by Bridie Clark
But I had to do it. Before I could change my mind, I called Vivian’s office.
“Grant Books.” It sounded as though Milton had a bad cold.
“Milton? It’s Claire—”
“Milton is no longer with the company. May I help you with something?”
“Oh. Yes, um, I was calling to speak to Vivian. We met last week and— Is she there?”
“One moment, please.” The new assistant put me on hold. I wondered briefly what had happened to Milton, but he’d seemed pretty ready for early retirement.
“Claire. It’s Vivian. What’s up?”
“Hi, Vivian. I’m calling to accept your offer.” There. I’d done it. No going back now.
“Good, good. What’d I offer you again?”
Uh-oh. She didn’t remember? I repeated everything she’d said in our last meeting.
“Okay, well, that’s simply too high,” Vivian replied. “That’s more than other editors here are making. I can’t imagine I really offered that much. Let’s carve off $10K and call it even.”
I felt a surge of panic. Was she accusing me of being dishonest? What should I say? Vivian was lowering her offer after I’d accepted it? Had she changed her mind about hiring me? Even with $10,000 shaved off the top, it was still a much higher salary than I was making at P and P. Should I just take it? Or was she testing me—maybe she wanted to see if I was easy to push around in negotiations. Vivian Grant certainly wouldn’t want an editor who was unable to stick to her guns.
“I’m sorry, Vivian,” I said finally. “You made me an offer on Friday, and that’s the offer I’m calling to accept. If the terms have changed, I’ll need to reconsider my decision.”
“Fine,” she relented impatiently. “It’s way too much money, especially for someone with your limited experience, but I really don’t have time to argue about it. I need someone here now. So when can you start? How’s Friday?”
This Friday? As in four days from now? I’d assumed I’d be able to give the standard two weeks’ notice at P and P, adequate time to make sure that all of my projects—and Jackson’s—were handed off properly. I told Vivian this, hoping she’d appreciate that I wasn’t the kind of employee who would irresponsibly leave her employer in the lurch.
Turns out she didn’t. “Two weeks? That’s absolutely absurd. I need you here much sooner than that. How about next Monday?” Vivian countered.
Again, I felt another surge of apprehension. Was I pushing it? Haggling with my not-yet-new boss about my start date—after standing my ground about salary—didn’t feel like getting off on the right foot. I wasn’t used to these kinds of adversarial conversations … P and P was so bureaucratic that promotions and offers were handed down impersonally, without much discussion. I wanted to be able to say yes to next Monday, but it felt really wrong to rush out so abruptly on Jackson.
“I’d really feel better giving the full two weeks,” I repeated. “Maybe I could start working weekends, or in the evenings, so that I can hit the ground running?”
“I’ll have my assistant messenger some of the projects you’ll be immediately taking over. But two weeks is way too fucking long, Claire, and I can’t keep repeating myself! I need someone on the ground immediately. I can live with next Tuesday, but that’s pushing it. Your loyalty needs to shift. Now.”
And with that, she hung up.
Thus marked the beginning of the pathology that was to take over my life: The feeling that my offer was precarious—that Vivian might rescind it as capriciously as she’d extended it—made me more certain that I couldn’t let it go.
Swallowing hard, I knocked on the door of Jackson’s office.
“Vivian has asked that I start next Tuesday,” I said quietly.
He winced. “Fine, Claire, next Tuesday is fine. Make this Friday your last day here. Take Monday off and get some rest. You’ll need it. If you’re sure you want to do this, you might as well get used to bending over backwards for Vivian.”
Not exactly the blessing I’d hoped for, but I thanked him. “I’ll come in weekends, work nights, whatever you need to get things wrapped up,” I offered.
“Thanks, dear. But I think your hands will be full, and besides, Mara can help me if I really need anything. I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about you.”
Back at my desk, I called Vivian’s office to say that Tuesday would be fine. This was the first lesson I learned from her: You can’t negotiate properly unless you’re willing to walk away from the deal. If you’re scared of losing, you will every time.
