This Could Hurt
Page 6
The door opened and Kenny strolled in.13
“Did you see Rosa?” Leo asked.
“En route.” Kenny sat down and hunched over his phone, so when Rosa showed up a moment later, it looked like he’d never left. This pissed Lucy off even more.
Revived, Rosa dove in with no preliminaries: “Ellery is in a slump—that’s not news—but we have a plan to revitalize. Rutherford wants me to take a more strategic role for the next few months, which of course I’m happy to do. However, it means I have to appoint someone to run our day-to-day business. Rob and I have discussed what I need in a number two, but I’d also like to hear from each of you.”
Whoa, Lucy thought. Hold on a second. Rosa had spoken to Rob already? When was this? Was she thinking of promoting him? Lucy loved Rob, but he wasn’t qualified to be Rosa’s number two.14,15 Maybe Lucy wasn’t either, but she’d like to be considered, at the very least. She could not end up like Peter Dreyfus: middle management until she got old and fuzzy and then pushed out to sea on an iceberg.
As Rosa’s words sank in, the energy in the room shifted. Phones were abandoned, spines straightened. Revitalizing meant restructuring, which meant more layoffs. The news about Peter Dreyfus only compounded the situation—if they could get rid of a respected colleague like him, they could do the same to any of them.
Lucy was imagining someone, Kenny probably, bundling her up in a ragged coat and shoving her into the open water. “Actually, Rosa,” she blurted out, surprising herself. “I’d like to toss my hat into the ring.”
Rosa raised her eyebrows. “Thank you, Lucy. I’ll take that under advisement.”
Her heart fluttered. That was proactive, right?16 Feeling cocky, she took a stab in the dark. “Rosa, can you please tell us what happened to Peter?”
“I told you all I can. Peter used company funds without prior authorization. He violated policy.” Shaking her head, she appealed to the group. “I’ve tried to intervene, but business is worse than they’re letting on. I’ll tell you something else: I was set to make Peter my number two, and now I have to replace him. How do you think that reflects on my judgment?”
Rosa was clearly distraught—she’d never reveal this kind of weakness otherwise—yet something about her story didn’t add up for Lucy. Why fire Peter for one hotel bill? Couldn’t he just pay the money back? But her confusion curdled into panic as she recalled all the cab rides home she’d charged to Ellery. Across the table, Rob seemed to be panicking too. They locked eyes. Fuck.
“Guys.” Rosa sighed. “This is neither the time nor the place to discuss Peter. However, I will talk to Rutherford again. I don’t want to talk out of school—or give you false hope—but there have been situations in the past where he reversed a decision. It’s a long shot, but I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, we must concentrate on our work.”
Lucy felt better. See? Rosa was reasonable. Plus, if anyone could persuade Rutherford to keep a valued employee, it was her. And Lucy liked Peter. He wasn’t her first choice for a boss, but so what? “Rosa, thanks for being such a good advocate. Not just for Peter, for all of us.”
Rosa took it in stride. “That’s my job, Lucy.”
A few days before Christmas, Lucy drafted the all-staff memo herself: After twenty years of service. . . . We wish him well on all his future endeavors. . . .
Peter Dreyfus was gone.
7
Lucy was tipsy. It was five o’clock on Thursday and the office had closed early for New Year’s Eve. Due to a flurry of year-end deadlines, she was in Rosa’s living room, helping her finalize some business correspondence. (And, as usual, a few personal letters.) This wasn’t the first time Rosa had invited Lucy over for an afternoon of booze and business, but in honor of the holiday, she’d opened two bottles of pricey champagne. So now, in addition to being drunk, Lucy was horny and aching to flirt. This was unfortunate. She was due to meet up with her (single) (female) friends at the Four Seasons before ten, but at this rate, she’d be asleep by eight thirty.
“Hey, Rosa.” Lucy was seated at her boss’s rolltop desk in the living room, staring at the computer screen. “Did Rob ever say anything to you about his friend Evan?”17
Peering over Lucy’s shoulder, Rosa shrugged. “Why would Rob talk to me about his friend?”
Lucy didn’t have an answer for that—he wouldn’t—so she changed the subject to Peter. “One day, he’s your new number two, and the next, he’s out the door.” She was slurring her words: he’s came out heesh. Sit up, she commanded. Clear your fat head! You cannot get stuck here!
