by Richard Hine
At the door, Erika hesitates. Then turns. “Just out of curiosity…what would you have said if you were speaking unprofessionally?”
She gazes at me, waiting for an answer.
I smile, give it my best shot.
“Perhaps that’s a conversation we could have over dinner sometime.”
“Sure,” she says, smiling back. “There’s no rule against dinner with an ex-boss.”
“I hate this,” says Susan Trevor, clicking the pause button on the MP3 file we’re listening to. “You’re such a bastard for making me do it.”
“Maybe I am,” I tell her. “But I couldn’t keep your talent hidden any longer.”
For the past month, Susan has been heading to the Ghosh Radio studios once a week to record a podcast called “Don’t Push Me (’Cause I’m Close to the Edge).” As long as she doesn’t start bashing people by name, I’ve given her complete freedom to rant about anything that’s on her mind. Which means an average episode veers from: a) her thoughts on the stupidity of our senior management, to: b) the impossible expectations that are being put upon her and her department, to: c) her fiercely protective responses to the negative press the Daily Edge is still generating, to: d) her humorous reactions to the Wall Street Journal’s plans to run scratch-and-sniff ads.
“I hate my voice. I sound so whiny.”
“Everybody hates their own voice,” I reassure her. “But everybody loves yours.” It’s true. People, it seems, can’t get enough of Susan complaining. The fact they are not a hundred percent sure she’s for real adds to the appeal. We’re promoting the podcasts with filler space in the Chronicle, sponsored by the behavioral care division of Cigna. Last week Susan cracked the iTunes top one hundred.
“Have you lost weight?” I ask her. I’ve heard she is back on some kind of grapefruit diet.
“Maybe a couple of pounds.”
“And where are you on the charts this week?”
“Twenty-seven.” She smiles.
“Top thirty! Tell me the truth. You love it, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess I kinda do.”
“OK,” I say. “Just don’t let any of this cheer you up too much.”
I walk into the large conference room on twenty-five at exactly three o’clock.
“Surprise!” comes the shout from a few overeager members of the group.
Everyone is here. My eyes are drawn to Erika first, who smiles at me from across the room. The Me Soseki Crew is still in full garb. Liz is here with rest of the creative department. Hank is here with Randy, Georgina and several more members of the sales team. Susan and her advertising services department are in the far corner mingling with Dave and his production group. Barbara is already taking flash photographs with her digital camera. Ellen is smoothing the edges of the paper tablecloth. Martin and Ben are both putting in guest appearances. Meg, Pete and Kelly have torn themselves away from their client-presentation treadmill. The only obvious absentee is Roger, but Meg whispers in my ear that he’s on his way. Things in my old department have been running a whole lot more smoothly since I promoted Meg to director and delivered her a thirty percent raise and the promise of a special bonus tied to the successful launch of the Daily Edge.
For my birthday celebration, everything is as cheap and cheerful it should be. The plastic plates and cups on the conference table. The selection of sodas. The ice cream cake with the personalized icing. At the far end of the conference table, past the end of the red paper tablecloth, three white boxes are stacked—one small, one medium, one large. It’s an impressive presentation, especially if the gifts inside adhere to my twenty-five-dollar rule.
“Wow!” I say, opening my arms and taking in the scene with an expression of mock surprise. “I can’t believe you guys went to all this trouble!”
We go through the usual rituals of cake cutting, soda drinking, and chitchat. Then Hank Sullivan claps his hands and calls the room to attention.
“Listen up, people,” he says. “The time has come to say a few words about our man of the hour, our marketing visionary, not to mention our birthday boy, Russell Wiley.
“Just a few weeks ago, the Chronicle was being written off as yesterday’s news and people were predicting that the Daily Edge wouldn’t even get out of the gate.
“Six weeks ago we hadn’t sold a single ad into the launch issue of the Daily Edge and the Chronicle’s biggest advertiser told us they were pulling their entire schedule. Today, our launch issue is sold out and Livingston Kidd is not only back in the Chronicle, they’re spending more with us than they ever have before.
“Of course, we in the sales department would love to take all the credit, but the truth is we couldn’t have done it without Russell here and all you crazy marketing people. I don’t understand a single damn thing that you’re doing. But keep it up. It’s working.”
Hank enthusiastically leads the assembled group through a spontaneous chorus of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” then segues into the obligatory off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.”
He hands me my birthday card, which I open and scan quickly. Erika has added an X and an O by her signed name.
“Thanks everyone,” I say, catching Erika’s eye again. “I’ll study all these comments later.”
Then the gifts begin.
Meg steps forward and hands me the small package from the top of the pile. I set it down on the table. It’s a plain white box with a lid that lifts off. There’s tissue paper inside. I unwrap it carefully to reveal the gift.
Beneath all the folds I find a furry black caterpillar. I pick it up and hold it in front of my face for the whole room to see. It’s a fake mustache. I press it to my upper lip. People are snickering, nudging each other, whispering comments to the person next to them. Then Roger Jones—still huge, but noticeably slimmer—walks into the room.
“Hey, that’s mine!” he says. And everyone starts laughing. Roger is clean-shaven. It’s the first time any of us have seen him without facial hair. He walks over, shakes my hand, then pulls me into a big, hearty hug. Barbara’s digital camera flashes from five feet away.
“You’re always telling me to shave it off,” he says, loudly for the room. “It was the only gift I could think of that came in under your twenty-five-dollar rule.”
“Roger, this is priceless,” I say, matching him for volume. “But watch out. The marriage proposals will only increase from here.”
Barbara poses us for two more photos, with Roger and me taking turns with the fake mustache.
Then Hank steps forward again. “All right. Let’s move on to box number two.”
Kiko steps forward and hands me the medium-sized box.
