Not just any job.
My job.
Granted, it wasn’t mine technically. But my old supervisor had groomed me for the position. I would have been managing a staff of twelve, in charge of ad campaigns and publications, plus running promotional events—big parties where we’d feed people hot dogs and, once their mouths were full, talk to them about how very fun sharing the ride could be.
Instead, I’d had to force a smile and applaud as Lou Bigwood had trotted Lizbeth out at a staff meeting and introduced her as the new director of marketing.
I suppose it shouldn’t have been such a shock. He was notorious for finding stunning women and—to the endless frustration of the human resources manager—offering them hefty salaries and the plum jobs at the agency without consulting with anyone else. He was a maverick that way. Lizbeth, blond and in her late thirties, was conventionally attractive in a TV-weather-girl sort of way. That in itself was a surprise. Bigwood’s tastes usually leaned more toward the exotic—dark-haired beauties like my friend Susan. In fact, not only like Susan, but Susan herself had at one time been the object of his interest, much to my horror.
“You mean you’re one of Charlie’s Angels?” I remember exclaiming after Susan had casually mentioned that Bigwood had hired her after they’d met at (where else?) a conference. I believe I’d been working at L.A. Rideshare for only a few weeks at the time, Susan having recommended me for the copywriter position.
“At least I’m the smart Angel,” she’d replied.
“But that’s horrible! He hired you based on your looks!”
She’d shrugged.
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Not particularly.”
I must have gotten puffed up and judgmental and strident looking because she’d said, “Look, I know Bigwood’s an ass, but that goes for anyone who runs a company. I get the job done. People respect me. What do I care why he hired me? Besides, turnabout’s fair play—do you have any idea how many men get the job over a woman for the sole reason that they are the proud owner of a penis?”
She had a point.
And now, I realized with a sigh—watching Lizbeth slice Greg’s web designs to ribbons in her cool but impossible to contradict manner—that I had a female boss who had balls of steel.
“I spoke with three reporters today,” she said briskly when it came to her turn to talk. “I have nibbles but no bites.”
She was talking about the Friends of Rideshare project. It was one thing that made me cringe as much as the memory of that typo I’d let slip through in a newsletter back in 2002. (I’d accidentally put “pubic transit” instead of “public transit.”)
Friends of Rideshare was an idea that I’d pitched as part of my failed job proposal. I suggested that we ask local traffic reporters to mention carpooling when they did their on-air traffic reports. They might say things along the lines of “Rubbernecking is causing slowdowns on the 405…don’t you wish you were ridesharing?” My old boss had marveled at the simple brilliance of the plan. Except when Lizbeth came on, she’d claimed the project as her own and started going after big-name celebrities. I heard she’d spent months calling Brad Pitt’s people, trying to get him as a spokesman. She couldn’t even get through to his people’s people. The project was tanking, and Lizbeth made sure everyone knew it had been my idea. “I’m doing the best I can to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,” I’d overheard her complaining to another director.
So now, she told us, she was giving up on movie stars and musicians and had an idea—and how novel!—about approaching on-air reporters who specialized in traffic. Although…and she gave a woeful sigh…she wasn’t certain there was any salvaging things.
“No offense,” she said.
None taken. Bitch.
We wrapped up the meeting and were gathering to go when Martucci said, “Maybe June could talk to Troy Jones.”
Uh…er…what? Why was he mentioning Troy Jones?
Lizbeth wondered the same thing. “What about Troy Jones?”
“You didn’t hear? June ran over his sister back in July.”
“I didn’t run her over!” I protested.
Martucci snapped a folder shut. “Fine, then. She didn’t run her over. But that girl in her car was Troy Jones’s sister. Right, Parker?”
Lizbeth looked at me with interest. “Is that true? That’s who was in the accident with you? Why didn’t you say anything?”
A cold finger of dread wormed its way up my spine.
Everyone obviously knew who Troy Jones was—besides his being Marissa’s brother. I sure wished I did, but I wasn’t about to ask.
