Jump Cut

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Shirley winked. “You, Jake. I take care of you.”

  He beamed. “Will you marry me?”

  “Sorry. Been there, done that.”

  “Haven’t we all?” My dad took a bite of his sandwich.

  Shirley retreated. As if on cue, a male voice called out, “Well, fancy meeting you here!”

  We looked up. Gorgeous blue eyes, silver-streaked hair, a great body. I hadn’t seen him in months, so it took an instant to realize it was Barry, my ex-husband and Rachel’s father. I’ll say one thing for him: he always manages to look incredibly sexy. Another man, presumably his lunch partner, lurked in the background.

  “Barry!” I got up and gave him a hug. We’ve been divorced for more than fifteen years, longer than we were married, and time had conferred an equanimity on our relationship. We’d both moved on. No one was more surprised at that than I.

  Barry turned his attention to my father. “Jake…” He reached out his hand. “You don’t look a day older.”

  My father took his hand and covered it with his other. “And you’re still full of it…” But Dad was grinning.

  Barry didn’t miss a beat. “So how have you two been?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Terrible,” Dad said.

  Barry turned to me. “How’s Luke?”

  “Great.” I wanted to change the subject. It’s still uncomfortable for me to talk about my new love with the old one. “You look terrific…as usual.”

  “Thanks…” His smile was just a bit smug, reminding me that he’s only too aware of his effect on women. Which he proved during our marriage. Repeatedly.

  “You seeing my granddaughter enough?” Dad broke in. He gets right to the point.

  “Dad…”

  “It’s all right, Ellie. I get it,” Barry said. He turned back to Dad. “Rachel and I had dinner two nights ago. In Wrigleyville.”

  “Good. A girl needs her father. No matter what age she is.” Dad directed his comment at me.

  My cheeks got hot.

  Barry nodded. “Well, this was a terrific surprise. Please stay well, both of you. Call me sometime, Ellie. I think we can actually talk to each other now.”

  I didn’t know what we would possibly talk about, but I kept my mouth shut. He backtracked and walked away without introducing the man he was with.

  Which of course was the first thing my father asked. “Who was that masked man?”

  “No clue, Kemo Sabe. Business associate? Tennis partner? Golf buddy?”

  Dad thought about it. “Probably not a bad thing.”

  “What wasn’t?”

  “You two splitting up.”

  I recalled how upset he’d been at first and pasted on my Martha Stewart smile. “It was a good thing.”

  “Even though what’s-his-name isn’t Jewish.”

  “What’s-his-name has a name. More important, he makes me happy.”

  “So when are you getting married?”

  I yanked my thumb toward Barry, who was at the counter paying his check. “As Shirley, our wise waitress, said, ‘been there, done that.’”

  Dad frowned.

  “I like the fact we’re not with each other all the time. We give each other space.”

  He snorted. “We didn’t need space when I was young. You live together, you live together, know what I mean?” He paused. “Then again, I guess I’m getting too old for this world.”

  I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat. He was supposed to be ageless.

  Chapter Seven

  Monday

  The following Monday, I drove down to the Loop, my laptop on the passenger seat. My treasured Volvo had sputtered out a few years ago, and I was now the proud owner of a Toyota Camry, with Bluetooth, rear-camera vision, and satellite radio. With so many amenities on cars these days, I wondered if it would be possible to move into the car and sell the house. I’m considering it.

  I parked in the Delcroft garage, which, curiously, was not underground but occupied the seventh through tenth floors of their building. The garages were patrolled by an armada of security contractors, and I wondered for whom they had been working prior to this gig. Experience has taught me the military-industrial complex is not as big as we think. And that contractors have a tendency to double back.

  I slinked past three uniformed guards and shot up to the sixty-fourth floor, which was occupied by the corporate offices. Those offices were as opulent and plush as you would expect from the country’s largest military and civilian aircraft provider, with thick padded carpets, oil paintings on the wall, and large glass windows with a spectacular view. On days that weren’t overcast, the receptionist insisted she could see all the way up to Evanston.

