jay S. Wilder

  Anna

  Weeks pass. Adam stops trying to get in touch with me, which I tell myself is for the best. At first, I actually believe myself. After all, he betrayed me all over the place. He let his father tell him what to do. I was sure he had some sort of a choice, somehow, which would have allowed him to stand up for me. Then he jumped right into bed with Kelly, which completely blew my mind.

  The thing was…I was so certain he was serious when he told me he wanted to be with just me. It had all seemed so real. When we were together in London, I was so sure he felt the same as I did. The tenderness and sweetness of it, the gentleness with which he touched me and kissed me. Honestly, I had thought it might be love.

  How could I have been so wrong about him, about what we were doing together? How can I ever trust myself again? Whenever I think about it, about how he ruined my trust, I hate him. I really do. So I try to avoid thinking about him now, which is about as plausible as keeping a toddler on a sugar high quiet in church.

  I spend a lot of time binge watching TV, basically vegging out. I elevate “Netflix and chill” to an art form. I sulk for as long as I possibly can before I hate myself for acting like a useless bump on a log. As nice as the idea of burying my head in the sand seems, the fact is I’m going to go crazy if I don’t start working again. Besides, my savings account is rapidly dwindling. I know my parents will help me for as long as I need the help, but I need to try to get things back together if only as a gesture of good faith.

  I start looking online for job openings. Of course, all the other positions I’d considered applying for when I was first looking for a job have long since been filled. There are a few openings at lower-level magazines and online publications which seem like they’d be a perfect fit. I also flag a few positions involving social media. I can definitely use the reports I generated for the Trendsetter accounts as proof of what I can do.

  I’ve been keeping an eye on things over the weeks of unemployment. It’s been gratifying to see the engagement levels go right back to where they stood when I first started working. I know it’s immature, but if the interaction on those accounts stayed where I left it I would have been crushed. Instead, the updates went back to being sporadic and poorly-constructed. Followers need something engaging. The concept takes on a completely different appearance from one platform to the next. Too many businesses—even some individuals—make the mistake of posting the exact same updates to every account, across the board. What works on a visually-driven platform such as Instagram won’t work as well on Twitter. It’s a common mistake, which was being made here.

  I scroll through the Facebook feed to find the last post I created, featuring a group of models I managed to grab a quick photo of while an actual photographer was snapping away in front of me. They had just finished the final show of the week and were still dressed in their final pieces. I notice the many commenters who loved how I was always looking for the next interesting thing to show them.

  Then, an entire day later—which might as well be a lifetime as far as the internet is concerned—the following update thanked the page’s followers for “coming along with Trendsetter to Fashion Week”. Okay, it was nice. It got a lot of likes, too, then nothing for nearly two days, until a photo of a shoe was posted with the question “Would you wear this? Yes or No?”.

  I look through the comments. Several of them are along the lines of “Who’s running this page now?” Again I’m gratified to see I’ve been missed, even if the people in question don’t know they’re missing me, specifically.

  I’m sitting in the waiting area of the headquarters of another magazine. It’s my third interview after losing my job at Trendsetter. By now I’m accustomed to the dance which is commonly performed with assistants and HR representatives.

  “Miss Nash?” one such assistant said as she emerged from an office. I look up from where I was reviewing my resume in my lap, flashing her what I hope is a confident smile. Unlike Trendsetter, this magazine is geared more toward lifestyle—particularly, the lifestyle of young urban professionals. I notice the fashion I see walking around the office isn’t quite as on-point here, so I look well put-together in my Chanel suit and Ferragamo sling backs. It gives me a bit of a boost, anyway.

  The assistant leads me into a conference room, then asks if I’d like some water, which I decline. I sit down across from two executive types, one man and one woman. Both of them are middle-aged, which rather surprises me. I’ve been flipping through back issues of Yuppie in preparation for this interview, and it’s most definitely skewed toward the demographic described in the title. I had expected a much younger team.