Luckily, Greg came to my rescue. “Who’s Troy Jones?”
“Traffic reporter,” Lizbeth said. “Recently started on K-JAM morning radio. Very up-and-coming…gets a lot of airtime.”
So Troy was a traffic reporter. I supposed I should have known, but I’d let my interest in the industry slip right around the time I lost out on the promotion. There was no point in being in the loop if they weren’t going to pay me for it.
Lizbeth leaned forward. “So will you be talking to Troy soon?”
“For what?”
“Oh, the usual. Memorials. Ashes scattering. That sort of thing. I’d love to get him to work with us. Now that we have you as a personal contact…”
I gaped at her, my jaw dropping on its hinge. Was she serious? “I met him at a funeral.”
Martucci, ever the kiss-ass, said, “Now this sounds to me like an opportunity. What’s that old saying?” He snapped his fingers. “Ah, yes…when a door closes, a window opens.”
My brows shot down in a scowl. How dare he attempt to quote The Sound of Music against me!
“That’s right, you never know,” Lizbeth said. “Sad as his sister’s passing is”—she held her hands out across the table…and fortunately I was sitting too far away, or I suspected she might have tried to clasp mine—“from these sorts of tragedies, bonds can form.”
“Yeah, it’s not as if you ran over his sister on purpose,” Martucci said, almost kindly.
“Ooh, you know who you shoulda run over?” Brie interjected. “Rick Hernandez on Channel Five. That man is fine. I wouldn’t mind sharing a ride with him, if you know what I’m talking about.”
“I…didn’t…run…anyone…over,” I hissed.
Martucci leaned back, his arms crossed. “No need to get yourself all in a twist, Parker. We’re just brainstorming.”
“Maybe we should drop this,” Greg said, which was lucky because Martucci deserved a snappy comeback, and since I was struggling unsuccessfully to come up with one, someone needed to defend me. “This guy isn’t the only traffic reporter in the world. I have a feeling that June would prefer to put the accident behind her.”
I gave Greg a watery smile in gratitude. He’d managed to shut Martucci up, but alas, Lizbeth wasn’t giving up so easily. She turned to me. “I want you to consider it.” Her voice was crisp…back to business. “Getting Troy Jones on board would mean more funding for this department. It would be a feather in your cap.”
A better woman than I would have leapt to her feet and shouted, “How dare you ask that I exploit a situation as horrible as this!” For the fun of it, I also pictured myself slapping Lizbeth across the face. Stomping on her foot. Giving her arm an Indian burn. Making her eat a really hot pepper.
Truth was, however, I rather enjoyed the notoriety. Suddenly I was the school geek who had an extra ticket to the hottest concert of the year.
In a strange way, it felt good.
Not that I planned to do anything about it. Hell would be a skating rink before I’d cash in on any connection I might have to Marissa’s brother to further my own career. Or, more realistically, Lizbeth’s. The very thought was appalling.
Yet I couldn’t make myself say no. Instead, I did what I do so well.
I procrastinated.
And when it comes to that sort of thing, they had no idea who they were dealing with.
“If you think it will help,” I said, gathering up my notes. “Let me see what I can do.”
Chapter 3
A few days later, I bustled home in a cheery mood. I’d stopped by Susan’s after work to watch the twins. Her husband, Chase, was out of town, the baby-sitter needed to leave, and Susan had to work late on a proposal. Glad to do it, I told her. There’s nothing that lifts the spirits like spending a few hours with two guys who think you’re the bomb—even if they are five.
It was almost ten o’clock by the time I got home, and I couldn’t wait to crawl into bed. The kids were cute, but I was beat.
