“Nikki, I don’t know. It’s only been twelve hours, of which I can remember only three, four tops.”
“So where did you spend the night? Did you get drunk and hook up with a random guy?”
“I wish. It’s so much worse than that.”
I tell her the rest of my misadventures as we wait for the coffee to steep in the French press.
By the time I reach my morning encounter with Mr. Hot, Nikki is laughing her head off. “You seriously told this Richard guy he should wear an I’m-too-hot sticker?”
“Unfortunately for my dignity, I did.”
“So when are you seeing him again?”
I stop pouring the coffee. “Never!”
“Didn’t Mr. Hot offer you a job?”
“Yeah, he did, at an ‘online editorial hub.’ Code for startup news digest with no traffic.”
“What’s the name of the website?”
“The dude gave me a business card.” I fish it out of my bag. “Inceptor Magazine.”
Nikki grabs her laptop and we look at the homepage.
“The graphics are cool, stylish even.” Nikki scrolls through a few articles. “The writing doesn’t seem too bad, either.”
“‘Not too bad’ isn’t good enough.”
“What’s the guy’s full name?”
“Richard Stratton,” I say.
Nikki types it in the browser’s search box and Richard’s LinkedIn profile pops up first.
“Well, he’s definitely not bad. And you woke up in his bedroom! You should work for him; if it were me, I’d work under him anytime…” She waggles her eyebrows.
“Oh, stop it.” I cover my face with my hands. “You’ve no idea how humiliating this morning was.”
“Richard didn’t seem to care.”
“The guy’s desperate. Nikki, my curriculum is here”—I place my right hand level with my nose—“and his online whatever is here.” I move the hand to my navel.
“Didn’t you say you wanted to overthrow the list completely?”
“I did. But what has this to do—”
“Can I see it?” Nikki interrupts.
She’s one of the few friends ever to be trusted with knowledge of the list’s existence.
“Why?”
“I want to check something.”
I search for the slip of paper inside its honorary pocket in my bag, but it’s not there. I rummage through the main compartment and find it crumpled at the bottom.
“Here.” I hand it over.
Nikki snatches the list from me, gets hold of a pen, and searches the various items with her eyes. “So, we can cross out never make a scene and never get drunk.” She draws two lines on the respective entries. “And here, number fifteen, always move up the ladder, never down.” Nikki pins me with a satisfied stare. “You’re so taking the job.”
***
I wait until the next morning to crawl back to Brooklyn, buying myself some time to become human again. As awakenings go, today couldn’t be any more different from yesterday. The fit watch goes off at five thirty a.m., and on autopilot I shuffle out bed, dress in sporty clothes, and go for a run. From my apartment, I jog up Canal St. to the Hudson River waterfront and then up to 57th Street and back. It takes me longer than my usual time, but the ten-mile run does wonders to detox my entire system and puts me in a positive mood. Thank you, endorphins. After a long shower and a healthy breakfast, I get ready to make the trip to hell—er, Brooklyn.
I walk to Canal St. subway station in my foldable flats and I’m about to automatically jump on the uptown train when I remember my real destination. My chest contracts in pain as I break out of auto-pilot and steer away from the uptown train at the last moment. I already miss Évoque so much, and not just for its geography and wardrobe perks. I miss the halo of power.
On edge before even starting the trip, I study the map to figure out the most convenient route to Richard’s office. Irony of ironies, I still have to take the blue line. Only instead of heading up to Columbus Circle, I’m literally moving down and out of Manhattan to High Street, Brooklyn.
The address on the card brings me to one of those historic factory loft buildings. There’s no reception so I walk straight to the elevators—not even proper ones, freight. Richard’s card says third floor. I push three and wait for the freight machine to make its slow, slow way up. As I pass the second floor, voices drift down from above—raised voices.
“I’m having your license revoked,” a woman is shouting. “According to New York MHY 33.21 in providing outpatient mental health services to a minor, the important role of the parents or guardians shall be recognized. That’s me.”
“Instead of worrying about having my license revoked,” a man replies, “you should ask yourself why your daughter came to seek my help. And while you’re at it, have a good look in the mirror.”
“You’ve no idea the amount of trouble you’ll find yourself if you don’t stop meddling in my daughter’s affairs.”
“Well someone has to deal with her problems since you clearly don’t! All Tegan needs is for someone to listen to her.”
Just as I reach the third floor, a door slams shut followed by a twin sound a few seconds later. Wary, I step on the landing. It’s empty except for a girl braced against a set of industrial metal and glass doors. She’s an Archie Panjabi lookalike in her mid-twenties.
“Don’t mind our neighbors,” she tells me. “They bicker all the time. Personally, I think it’s only foreplay. Are you here to see one of them or one of us?”
There’s a plate next to the metal doors saying Inceptor Magazine. I swallow; I’ve walked into a madhouse. “Hi, I’m Blair Walker,” I say, extending a hand. “I sort of have an appointment with Richard Stratton for a job interview.”
“Ah, Blair, I’m Indira.” She shakes my hand. “The boss told me you might stop by. He’s on a call right now, but I’m to give you the tour. Come in.”