  The woman smiles at me from over the reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. She’s gray-streaked, in a very chic New York type of way. As though the streaks were placed there on purpose.

  “Anna,” she says, her voice warm. “Thank you so much for taking the time to meet with us today.”

  I’m suddenly hopeful, sitting up a bit straighter. “Thank you,” I reply. “I’m happy to be here.”

  “Your resume is impressive,” the gentleman says. He looks gruff, no-nonsense, harried. I wonder how reluctant he was to spend time in interviews instead of actually working.

  “I’ve also brought a series of reports with me, in case you’d like to review them,” I say, pulling the manila folder from my shoulder bag. “You can see how the dates coincide with the dates I worked at Trendsetter, and the positive effect I had on their social media exposure across six different platforms.”

  The man, who had introduced himself as Bill, doesn’t know analytics from a hole in the ground. The woman, Sharee, seems impressed. Her eyebrows shoot up as she flips through the graphs I took screenshots of prior to having my account access cut off. Bill looks a bit too interested in my resume. I see from the way his brow furrows he’s becoming concerned. Fantastic. I might as well stand up now, shake their hands and leave.

  Sharee is still talking to me about the tactics I used. I’m happy to try to win her over while Bill makes the critical connection between my name, my recent work history and the rumors which I’m sure have flown down the grapevine in the last several weeks. I know I’m tap dancing for my life right now.

  “Miss Nash,” Bill finally says, breaking in over a question Sharee is asking me about Fashion Week, “aren’t you the Anna Nash who was recently fired from Trendsetter for plagiarizing from a number of other articles?” I fight to keep from slumping forward as my heart sinks.

  “Yes, it’s why I was fired,” I admit. I make it a point to keep my chin high. “However, it was a mix-up.” It’s too late. All it takes is this one discovery, and I’m toast. Sharee looks genuinely sorry to see me go.

  This is the pattern my life is taking now. I get into the office, sit down to chat, things seem to be going well…but the moment the connection is made, it’s all over. Oh, you’re THAT Anna Nash? their eyes say. As though I’m a leper. Prior to the disaster with my supposed plagiarism, my biggest concern was being hired because of my connection with my father. Now I wish my problems were so simple.

  I step off the elevator at the ground floor, then walk out the door and into the Manhattan chill. There are young professionals everywhere around me, hustling to and fro. I wonder if any of them are as desperate or frustrated as I am right now.

  If it were possible to walk home in these shoes I would, but instead I hail a cab, leaning my head back against the seat while the driver fights his way through the traffic. I see him sizing me up in the rear view. I look out the window to avoid his leering gaze. I’m used to sleazy guys eyeing me. I live in New York, after all.

  I take a deep breath, then let it out slowly. What am I supposed to do? Change my name? It’s the only solution I can see, unfeasible though it may be. This mess at Trendsetter is a weight around my neck, dragging me down. I wish for the hundredth time I’d never walked through the doors.

  I drag myself up to my apartment, the rational part of my brain giving me a g
ood talking-to. It reminds me of how not working for the magazine would have meant never meeting Adam. My heart aches a little when I think of him while a shuddering little sigh escapes my lips. I miss him. I can’t deny it. I wonder if any man will ever make me feel the way he did.

  I glance down the hall while unlocking my door, toward Kelly’s apartment. In my darkest moments I imagine them together. Does he do to her what he did to me? Does she feel the way I did when he touches her? Does he whisper the same sweet words in her ear while he’s inside her?

  Damn it. I shut my door with a decidedly loud bang while wondering if it’s not too early for a glass of wine.

  I walk into the bedroom, stripping off my suit as I go. I hang it then change into casual clothes. I avoid my sweats, trying to at least be a bit more dignified now the worst of the shock has passed and I’m in the process of struggling to get my life back together. I look longingly at the beautiful dresses, suits and shoes in my closet. I promise them I’ll be wearing them again soon. Granted, by then they’ll be out of style…

  I can’t stop thinking about Kelly and Adam now. I wish she didn’t live so nearby so I wouldn’t have to remember her cold attitude every time I leave or return home. I never actually run into her in the halls or anything, though her obnoxious clopping down the hall reaches my ears every so often. She sounds like a horse in high heels.