Playfully, Rosa smacked her shoulder. “Nosy girl. Focus on my letter, not on gossip.”
The apartment was warm. Rosa held a champagne flute, and the glass was sweating, so cold water dripped on Lucy’s head. “Did we say ‘This year has been our best ever’?”
Lucy nodded. “Three times.”
“What about ‘We are poised for unprecedented growth’?”
“That too.”
“I don’t want to discuss Peter,” Rosa blurted out, clearly wanting to discuss Peter. “But people shouldn’t say I fired him. He resigned. Second, I did everything in my power to keep him—as I would for anyone on my staff, including you—but he felt it was time. That’s business. People come and go. You can’t get emotional, which is advice you should heed. You let your feelings get in the way of your job. To be a good chief, you have to separate church and state. Third, the hotel bill pissed me off; I won’t deny it. But let’s be clear: none of this is your concern. We need to finish my Christmas letter, which is late. Your engagement survey and policy review are also late, but it’s New Year’s Eve. I don’t want to dwell on unpleasantness.” Rosa was slurring too.
“Instead of ‘Christmas Catch-up,’ let’s call this your ‘New Year’s Note.’” Lucy refused to address the survey, which was not late. Lucy was never, ever late; Rosa simply kept changing the rules.
“Fine.” Rosa poured them more champagne, then tipped her head and drained her glass.
Seeing this, Lucy decided to slow down on the drinking, which didn’t enhance their work product; nor were they well suited as collaborators, even when sober, being bossy, opinionated women who would fight to the death to have the last word.
“Let’s see what we’ve got.” Bending forward, Rosa swayed. “Whoa! That sip went right to my head.” She nudged Lucy off the chair and donned her glasses. “Happy holidays to la Guerrero familia . . .” Rosa skimmed the rest. “Lucy! This is all you have? Where is everything I said about hitting our targets and unprecedented growth?”
Lucy cracked up. “This is the letter to your family, Rosa. They don’t care about revenue targets. They love Kung Fu Panda. Why don’t we write about that?”
“How do you know about Kung Fu Panda?”
Lucy sighed. “I edited Michael’s college application essay. Remember?”18
Rosa was studying a grainy black-and-white photo hanging over the desk. In it, a young couple wearing evening clothes stood on a beach, ankle-deep in the surf. Lucy moved beside her. She pointed. “Is this you?” She was referring to the woman, whose head was back, long hair aloft in the wind. It could’ve been Rosa—they both had the same wide mouth and heavy-lidded eyes. The man gazed at the woman adoringly, his left arm circling her tiny waist.
“Peter is a good man,” Rosa said absently.
Lucy agreed. “Of course he is. No one would ever say otherwise.” In fact, she noticed how Rosa always softened when he was around, and her face took on a girlish glow; but then, as if catching herself, she’d suddenly stiffen up and act overly formal. “You haven’t heard from him?”
“I have not. But as I said, it’s business. You can’t get attached.” Rosa stood up. “I’m hungry.” Her hand brushed the photo. “These are my parents in Spain years ago. They had true love. When I was a kid, I used to look at this picture and imagine it was me. I had three goals in my life: to get out of the South Bronx, land a good job, and find true love.”
“My father loved my mother,” Rosa said, still gazing at the picture. “Still he left. She said he was prideful, but I think we kids came along and got in the way. He loved her, not us.”
“But you have a wonderful life,” Lucy said, anxious to lighten the mood, which had suddenly turned dark. “All your dreams came true.”
Rosa considered this. “When you put it like that, I guess they did. Are you hungry?”
Lucy was ravenous, but if she said yes, Ozzy would make her stay for dinner, and that could not happen, the two of them, alone on New Year’s Eve, bemoaning the absence of men.
Rosa lived on the East Side. She’d bought her apartment in the late 1980s while at Sony; when she left, she used her severance to renovate the kitchen and bathrooms. Now (according to Leo), it was worth almost seven times what she’d paid. Lucy thought the place was gorgeous: off-white walls, sleek leather couches, un-fucking-believable views, built-in bookcases. Lucy’s own co-op, further down on the economic scale, was less well appointed. She read once that Forest Hills was becoming hip, so while she was at JPMorgan, she used a big chunk of her savings to buy a stupid one-bedroom. Then she sat back and waited for the influx of youngish, like-minded go-getters. Twelve years later, she was still waiting.
