After my workout, I steamed and saunaed and blow-dried my hair to lustrous perfection. By the time I returned to my office, forty-five minutes before the meeting, I barely even cared that Jake hadn’t called to wish me good luck. I was a kick-ass goddess after all, and I would prevail. With or without him.
Green Day still playing in my head, I marched across campus toward the HR building, watching nerdy heads turn as I blew by. I wore a pair of cuffed gray pants from Ann Taylor ($55) that made my ass, in the words of the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy, “look totally fine.”
Wendii, I thought, was no match for me.
But Wendii, as it turned out, had something going for her: the element of surprise.
When I walked into that conference room, the confidence I’d built up over the last three hours vaporized instantly, because there, sitting next to each other at the conference table, close enough but not too close, were Loser and Loserette.
Not even in my most nightmarish fantasies of this meeting had I imagined they would be here. Those fantasies had spread far and wide, too: In one, Rodney Rolands stalked into the meeting and fired me in person. In another, I was immediately shackled by security guards and hauled away to white-collar prison for giving away proprietary information on my blog. The last people I’d expected to see at this meeting, though, were the two of them.
The Enemy.
I stared at them for a moment, with my mouth open and my heart pounding.
Then I said the stupidest thing imaginable. “Hi.” It was reflex, pure and simple. I immediately wished I could take it back.
Only Wendii responded.
“Hello, Rachel. Please have a seat.”
I walked over to an empty chair as far from the two of them as I could get. I felt wobbly and prayed I wouldn’t pass out. Then I realized that would be an excellent way to get out of this meeting. Maybe I should pretend to faint? No. I wasn’t a good enough actress, damn it, even though I’d spent years practicing fake swoons with my best friend, Jessica, when we were growing up.
I reached my chair and sat down with a thud, almost missing it. A whole storm of violent emotions rattled me. Jealousy. Fear. Humiliation. I clenched my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. Above it all, however, floated a detached feeling that something here was not quite right. I avoided looking at the Loser twins now, but their image had burned itself into my brain during those first few moments that I’d stared at them. There was something different about them since I’d seen them last. Something strange. Then it hit me.
She looked exactly like me.
Maybe it was some sort of optical illusion caused by my shock, but if I wasn’t mistaken, Loserette’s curly hair was now straightened somewhat, cut in a layered style resembling mine, and dyed a darker color. Where once her hair had been bright red, it was now auburn with blond streaks—just like the blond streaks in my own dark brown hair! She also wore a cleavage-baring T-shirt that looked just like the one I had bought at Banana Republic a month ago!
Things suddenly felt very surreal. Again, I looked over at Wendii, who was shuffling papers. Did she notice, I wondered? Could she SEE that this woman was now a carbon copy of me? But Wendii said nothing. Nor did anyone else. The room vibrated with tension. Out of the corner of my eye, Loser’s beanpole body, his sandy brown hair, his tan skin, were a memory from a distant dream. He, unlike Loserette, looked exactly the same as he always had.
Finally, Wendii spoke.
“So, the reason I’ve brought you all here today is to discuss the complaint that has been brought against Rachel and see if we can come to some kind of agreement about it.”
My jaw, which was already clenched, tightened further. I wondered if I’d ever be able to speak again. If I couldn’t, I would sue Empire. For A LOT of money.
But wait. She’d used the word “agreement”! Did that mean I wasn’t getting fired right away? My jaw loosened ever so slightly.
Wendii nodded at the Loser twins. “Please let Rachel know the nature of your complaint.” Today, Wendii had gone for a coppery look. Bronze blush streaked her cheeks and she wore brown lipstick contained by expertly drawn lipliner that made her lips look just bigger than they were. It looked like she’d hit the tanning salon in the last couple of weeks.
The two of them looked at each other quickly. Then Loser spoke. His voice, once so familiar, sounded strange to me now, and higher than a man’s voice should be. Still, it echoed deep within me. This was the tone he’d used when we’d argued. The high, nervous, petulant tone. Loser hated confrontation. Yet our relationship had been rife with it. I found myself breathing faster as he talked. I wondered if he would look at me. But he kept his eyes firmly fixed on Wendii.