  She led me to the conference room. It contained a huge mahogany table, recessed lighting along the walls, and a blazing halogen light over the table that reminded me of a hospital operating suite. Two dozen chairs ringed the table, and screens hung on all four sides of the room. A sideboard, also mahogany, was set with half a dozen bottled waters, crystal glasses, tiny plates, coffee, and fruit. No bagels or pastries, I noted. Which goes to prove my theory that the higher your rank and salary, the fewer calories you consume.

  I was wearing my one designer business suit: black Donna Karan pants with a red jacket. I’d piled my curly black hair on top in a kind of twist, and even put on makeup, which Luke swears makes my gray eyes look like Elizabeth Taylor’s. See why I adore this guy?

  Feeling very corporate, I greeted Teresa. She was friendly, but her eyes darted around the room, and she nervously ran her tongue around her lips. I smiled, hoping to calm her down, but it didn’t have much effect. I was at least ten minutes early, but Charlotte Hollander was already at the table. She gazed at me blankly, then checked her watch and scowled. It was a classic intimidation technique, and Teresa, who was several rungs below Hollander, squirmed. Happily, I didn’t have to play that game. I was an outsider. A consultant. I flashed the woman a bright smile.

  Hollander seemed puzzled, as if she wasn’t sure why I would go out of my way to be pleasant.

  Two points.

  I stuck out my hand. “Good morning. We met at the trade show. I’m Ellie Foreman.”

  Her handshake was as limp as overcooked pasta. “Nice to see you again.”

  I smiled and connected my laptop to the projector, which was at one end of the table. I inserted the flash drive and played with the settings until the titles for the first video flashed on the screen. I paused the laptop.

  “I’m very anxious to see what you’ve done.” Hollander smoothed the lapels of her navy blue jacket, even though there wasn’t a wrinkle to be seen.

  “I am too. I hope you like what we did.”

  She nodded but wouldn’t meet my eyes. Not quite imperious, but close.

  Twenty minutes later, the other four executives who needed to approve the videos were in the room, exuding the fake bonhomie that people in ferocious competition with one another do. I was introduced to Dave Foxhall, executive VP of corporate communications, to whom Teresa reported, their chief government lobbyist, who’d flown in from DC, and the deputy chief operating officer. A tall, slim man in his late forties or early fifties, Gary Phillips was way high up at the company. Prematurely gray, he had perfect blue eyes, attractive crow’s-feet around them, and an impeccably tailored suit. There was a fourth man, too, older, round, and bald, but Teresa spoke his name and title so quickly I failed to register it.

  The men sat at the table, and Teresa made her way to one end. “Good morning, everyone. As we’ve discussed, one of our key communications objectives is to make our web presence and products more visible, both nationally and globally. To accomplish that, Delcroft is about to join the new world of social media, and these videos are our first ‘shots across the bow,’ so to speak.

  “We want to be perceived as a friendly company—an approachable company—but one that is dedicated to excellence. We’re focusing solely on the consumer side, as you know, and we decided t
o air our first efforts in weekly installments on our website. Like a serial.”

  I saw nods from most everyone in the room. Phillips, the deputy COO, asked, “Will this be on Facebook, Tweeter, and all the others?”

  Teresa nodded. “Yes. The videos will be hosted on our website, but we will get the word out on Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, Pinterest, and more.”

  “What do you mean ‘get the word out’?” the man whose name and title had escaped me asked.

  Was he really that clueless? He probably didn’t have kids.

  Teresa went on. “We’ll link to all the social media outlets to drive traffic back to our website, where people can watch the videos, make comments, and ask questions. We’ve hired a social media manager who will keep track of the hits and comments and even reply when appropriate.”

  “Reply? What are we replying to?” Phillips asked.

  Before Teresa could answer, the lobbyist cut in. “Uh, I think that’s a problem. This social media person—who is he?”

  “He’s a she, Harry,” Teresa said. “Her name is Naomi Kraft. We hired her about a month ago.”