Santa Monica, where I live, is a bustling city that nestles the beach—liberal when it comes to aiding the homeless, yet welcoming yuppies with equally open arms. It is perhaps most famous for being both the home of the O. J. Simpson civil trial and the place where Jack, Janet, and Chrissy caused all that wacky mischief in Three’s Company. My apartment building is a couple of miles from the beach, hugging the border of West L.A. It has twelve units, stacked two floors and arranged in a U-shape surrounding a pool that hardly anyone uses. I have an upper two-bedroom apartment. I’ve lived there for twelve years—Susan and I were roommates before she moved out to marry Chase. I may die here, because thanks to rent control, I pay only $550 for an apartment that’s worth several thousand. Desperately hoping I’ll leave so he can hike the rent, my landlord refuses to do any repairs that he can even remotely call cosmetic. There was quite the debate a few years back over whether fixing my falling-in ceiling was “necessary.” So the carpet’s pretty ratty, and the counters have seen better days, but it’s roomy and bright.
I dropped my keys on the counter and hit “play” on my answering machine before heading to the refrigerator to see if I had any leftovers.
I had two messages, both from my mom.
“Junie, this is Mom…give me a call when you get a chance.”
I’d call her first thing in the morning—it’d been a while since I’d checked in. My parents live in the San Fernando Valley in the same house where I grew up. I typically talk to my mom every week or so—and my dad for the five seconds it takes for him to say, “Here’s your mother!” should he pick up when I call.
On the second message—I don’t know what time she left it because I never bothered setting the clock on my phone, so the digital voice always announces these arbitrary times—she sounded odd. Sort of breathless and confused.
“Hi, sweetie. I was hoping you’d be home…oh, well, this isn’t the kind of thing I want to leave in a message. I wanted to…Oh, dear. Well, call me back….” Her voice trailed off. “Right away…?”
My heart clattered in my chest. God, now what?
It had to be horrible. What could be so bad that she wouldn’t say it in a message? Somebody died. My dad…or my brother…
I dialed with shaking hands, and it seemed as if the phone rang forever. Pick up…pick up…pick up…
“Hello?” It was my mom.
“I got your message. What’s going on? What happened?”
She caught my urgent tone. “Goodness, I didn’t mean to worry you. Everything’s fine. I’d called to see if you knew who got voted off the island last night. Your dad had his bowling banquet, and I thought I set the VCR, but I must have messed up. Anyway, I’d have asked Pat Shepic, but—”
“I thought Dad was dead!”
“Sorry,” she said sheepishly.
“Or he’d had a heart attack.”
“No…although”—she raised her voice, apparently for my dad’s benefit—“if he keeps getting into those potato chips, he certainly could have a heart attack!”
I heard him in the background. “It’s my first handful!”
“So…?” she said.
Still a little shaky, I gave her the information grudgingly. “They voted off the German guy,” I said. “The one with the gap in his teeth.”
“Oh, good. I didn’t care for him. He seemed phony.”
After a bit of catching up on who was screwing who on the island, we chatted about Marissa’s list, which I’d finally told her about after running into Troy Jones at the cemetery. Mom had been disappointed there’d been no swimming with the dolphins on it but otherwise was enthusiastic about the project. She thought it might be a good way for me to get back on the dating horse after my breakup with Robert and refused to believe there wasn’t anything on the list about finding a man. “There’s the one about going on a blind date,” she’d said. To which I’d countered, “But that’s more about the thrill of meeting someone new than the torment of picking up their socks from the floor for the rest of your life.” To which she’d then replied, “You wind up picking up their dirty underwear, too.” Which, as it turned out, was a real conversation stopper.
The microwave bell dinged, and I said I needed to go. My dinner was ready. I’d composed an “international sampler” consisting of leftover spaghetti (Italy), a fish taco from Rubio’s (Mexico), two California sushi rolls (Japan), and a slice of Kraft fat-free cheese (France).
Before hanging up, my mom said, “Again, honey, sorry for scaring you.”
“Don’t worry about it. Guess I have death on my mind these days.”
She snorted a laugh. “This is nothing. Wait till you get to be my age.”
LEANING OVER SUSAN’S shoulder to see the computer screen in front of her, I marveled, “This feels strangely like shopping.”
She scrolled through a row of men’s photos. “How about this one: Hot Lover Seeks Wild and Free Lady.”