Again, I set the box on the table and lift off the lid. Inside, there’s a plastic Lucky Cat. It’s identical to the black one I have in my office, only this one is pink. I hold it up to the room.
“I noticed you kept your first cat in the office,” says Kiko. “It brought you luck at work. Now you can take one home too. Pink is to make you lucky in love.”
“Thanks so much,” I say, posing with Kiko for Barbara’s photographs. “I hope this works as well as my first one did.”
Barbara instructs Sally and Angela to get into the shot too. She knows the value of every photo op that involves the Me Soseki Crew.
“All right,” says Hank. “I hate to break the party up, but some of us have clients to call and insertion orders to process. Let’s get to the final gift of the day.”
“Well, hello everybody,” says Ben, standing with both hands on top of the large box that remains unopened. “For those of you who don’t remember me, I’m Ben Shapiro. And I used to work here. Until I was eliminated by the former regime. For those of you who were worried about me but forgot to call, I just want you to know I’m doing just fine. In fact, getting fired was the best thing that ever happened to me. You’ll all be hearing much more about the Benjamin Shapiro Company in the weeks ahead. But apart from what’s in this box, I do want you all to kno
w I had nothing to do with planning this lavish affair. So what’s in here? Let’s see.” He lifts the lid of the box himself and pulls out a large, fluffy, impossibly expensive bathrobe. “Well folks, this is the bathrobe that got me fired. In fact, it’s the one you, Russell, asked me to put aside for Jeanie Tusa. Oops. Sorry, Jeanie, wherever you are. Didn’t quite get it to you. But, Russell, just lose a few more pounds and I’m sure this will look great on you.”
“Ooohh,” I say. “That hurt.”
Barbara takes some photos. Then Ben calls Erika over. “You should really be thanking her for the robe,” he whispers to me. “She’s the one who dug it out of the storeroom.”
Ben steps discreetly out of the frame, and Erika and I hold the robe up for the camera. Then, with nothing more to look at, some people get back to their ice cream cake and interrupted conversations, while others start drifting back to their cubicles and offices. Erika helps me fold the robe so I can place it back in the box. We’re both silent, even for the few seconds when, unnoticed by the others, she traces a fingertip across the back of my hand.
Back in my office, I sit alone at my desk. I pull the head off my new Lucky Cat. There’s a small package of crackers inside. Fresh. Not only edible, but quite tasty too. I eat two, then leave the packet open on my desk for future visitors to enjoy.
I play with the cat for a while, removing and replacing its detachable head. Then I look at the countdown clock on my computer screen. Twenty-three days to launch. Twenty-four days till our big party. I put my hand on the cat’s pink head, close my eyes, and make a wish that involves Erika Fallon—a wish that I hope will start coming true twenty-five days from now.
I open my eyes and see an instant message pop up on my screen. It’s from Erika. Did you see what I was pointing to? The note in the bathrobe pocket?
I type: A note? BRB.
I step quickly to the coffee table, open the large white box, feel in the pockets. There’s a folded piece of paper, closed with a circular seal.
I read: Russell, I know you already have one of these. But, speaking unprofessionally, you never know when you might need two. XO Erika.
I hurry back to my desk.
I type: Found it—thanks! Speaking unprofessionally, how about dinner on… I double-check my calendar and type in the date.
Erika shoots back: Can’t wait…sweet dreams till then!
I look at my smiling reflection in the wood-framed mirror; the lights of Times Square are getting brighter in the fading light of a late January afternoon. I place my two Lucky Cats a few inches apart on my desk. They smile at each other. I start moving them closer. When their faces are almost touching, I angle their heads so they can whisper in each other’s ears. Both cats take a half step back. They’re grinning at each other, savoring the anticipation of what comes next. Finally, they tilt their faces and lean forward again. And this time they kiss.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to the hundreds of colleagues I met and friends I made during my years at Adweek, Time Magazine and the Wall Street Journal. This book wouldn’t exist if we hadn’t experienced together the highs and lows of print publishing, or sat through the Powerpoint presentations and training sessions, or lived through the takeovers and mergers that have defined the recent history of the media business.
A grateful shout-out to all the teachers who encouraged my youthful writing dreams or, when necessary, gave me a shove in the right direction, especially Fr. Alfred Thomas and Con O’Halpin, and the exceptional authors and writing instructors Susie Mee and Carol Emswhiller.
A big smile to all the writers I met through the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest in 2009, in particular Kerry Dunn, Sheryl Dunn, Dwight Okita, Jarucia Jaycox Nirula, Steffan Piper, Brandi Lynn Ryder, Sofia Samatar and Robert Leland Taylor. And huge thanks to Alex Carr and Sarah Tomashek at AmazonEncore for their valuable advice and support throughout the publication process.
Finally, a very special note of appreciation to Martine Bellen, Heather Chase, Jennifer Cohen, Lloyd Cole, Catherine Cusset, Randy Dwenger, Ken Foster, Shelley Griffin, Philomena Hine, Lee Klein, Hilda McVeigh, J.B. Miller, Ben Neihart, Karen Quinn, Alessandro Ricciarelli, Victoria Skurnick and, most of all, the ever-inspiring Amanda Filipacchi.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
London-born Richard Hine began his career as an advertising copywriter. After moving to New York at the age of twenty-four, he held creative and marketing positions at Adweek; Time magazine, where he became publisher of Time’s Latin America edition; and the Wall Street Journal, where he was the marketing vice president responsible for the launch of the Journal’s Weekend Edition. Since 2006, Hine has worked as a marketing and media consultant, ghostwriter, and novelist. His fiction has appeared in numerous literary publications, including London Magazine and the Brooklyn Review. He lives in New York City with the novelist Amanda Filipacchi.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR