Laziness was the third thing that Lorna didn’t like. Lizbeth let things slide. Ten days after she started the job, Lorna returned from a dentist appointment to find Lizbeth in the break room, eating and chatting with Pat and Cory, two of the younger associates. Lorna herself never took lunch in the break room, but that wasn’t what bugged her. The problem was the kitchen. Cupboards and drawers blaring open, cutlery and dishes stacked in the sink, smeared with all manner of sauces. Ground coffee was folded up in a sopping wet filter on the counter like a discarded diaper. Briskly, Lorna closed the cupboard doors and filled the sink. Cleaning up was everyone’s responsibility, sure, but now it was really Lizbeth’s.
As Lorna pulled up her sleeves to wash the dishes, Ian popped his head in. “Seen Lizzie?”
Lorna shook the dish soap and squirted it into the sink. “If you find her, I could use her help in here.”
Ian looked around, not appearing to register anything out of place in the scene in front of him. “Apparently she was looking for me.”
Why wasn’t he telling her to put that dish down? They both knew she had bigger fish to fry in her see-through office. Lorna scrubbed the hollow of a glass, her bracelet knocking hard against the rim. The skin at the bends in her fingers looked baggy. Lorna clinked the glass into the drying rack.
“How do you think she’s settling?” Ian asked.
“Lizbeth?”
“Yeah.”
“She seems very comfortable.”
“She has a great energy.”
What did that even mean, Lorna wondered. That she was young? “She’s young,” Lorna said.
Ian leaned against the doorframe. “She was great with the cellular phone groups. She’s developing your knack with clients.”
“How is Howard?” Lorna’s voice was coming out louder than she wanted. “Did his son get into theatre school?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well do ask him next time. Tell him hello.”
“All right.” Ian paused. “I’m sure you don’t miss all that.”
“I do.”
Lorna did miss focus groups. They were always full of surprises. She’d seen a grown man cry once over a proposed change to a sport team logo. Once, in a discussion about health insurance, a woman had removed her shoes and socks to show Ian a festering toenail. Others in the office complained about groups gobbling up their evenings, but it was hard for Lorna to know what to do now with her extra time at home. The kids had learned to get along without her after school. They had their TV programs, glossy magazines, friends to talk with on the phone. They made their own weekend plans and their own lunches for school. They cheered at pizza money on her nights at work, and rolled their eyes at whatever casserole she tried to cook the next night to make up for it.
“You should sit down with Liz,” Ian said. “Let her in on some of your secrets.”
Lorna turned right around to face Ian. “I’m sorry about the paper plates this morning, by the way.”
“Plates?”
She shook her head. “I told Lizbeth we have perfectly good ceramic plates when we’re having clients in. I’m not even sure where she found the paper stuff. Anyway, I’ll remind her. Won’t happen again.”
Ian handed her his empty water glass. “Sure.”
...
Ian and Lorna had scheduled their first budget meeting for the last day of the month. For Lorna, doing budgets was both tense and boring: she was paranoid about mistakes but impatient about checking her work. It was the worst part of her job, but she looked forward to the meeting. Perhaps they could make it a lunch thing? Would a sandwich together at noon really constitute grounds for “uncharitable speculation”?
On May 31, Lorna updated her reports and waited for Ian to tap on the glass. As May rolled into June, and then June became hot, she still waited. Every morning, she fixed the date on the top of the report and printed two copies. Around ten a.m., she made a point to run a brush through her hair and refresh her lipstick.
When Ian finally stopped in her doorway and motioned for her to follow him, Lorna found that she was nervous. The two of them hadn’t sat down together since the evening at the Veranda. The utterance of “unprofessionally involved” felt a million miles away.
In his office, Lorna came close to delivering the tongue-in-cheek joke she’d been planning for a while: “On a scale of one to seven, where one is extremely likely and seven is not likely at all, how likely is it that they’re whispering about us right now?” But from the moment she walked in, Ian was all business. He reached for her folder and put on his reading glasses. He read her report silently, chewing one of the mint-flavoured toothpicks he kept in a crystal shot glass on his desk. She sat across from him, nervously kicking her feet. She glanced around the office, noting, not for the first time, that there were no pictures of Libby. Not even the desk calendar she sent to her clients. Once at a cocktail party at the Needhams, Lorna had casually scanned the house for photo evidence that Libby had at least once been pretty – Ian’s equal. She stopped short of entering their bedroom.
“Looks good enough,” Ian said finally.
“That’s it?”
“Well, let’s see if we can’t keep the summer party budget to twenty-five a head.”
“I’ll talk to Lizbeth about it.”
“Her hands are pretty full, but it’s a good thought. She could have some contemporary ideas.”
Lorna’s jaw tightened. “But it’s her job. The research coordinator organizes the summer party.”
“Ah,” Ian said. “Is that written up somewhere?” He winked, but not in a kind way.
“I always juggled it.”
“I trust you’ll figure this out.” Ian tossed out his toothpick and replaced it with a new one.
Lorna looked past him at the lake out his window. “Sailing started yet?” In the summertime, the two of them had a standing Friday date watching the sailboats race around Toronto Island. Anyone was welcome to come and watch, but Lorna was the only regular.
“Lorna,” he leaned in. “I’ve been thinking . . . ”
Lorna also leaned. The gurgle of his water cooler masked her sudden stomachy sounds. It had been so long since she’d heard him say her name.
Ian leaned back just as suddenly and jiggled his wrist, correcting the position of a gold watch. “You know what? I’ve taken enough of your time, and I need to give someone a call back at the attorney general’s office.”
Lorna didn’t move while he reached for the phone receiver. He raised an eyebrow as he began to dial. The eyebrow said: Why are you still here?
The OpinioNation summer party was always at Anthony’s, a tasteful after-work bar close to the office. Lorna relayed Ian’s directive to Lizbeth, mentioning a range of favourite appetizers she could pre-order to keep individual meal costs down. But at the end of the week, Lizbeth sent out a memo that the party would be at the Latin Palace in the east end. The memo said “It’s Time to Party Hardy!”
When Lorna approached Lizbeth’s desk with the memo in hand, she found Lizbeth cutting a paper report into slips the size of fortune cookie messages. The mahogany front desk looked like an arts and crafts table.
“I checked into Anthony’s,” Lizbeth explained, “but Latin Palace has a happy hour, so it’s a way better deal.”
“Ian doesn’t drink,” Lorna said.
“He’s not the only one. Plus he said it sounded terrific.”
Lorna looked at her, an angry rhythm starting in her pulse. “Ian doesn’t have time to get tangled up in these sorts of questions. Next time, come to me.”
Lizbeth’s face purpled. “He said you didn’t want anything to do with it. Anyway, it’s a totally good place. Swear.”
“I’m sure,” Lorna said. She looked down at Lizbeth’s project. “So why are you slicing up Ian’s focus group report?”
“Oh! It’s my report,” Lizbeth said. “We talked to these people about getting cell phones, right? For Celluphone? I’m looking for themes.�
� She cupped her hands around a little mound of paper. “All of these quotes are about price. You know how people always say, ‘No way, cellular phones cost too much,’ right?”
“I have no idea, Lizbeth. I wasn’t there.”
“But then, see, that much bigger pile is what people say about convenience, like . . . ”
“Interesting.” Lorna said, her eyes moving down the hall.
Lizbeth wasn’t discouraged. “Because, think about it. If you had a phone, your kids could call in an emergency. That kind of stuff really appeals to people in your age category. So even though we thought price was, like, too big a barrier? Well . . . ” Lizbeth had a lazy way of talking, a mushy mouth. And was she too bored to finish her sentences?
“What exactly is my age category?” Lorna asked.
“Oh,” Lizbeth said. “Moms, I guess?”
“Never mind. Why don’t you just use two different coloured highlighters to separate the ideas? Seem easier.”
“It helps to see the ideas next to each other,” Lizbeth said. “Ian and I talked about it after the groups. And did you know he’s colour blind?”
“Of course,” Lorna said, although she didn’t know.