“Ew. He might as well just say, Horny Guy Seeks Slut, as Whore Too Expensive.”
“Oh, come on,” she taunted in the superior way that only the happily married can. “Where’s your spirit of adventure?”
“It’s home wearing bunny slippers and watching Entertainment Tonight.”
“You need a life.”
“Isn’t that what we’re trying to do here?”
Most of the office was deserted. Susan and I stayed after hours so we could find a man for me on the Internet without fear of anyone finding out. Task #14, Go on a blind date, might as well be next to check off the list. My mom had been dropping hints that she might be able to set me up. She’d told me that several of her friends’ sons were getting divorced and were ripe for the plucking…and who’s to say for how long? In situations such as this, I figure, the best defense is a good offense.
We couldn’t use my cubicle. Not only does my computer screen face out so that anyone walking by can see exactly what’s on it, but for people at my level, the company programs in all sorts of blocks limiting where we can go on the Internet. Apparently only upper management is welcome to online date and view porn all day.
“He looks nice.” I pointed to a photo of a guy who…well, I’d describe him, but he had the sort of face you don’t remember. His intro line said, Nice Regular Guy.
“What do you want a nice regular guy for?”
I scowled. “What’s wrong with a nice regular guy?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay, then.”
“But…remember how you asked me to keep you honest about this?”
“Yes,” I said hesitantly.
“If I’m being honest, I think you’re being a coward.”
“Terrific.”
“Seriously! The whole idea of this is to take a risk—to put yourself out there. I’m sorry, but I happen to believe that you’re funny and smart and very pretty. A guy like that is beneath you. You can do better.”
It’s hard to argue with someone complimenting you while they ball you out. That’s probably why Susan’s employees love her so much. She’s slippery that way. “Are you coming on to me?” I asked jokingly, hoping to change the subject.
“I mean it. Remember those photos from C.J. and Joey’s birthday party last month? I e-mailed them to a few people, and Chase’s friend Kevin e-mailed back to ask who the babe was in the red shirt.”
“Really?” Even I have to admit I lo
ok piping hot in that shirt. “Well then, why don’t we skip this and you can set me up with this Kevin fellow?”
“For starters, he’s in Zimbabwe. Secondly, he’s beneath you.”
I sighed. With all these men beneath me, you’d think I’d have a more exciting love life.
“All I’m saying,” she continued, “is that you have an opportunity here to take a risk. Aim high. Go for someone who seems out of your league. Isn’t that the whole point? For example…” She scrolled down until she found a man who resembled Fabio. “Him. Personal Trainer Seeks Fit and Funny Lady.”
“He doesn’t want me. I’m no lady.”
“Who cares what he wants?”
“I don’t know. He’s almost too good-looking. Besides, it says here his favorite book is Likes movies better.”
Susan kept searching and then stopped on what looked like a Calvin Klein ad. Dark hair, a graze of stubble along the jaw, intelligent but smoldering eyes…hands casually in pants pockets of what appeared to be a very expensive suit.
“Forget it,” I said, cringing from the memory of the jerk at the bar. I was done with underwear model look-alikes.
“He’s a writer!” She clicked open his profile. “His name’s Sebastian, and he works as an advertising copywriter. Thirty-three…never married…nonsmoker…ooh, and look, he’s man enough to check the ‘any age’ box rather than saying he wants the woman to be younger than him. We should e-mail him. He’s perfect!”
Exactly. That was the problem. It was one thing to put myself out there, but this guy wasn’t simply out of my league…we weren’t even playing the same sport. “He vacations regularly in St. Croix. I don’t even know where that is!”
“Oh, come on.”
“I’m willing to go on a blind date, but the list didn’t say anything about being humiliated and rejected. Thanks, but no thanks.”
She told me I was being silly but finally moved on. Not much later we gave up for the night, and I left for the gym. The down side of getting over my funk was that my appetite had sprung back to its full glory.
The Next Thing on My List Page 3