  I must be in a particularly masochistic mood, because I decide to check out her Facebook page. I wonder if there are any photos of the two of them together. There aren’t, at all. I see she’s changed her status to “In A Relationship”—though it doesn’t say with whom she’s involved.

  Then I really twist the knife in my heart by looking up Adam’s page. He’s clearly living the high life. I never knew he was so active on social media. From the looks of the selfies he’s been posting lately he updates every day or so. Of course, every photo includes a different woman.

  As I scroll through I notice none of the women in question are Kelly. My eyes dart over to the left sidebar. His status is still listed as “Single”.

  This doesn’t jive. There has to be more to the situation than meets the eye. I sit back to give it some real thought.

  If they’re not actually together…what is Kelly trying to do by telling me they are? And if she’s willing to lie about this, just to make me miserable…what else is she willing to lie about?

  It’s clear I’ve been looking at this all wrong.

  Kelly is the one who did this to me. I just have to figure out how to prove it.

  Chapter 28

  Anna

  I think about it from as many angles as possible, just to avoid jumping to conclusions. All I need is to look like an even bigger fool because I accused an innocent person of ruining my life. The more thinking I do, the more certain I am this is no unfounded conclusion. Kelly is the culprit.

  I remember now how she was against my going to LA in the first place. Then how furious she was when I was put on the Paris team while she was taken off. I think back to how disgusted she was after we returned. I remember seeing my gifts, unopened, in her wastebasket after Adam announced I would be going to Miami in her place.

  Then something changed. The next day she was sweet as sugar, wearing the Hermes scarf to boot. I remember how surprised I was at the time when she had made such a fast about-face. Back then I was just so relieved to know she was speaking to me it didn’t occur to me to wonder if something was deeply wrong.

  Was this when she got her hands on my piece? It had to be. Then it all clicks: I had left the document open when we were called into Adam’s office. She had stormed out before me. While I was still with Adam, working out our travel arrangements, she must have seen the article on my screen and taken it somehow. Which is why she could afford to be so nice to me the next day. She already knew she was about to screw me royally and have her revenge.

  Maybe at the time she wasn’t sure whether or not she’d even use it – but once Adam announced I’d be going to Miami, I’m sure my fate was sealed.

  Now, instead of wondering how I’d ever trust again thanks to Adam’s betrayal, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to trust a friendly colleague again. Because I definitely trusted Kelly, far too much. Even when I knew she was angry and jealous, I felt sorry for her instead of watching my back. I guess it’s life lessons such as this which make people jaded in the first place—exactly how I didn’t want to be.

  Knowing the cause of my problems gave me a measure of comfort. I wasn’t crazy after all, but there was still the question of how to prove it.

  I decide to simply go to her apartment, to see what I can see. Maybe I can trick her into admitting something or slipping up somehow.

  I slip out of my apartment and walk over to her front door. I don’t even need to listen closely to tell she’s home. There’s music coming from inside. a voice I assume to be Kelly’s is warbling along. I knock loudly, so as to be heard over the noise.

  “Yes?” she calls out. Footsteps approach from the other side. I take a deep breath. It’s now or never.

  “Kelly, it’s Anna. Just wanted to say hi,” I reply.

  She opens the door, sighing dramatically. “Anna, what do you want?” she says. I can tell just from the glassiness of her eyes, from the way she leans heavily on the door, she’s deep into a bottle of wine. Good – this could work in my favor.

  “Like I said,” I repeat, working hard to keep the testiness out of my voice, “I wanted to say hi. See how things are going. Nothing more. May I come in?”