Relaxing on the couch, Lucy listened to Frank Sinatra booming over the speakers. “Since when do you like Sinatra?” she asked Rosa, who’d returned from the kitchen.
Smiling, Rosa set down a tray loaded with nuts, olives, chips, and cheese. “We have a special guest joining us.” As she said this, the intercom buzzed.
Lucy imagined it was Evan on his way up; that somehow Rosa and Rob had conspired to arrange a blind date for New Year’s. The idea was lunacy, but for a second her spirits lifted.
Rosa was bustling around, plumping up pillows. After double-checking her lipstick, she pulled open the door. “Hel-lo,” she called into the hall.
“Hello,” a man called back. “Hello. Hello. Hello.”
Leo (Leo?) stepped inside holding champagne and roses, his cheeks and nose red from the cold. On his head, he wore a knit cap with reindeer horns; tinsel hung from both horns.
Spotting her, Leo’s eyes widened. “Lucy? Oh my God! How funny. I thought you’d be . . . well, I don’t know where, but definitely not here.”
A beaming Rosa clapped her hands. “I did it! I surprised you both! I knew neither of you had a date, and figured we could have our own party.”
Disappointment set in. While Lucy liked Leo, a little of him went a long way—which is why they were coworkers, not friends. With coworkers, you could spend time, confide secrets, even sleep together, but no matter how intimate the experience, you could always say “This will end, thank God” and go home. The one time she and Leo had ventured into a nonbusiness setting (2004, Saturday matinee, Million Dollar Baby), they both cried so hard, they couldn’t look at each other. For her to be here, tonight, with these people, was to put her carefully constructed silo system at risk.
Oh no, Lucy thought. No, no, no way. But Leo had already draped himself around their boss’s shoulder. “Thank you, Rosa,” he said. “This is so sweet.” He turned to hug Lucy, who immediately gagged—he stank of booze.
“What happened to jetting off to San Juan?” she asked, holding her breath.
“Horatio, the little shit, backed out,” Rosa answered for him.
“You were going with Horatio?” Horrified, Lucy exhaled. “What would Dr. Saul say?”
Leo looked sheepish. “It was a brief holiday jaunt—we’re not dating again—but flights were so outrageous we passed.” He poured a glass of champagne, which he downed in three gulps, and then poured a second and drank that too. “Got any vodka, Rosalita?” Plopping down on the couch, he took off his winter gear—gloves, coat, scarf—everything but the hat. He shook his head in Lucy’s direction. “Don’t you just love the antlers?”
“Love them.” Lucy turned to Rosa. “You’re so generous.” She was touched but concerned. Was this normal for a boss to do? Arrange a party for her direct reports? Invite them to her home under false pretenses?
Rosa’s eyes shone. “So, this is what we’ll do. After we have nibbles and more bubbly—if you’re nice, I’ll open the really good stuff—we’ll get appetizers from Mia Dona. Then we’ll each order dinner from our favorite place—my treat. We’ll have a Hit Parade Buffet!”
Looking around, Lucy had a sudden, shattering vision of herself at forty-five and then fifty-five and then sixty-five, hosting her own orphan New Year’s Eve out in Queens. Maisie Fresh, Courtney, and the payroll clerks would sit around her cheap coffee table, eating pigs-in-blankets and Velveeta nachos. “Rosa, this is lovely, but I really should get going.”
Shushing her, Rosa pointed to the ceiling. “Listen, Leo. Listen to the music. It’s for you.”
Leo nodded his approval. Closing his eyes, he sang along to “Summer Wind” as he swayed drunkenly from side to side. Meanwhile, Rosa was handing out menus. “The charred octopus and lobster fra diavolo are divine. Screw Weight Watchers.” She looked Lucy in the eye. “Stay, Lucy girl, enjoy yourself. You can meet your friends later.”