“Actually,” Lizbeth said. “I wanted to ask you. Ian said to ask you. I know I’m supposed to be here at reception all the time, but I thought maybe I could take this afternoon off and shadow Ian for his ride-alongs?” Lizbeth was practically honking with excitement. “We’re going to watch how people use their phones in their cars in real situations!”
Lorna shook her head. She couldn’t help it. “Marcus has two standing meetings on Wednesdays that need prep. You can’t be out of the office.”
Lizbeth nodded. “Sure. But I thought maybe you could cover for — ”
Lorna’s whole body tensed. “Unfortunately, Lizbeth, that’s really not my job.”
Lizbeth’s face dropped, but only for a moment. It gave Lorna a guilty poke in the gut, but she relished it all the same. “I’m sorry,” she said, softening her tone. “Maybe another day.”
Lizbeth nodded. “Also, Ian thought maybe you could make me flashcards?”
“Flashcards?”
“Well, cards were my idea. But he thinks I need to learn the little things. Clients’ wives names, that sort of thing.”
Lorna shook her head. “I don’t think that’s necessary. They don’t expect you to know that sort of thing yet. It’s far too intimate.”
On the first Thursday of July, the small gang of OpinioNation employees sat unsteadily on plastic patio furniture, drinking sangria and shooing mosquitos on the upper deck of Latin Palace. Calypso music bumped from mounted plastic speakers.
“Charming,” Ian said, squeezing past Lorna to the head of the table. He dusted off his chair before placing his suit jacket around the back.
Lorna shook her head. “I didn’t pick it.”
“It’s very youthful. Cheap, surely.”
Lizbeth had gone home to change after work and was reappearing now in a strapless daisy print dress, so tight around the top that her breasts appeared to be packed down into sausages. “What do you think?” she asked, beaming.
“It’s loud,” Lorna said.
“Look at you, getting old!” Ian winked at Lorna and then turned to Lizbeth. “It’s extraordinary.” He glanced over at the far end of the table and lowered his voice. “But would one of you mind joining Marcus?” He looked specifically at Lorna.
At the far end of the section reserved for their group, Lorna saw that Marcus was, in his strange high-pitched way, asking a waitress to wipe the bird shit from the edge of the table. Marcus was impossible to have a conversation with. He either didn’t speak, or spoke all at once and too quickly, without eye contact. You couldn’t even ask about his wife and family without feeling like you were making him uncomfortable. Lorna sighed, not quietly. She was wearing her favourite green pumps and just had her streaks done that morning; it would all be wasted babysitting Marcus. “I’ll do the first shift,” she said to Lizbeth.
For half an hour, at the quieter end of the table, Lorna drank the sugary sangria, listening to Marcus speak, mainly to his fork, about a regression analysis that showed declining views of Progressive Conservatives. It was nearly impossible to imagine how he’d managed a conversation with Ian about “unprofessional involvement.”
On the fun side of the table, which Lorna now recognized was the young side, with the exception of Ian, Lorna could hear Lizbeth laughing uproariously. “Crazyass!” Lizbeth nearly shouted. Lorna had heard Lizbeth use this expression before. It gave her the same shuddery feeling she got when she imagined running her teeth across a dry napkin. What bothered her wasn’t the “ass.” Lorna swore around her colleagues all the time. It was that, at twenty-two, or however old Lizbeth was, she felt entitled to swear, to wear bold things, and to assume she could do someone else’s job. She was unapologetically herself, and Lorna believed her to still have the kind of unfinished self one should at least try to conceal and be quick to apologize for.
Renata, a middle-aged analyst with a terrible ducktail haircut, slid over next to Lorna. She wore rectangular hot pink earrings, which were clearly her idea of how to “party hardy.”
“You pick this place? It’s funky,” Renata said. Lorna loathed the term “funky.” It seemed to reside exclusively in the vocabularies of women over forty-five, trying to seem hip.
“Nope, not my job.” Lorna kept her eyes on the far end of the table, trying to get Lizbeth’s attention for the switch off. “Not anymore.”
“Do you miss it?” Renata dunked her finger into a plastic pot of ranch dressing. “Your old job?”
