The Balance Project

by Susie Orman Schnall

  Sometimes he would refuse to call me Lucy and instead would call me Goosey. (Don’t ask, I had no idea why then and I still don’t.) And heaven forbid I didn’t turn the stapler just so to ensure the staples were at perfect forty-five-degree angles. I knew his temper had nothing to do with me. I presumed, at the time, it was related to earnings and stock prices and audits and all that other financial hocus-pocus that I found terribly dull. That explanation didn’t entirely make sense to me though, because as I understood it, Green Goddess was doing well. Incredibly well. Due in part, the media would report, to its brilliant COO Katherine Whitney, whom I had started to say hello to in passing and was starting to admire. But back to Richie Cunningham’s temper. So it turned out to be not about the numbers at all. Turns out Richie Cunningham’s wife (no, her name was not Lori Beth) was cheating on him with Richie Cunningham’s best friend (no, his name was not Fonzie). I’ll leave it at that.

  But whatever was—or was not—going on in Richie Cunningham’s marital bed was making my life unbearable. Still, I wanted to give it a year. I’d heard enough career-building advice to know that having a job on your résumé that lasted less than a year would prompt fastidious future employers to ask awkward questions. It had only been four months.

  One day, in the middle of a truly miserable day of reporting to Mr. Mean, I was on the verge of tears. I didn’t want to burst out sobbing in full view of everyone, and I knew I wouldn‘t make it to the general population ladies room before the tears started raining down. That bathroom was clear across the floor from my desk, which sat squarely in the middle of the senior executive wing. So I decided to sneak into the senior executive wing’s ladies room, which only ever saw the likes of one Katherine Whitney considering she was—and still is—the only lady senior executive at Green Goddess. I had heard that morning from her assistant Janie that Katherine was away on business, so I took my chances that I could sneak on in and cry my little eyes out in peace.

  Janie must have been confused or Katherine must have come back from her trip early, because while I was in the throes of bawling all over the exquisite grey glass and white marble of the senior executive wing’s ladies room, trying to get every last tear out so I could return to my desk and my dreadful occupational circumstances, in walked Katherine Whitney, as shocked to see me as I was to see her.

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Katherine had asked me. Concerned. It was four words more than she had ever said to me.

  “Nothing, really, I’m fine,” I had said, quickly wiping away my tears with my spent tissue, striving, or rather, struggling, for composure. “I’m so sorry I’m in here,” I had said, hurrying toward the door.

  “Wait. It’s okay. And that doesn’t look like fine to me.”

  Would you believe I told Katherine everything? The poor woman had only bargained for your standard pee and wash, and I subjected her to an entire Barbara Walters–worthy confessional. I told her about how mean Richie Cunningham was (she knew). About how I only took the job to get my foot in the door even though I wanted to be in digital media (she thought I had made a wise decision and extolled the virtues of getting one’s foot in the door). About how I wanted to quit because I couldn’t take one more day of working in these conditions (she advised against it). Katherine told me Richie had a way of going through assistants quite rapidly and that she and the CEO were dealing with that. And then she handed me extra tissues from the fancy senior executive tissue box and helped me on my way.

  I continued to do my time, and it was only two weeks later that Janie fortuitously tendered her resignation because she was moving to Dallas for her husband’s new job. The same day said resignation was fortuitously tendered, Katherine approached me and asked if I would interview to replace Janie. She said she had heard from Richie that I was a great assistant. She told me she knew that I wanted to do digital media but working for her would be a great way to learn about everything going on in the company and that she always had special projects over which I could take ownership. (Another foot in the door.) She promised me it wouldn’t be a typical assistant’s position and that it would be nothing like working for Richie Cunningham. Sayonara Richie Cunningham.

  I went through the required rounds of interviews and emerged through the gauntlet triumphant. And that is how I became Katherine Whitney’s assistant.