“For months now, Rachel has been writing lies about us on her blog. These are things that could be very damaging to both our careers and our personal lives. We want her to stop immediately. We also think that she should take down her blog, or at the very least, delete everything she’s written about us.”
I didn’t hear most of what he said. My mind stopped at the word “lies.” Stopped and stumbled.
Wendii chewed her lips slightly. Then she scribbled something in her notebook and looked over at me. “Is that something you would agree to Rachel?”
“I—I’m not lying,” I said. My throat felt like it was full of sand. I spoke in a low tone that didn’t even sound like me.
“Rachel,” said Wendii, looking at me over the top of her glasses, “that’s not really the point here. The point is that these are your fellow employees, and the things you are saying about them are making them uncomfortable. That needs to stop.”
“Fine,” I burst out, and everyone jumped. Now I sounded like me. “I’ll stop writing about them. But what about the fact that she’s my manager and she’s dating him and she’s HIS manager too. Is there no PROBLEM with those things? No conflict of interest, no violation of Empire policies?”
Stay in control, I warned myself. I’d planned to say those things, but not so soon, and not in that tone. I kept my eyes on Wendii but with my peripheral vision, I could see the two of them shift uncomfortably. They probably expected that their presence was enough to cow me. Well, they were wrong, weren’t they? A loud silence filled the room.
Wendii looked down at the paper in front of her. Then she looked back up at me. Adjusted her glasses, and cleared her throat. “They have told me they have a ‘friendly working relationship,’ but that is all.”
Fury rose in my chest. They were denying it. Oh my God. I should have known. I wanted to jump on the table, point at them, and scream, “They are SO dating!” Instead I crossed my arms and said, grimly, “Uh-huh.” I stared straight ahead at nothing: My heart slammed against my rib cage. I would stay in control.
We all waited for Wendii to speak again.
“Rachel,” she said, “I’m going to have to agree with them that what you’re writing is potentially damaging. We’re going to be issuing a written warning to you, asking that you stop writing about them, and, moreover, that you stop writing your blog on company time.”
I opened my mouth slightly, then closed it. Of course. Of course, they would have researched that. I looked down at the table, embarrassed.
“Okay,” I said, my voice hoarse, “I will stop writing about them. And I’ll stop writing at work.”
Again, no one spoke for a few seconds.
Then Loser said, in as harsh a tone as he could muster, “We appreciate that but we’d also like you to take your blog down.”
I looked directly at him for the first time during this conversation. He returned my gaze for a moment then looked away. Now that I’d gotten accustomed to his presence, I felt less frightened. I remembered what a weak person he was, how he lacked the confidence to face people down even when it was necessary. Our neighbors used to raise a ruckus downstairs late at night when we were trying to sleep and Loser never once went down to deal with them. It was always me.
“Too bad. I’m not taking it down.” Adrenaline
pumped through me as I said this. I turned back to Wendii, who raised her eyebrows. This was my ace in the hole. I knew from consulting my various legal counsel (i.e., my mother and GalPal #1) that Empire HR could not make me take down the blog. They might fire me for what I’d already written, if they thought it was bad enough, but apparently they were not going to do that. Their job was to monitor what went on in the workplace. If Loser wanted to rid the world of Breakup Babe, he’d have to drag my ass into court to do it.
Loser looked at Wendii for support. Wendii, for the first time, sounded hesitant.
“That is something that the human resources department is not going to ask,” she said. She didn’t look anyone in the eye when she said it.
Involuntarily, I let out a sigh of relief. Suddenly I liked Wendii much better. I almost wanted to tell her that she had a fleck of mascara resting on her blush-streaked cheek.