“Parts.”
“It’s funny,” Renata said. “I never really pictured you in ops.”
Lorna turned toward her colleague. What did she mean? Was it possible that Renata was one of the uncharitable speculators? Did she think Lorna didn’t deserve her new role?
“I’ve been here five years,” Lorna said. “I know this place upside down and backwards, so.”
Renata nodded energetically. “Right, I know. I just kind of thought he was grooming you for research.” She jerked her chin in Ian’s direction.
“He thought I’d be good in Ops.”
“I’ll bet you are. But don’t you think we could really use more women analysts? And more women conducting the actual research.” She looked across the table and sighed. “You know, the other day Pat said it was a waste of time to include Oriental women in focus groups because they never say anything. Can you imagine it?”
Lorna looked over at Pat and Cory, now attacking a plate of nachos. “He’s young.”
Renata crinkled her forehead. “He’s sexist. And racist.”
“But he didn’t actually say that to the woman, did he? Or the client?”
“Still. Women are hardly to blame if they’re not saying anything.”
Was Renata a feminist? Nothing wrong with feminism, but it seemed like something from the history books. Lorna once heard a woman on the radio describe herself as an equalist, and she preferred that idea. It was best if men and women could get along, be friends. They were lucky to live somewhere that was even possible. She’d read about women in Africa being sold for their virginity. If you opened your eyes, there was no shortage of far-off places that Renata should worry about.
“We need people like you out there,” Renata said, nudging Lorna with her elbow.
Lorna shook her head. “I don’t have the qualifications.”
“It’s not like Ian has qualifications.” Renata’s voice was much quieter now. “I mean, not like, formal training. Not like Marcus. Ian didn’t even finish his BA.”
Lorna glanced Ian’s way. He was sitting expansively, mid-explanation of this or that, his cigarette making slow illustrative circles. Lorna realized this was her second discussion in a month about Ian’s credentials. Strange that she’d never bothered to ask about his training herself. Was it a secret? Or did everyone know? But what did it
matter. He had a talent, a special genius.
Renata moved in closer; Lorna could smell the ranch on her breath. “Yeah, he worked for Marcus on an election campaign one summer years ago. Marcus needed a qualitative guy to stay competitive in the business. And you know Ian, all charisma. Marcus smelled an opportunity, but Ian’s not formally trained.”
“Are you?” Lorna asked. “Formally trained?”
“Master’s in social research.” Renata ran both her hands through her hair. “But I’m interested in technology now. You know about dial testing?”
“Cool.” Lorna did not know about dial testing, but she didn’t care, and she was distracted by a spot freeing up closer to the head of the table.
“Great little gadgets for getting a minute-by-minute reaction to a TV spot.”
Lorna nodded. “Sure sounds like it. I’m sorry, Renata. Do you mind if I jump over there and have a smoke? I don’t want to bother your asthma.”
Renata glanced across the table and then back at Lorna, a sad, ditched expression on her face. “Go ahead.”
“Thanks.” Lorna smoothed her skirt as she walked around and squeezed into the vacant spot next to Lizbeth, one chair away from Ian. She reached for Ian’s Vantages.
“Tsk, tsk!” Ian snatched the pack away from her, offering it first around the table. No one was taking. “Oh, you’re all so healthy,” he said. “It’s disgusting.”
“I want to live to a hundred,” Lizbeth declared. Her silver bangle smacked loudly against the patio table as she put down her drink.
Ian winked her way. “Good chance of it.”
“Well, not really,” Lorna said.
They all stared at her.
Lorna forced a light-hearted smile. “Life expectancy is only about seventy-eight.” She turned to Lizbeth. “But let’s switch spots, OK? I don’t want to smoke over you and wreck your chances.” Only Lorna laughed. She got up and swapped seats with Lizbeth, landing her next to Ian.
“I thought you quit,” Ian said. “Where’s your willpower?”
“Tough week,” she said.
“What is your job now, exactly?” Cory asked. He was a red-faced, twenty-nine-year-old associate. His unironed shirt billowed at the back.
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