  “Which means she doesn’t know anything about corporate policy, legal obligations, or congressional work. How can she speak for the company?”

  Teresa glanced at Foxhall, her boss, a short blond man with a bristly mustache. He kept his mouth shut.

  “If comments involve any of those issues,” Teresa said, “we’ll get input from your people before we reply. The key is that we must respond, even if we have to tell them it’s proprietary information. We want the public to perceive us as one of the ‘good guys.’ One of the few companies they can trust and respect.”

  Harry the lobbyist shook his head. “I don’t know about this.”

  Phillips frowned. Teresa was losing control. Why didn’t Foxhall back her up? I snuck a glance at him. He was leaning back in his chair and fiddling with a pencil, as if he wanted to be anywhere but the conference room.

  “Pardon me,” I chimed in with what I hoped was a friendly smile, “but why don’t we take a look at the videos? I think many of your concerns will be addressed after you see them.”

  Teresa threw me a grateful look.

  I saw Phillips nod. I stood up, dimmed the room lights, went to my laptop, and hit “Play.”

  Chapter Eight

  Monday

  I shouldn’t have.

  The first installment went well, which I expected. We’d dressed it up with our best shots and some eye-candy effects. I actually saw some smiles and dared to hope everything else would run smoothly too.

  The problem surfaced near the end of the second video. Charlotte Hollander’s back suddenly straightened, and I saw her scribble something on a notepad. I jerked my head toward the screen. We were in the middle of a sequence we’d filmed at the trade show. Had we done something wrong? Accidentally divulged some proprietary information? I didn’t think so, but I jotted down the approximate time code when she’d first reacted.

  Then, during the third video, Hollander’s mouth fell open and her chest heaved with such a deep breath I was afraid she might explode. I turned toward the screen. We were back at the trade show, specifically the model airplane that dissolved into stock footage of the plane cruising through the sky. Hollander pursed her lips and tried to make eye contact with Foxhall, but he slouched down and practically slid under the table, refusing to look at anyone. Finally in the fourth video, Hollander made more notes.

  When the screening was over, I paused the laptop and turned up the lights. The men in the room didn’t look annoyed, but I didn’t expect them to. Most people don’t know the difference between a jump cut and a dissolve and don’t really care. They just want to be entertained, and it seemed they were. I saw a couple of appreciative nods, as if the videos had reinforced what a terrific company they had the good fortune to run.

  Hollander, though, looked down at her notes. The wave of icy fury rolling off her could have frozen Lake Michigan. Something bad was going to happen.

  “I don’t know about the rest of you,” she said in a haughty voice, “but I find these videos unacceptable.”

  The room went silent. My spirits sank. I shot a glance at Teresa. A look of panic unfolded across her face.

  Phillips frowned at Hollander. “Why is that, Charlotte?”

  “This looks like something my twelve-year-old son could have thrown together. It’s a pastiche of amateur photography, editing, and uninspired—in fact, trite—narration. It’s—it’s”—she waved her hands in the air, searching for the right words—“undignified. If we air these, even on our website, we’ll be a laughingstock. And I guarantee we’ll take a financial hit.”

  I think I went into shock at that point, because the rest of her words seemed to come at me from a great distance.

  She turned to me. “You”—there was a clear emphasis on the word—“have managed to make us look like a third world company trying to compete with the big boys. This is an abomination.”

  I heard a few cleared throats and embarrassed rustlings. One man scratched his nose. Another ran a hand through his thinning hair. I looked over at Teresa again. She was staring at me. I knew that stare. Her job and my career were at stake. Immediate triage was necessary.

  I took a long cleansing breath and tried to pull myself together. “Ms. Hollander, can you be more specific? We can always make revisions. That’s why we’re here. What scenes were objectionable?”

  She spread her hands. “Everything. I can’t believe you’d actually suggest this material is appropriate for a Fortune 500—no, excuse me, a Fortune 100 company.”

  “GE has done something similar,” Teresa said weakly.

  “We are not GE.”

