Russell Wiley Is Out to Lunch

by Richard Hine

  I look over at Tyler Milken, Connie Darwin’s executive assistant. Despite his seemingly innocuous job title, he’s the person Judd has to sell to the most. Like Judd, he’s an ambitious MBA-type who wants to be running the world one day. What Tyler reports back to Connie will make or break the launch plan. Tyler’s taking copious notes.

  On the wall behind Tyler are a series of rather menacing black-and-white art portraits. Each one captures an animal’s face in close-up. I gaze at them for several seconds before I realize the animals I’m studying are all sheep.

  Susan Trevor digs me in the ribs and points at the screen. Judd is taking the audience through his project P&L, detailing the investment required for the launch and the long-term profit potential which, if deliverable, would justify the upfront investment. This is where this project always falls down. The risk is too big and the reward too small. In our division, we can’t afford to spend years losing millions on a project that’s never been seen as a surefire success.

  “What’s remarkable about this plan,” says Judd, “is that, unlike most launches in our industry, we’re looking at a profitability right from the outset. The risk is small and the reward is potentially huge. Even using conservative revenue estimates, we’re looking to add three million dollars to the bottom line in year one, growing to fifteen million by year three.”

  “What the fuck?” Susan whispers loudly in my ear.

  “What the fuck?” I say loudly to myself.

  I’m studying a hard copy of Judd’s presentation, alongside the spreadsheet Angela created. The numbers we gave Judd showed a seven-million-dollar loss in year one, but the arrogant shitheel has cut the marketing budget from twelve million to two million dollars. He’s doctored the numbers, butchered the plan I gave him. The little bastard is out to create a job for himself. This is not going to stand.

  I jump out of my chair, march toward Henry’s office. I’m ready to take Judd down. I have the evidence in my hand.

  Just past Angela’s cubicle, I turn around and march back to my office. I open up the spreadsheet I saved on my PC. It won’t hurt just to check one thing.

  “Fuck. Shit. Fuck.”

  I fucked it up myself. That day I was playing around with Angela’s spreadsheet. I didn’t re-input the numbers properly before I re-saved the file. I hit the “save” button when I should have hit “don’t save.” I’m the one who gave Judd the bogus ingredients to bake into his plan.

  Now what do I do? Who can I tell about this? I look down at the cover of Judd’s presentation and there’s one obvious answer.

  Don’t say a word.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Henry calls me to his office. He’s nervous. He, Judd and Jeanie have been summoned to a meeting next Monday with Connie Darwin and Tyler Milken. This is the meeting that will determine the fate of the D-SAW project and whether or not we move forward with the launch of the Daily Edge. I know Henry’s nervous because he keeps telling me how calm he feels.

  I’m nervous too. If Connie approves the P&L Judd presented, I’m screwed. Henry is still unaware that the marketing budget I gave Judd is one-sixth of the size it needs to be.

  I balance the pros and cons of telling Henry my mistake. I figure if I come clean now, it’s a hundred percent certain I’ll get fired. On the other hand, I estimate there’s only a twenty-five percent chance of the project getting approved. Which means there’s a seventy-five percent chance no one need ever know.

  I email my Unicorns article to Fergus on Sunday morning and kiss Sam good-bye before she heads to work at Artyfacts. I’m flying to Miami this afternoon for a media conference the Chronicle is sponsoring. While I’m out of town, Sam has decided to spend a few days in Hartford with Beth-Anne, her pregnant younger sister.

  From the airport in Miami, I take a cab to the Biltmore in Coral Gables. Erika and Sally flew down earlier in the day to get everything set up. I find them in the room adjacent to the main ballroom, arranging product information and promotional items on the table in front of our booth. Erika, hair pulled back, is wearing a white T-shirt under a half-zipped hooded sweatshirt.

  “Looking good,” I say.

  “We’re getting there,” she replies.

  “Anything I can do?” I ask.

  “I think we’ve got it covered.”

  Sally says, “I’m just going to get rid of these boxes,” then heads behind the booth and through a door.

  I pick up one of the zero-gravity pens we’ve been handing out for the past three years. They’re bulkier than a normal pen, but with the added advantage that they write upside down.

  “These still popular?” I ask.

  “You’d be surprised.”

  I look around the room. A few other people are at work on their displays. A couple of companies have finished setting up and left for the evening. Some other booths are still packed in their crates.

  Sally reappears. “So, what are you guys doing this evening?” I ask, casual but businesslike.

  “We’re going to eat here,” says Erika. “Early start tomorrow. Got to be fresh.”

  “That’s good. I might just eat in my room. I’ve got some work to catch up on.”

  “We thought we’d wait till tomorrow to go wild at South Beach,” says Sally.

  “Really? Not too wild I hope.”

  “We’re just going for dinner,” says Erika. “Why don’t you join us?”

  I sit through the first sessions of the conference worrying about what to wear for dinner and checking for emails on my BlackBerry. I’m hoping to get word from Henry that the D-SAW project has been abandoned.