At ten minutes to twelve, the three colleagues were molded to the couch cushions, surveying the wreckage. Between them they’d consumed two more bottles of champagne, several types of cheese, nuts, olives, hot wings, chips and dip, crudités, beef carpaccio, garlic bread, ricotta pansotti, and some unusual but delicious bacon balls. For dinner, they each ordered an entrée: cheese fondue for Leo, pasta with Dungeness crab for Rosa, and Ray’s pizza for Lucy. Now, drunk, stuffed, and wiped out, they stared at the TV.
Lucy’s stomach ached. The night had turned out to be fun; better, she decided, than being out on the prowl with all the other sluts. She was reminded of Christmas two years back. Rosa had invited her managers and their partners on a booze cruise around New York Harbor. Lucy went solo, figuring she’d hang out with Leo, but he glommed on to Rob’s wife. At first Lucy felt trapped (out at sea! with work people!), but Kenny was also alone, and they ended up getting wasted on martinis. That night was fun, too, in a bizarre way. Recalling how a drunken Kenny had climbed to the edge of the boat, lifted his arms, and shouted, “I’m king of the world!” Lucy felt a glow of fondness for all her colleagues, even Leo, who was now zoned in on the TV as if Ryan Seacrest were sending him private messages through the screen. Unfortunately, Rosa ruined the moment. “Lucy?” she asked. “Why haven’t you finished the engagement survey yet?”
“Come on, Rosa,” Leo interrupted. “It’s New Year’s Eve!”
“I also want the policy review.” No longer woozy, Rosa sat up. “Our policies are not current, including vacation accrual. The new guy in Marketing? Edward Fuchs? He just took a week off. News flash: people have to work more than a week before they’re eligible for vacation. At Sony, I had an entire staff devoted to policy. But at Ellery, we don’t do formal policy reviews, so one day Edward Fuchs is hired, and the next, he’s taking vacation.”
Yes, Lucy realized, a surprise New Year’s party with your coworkers is weird. And no, she wasn’t being ungrateful. Jamie Dimon would neither hold nor attend a gathering like this. “I’ll do the policy review, but just so you know, Edward Fuchs had a personal issue—”
“I know about his issue, but why do you? We’re supposed to be HIPAA-compliant.”
“The ball is about to drop!” Leo yelped. Then, catching Lucy’s eye, he winked. Hang on, he seemed to be telling her. It’s almost over.
Seeing this, Lucy felt a surge of affection for him. “Leo’s right; let’s watch the ball.” It calmed her, knowing they were in this together. A few more minutes wouldn’t kill her.
“Edward Fuchs’s wife was diagnosed with a rare blood disease,” Rosa continued. “He can take time off to care for her, but people are calling it ‘vacation,’ and it’s not. It’s ‘family leave,’ and when she dies it will be
‘bereavement.’ It’s important to use precise terminology.”
“Rosa, I said I’d look at the policies.”
“Lucy, you want to be chief. You threw your hat in the ring. Lucy, to be chief, you have to think everything through. It’s all connected—our policies and people, our corporate personality, how we’re perceived—and it all flows through HR. That’s the first thing my mentor taught me. HR is the warm, beating heart that pumps blood into the organization. HR gives the company life, and as chief, everything flows through you. But to be successful, you must consider the whole organ; if you only focus on one artery, you kill off the patient. The larger concern is liability: one day someone will sue us because they weren’t allowed to take vacation two days after they were hired. Edward Fuchs was allowed, so that’s discriminatory. Sounds nutty, but they’ll win. Why? Because we don’t have standardized policies. You think I was so revered at Sony because I stayed under budget?” She scoffed. “It’s because we never got sued.”
“Stop it!” This time Leo shouted.
“Fine.” Rosa was silent for a few minutes, and then she asked, “Did you know Peter was my first friend when I started at Ellery?” Lucy nodded, but she wasn’t thinking about Peter. She was thinking about Evan. One way or another, she would see him again, and then maybe next year she’d have a different set of holiday plans.
Leo’s eye caught the TV. “Oh my God! We missed it. We missed the countdown.”
Rosa and Lucy turned. On the screen, confetti was flying and everyone was kissing. “Is this a bad omen?” Lucy asked, distressed. Closing her eyes, she bowed her head. Please, God, she begged even though she wasn’t a religious person, and in fact believed blind faith to be symptomatic of an uncurious mind. Please, God, I promise not to ask for anything else if I can be with a man next New Year’s. She looked up. A man who isn’t Leo, I mean.