  Katherine delivered on each of her campaign promises. While working for her, I have learned so much about every aspect of Green Goddess. She lets me listen in on conference calls and sit in on meetings that no other assistants attend. There have been numerous special projects. Because she wants me to learn. Because she wants me to be a successful lady executive just like her one day. It has not been a typical assistant’s position. It has been nothing like working for Richie Cunningham. It has been a dream.

  Until lately. Lately, it’s been more of a nightmare. Nothing to do with Katherine. Katherine’s kind and fair, she usually gets her own lunch, and she doesn’t give a shit about which direction her staples face. But I’m still not working in digital media, which has slowly started to eat me up inside, a perpetual and sour-tasting yearning for my as-yet unrealized potential, and I’ve been way too busy with barely any time for anything else in my life.

  If today is any indication, it looks like that’s not going to let up anytime soon.

  “Katherine Whitney’s office,” I say into the receiver. There are two other lines on hold. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “This is Nancy from Dr. Browning’s office. I’m calling to confirm Katherine Whitney’s appointment tomorrow at eight thirty.”

  “Katherine Whitney’s office.”

  “This is Eleanor from the York Agency. I’m calling to tell Ms. Whitney that we have six very qualified nannies that we’ll be interviewing today. We’ll follow up with her tomorrow to let her know how the screening went, and we’ll hopefully have several candidates for her to consider.”

  “Katherine Whitney’s office.”

  “Hey Lucy. It’s Peter. Katherine told me that she’s out for most of the morning, but can you make sure she calls me the minute she walks in? I have to review the final menu for London with her. It’s pretty urgent.”

  “Katherine Whitney’s office.”

  “This is Alexandra Nathanson from the parents association at The Cartwright School. Can you please let Katherine know she’s been nominated to chair the book fair at the school next fall. Word has gotten out that she’s doing such a great job as class mom in Abby’s kindergarten class, and we’d love for her to take on a bigger role next year.”

  “Katherine Whitney’s office.”

  “This is Nigel. Tell Katherine I must speak with her immediately.”

  “Katherine Whitney’s office.”

  “Hello there, Lucy! It’s Brooke! She did so great on Today, didn’t you think? We all thought she killed it! Anyway, tell her that, and then tell her to call me. Yay! So happy! Thanks, Lucy! See you later!”

  “Katherine Whitney’s office.”

  “Hey, gorgeous.”

  “Hey! Katherine’s phone has been blowing up this morning. I didn’t even notice it was my line ringing. What’s shaking, hot stuff?”

  Hot stuff is also known as Nick Heston. Cutest boyfriend in the world.

  “It’s done.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. Ty signed the contract this morning. I’m officially his agent. Can you believe it?”

  “Oh my God. I’m so happy for you! Nick, that’s amazing,” I say, smiling.

  “I know. I can’t believe it, but I have the contract right here. Wait, I’ll take a picture of it and text it to you.” Pause. Click. “Okay, let me know when you get it.”

  Ping.

  “Got it,” I say, enlarging the photo on my phone with my fingers. There it is, in script: Ty Collins.

  “Amazing, right?’ Nick asks excitedly. And then I picture him, left hand on his hip, right hand on the phone, his ridiculously handsome smile even more ridiculous, pacing a
round his apartment, which is now the official headquarters of the newly minted Nick Heston Sports Management, Inc.

  “This changes everything for you,” I say.

  “I know, babe. It’s really happening.”

  “It’s amazing. All you’ve been working toward for so long.”

  “I made a reservation at Nobu downtown at seven to celebrate. Ty is coming, and he’s bringing his new girlfriend. Sound good?”

  “Of course I’ll be there,” I say. “Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

  “I love you, Coop. Thanks for being so great. And so sexy. Do you want to be sexy with me tonight, by the way?”

  “I love you, too, Nick,” I say laughing. “And,” I whisper, “I would like to be sexy with you tonight.” I hang up, look down at the boring and entirely unsexy outfit I threw on this morning, and groan.

