HOURS LATER, LUCY was back at work; the office was deserted.
After the funeral, as people were leaving, she asked Leo about his plans. There was a one o’clock showing of Eat, Pray, Love, he said. It promised air conditioning, popcorn, and solitude.
“You sure you want to be alone?”
“Lucy, please. You don’t have to worry about me.” Leo gave her a smile, but his eyes were bloodshot and glistening; under his ruddy sunburn, his skin had broken out. Having gotten thin (too thin, in her estimation), he looked fragile and—God, she hated to think this—old. He hadn’t seen Dr. Saul in six months. Should she encourage him to go back? Or would this be overstepping, now that he reported to her? So many questions, so little time, no manual.
The funeral had depleted her, too. There was only one place she wanted to be. So after saying good-bye to Leo (and Rosa), Lucy took the subway down to Ellery, where she swept through the turnstiles while ignoring the reception desk (unnecessary since the Asian guy,45 and not Manny, was on duty). Up on nine, she passed through the glass doors, headed to her office, plopped down in her clunky chair, and let out a deep, grateful sigh.
For the past decade, Lucy’s office had been her refuge. She loved her cheap faux-wood desk and particleboard credenza. She loved her flimsy bookshelves. She especially loved her HANG IN THERE, BABY poster, circa mid-seventies.46 Rutherford was insisting she move into Rosa’s office, but Lucy didn’t want to. Not only did appropriating the larger office feel disrespectful, she found its spaciousness daunting. For the whole of her career, she’d been a backroom worker, content to toil unobserved in her closet-size cave. Better to turn Rosa’s office into a small conference room.
Although it embarrassed her to admit this, Lucy’s decision to gun for number two wasn’t only rooted in a desire for money and status, or a celestial call to lead, which were the reasons she gave Rutherford and, eventually, the board. The other catalyst was the sickening jealousy she felt upon finding out (from her mother, on yet another Costco run) that her sister, Willa, was pregnant.47 Before Willa’s news, Lucy had awaited her big break (and/or perfect man) in a largely reactive stance. True, she’d “tossed her hat into the ring” when Peter Dreyfus was fired last December, but she wasn’t really hell-bent on being Rosa’s number two; after all, that job sounded a lot like the one she already had.48 A month later, however, the W Incident occurred, and Lucy suddenly realized that time was running out and she didn’t have a plan. Should she stay at Ellery? Go somewhere else? Rejoin Match.com? Change careers? Write a novel? Frantic, she googled sperm banks, Single Mothers by Choice, executive recruiters, the Peace Corps, Middle-Aged Matchmakers, and Teach for America. (Also: the Hemlock Society, forever Plan B.) Fingers flying, eyes on the screen, Lucy kept asking, How did this happen? How the fuck did this happen? How did her not-very-nice, nor-very-pretty sister, who boasted a third banker husband, a place in Manhattan, and a house in the country, also get a baby? How was this fair? All Lucy had was nothing: a worthless apartment in a building that smelled of herring and curried rice, a mid-level job at stupid-ass Ellery, birthday thirty-nine on the horizon (next up: forty!), and shameful crushes on unavailable men. She didn’t even have a dishwasher.
Rattled as never before, Lucy knew that Dr. Ahmet was the only person she could discuss this with—anyone else would call her a selfish, jealous beast. So she scheduled an emergency session, during which she tried to reach into her corroded black heart and pull out a shard of decency. It wasn’t easy. When Dr. Ahmet heard her grievances (her sister was pregnant! she had no one! she was so bloated!), he became deadly serious.
“Lucinda, consider the snake that swallows its own tail and still remains hungry.”
“What. The. Fuck. Does. That. Mean?” Biting off each word, Lucy wanted to shake the man until his eyes fell out. “I. Am. In. Crisis. Here.”
Dr. Ahmet pursed his lips. He was not happy with her. “Once more again, this time with slowness. ‘Consider the snake that swallows its own tail and still remains hungry.’”