“Well, it sounds like he was just sorry to lose you,” Randall commented when I’d finished telling him the nutshell version of the afternoon’s events. “Kind of selfish, if you ask me.”
“Oh,” I said, “I don’t think Jackson was being selfish. He just doesn’t quite see the opportunity the way I do.”
“So, you liked the wine?” Randall changed the subject. “My father always keeps a few great bottles in the cellar here. By the way, Claire, my mother’s already pressuring me to get you out to Southampton one of these weekends. You know, she and your mother were apparently inseparable in college, and she’s dying to meet the daughter of Patricia Truman.”
“I’d love that,” I answered, gazing dreamily across the table. Meet his mother? Not exactly my usual second-date fare!
I’d just finished the most sumptuous meal of my life—Randall, much more disciplined about his diet, had ordered a tuna steak and spinach, while I’d gone in for a perfectly charred, unbelievably tender steak with a béarnaise sauce.
As Randall gestured for the check, I felt a warm glow of anticipation. The mood had been perfectly set for an easy “Want to come back to my place, Claire?”/moment of feigned hesitation for propriety’s sake/“Sure, just for a quick nightcap” sequence, and I couldn’t wait to play it all out.
“I wish I could invite you back to my place for a drink, Claire,” Randall groused, pulling out a Cross pen from his breast pocket and signing the check with a theatrical flourish, “but we’re in the middle of closing one of the biggest deals in the firm’s history, and I need to report back for duty.”
Back for duty? I glanced at my watch. It was nearly midnight on a Monday. My stomach sank. Randall actually expected me to believe that he was heading back to pull another shift at the office? Puh-lease. After five years of being single in the city, I knew when I was getting the brush-off. Randall at least could have had the decency to formulate a slightly more credible lie, like an urgent need to clean out his sock drawer or walk his fish.
“No problem,” I said coolly, willing my face not to reveal how upset I was. “Good luck with that, um, deal.”
“Freddy can drive you home. I’m close enough to walk back to my office,” said Randall, standing up from the table.
Whatever, I thought bitterly. You think I don’t know the code? “I’m close enough to walk” means: I’ll wait a minute after you leave, walk a block, hop in a cab, and head to Marquee to pick up Brazilian models.
What had gone wrong? I tried not to show my disappointment, but I felt pretty glum. Why had I allowed myself to get my hopes up? Why had I read so far into the peonies, the lavish dinners, the excessive compliments, the favor with Vivian, the invite to meet his mother … actually, now that I thought about it, there had been a lot of positive signs. In fact, the jerk had done everything possible—short of a serenade outside my window—to make me think he was interested!
Outside the restaurant, I crossed my arms and waited resignedly for Randall to begin the much less satisfying “I’m so glad we had a chance to catch up, we should do this again”/“Yeah, that’d be great”/“Well, take care” sequence.
But instead I felt his forearms rest on my shoulders, his fingers playing with the ends of my hair just a little. Huh?
“Claire,” he said in a low voice, cupping my chin in his strong hands, “what are you doing Friday night?” His lips brushed gently against my neck.
“Um … ,” I g
urgled, too blissed out to hold up my end of the conversation.
And then suddenly we were kissing … and then we were still kissing … and then he wrapped his arms around my waist and picked me off the ground just an inch in the most adorable bear hug. I couldn’t believe it—our second kiss was even better than the first. I was kissing Pabst Blue Ribbon! And our third date was already in the works!
“So, Friday night?” Randall asked, his mouth curling into a smile. “Dinner at Nobu? Could you handle spending two nights in one week with me?”
“I think I probably could, yes.” I laughed. Two nights, a lifetime, whatever you’d like.
“Good,” he said, kissing me again. Then he opened the door to his black town car and gallantly gestured for me to pile in. “Please bring Miss Truman home, Freddy, and then pick me up at the office around two-thirty,” he instructed the driver.
Okay, so maybe he really did have to work. It was a little crazy, but there was also something undeniably intriguing about someone so dedicated to his job that he’d follow up a long, relaxing meal with a round trip to the office. Talk about having a passion for what you do.