“We can sue you for it,” said Loser. Ha. The royal “we.” I wondered if he even realized how that sounded. I snuck a glance at Loserette, who twisted a ring around on her right hand but didn’t say anything. I had to hand it to him, he was doing the false bravado thing pretty well today.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Sue me.” I laughed a little. No one else did, of course. I was feeling more relaxed by the second.
I thought I saw a half smile pass across Wendii’s face, but I couldn’t be sure. What voyeuristic fun this must be for her! I could imagine her telling her blond husband all about it over dinner at their cookie-cutter suburban house in some newly developed area like the Lake Sammamish plateau, in one of the houses Jake and I might have seen from our lunch spot on Tiger Mountain.
“The thing I want to know,” I said, plunging ahead more aggressively than planned, “is what happens now? This woman,” I gestured to Loserette, “is the vice president of my group. Now that she’s accused me of lying about her and slandering her, what’s to say she won’t go and give me low review scores to try to get rid of me?”
Wendii started to speak but Loserette interrupted her. “I’m a complete professional and that would never happen,” she said. I was shocked by how tremulous her voice was. How like a scared little girl she sounded. “Besides, VPs have very little to do with the review scores of their—the people who are at her level,” she finished up. Then she looked at Wendii in a pleading way. Everything about this executive—from the tone of her voice, to her body language, to her expression—said, “Please, don’t hurt me.”
Then it struck me, suddenly, what was at stake for these two. Especially for her. In a burst of clarity I realized that they were probably almost as scared as I was. I’d made some serious accusations in that blog of mine. I’d written things that, if they were true, could destroy her job. Me. I’d written them. On a silly blog called Breakup Babe.
For a moment I felt the power of my words, how they could affect others’ lives in a very tangible way. Then my conscience reared its head. And, well, what if I was wrong? What if they were just friends? Oh, that wasn’t what my instincts told me and the evidence certainly was incriminating, but still…I didn’t know for sure, did I? Yet I’d gone ahead and posted it, consequences be damned. Maybe I really was just a pathetic dumpee getting revenge in the only way I knew how. Instead of slashing tires, I was spewing lies.
Embarrassment overcame me. Shame. They certainly weren’t the most admirable human beings on the face of the planet, but I’d sunk to their level. A ridiculous phrase—one that I’d seen on a bumper sticker just that morning—passed through my mind. “What would Jesus do?” I was not religious in any way, but still I knew that Jesus would never have started a blog where he gratuitously insulted his ex and made unfounded accusations about her love life.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
No one said anything.
“I’m sorry I wrote all that stuff. It was not right.”
Loser saw his advantage and pushed it. “Do you agree to take the blog down?”
I looked at him. Our eyes met again. I hoped it would be a meaningful look, one where we would acknowledge the tumultuous emotions we’d been through together. With a glance we could forgive each other and mend the rift. To my disappointment, however, I saw only fear and anger in his face. No compassion. To forgive, one needed compassion.
I swallowed. My throat was dry.
Well, then, I could be the compassionate one. I could stop the mudslinging. I could take down the blog, or at least the things I’d written about them. It would probably make me feel better about myself. But then Loser made a fatal error.
“Because it’s all lies,” he said, turning to Wendii. “It should not be allowed to stay on the Web.”
“They are not lies!” I burst out. Loser looked startled. “I didn’t make up things maliciously to hurt you! I wrote what I felt and what I saw! Some of it wasn’t nice, and I might have guessed wrong about some things, but I wasn’t LYING! Are you saying it was a lie I saw you at Red Mill Burgers together?”
Loser didn’t say anything. Instead, he looked down at the table with an expression I recognized. Guilt. I had seen it on his face so many times during The Great Unpleasantness, Part I. He was going to lie again. I knew it. He was going to humiliate me to save his own ass and hers. How had I ever, EVER fallen in love with such a slimy worm?
He looked at Wendii and started to speak. “I’m saying—” But I didn’t let him finish. There was no way he was going to do this to me.
“Fuck you, Loser! I forgot for a minute that you’re the one who is a liar. I have a witness who saw you there!” So much for my brief Jesus-like humility. Then I burst into tears.