  Nick is the kind of guy, the loveliest kind, who never finds anything unfortunate with my standard black-pants-and-a-blouse look, but always compliments me when I put a little more effort into an outfit. He also, the dear, says he prefers me without makeup, which is a good thing considering my ability to successfully wield an eyeliner is comparable to my ability to successfully prepare a home-cooked meal, file my own income taxes, and match my bra to my underwear. I can do it but the results aren’t always pretty.

  “Katherine Whitney’s office.”

  “Luciebelle,” Evan says approaching my desk as I hang up that last call. He peeks around and sees that Katherine isn’t at her desk. “When will she be in? I need to talk to her about London.” Evan runs his fingers through his perfectly coiffed light-brown hair. As usual, he’s a vision of stylish chic in a slim-fitting tweed suit, camel-color cashmere scarf, and charcoal-grey bow tie.

  “Early afternoon. Right now she’s taping LIVE with Kelly and Michael. Then she’s heading to SiriusXM to do an interview with The Moms—”

  “Okay. Got it,” Evan says, shaking his hair out of his piercing green eyes. “Will you tell her I need to see her as soon as she gets in?”

  “For a swell guy like yourself? Anything,” I say.

  “Thanks, Luce.”

  And, with that, Evan Hewitt, cofounder and director of business development of Green Goddess, heads back to his office that is personally designed, I must add, by his dear friend Jonathan Adler with the requisite lacquer desk, snarky needlepoint pillows, and a divine every-hue-known-to-man color scheme. It’s to die for, or so Evan and Katherine tell me, since I’m not known to die for things like that.

  I spend the next two hours fielding calls, dodging needy coworkers, managing Katherine’s social media accounts (ironic, considering I have no interest in managing my personal social media accounts), which are going crazy as a result of her media appearances this morning, and trying to keep all the balls in the air. Balls must stay in the air.

  Ever since Katherine’s book came out last October, exactly six months ago today, things have been busier around here than the chardonnay line at a Michael Bolton concert. The phone calls are constant, and Katherine might as well be a world leader, or a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon, considering how overloaded her schedule is. Of course we expected The Balance Project to sell really well, but we didn’t anticipate that it would virtually change Katherine’s life. That she would go from being a hard-working, unknown COO to a sought-out, oft-photographed, highly respected household name. But that’s exactly what happened.

  The TED Talk she did a few months ago still gets around a thousand views a day, she’s been named one of Fortune’s Most Powerful Women in Business, she’s spoken at the White House, been interviewed by Oprah, and has appeared on the cover of every major magazine. Katherine’s life feels like a runaway train and I’m the one racing over the perilous tracks trying to slow it down.

  “Hi, I’m back,” Katherine whispers when she eventually returns to the office, tilting the phone away from her mouth while still listening to her call. She approaches my desk, an extra-large Green Goddess Glow juice in hand and a huge Chloé bag on her shoulder.

  “Hey,” I whisper back. “Let me help you with that,” I say as I grab the Chloé, easing her short journey into her office, which is personally designed, I must add, by her dear friend Kelly Wearstler with the requisite bronze desk, vintage leather and wood office chair, plus sofa, plus other chairs, graphic silk rug, and a divine collection of coffee-table books and très chic accessories. It’s to die for, or so Katherine and Evan tell me, since, well, you know. . . .

  I plop down on a Kelly chair across from Katherine and wait for her to finish her call. I look at my reflection in the back of a silver frame on Katherine’s desk. My hazel eyes look tired and my hair looks droopy. I pull out the hair band holding my ponytail, run my fingers through my long, brown, straight hair, pull it up to the back of my head, and rewrap the hair band around it all.

  “So, how did you think everything went this morning?” I ask Katherine when she’s off the phone.

  “Jesus. Seventeen new e-mails since I got in the elevator!” Katherine says, looking at her computer.

  “And your phone has been ringing off the hook all morning. Let me grab all the messages.”

  I run through the Urgents, Pretty Importants, Can Waits, and finally, the Don’t Bothers, which will fall to me because Katherine believes everyone deserves a reply.

  “Okay. On it. Thanks, Lucy.”

  “Just doing my job, boss woman.”