On the drive down to Christopher Street, I thought of the kiss and felt a blush start at my toes and work its way up to my face. I was dating Randall Cox. Digging my cell phone out of my bag, I speed-dialed Bea and whispered the update behind my cupped hand … I couldn’t keep it to myself for another block. Freddy could hear my friend’s shrieks of joy from the driver’s seat.
“I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me.”
“I’m not abandoning you,” I said, hugging Mara. “We’ll still talk all the time. You know that.”
“How’s Jackson doing?” she asked.
Jackson and I hadn’t spoken much since Monday, but that morning he’d dropped off a gift on my chair—an early edition of Sherwood Anderson’s Winesburg, Ohio, a book we’d spent a good amount of time talking about during my interview five years earlier. I couldn’t believe he remembered.
Actually, that’s not true. It was completely like Jackson to remember.
The week had flown by thanks to a packed to-do list, and now it was 5:00 on Friday, my last day. The files had been meticulously organized. The final cardboard boxes had been taped shut.
Just one thing left to do: hit send on my parting e-mail to colleagues, giving my new contact information and telling them how much I’d enjoyed working with them. I’d been putting it off all day. Maybe because it meant this chapter of my life was really ending.
I hit send—in the forced way a person dives into cold water.
Ding. Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding. You have new e-mail.
Before I had a chance to look, Marie-Therese, a pretty publicist with whom I’d worked on a few books, came charging over to my desk. Her face was flushed. “Please, Claire, please tell me that e-mail was a joke!” she cried out. “You’re not really going to work for Vile Vivian, are you?”
I swallowed hard. “Well, yes, I—” I could hear new e-mails dinging into my account behind me and glanced back at the screen.
Subject: Do you know what you’re doing?
Subject: VG is certifiable.
Subject: Nooooo …
Subject: Say it ain’t so!
And so on. My pulse sped as I clicked through a few messages. Not one of my colleagues had written back with the customary “Good luck, we’ll miss you” message. Instead, everyone seemed horrified by my news.
When I turned back to Marie-Therese, I found a small but impassioned cluster of people around my cubicle.
“She came on to my friend in the men’s room during a sales conference,” whispered Henry from foreign sales. “Followed him in there. He wasn’t into it, so she had him fired the next week for ‘stealing office supplies.’ Totally bogus, but he didn’t see much point in pressing charges and getting stuck in a legal battle with a vengeful sociopath.”
“Oh, she’s famous for that,” piped up Gail, a young editor at another imprint. “You kill yourself working for her, and then the second you leave, she’s telling everyone within earshot that you’ve got a drug problem … or some mental illness … or sticky fingers … you name it.”
“Vivian threatened to have this agent I know beaten up if he didn’t let her get away with a blatant breach of contract. She wanted to put another author’s name on the book!” swore mild-mannered Max from the art department. “She claimed it would help sell more copies!”
“She’s deranged, Claire,” insisted Marie-Therese. “I used to work at Mather-Hollinger, and the stories about the twelfth floor are unbelievable. There’s something seriously wrong with that woman. She’s almost inhuman.”
Urban myth, I rationalized, trying desperately hard not to get spooked. “Thanks, everyone!” I said, false cheeriness in my voice. “But my mind’s made up.”
Nobody moved an inch. They just stared at me, concern etched across their faces.
Marie-Therese took a step forward. “Claire, maybe you should—”
“Hope we can all keep in touch!” I chirped, cutting her off. “Well, I guess I should be packing up now.”
Finally, after a moment, they each said good-bye and wished me well.
“I’m sure they’re exaggerating, Claire,” Mara said kindly, but unconvincingly.
They had to be. How could it really be that bad? Vivian was aggressive and unconventional, that much was obvious, but I had a hard time believing—as one of the e-mails claimed—that she’d actually thrown a chair across a room at one of her editors. Or that she’d called a former marketing director a “filthy whore” during a meeting.