Then it hit her: she was eating herself alive. Yes, she was petty. Yes, she was sinfully jealous. But she could remain forever empty—hungry, as it were—or take action. “I get it!” she yelped, and then raced to the office, where she proceeded to reboot her life on all fronts. So, three weeks later, when Rosa had her stroke in February, Lucy’s Lifestyle Upgrade™ was already in full swing. She exchanged her glasses for contacts, colored her hair, and applied a full face of makeup each morning, including dreaded mascara. She bought new suits. Got collagen and Botox injections (don’t judge). Wore shoes with high heels and complicated straps. She strategized with Rutherford in secret, said yes to a date with Sanchez, interviewed at Nielsen (just to be sure), and schemed with Leo to protect Rosa’s job, knowing in the end it would eventually be hers.
(Included in all this progress was one area she was still figuring out: men. Last fall, Lucy was fixated on Rob’s ex-friend Evan, but after her painful New Year’s Eve, she was ready to admit he was only a fantasy. Dr. Ahmet agreed. “So tell me, Lucinda,” he’d asked. “What is it about the idea of this Evan you like so well?”
“He seemed perfect: he’s my age, educated, literate, cares about people, pro-monogamy.” He had also, from what she recalled, said something wildly erotic about her mouth.
Dr. Ahmet raised his brow. “Sounds exactly like someone else we know, does he not?”
When Lucy realized whom he meant, the blood drained from her head. “Oh my God.” She felt woozy. “How dumb can a person be?” All this time it was Rob? She was an idiot.49
Suddenly, Rob was no longer Rob. Well, he was still Rob but an updated, enhanced model: Rob 2.0. The next day, she and Rob strolled to Associated. It was the same walk they always took, same route, same banter. Same puffy coat, same knit hat. But this time it felt different. Rob’s shoulders were broader; she saw a boyish glint in his eye; he seemed taller, somehow. Still, he had a family; they were colleagues. To confess her feelings would ruin a decade of friendship, so she kept her mouth shut. Thank God! Thank God, thank God! A week later, the W Incident occurred, kicking off Lucy’s Lifestyle Upgrade™. Three weeks after that, Rosa had her stroke. So from February through April, Lucy saw very little of Rob. This wasn’t just because she was avoiding him—though she was; she was also preoccupied with Rosa and Rutherford. In fact, when Rob was laid off, she realized they hadn’t had a real conversation in months. To rectify this—and aware the layoff would shatter his ego—Lucy tracked him down and agreed to meet at Associated. But as soon as he showed up, she knew it was a mistake. Not only was Rob a disheveled mess, in his addled state he’d decided he was attracted to her. Look, Lucy was the last person to pass judgment on someone in the throes of a sexual delusion, but seeing Rob like this confirmed for her a simple, sad truth: any desire she’d felt for him was gone. Now she pitied her friend, especially as he lunged forward and tried to kiss her. It was all too awkward, and because of this—and other reasons—she hadn’t spoken to him since.)
IT WAS ALMOST five when Rutherford called. “Did you review the July numbers?”
Lucy was still at her desk. “I did.”
“Excellent. By the way, Luce. You did good today.” He paused. “I miss her already.”
Last January, at the kickoff of her Lifestyle Upgrade™, Lucy read an article in More50 that listed tips for career advancement. One was to schedule a frank discussion with the highest-ranking person she could safely approach. Another was to state, specifically, what she wanted; she had to be direct—like a man, like Jamie Dimon. So Lucy asked the CEO for a meeting, and once they were settled, rather than dick around with vague questions (à la “If you were me what would you do?”), she reached between her legs and grabbed her big balls. “Rutherford,” she began. “Thank you for meeting to talk about my future. If you’ll turn to page one of your PowerPoint, I’ve created a chart that tracks my progress over the past decade. As you can see, I’ve brought a lot to Ellery. I’ll go through each bul
let in depth, but first I’d—”
Bemused, Rutherford smiled. “Lucy—”
“—like to ask you a question: what do you foresee for me here going forward?”51
“Lucy, let’s dispense with the PowerPoint.” He was still smiling. “I’m delighted you called; your timing is very fortuitous.” The CEO picked up a paper clip and began to untwist it.