  “No, really, Luce. Things have been their own brand of crazy around here lately. And if this book keeps up at a pace anything like Lean In, the crazy will continue for a while. Crazy good. But still crazy. You know I couldn’t do any of this without you.”

  “Well, I’m happy for you. You deserve all this.”

  “Let’s just hope I can hold it all together and get through all this book stuff and the restaurant opening in London. Curious scheduling, these two, happening at the same time.”

  “No problem. You can handle it. And you’ve got me. Your loyal minion. Your trusty acolyte. Your noble steed.”

  “Nice,” Katherine says, laughing. “Nice to know I’ve got you in my court. Okay, enough of this lovey-dovey bullshit. Let’s get to work. We’ll head out at six thirty.”

  “What’s at six thirty?” I ask.

  “It’s the book celebration dinner,” Katherine says. “What do you mean, what’s at six thirty?”

  “I didn’t know anything about a book dinner.”

  “It’s on my calendar. Look,” she says pointing to her calendar program that is open on her computer. “Wednesday, six thirty, book dinner.”

  “I know it’s on your calendar. But I didn’t know I was invited.”

  “Of course you’re invited,” Katherine gushes, staring at her computer and taking a long drag of her juice. “What the hell kind of nonsense are you talking? Simon & Schuster is hosting it to celebrate the first six months of record-breaking sales, Brooke and the other publicists are coming, Theo will be there. You have to help with Theo. Of course you’re coming.”

  “I kinda have something tonight,” I say slowly, realizing that this conversation might end, will most definitely end, with me agreeing to Katherine’s dinner and missing Nick’s. “And what I’m wearing does not earn the right to attend the book dinner of a New York Times best seller,” I say motioning to my standard-issue black pants, boring white blouse, and black ballerina flats. I am, as I’ve mentioned, not gifted in the sartorial arts.

  “Well, you can’t miss this, Lucy, and you’re dressed fine. You were instrumental in getting this book done. You are first violin in this orchestra we call my life. I wouldn’t feel right if you weren’t there. Six thirty.”

  “Six thirty,” I echo, sulking to my desk.

  And Nick loses again.

  It’s not that I can’t tell Katherine that I have a previous engagement. It’s not like she’ll fire me or hold it against me if I tell her I can’t come to her dinner. It’s more that I feel insanely loyal to her and to my career. Ther
e are certain sacrifices I have to make to be professional. I feel loyal to Nick as well, but he’s always much better at understanding than Katherine is. So I usually let her win. Hopefully, that strategy won’t come back to haunt me, but I’m not so sure.

  Chapter Three

  “I’m gonna be late for your dinner and I’m so sorry and Katherine needs me to go to her book party and I just found out about it and I’m so sorry and I love you and please don’t be mad,” I say into the phone in one breath.

  “Whoa, whoa, slow down tiger. What’s going on?” Nick asks.

  “Ugh, Nick. Tonight is some book dinner that Katherine’s publishers are throwing for her for the six-month anniversary of The Balance Project launch.”

  “Really?”

  “She thought I knew about it, but of course I didn’t or I wouldn’t have told you I could be at Nobu at seven. But the dinner’s in Tribeca, too, so I won’t be that late. Just start without me, and I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  “Cooooop,” he says, dejected, calling me by his nickname for me. The same thing he’s been calling me since we met at the beginning of my freshman, his sophomore, year at Duke.

  “I know. I know. I’m a terrible girlfriend. I’m so sorry. I will be there, and then I will make it up to you after dinner. I promise,” I say in my sexiest voice, at least the sexiest one I can use at the office.

  “Can’t you get out of it?”

  “No, I can’t get out of it, Nick. This is my job.”

  “I know. But tonight is a really big deal for me.”

  “Hold on,” I say, putting him on hold.

  “Katherine Whitney’s office, can you hold please?”

  “Okay, I’m back, but I gotta go. I’m really sorry. You know I am,” I say.

  “It just seems like you’re always choosing Katherine over us lately,” Nick says.