There was just no way the stories were true. For one thing, Mather-Hollinger HR would never allow that kind of behavior to take place on their premises or to their employees.
Besides, as Vivian herself was quoted as saying in a recent Daily News column, nobody would even mention her “temper” if she were a man—there was a deplorable double standard at play!
A few hours later, as I headed for the door, glancing back at editorial row, I felt confident about my decision. One year in the trenches, one huge breakthrough for my career. I knew I was doing the right thing.
Well, okay, maybe I didn’t precisely know it. But I hoped it.
And I could put up with anything for a year. It would be worth it. I knew I could do it.
Well, okay. Hoped.
With one last nostalgic look at the copy machine, where I’d stood for hours on end more times than I could count, I took a deep breath and marched into my future.
CHAPTER FOUR
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING
Thank God you’re here, Claire,” moaned Vivian, settling in at the head of the table.
This was it: my first day as an editor at Grant Books. I’d spent the morning in the HR orientation, learning all about Mather-Hollinger’s prestigious history, and now I was back in the conference room—sitting in the same chair in which I’d had my interview just a little more than a week before.
“I’m about to fall apart,” Vivian continued to gripe. “These fucking incompetents … Well, you’ll see for yourself soon enough, Claire. I’m just relieved I have one capable editor on board now!”
The man next to me cleared his throat. To my enormous discomfort, two of these so-called incompetents—a man and a woman, both in their mid-thirties—were also sitting at the conference table with us, shuffling through files and making notes. They seemed completely unfazed by Vivian’s harsh assessment of their abilities. In fact, they appeared not to have even heard her.
“Okay, so you’re going to be working on ten books right off the bat,” began the woman, addressing me in a crisp voice. “These projects have all been in limbo since the last editor left about four weeks ago, so I’m afraid you’ll have explaining to do to the authors.”
“I’m … I’m Claire, by the way,” I interjected awkwardly, extending my hand. The woman had a precise bob and bright, unblinking eyes that suggested a serious addic
tion to caffeine. She was also the most intensely Caucasian human being I’d ever laid eyes on. Her skin was white as the driven snow, despite the fact that it was now July.
“I’m really sorry, where are my manners?” she apologized, smiling. “I’m Dawn Jeffers, the managing editor.” Vivian shot her a pointed look, and Dawn quickly cast her eyes down at her clipboard again. Apparently the small-talk portion of our program had ended. “Okay, you’ll be taking over a cookbook we’re doing with Chef Mario, this very charming guy with a famous Italian restaurant in the Bronx.” Dawn paused, chewing the end of her pen. “Have you ever worked on a cookbook before, Claire?”
Beneath her all-business manner, Dawn’s tone was gentle as she tried to determine how much help I’d need getting started. I appreciated that. I’d never worked on a cookbook before—and although I could always call Mara with questions, I’d also be grateful for any pointers that Dawn had to offer.
Before I could answer, though, Vivian answered for me.
“What does it matter if she’s worked on a cookbook before? Claire’s a smart woman, Dawn, she’ll figure it out!” Vivian turned to me, a disgusted sneer on her face. “Why do so many idiots in this industry think that in order to know how to do something, you need to have done it a dozen times already? Why can’t they understand that some people actually have instincts?”
Had Vivian just called the managing editor an idiot, right in front of me, on my first day—make that third hour—on the job? I looked at Dawn for some sign of outrage, but her face remained completely placid.
“The second book you’ll be working on,” Dawn continued, her voice steady and even, “is a tell-all by—”
“You know what?” Vivian interrupted loudly. “I don’t know why I’m fucking here, Dawn! I do not have time to do this right now. It’s your job to fill Claire in on her projects—not mine! And Graham, the job of editorial director is to make sure these transitions go smoothly! It is not my fucking responsibility to do these things! I don’t have time for this shit, people! I’ve got a multimillion-dollar media company to run and grow, can you fuckwits try to grasp that?” Vivian was now out of her seat, leaning across the table. A small vein on her left temple throbbed visibly.