  Her eyes narrow. I get the impression if she were any sharper she might refuse. It’s clear she’s already three sheets to the wind, right down to the way her tailored blouse is untucked from her slim-fitting Ralph Lauren slacks, so she steps back to give me room to enter. “Why not?” she asks. “I’m willing to let bygones be bygones.” I dig my nails into my palm to keep from clawing her eyes out.

  “This is really sweet of you,” I manage to croak. It’s the first time I’ve stepped inside her apartment. It’s a lot like mine in terms of layout but very blandly furnished. I wonder if she even has a personality or style of her own, or if she simply changes herself to fit the tastes of the person she’s with. I knew people like her in college, chameleons who could blend in with whomever they were trying to score a favor from. I’m suddenly sorry for her—only for an instant.

  She sits down on the sofa and pats the cushion, signaling me to join her. I sit on the other end, eying her warily.

  “So how are things for you?” I ask. “How’s work?”

  “Work is faaaaaabulous,” she croons. “Life has literally never been better for me. The magazine is going great, everybody is thrilled with the girl they hired to replace you. Since I had to jump in to cover your position after the little…incident,” she adds, “I’m being promoted. You know, for all the hard work I put in.”

  I grit my teeth, managing what I hope is a smile. “Sounds great,” I say. “I’m really glad. You deserve it.”

  “I really do, you know?” she agrees with a short laugh. “I put in my time, god knows, working for Ed. The creep. I thought they’d never appreciate everything I’ve done for them. Actually, now that I think about it, I have you to thank for all of this.”

  “Me?”

  “Sure,” she says. “If it weren’t for you, and the way I had to step up to carry us through the scandal you caused, they might never have seen how valuable I am. So really, in a way, I owe my promotion to you.”

  I’m convinced she’s literally insane. Even if she wasn’t the person who sabotaged me, which I’m now certain she is, the words are coming out of her mouth aren’t the words a sane person would speak to another human being. They simply aren’t. She really hates me.

  I laugh shakily. “Well, I’m glad some good came out of all of this,” I say.

  “I have to thank you for something else, too,” she says, her voice now dropping to a near whisper. I know exactly what she’s about to say. I wish I had the n
erve to slap the words out of her mouth. I brace myself.

  “What’s is it?” I ask.

  “Adam,” she says, confirming my fears. “He is just…he’s the best! I mean, I’d always heard stories about him, about his playboy ways. I knew there had to be something special about him if he was so popular, if you catch my drift.” She winks broadly, laughing too loudly. She’s really putting on a show, I think to myself. She sees my expression and her own expression changes. Now she’s maternal. “Oh, Anna, I’m sorry,” she says, pouting. “I’m sure he’s still a sore spot for you. It was an insensitive thing to say.”

  Evil, evil woman. “No, it’s fine. I’m over him,” I lie. I wave my hand in the air to confirm this. “He’s nothing to me now.”

  “I’m glad, really I am,” she says solemnly. “Since it didn’t take long for him to get over you. I’d hate to see you waste your youth pining over a man who doesn’t care.”

  I need to wrap this up fast, or else plagiarism will be the least of my concerns seeing as how I’m about to straight-up murder her. “Can I have a glass of water, maybe?” I ask, coughing. “My throat’s really dry.”

  She nods. “Yeah, it’s the heating system in this old building. Wreaks havoc on my sinuses.” She stands, unsteadily. “I could use some more wine, too. I’ll grab your water and another bottle.”

  The moment she’s in the kitchen I scoot over in front of the laptop which is still sitting open on her coffee table. I see she was on the Trendsetter Facebook account when I knocked. Good luck with that, I think bitterly. What can I do? How can I search her files without being noticed? She’s fumbling around in the kitchen, leaving me to wonder how much time I have.

  Then I see it. A flash drive, sitting beside the computer. I wonder if it’s how she managed to download my article. Then I hear water pouring into a glass and know I have to make a decision, fast.

  “Lemon?” she asks from the kitchen.