As I close the five-step distance between us, we give each other the ultimate once over. I take in her Brooklyn Soccer League pullover, skinny jeans, and black-and-white All Stars. Indira does the same with my below the knee dress and beaded sandals and it’s as if we mutually acknowledge that we come from two different planets. Except her expression tells me I’m the alien in this zip code.
She guides me into an open-space office with oversized sunlit windows, exposed walls and beams, and wood flooring—straight from the twenties by the look of it. Someone would call it cool and modern; to me, it screams hipster.
“So.” Indira points at a room with glass walls. “That’s the boss’s office.”
Richard is sprawled out on a chair behind a giant black desk, talking on the phone. Seeing him is enough to make my throat clench.
Strangled, I only manage to hum an acknowledgment.
“Richard is our Editor-in-Chief, of course,” Indira continues. “All other editors are based here in this lovely open space, coexisting as one big, happy family.”
I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not.
“That’s Hugo, the News Editor.”
A guy with ginger hair and a short beard lifts his head and waves.
“Then there’s Saffron. She’s our social media and digital guru.”
Indira points at a cute girl with long dark hair no older than twenty-two or twenty-three. Even their names are hipster-y, though Saffron’s style is more grunge than bohemian.
“Zane is our Communications, Partnerships, and Distribution Manager.”
Another bearded hippie waves.
“Ada is at entertainment.”
A blonde girl out of a commercial from the fifties smiles and pushes her Cat-Eye glasses up her nose. I guess going vintage is equally accepted over here.
“And Nico is in charge of business and politics.” Indira lowers her voice, “Never pick an ideological argument with him. Even if you’re right, he’ll bore you to death before you can prove your
point.”
I nod. A glance at Nico’s bow-tied neck is enough to send off pompous alarm bells in my brain. The guy is frowning so hard at his screen he doesn’t even notice we’re talking about him.
“Over there in the corner are our techies and I’m in charge of everything non-content related. I guess this leaves you with all the fun stuff. Ah, and yes, that’s our meeting room.” She points at another glass-walled room next to Richard’s office where he’s still on the phone.
“You can either pick this station.” Indira knocks on the desk to her left. “Or the one beside mine. I’m the best neighbor you could wish for.”
“Well,” I stall. “I’m not even sure if I got the job yet.” Or if I want it.
“If you want it, the job’s yours.” Indira smiles knowingly. “Best piece of advice I can give you to survive around here is”—once again, she looks me over—“dress more casually and don’t fall for the boss.” Her eyes throw a wistful glance at the office behind me. “He’s damaged goods.”
I give her a questioning look, and she leans in with a conspiratorial air. “Rumor has it someone pulled a real number on him a few years ago. The boss hasn’t been in a serious relationship ever since. Real commitment-phobe.”
“You mean he’s single?” I blab before I can stop myself.
Indira raises an eyebrow at me, and I blush.
Smooth, Blair.
“I’d hardly call it being single.” She’s looking at me with too-perceptive eyes. “Richard dates a lot, but no gal sticks around for long.”
“You know what happened to him?”
“The gossip is he was about to—” She halts mid-sentence.
“Blair.” Richard’s voice, coming from behind me, sends a chill down my spine. “You’ve made it. Did Indira give you the tour already?”
“Hi.” I turn around and am once again hit by Richard’s unchecked good looks. “Yeah, we just finished.”
“Perfect. Want to come into my office to discuss the gory details?”
“Sure.”
I follow him and blush as the first thought that pops into my head is that we won’t be able to have sex on his desk—as per the glass walls. Stop it, Blair. Even if he wasn’t about to become your boss, Indira says he’s damaged goods and commitment phobic. Huge no-nos.
Unfortunately, following Richard means I have a good view of his rear in a pair of nicely fitting jeans. The sight erases any rational argument the sensible half of my brain tries to make. So I stare at the floor instead and try to think of gruesome, unsexy stuff. Fanny packs, ugly Christmas sweaters, spiders, Gerard and his secretary doing it.
I suppress a gagging reflex. The fact that Gerard’s affair is causing me more disgust than heartbreak is another clear sign my priorities have been all wrong. As the perfect boyfriend on paper, Gerard ticked all the right boxes in another stupid list of requirements. Good upbringing, check. Good job, check. Good looks, check.
Pity none of the important ones checked out. Faithful, nope. Committed, nope. In love, nope. This last one goes both ways, to be fair. Was I really ready to marry a guy only because he met my stereotype of a “good” catch? To be stark honest, I was. Not once I questioned my love for him, because he was too perfect, too sensibly right for me to debate loving him. Oh, no… I was turning into my mother without realizing it.
I wince.
“Everything all right?” Richard asks.
I try to compose my features. “Yeah.”
He keeps the door open for me and shows me inside the office.
Once we’re both seated on opposite sides of his desk, he asks, “So, what do you think?”
I try to come up with a diplomatic answer. “I shuffled through your newsfeed yesterday. You have some cool pieces and a fresh perspective.”
Richard leans back in his chair. “You have any questions?”
I brace myself. Before any shop talk, I need to clear the air and make sure he’s going to take me seriously. “Actually, I think we should address a personal issue first.”
