Tuesday
I was feeling much better the next morning, especially after Luke brought me coffee in bed. I had a few sips, and then we did what we usually do in the morning. And the evening. And afternoons too, if we can. Afterward he went back up to Lake Geneva. I showered and dried my hair.
I was getting dressed when the computer in my guest room, which doubles as my office, chirped to tell me I had an email. I went in cautiously, unsure if I really wanted to read any emails this morning. I sat at my desk.
It was from David Foxhall at Delcroft. Foxhall was the executive VP in charge of corporate communications, the man who hadn’t said word one during the meeting yesterday. Still, as Teresa’s boss, he was my “official” client contact and had seemed enthusiastic when I proposed the videos. I pressed my lips together and read.
“Good morning, Ellie. After much internal discussion, we’ve decided not to proceed with the video. We will, of course, compensate you for the entire production, but since we still have issues with the concept, we’re going to call off any further production. I hope this doesn’t cause too much disruption for you and your crew. We wish you nothing but the best. As I said, please invoice me for the entire project. I’ll make sure to expedite payment. Sincerely, David.”
There it was. I’d been fired.
My first reaction was relief that Teresa still had a job. My second was less charitable.
“Damn those cowards.” I stomped out of my office, went down to the kitchen, and stacked dirty plates and cups in the dishwasher. A minute later, though, my irritation faded, and I marveled at how powerful Hollander must be to have killed the entire project. A minute after that my mood improved even more, and I was grateful that we would be paid for work we didn’t have to finish. That would make Mac happy. It might even pay for a long weekend for Luke and me; I entertained visions of flying down to Florida or the Caribbean.
A few seconds later, though, I was infuriated again. I’d been brushed off by a Fortune 100 company. I’ve been a professional filmmaker for more than twenty-five years, and I fumed as I threw a load of laundry into the washing machine. How dare they? On some level, I probably knew my anger stemmed from those never-ending feelings of insecurity lurking just under the surface. Feelings that were just waiting to wreak havoc on my ego.
During times like these, I’d usually call my friend Susan, and we’d work out our problems with a power walk around the village. But waves of snow flurries outside didn’t bode well for a walk, and Susan worked at an art gallery on Tuesdays.
I started pacing around the house. The voices of insecurity mimicked the tone and words of my late mother. “Yes, a B-plus is nice, but where is the A?” or “Sheila got into Vassar. And you’re just going to Michigan?” Still, her best role, worthy of an Oscar, had been that of an enabler. “You need to find out who did this to you and why. And fix it.”