  During the midmorning break, I stroll through the expo area to look at all the booths. People are grabbing up the Chronicle’s zero-gravity pens and cramming them into New York Times–branded shopping bags. Erika is talking to a steady stream of scavengers posing as potential advertising customers. She encourages everyone to put a business card into a plastic fishbowl to enter our special prize drawing.

  Now that I’m viewing Erika purely as a staff member, I am able to appreciate the poise and grace she brings to all her interactions. She is clearly an asset to my team—approachable and highly attentive to customers without being overly flirtatious. She exudes a maturity that Sally, busy demonstrating the upside-down writing abilities of our giveaway pens, clearly lacks.

  I watch as a tanned, brightly dressed male executive drops a business card into the bowl, then leans toward Erika, says something quietly to her, and hands her a second card.

  I glance at my BlackBerry screen and see the heading “Message from Henry,” sent by his assistant, Ellen. I click it open and get the news displayed on my tiny, handheld screen:

  D-SAW project approved. Press release going out this afternoon. This is exciting for us all. EOM

  My skin suddenly feels sensitive to the cold blasts of the air-conditioning. I loop around to the coffee station and prepare myself a cup. I wait till I feel the color returning to my cheeks before walking back to our booth.

  I grab a handful of business cards from the fishbowl to see the kind of names we’re collecting.

  “Who was that George Hamilton–looking guy with the hair plugs?” I ask Erika.

  When the conference breaks at four thirty, I call Fergus on my cell phone. I want to get his reaction to my article.

  “We’re good to go,” he says. “I fixed your typos. I’ll let you know if it’s running long when we get the layouts back.”

  “That’s good,” I say. “So, did you hear the news?”

  More than my article, I want to talk to Fergus about the D-SAW project. We’ll be going into full launch mode, and no dissension will be allowed. He’s the only person I can talk to truthfully about the disaster that lies ahead. It’s a disaster that the Ghosh Corporation is big enough to recover from. But that doesn’t mean it won’t hurt the Chronicle’s reputation or destroy individual careers.

  He searches the internet to find the press release and reads it while we talk.<
br />
  “‘This is an exciting day for one of America’s best-loved brands,’ said Jack Tennant, president of Burke-Hart Business Group and publisher of the Daily Business Chronicle. ‘The Daily Edge edition will not only broaden our customer base and open new streams of revenue, but unlike most launches, it will also be accretive to earnings from year one.’”

  “That’s what they think,” I say. “But I didn’t tell you the best part. Some idiot made a ten-million-dollar mistake in those projections. No one caught it. Jack thinks he’s going to make three million dollars in year one. In reality, he’s going to lose at least seven.”

  “Fuck,” says Fergus. “Was it that asshole consultant?”

  “Actually, it was that asshole me.”

  I call Sam to confirm she got to Hartford OK. She sounds happy, pleased to have some time with her sister before the baby comes.

  “You should see it,” she says. “The nursery’s all decorated. Beth-Anne and Steve are so excited.”

  When we hang up, I roll off the bed and head to the shower with the lingering sound of Sam’s voice in my ear. I conjure up a memory. We’re dancing in our living room. She’s wearing a black dress and her vanilla perfume. There are silver hoops in her ears. She’s moved the coffee table closer to the wall so we can twirl around the imitation Persian rug. I hold her close to me. She rests her head on my shoulder. I move my left hand down to the small of her back. Despite the difference in our heights, we’ve always found ways to fit our bodies together.

  She tilts her head and we kiss. I feel her tongue in my mouth immediately. We abandon any pretense that we’re dancing. I lift the back of her dress, grab the cheeks of her ass. She’s not wearing underwear.

  She steers me back toward the couch and starts unbuckling my belt. I push her hands away. I can do it faster. I start to remove my pants and underwear, but she forces me back. I bump into the couch and collapse into a sitting position, pants still around my ankles. She straddles me, guiding my cock inside her.

  She starts riding me, but I cling to her, pulling her down, restricting her movements. I want to make this last.

  I gradually loosen my grip, and she moves on me slowly. I lean back on the couch and look at her. In the flickering light she looks peaceful and menacing.

  I lift her dress over her head and drop it on the cushion next to me. She’s wearing only a black bra. I run my hands over her thighs, her stomach, up and down her arms, feeling the softness of her skin, the muscles beneath.

  I reach around and fumble with her bra, unclasping it on the second attempt. I press my face against her chest.

  She bounces on me faster, making pleasurable, encouraging sounds. She wants to feel that we’re really fucking. My mouth is glued to her breast, my hands are on her butt, assisting each upward motion, not resisting as she pushes back down.

  I groan as I come. The image of Sam disappears. I lean my hands against the shower wall and let hot water rain down on my head for a couple more minutes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I meet Erika and Sally in the lobby. Erika is wearing a red silk shirt and blue jeans. Sally is in a more revealing, semitransparent top and tight black pants.

  “Am I overdressed?” I ask.

  “You’re the boss,” Erika reminds me. “But this is Miami.”

  “You can always leave the jacket in the car,” says Sally.