He seems surprised, but waits patiently for me to elaborate.
“I wanted to apologize for what happened at your house yesterday and for the night before… it wasn’t… I wasn’t…”
Richard’s lips twitch, but he keeps a straight face as he says, “Like it never happened. You had a rough day, and I shouldn’t have called for an interview at ten in the evening. From now on, we can have a one-hundred percent professional relationship.”
The speech is meant to be reassuring, but the girl within me—the one crushing on him—can’t help being disappointed. Anyway, he’s right. If I come to work here, I can’t have a thing with the boss. Also, for the first time, I spot a hardness behind Richard’s gaze I hadn’t noticed before. A coolness that says, I’m not into any other kind of relationship.
“Good.” I nod. “Now down to business, can you share your advertising and traffic data?”
“No. Unless you work here, those are confidential. But I can tell you traffic had a year-over-year growth of two hundred percent and advertising went up by one-hundred and fifty percent.”
“Okay.” Those numbers aren’t too bad. “What would my editorial budget be?”
“Ah.” Richard rolls his sleeves up, a habit it seems, and rests his elbows on the desk. For a moment I’m distracted by prime forearms display. I never thought it was possible to have a thing for forearms, but Richard’s are proving me wrong. I miss the first part of his speech. “…it’s basically on a contribution base.”
Those last two words are enough to leave me horror-stricken and to force my eyes away from Richard’s arms. “Come again?”
Richard takes a deep breath; we both know this is a hard sell. “In a nutshell, each editor’s budget depends on how much advertising he or she can bring in.”
I swallow. “Mhm, but since I’m starting a brand new section, you must have something set aside for me to build on.”
“Unfortunately, no.” Richard shakes his handsome head.
“Hold on. You seriously mean you want me to start from scratch? How am I supposed to attract advertisers with no published articles?”
“That’s why I needed someone with the creative, editorial potential, but also with the marketing experience. I’m sure you made plenty of contacts while working at Évoque. There must be some fashion influencer or big beauty blogger you can get on board.”
I wrinkle my nose; this last part stinks even more. “Wait, are you offering me a position as Fashion Editor or Beauty Editor?”
Richard blinks. “Isn’t it the same thing?”
I sag in my chair, a tiny pain starting in my chest. “You expect me to run an entire women’s magazine on my own, and with no budget?”
Richard’s mouth twitches at the corners again. “You would have complete creative independence.”
I grimace. “How wonderful.”
He fixes those impossibly gorgeous mocha-brown eyes on me. “And you get to keep a five percent commission on all advertisements sold as part of your compensation package.”
The tightening in my chest worsens. Am I having a panic attack? Pay on commission are ugly enough words to unleash a panicked reaction. “Which translates into you offering me an intern-base salary, am I right?”
“I’m afraid we won’t be able to match your previous compensation.” Richard takes out a bundle of papers from a drawer and inches it toward me. “This is our standard contract.”
I stare at the small—in all senses—numbers printed on the white paper. Yep, exactly the amount of my first paycheck after college. The pressure in my chest increases and I begin to feel lightheaded.
“But as I said,” Richard resumes his pitch, “you’d get complete freedom on what to publish and state-of-the-art tech support.” The handsome bastard smiles at me, giving me time to digest the news.
What choice do I have? A college graduate’s pay that just about covers my half of the rent a
nd food is better than no salary at all. At least until I can find another job.
Or maybe I should wait and see what else is out there on the job market. After all, I was let go only two days ago. If I’m careful on what I spend, I could survive on my severance check for a couple of months. That’s when two nasty little words invade my brain: student loans.
No, I can’t afford a single day with no income. And I’d rather be homeless than ask my parents for help.
Feeling like a trapped animal, I stare at Richard and ask, “Where do I sign?”
Four
Never Believe Gossip
Offices have a distinct and constant background noise. Especially open-space offices. The clacking of other people’s keyboards, the clicking, the shuffling of paper, and the hum of whispered conversations. The background clatter is there, always. So much so, that a sudden silence is deafening.
I jerk my head up from the computer screen. I was right—everyone has stopped working. All my colleagues’ heads are turned in one direction. Their expressions range from shell-shocked to mildly interested to unadulterated worship—this last one seems to befall the male population in particular. I follow the stares to the main entrance where silhouetted against the threshold is none else than Saskia Landon.
I join the staring contest. Saskia Landon? She is the model of the moment. Fashion editors all over the globe would claw each other’s eyes out to have her in a photo shoot. Designers have to book her two years in advance for a catwalk. And she topped Forbes World’s Highest-paid Models list, bypassing the runner-up by over thirty million. Saskia is the top one percent of A-list celebrities. What is she doing here?
“Is that Saskia Landon?” I hiss at Indira. “Am I seeing right?”
“In the flesh.”
“Do we have a photo shoot with her? How did we manage that? Why wasn’t I informed? I’m the Fashion Editor!”
“Relax.” Indira rolls her eyes. “The lady is not here to work.”
“Why then?”
“I suspect she’s the boss’s date for the night.”
“Saskia Landon going out with Richard? Impossible!”
I Have Never (A Laugh Out Loud Romantic Comedy) Page 3