So far, so good, she thought.
“I’ve been watching you for years. You’re smart, well educated, articulate; you do bring a great deal to Ellery. But I believe you can make an even more impactful contribution.” He leaned back, his chair squeaking. “Recently, Rosa and I discussed the prospect of my mentoring you, teaching you the business beyond HR. Of course, this is contingent on your interest, so I’d like to hear what you’re thinking. Feel free to speak candidly,” he added. “We’re off the record.”
He’d been watching her? For years? Lucy didn’t know whether to feel flattered or terrified. “I like it here,” she said, aware that he expected honesty, but only up to a point.52
“Good to hear. So tell me, what do you want?”
“I want . . .” She tried out the word. “I want a challenge. I want to excel. I want to make a lot of money.” She also wanted wage equality; recognition for all women, regardless of their age or station; and permanent funding for Planned Parenthood—but one thing at a time.
“But you’d stay? If the situation was right?” Rutherford was sizing her up, which she knew because she was sizing him up, too. “Sure,” she said. “If the situation was right.”
Thus, their secret partnership was formed. A month later Rosa had her stroke, and Lucy was faced with a heart-versus-head decision. While telling Rutherford felt like a betrayal to Leo and Katie (and Rosa), she also felt she had no choice. Despite what she’d said, they couldn’t protect Rosa without involving Rutherford. So after seeing her in the hospital, Lucy cabbed back to Ellery and went directly to the CEO’s office.
“How is she?” Rutherford asked.
“Worse than you can imagine.” Like seeing a statue topple, she thought.
The news shattered him. For a horrible second, Lucy feared he might cry. “She’ll recover,” he said. “She’s a fighter. But I have to reduce her load, which means—”
Feeling jumpy, Lucy cut him off. “We should restructure HR, move people around.”
Rutherford considered this. Like her, he was restless. “Okay, let’s play this through. Tell me what you’d do. Assume everyone is up for grabs. Here’s what I envision: in the short term, you become deputy, work closely with Rosa, and then take over as chief when she retires.”
“And in the long term?” Lucy raised an eyebrow. “You’ll replace me with someone younger and hotter?” Although she laughed, it wasn’t a joke, exactly.
“I see you in a lucrative executive role, as yet undefined—but the sky’s the limit.”
That phrase! Lucy blanched.
From that day forward, Lucy kept Rutherford informed about day-to-day life in HR. Soon the CEO would know everything: all the ways they covered for Rosa, their eleventh-floor hideaway, the scheduling charts. He, in turn, told Lucy what was going on at the executive level: how Chuckles Mayfield was trying to force Rosa out, his own ideas for a fake “research” assignment to keep her distracted and Chuckles at bay,53 why he’d do anything, even risk his reputation, to protect his mentor and dear friend. “If not for Rosa,” he explained. “I wouldn’t be where I am.” All of this came later, though. Back in February, Rutherford was only interested in how Lucy would shift staff around to help Rosa out.
So she told him. “Fire Maisie. Give operations to Kenny—or tell him to take a hike. Hire more assistants—young, cheap, hungry—to burn through the grunt work. Give Leo a raise.”
Standing at his desk, Rutherford flipped through some papers. “What about Rob Hirsch?” He said this casually, but Lucy sensed backdoor conversations to which she hadn’t been party.
What about Rob Hirsch? “You just want my opinion, right? Nothing I say is definitive?” Her pulse raced, foot bounced. “And should anyone ask, the idea came from you?”
Rutherford assured her of this.
“Rob Hirsch is burned out, unmotivated, and we can get two juniors for what we pay him. Even better, we can groom Courtney Adams to do his job, and hire another associate to support me.”54
Lucy couldn’t work with Rob anymore—and it wasn’t just because of their complicated relationship. To be chief, she had to do it right, which meant surrounding herself with staff she could depend on, people who realized success meant sacrifice. Rob was dead weight—not just on the department, also on her. If she let him hold her back, professionally or personally, she might pass up, or fuck up, this opportunity, which had the potential to sustain her all the way through retirement; she’d never forgive herself. Rob also needed to move on. If he stayed at Ellery, he’d be stuck on the middle rung of a rickety ladder for the rest of his career.