He flinched a little but then looked over at Wendii smugly, as if to say, See, she’s hysterical. A hysterical, pathetic, heartbroken bitch.
“Rachel, please.” Wendii raised her voice. But I couldn’t help it. I put my face in my hands and sobbed.
“I think we’re done here,” I heard her say. “You do, of course, have the option to retain a lawyer,” she said to the two of them.
“Rachel,” she said. Then louder, “Rachel.”
I looked up. The tears were still falling down my face and I was gasping for breath. So much for my blow-dried hair, my sexy pants; I looked like a full-blown basket case now. The mascara I’d put on that morning was no doubt running all over my face.
Wendii’s tone softened just a little when she looked at me, but there was a tinge of disgust in it too, as if I were a leper. Such drama would never occur in her perfect little world.
“You’ll be receiving your written warning in interoffice mail tomorrow.”
“R—right,” I gasped.
The two of them rose from the table and left the room together. After they’d exited, I got up and wobbled toward the door. I walked slowly, giving them time to disappear before I got outside the conference room. The usual closings didn’t seem to apply here. “Thanks,” I could have said to Wendii, or “See you later.” Instead I swam through the uncomfortable silence, opened the door, and peered out into the hallway. They were gone.
“Bye,” I whispered to Wendii, unable to overcome my innate politeness.
She didn’t hear me or else chose to make no reply. I stepped out into the hall as if it were a minefield.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
My God, people, I feel as if I’ve been hit with a truck. If there is a single thing that’s going right in my life right now, I’d like to know what it is.
Work is all f*cked up—though not as badly as it could be—and my love life, as of last night, is nonexistent. All I have now is a great idea for a book, and a horribly written first half of a chapter.
Things aren’t looking so good.
I leaned my chin on my hands. Stared at my computer screen. I felt hollow and sad, but also very relieved. For one, I hadn’t gotten fired, but I’d also made a wise decision in the romance department for once.
I’d dumped Jake.
Or had he dumped me? I wasn’t exactly sure. All I knew was, I’d t
aken matters into my own hands and now things were over.
I’d expected to feel worse about ending things with him, and wondered if I was experiencing some sort of delayed reaction to the grief. After all, he’d been my lifeline through this HR mess. And—if you subtracted the quasi-celebrity ex-wife, the custody battle, and the fact that he’d almost killed us—he really had been the best prospect to come along since Loser.
But that, I realized now, wasn’t saying much.
I glanced around Victrola for inspiration. The art exhibit this week had something to do with primates. There were paintings of chimpanzees doing all sorts of human things: chimpanzees going to McDonalds, chimpanzees washing their cars. Was it supposed to be some sort of political statement? I wondered. Involuntarily, I wished Jake were here. He’d have something witty to say about these paintings, which were, in fact, quite hideous.
A little burst of grief exploded, burned brightly, left a smoky trail. There it was. The grief. I waited for more explosions but none came.
Yes, I thought, gazing at a painting of chimpanzees sitting in traffic on the 520 bridge, Jake had his good points. They were just outweighed by the bad. I wanted to be careful, though, how I wrote about him. I could so easily go to town on the blog about him. My readers would love the ex-wife story, for example! They would love, too, to know exactly how our strange, sad conversation had gone down last night.
I wasn’t going to tell any of those stories, though. Even though bitter words had been exchanged last night, I wasn’t angry. He hadn’t been the easiest guy to deal with, but I also didn’t blame him for how things had worked out. Hell, part of it was my fault for writing about him the way I had on the blog. So, tempted as I was to divulge the details of our breakup online, I was going to do something different for once. I was going to respect his privacy.
The conversation had not gone particularly well. On the other hand, I had been mature. I hadn’t lashed out at him for being unsupportive and distant—which he had been. He didn’t get in touch with me for a full twenty-four hours after my HR meeting. And then, all I got was another unsatisfying and somewhat testy e-mail.
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