  We head out in their rental car to Miami Beach. Erika drives. I take the passenger seat, with Sally in the back. Erika steers us through the streets of Coral Gables, past the stores along Miracle Mile. I take care to intersperse my glances at Erika’s profile with concentrated stares at the road ahead and frequent looks out of the side window.

  “So,” says Sally, leaning in between our seats, “how involved are we going to get with the launch of the Daily Edge?”

  “I guess you heard the news,” I say.

  “Judd called me as soon as he found out,” says Sally. “He’s really excited.”

  “He called you?”

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t he?”

  “I guess you haven’t heard,” says Erika. “Sally has a new boyfriend.”

  “Really?” I say.

  Sally gives me her mischievous Drew Barrymore smile.

  “Of course, I advised her against it,” says Erika, pulling up at a stop sign. “You know I don’t approve of office romances.”

  We valet park and head into the restaurant Sally selected. It’s called Point. Sally told us it would be unforgettable. As soon as we walk in, I understand why. Point takes the concept of can’t-hear-yourself-think restaurants way beyond the natural limit. A DJ in the corner is spinning Latino electro-pop music at a level that makes the floor vibrate and my body feel assailed. Tables on the far side of the room are circled around a large dance floor. Erika points to a bin full of sani-wrapped ear plugs, and she and I each grab a pair. Sally dances ahead of us and enters Erika’s name onto an ATM-style screen to confirm our reservation. The hostess spins the screen round, jabs at it a couple more times, then signals us to follow her.

  We’re seated in a loud corner and handed laminated menus with pictures of food on one side and drinks on the other. Our waitress switches on a floodlight-style tabletop lamp so we can see what we’re looking at and points out the various switches that allow us to dim or increase the light. We can signal her to come back by using a flight-attendant call button that lights a separate red bulb above our table.

  We point to the drinks we want. A large bottled water, plus a cosmopolitan for Sally, a Virgin Mary for Erika and a Corona for me.

  Finally the waitress hands us each a notepad and marker to write with so we can exchange notes during the meal.

  I write: Judd?

  Sally writes: He’s kewl.

  Our drinks arrive, and we point to a selection of appetizers. Sally points to the screen above the DJ booth that has been showing images from old black-and-white movies. Every minute or two the videos stop and words appear on the screen. Right now it reads: Let’s Dance!

  Sally jumps up and heads to the dance floor. Erika and I signal that we’ll stay put.

  I hold up my Judd? note again.

  Erika writes: Not my type.

  I write a new question: So what do you do for fun?

  I see her laugh, then write: Birdwatching!

  We sit quietly, sipping our drinks, watching Sally bop around the dance floor, making new friends along the way. The music washes over us. Lights are flashing all around. A random series of photographs is flashing against a nearby wall. We look everywhere except at each other. My hand grips the Corona bottle. Erika’s caresses the stem of her glass. Our knees are just inches apart.

  Sally comes back to sit with us a minute, drinks more of her cosmo. Suddenly she’s pointing at both of us and then at the sign that now reads: Everybody Dance!

  We all head to the dance floor. Sally spins away from us and into the crowd. I’m left shuffling my feet hesitantly opposite Erika. I try to mimic her. She moves sinuously, eyes half-closed, a thoughtful smile on her face. I wonder if it’s obvious to the other dancers that we’re just colleagues dining out on a business trip, not a real couple.

  The sign above the DJ reads: Wave Your Arms in the Air. We dutifully wave our hands.

  Erika points back to our table. I give her a thumbs-up sign. We wave to Sally, then sit back down. Our appetizers have arrived. We watch the dancers as we eat. Every minute or two, they respond to new instructions from the DJ:

  Hug Someone

  Show Your Tattoo

  Touch a Stranger’s Nose

  After a while Sally joins us again, and the three of us finish eating. We’re waiting for our plates to be cleared. Under the table, Erika puts her hand on top of mine. My body tightens, but she doesn’t move her hand. I look at her, and she nods toward the screen, which now reads: Take Your Partner by the Hand.

  I turn my hand slowly under hers until our fingers are entwined. I sit frozen, holding my breath until the scree
n switches back to an old Laurel and Hardy movie. Erika takes her hand away from mine. She picks up her drink and sips it without looking at me. Sally seems not to have noticed anything.

  By the time we’ve finished our entrees, Sally is working on her third cosmopolitan. The three of us are dancing again. Sally is shimmying with a dark-haired guy who looks and moves like a professional salsa dancer.

  Erika and I maintain a professional distance, even as the dance floor grows more crowded. Suddenly she beckons me toward her and cups her hand toward my ear. I glance up at the screen, which now commands us to Whisper a Secret in Someone’s Ear. I sense Erika’s lips close to my earlobe, but because of the music and the earplugs I’m wearing I can only feel the breath from her mouth. I can’t hear what she’s saying.

  After she steps away, I signal that I have a secret to share too. I position my lips close to her ear and whisper, “I dream about you.”

  I’m not sure how loud I’m speaking. But I’m suddenly aware that there’s been a break in the music. I step away from Erika as the beat resumes. She starts dancing again, moving her body in the same effortless rhythm as before.