“This is just talk?” she’d asked Rutherford six months back.
“Of course,” the CEO replied. “We’re just talking.”
Her voice deepened. “Cut him loose.”
27
Lucy hated getting up early, but since February she’d been clocking in by seven thirty. This was due partly to Rosa and partly to her workload, but it was also because she was avoiding Manny Flores (Sanchez Security). In hindsight, she’d acted hastily vis-à-vis romantic liaisons in the weeks following the W Incident. Not that she regretted dating Manny; on the contrary, she was very fond of him. But she could also see how someone else might accuse her of using him as a human tow line to pull her out of the emotional wreckage wrought by her sister’s pregnancy.
Lucy and Manny’s connection had begun last September—almost a year before—when her keycard started malfunctioning. It would work fine for a week, then suddenly her access to the elevators would be cut off. Each time this happened, the Asian guy had to buzz her in, and she’d trudge down to the basement, where Manny would reprogram the settings. This went on for months, so by March, when she was crazy busy with Rosa, not being able to race through the turnstiles was a real issue. Fed up, Lucy marched down to security, intent on giving Manny, the building owner, and Mayor Bloomberg a piece of her mind. But when she presented her case, Sanchez admitted shyly, slyly, that the problem had nothing at all to do with the card. “I’m sorry, miss,” he said, clearly conflicted about his brazen behavior. “I’ve tampered with your ID.”
“What?” Lucy didn’t understand. “Why?”
“Because I wanted to see you. I thought we might have coffee.”
“Coffee?” A beat, a turn of the gears, a click, and then . . . “Oh.” She felt herself blush. “I see.”
“So, would you like to . . . do that?” Sanchez was blushing, too.
At first Lucy said no. How could she? Way too weird. Then she said yes. Because why not? He was nice, he was handsome. Then she said no; she wasn’t a snob, but she was a VP and he worked security, what would they talk about? Finally, she offered a vague “Sure, some time.” Then Leo got involved. Convinced she and Manny were a match, he reminded her that Willa was having a baby. “She’s younger than you, right?” The next day, Lucy put on her tightest dress and highest heels, applied red, red lipstick, and rode downstairs. “I can’t believe it,” she said, leaning over Manny’s desk. “You went to so much trouble just to talk to me.”
“You are a very beautiful woman,” he said.
At which point she noticed his dark eyes and long lashes. Manny, she decided, was sexy in the rough-and-tumble way of long nights on the road, battered guitar cases, Spanish love songs, and dangerous men with gentle hands. Nor, it turned out, was he a workaday guard; he was the head of Sanchez Security with a BA from St. John’s. He was charming, polite, curious about her; and if, at thirty-two, he was a bit young, he made up in enthusiasm what he lacked in maturity. Plus, he owned a Jeep, a Vespa, and a Bosch dishwasher, which was more than she could s
ay for herself. During their handful of dates—which included whipping through the backstreets of Red Hook on the Vespa in the cold, an exhilarating late-night rendezvous she wouldn’t soon forget—Lucy maintained a silent monologue. Would Don (Willa’s third husband) reprogram her keycard so he could meet her? Would Reggie (Willa’s second husband) buy her fingerless gloves? Would Dylan (Willa’s first husband) plan a date, text to confirm, show up on time, and kiss her with abandon underneath the Brooklyn Bridge?
No, no, and no, she admitted, lying against Manny’s hairy chest. Those guys, all rich, were asshole workaholics. Still, Lucy sensed something missing with Manny—heat, va-va-voom, she didn’t know what to call it. Even worse—God, this killed her—he believed she was racist. Her! The girl who, at eight years old, had collected money for migrant farm workers! Racist?
“What do you have against Asians?” Manny had asked on their second date.
They were at a bar near his house in Sheepshead Bay. They’d just finished their freezing Vespa excursion, and Lucy’s ears were numb and still ringing. Sure she’d misheard, she asked him to repeat his question.
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