  “I realize that, Ms. Hollander,” Teresa went on. “But their approval numbers have shot up. So have their profits. Analysts are beginning to use words like ‘admiration’ and ‘respect’ when they write about them. And then there’s Richard Branson at Virgin. He tweets, writes blogs, and has an active Instagram account.”

  “We don’t make light bulbs, Teresa,” Hollander said. “And Richard Branson isn’t worth discussing. Delcroft makes fighter jets. Consumer airplanes. Drones. Military aircraft. We are the world leader in aviation. This video makes us look like carnival barkers, cajoling people to go inside the big top. I think the entire project should be scrubbed.”

  There was more jostling and movement in the room. A heavy blanket of tension was slowly smothering everyone. But my irritation rose. The woman still hadn’t mentioned anything specific.

  “What if you and I meet with Teresa, Ms. Hollander?” I said. “So we can discuss your specific concerns. As I said, we’re happy to make revisions. We want to make sure Delcroft is moving in the right direction. And that you approve.”

  She stared coldly at me. “I doubt that’s possible.” She glanced at Teresa’s boss. “David, did you approve this?”

  He shrugged. Actually shrugged. This from the man who hadn’t uttered a word since he’d entered the room.

  “Well…,” Harry the DC lobbyist chimed in. “I liked it, Charlotte.” I wanted to kiss him on the lips. “You have to remember that we’re appealing to a younger generation. We want to make sure they know how ubiquitous Delcroft is. A critical part of the fabric of society. As well-known as Cheerios or—well, I hate to say it, but—Richard Branson.”

  I straightened. Maybe there was a kernel of hope.

  Hollander shot him a narrow-eyed look but didn’t reply. Was Harry higher up the ladder than she?

  At last Phillips, who clearly had been measuring the emotional temperature in the room, took control. “Well, we seem to have some issues about this, Ms. Foreman, but I want to thank you for what you’ve done. This has been a very—productive meeting. We’ll get back to you once we’ve had a chance to think everything through.”

  I nodded. I was still dazed, and a monstrous headache was coming on. As the executives left the conference room, I gathered my laptop and cords
and stuffed them into my canvas bag. Teresa came over, looking very much like a gutted fish.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  She shook her head. “I didn’t see this coming.”

  “I’ll call you later,” I said.

  “If I still have a job,” she replied.

  Chapter Nine

  Monday Night

  I’d consumed most of a bottle of wine by the time Luke showed up that night. I usually don’t see him until Thursday, when we spend the weekend together. But I was feeling as battered and bruised and pitiful as an abused puppy, so I called.

  When I heard his key in the lock, I jumped up from the sofa and hurried to the door. He’d hardly taken off his coat when I threw myself against him and started to cry.

  He wrapped his arms around me and held me, which only made me cry harder. I’d been trying to hold it together, but seeing his face, full of concern, cracked me wide open.

  I clung to him. He rocked me from side to side like I used to do with Rachel when she had an “owee.” “Whoa, whoa, what happened, sweetheart?”

  “I’ve never been so humiliated in my entire career.”

  “Tell me.”

  I shook my head, tears still streaming down.

  “It’s okay,” he said in a soft, gentle voice. “You’re okay.”

  After a minute or so, I calmed down. I raised my face from his sweater and ran my fingers around the spot I’d cried on. “I think I ruined it.”

  “That’s why they have dry cleaners.” He smiled and brushed his fingers across my cheek. “Come on, let’s go in there…” He pointed to the family room. “I want you to tell me exactly what happened.”

  I sniffled. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. Luke Sutton is the only man I know besides my father who carries an actual cloth handkerchief. I took it and dabbed at my eyes. Luke wasn’t tall, but he was sturdy and strong. His skin was pale and covered with freckles, about which he had to be careful. He wore glasses and had reddish brown hair, what little of it was left, as well as a scruffy gray beard that I had to remind him to groom. But he had the kindest blue eyes east of the Mississippi. My friend Susan describes him as the type of man you can’t wait to take home to meet your parents.