On Thursday night, I don’t have the guts to ask Richard in person for a free morning. Not only because we’re not on speaking terms, but also because if he were to ask why, what would I say? I was never good at lying, and telling the boss about the interview would only be pouring gasoline on the fire. Plus, I don’t even know if I’ll have anything to tell. This is a preliminary chat. No need to cause a storm yet. I text him at the last minute Friday morning, saying I have a personal matter to attend to, and that I’ll be coming in later in the day.
The second hard part is leaving Chevron behind. She’s at my feet wagging her tail, ready for our morning walk, but I can’t bring a dog to the interview. Still unaware, said pup sits in the hallway, waiting for me to hook her leash.
“Not today, honey.”
Chevron’s tail slows down.
I open the door. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
She drops to the floor, tail static, eyes wide. My heart breaks a little as I lock the apartment, leaving her all alone.
What will I do if I accept the new job? I’m sure Évoque doesn’t have a bring-your-pet-to-the-office policy. Imagine Chevron running loose in the fashion closet. That would be something. With a better paycheck, you’ll be able to afford the best dog-sitter in the city. Yeah, Northwestern must know they have to offer me a salary bump for me to even consider going back.
Foldable flats on, I reach Canal Street Station. As I push my way through the ticket barrier, the aboveground spring breeze turns into stale, deep-fried air. Okay, maybe Manhattan’s air isn’t exactly wholesome. But the underground air is ten times worse. Warm and clingy.
Someone stomps on my foot—not fun when my only protection is foldable flats.
“Hey,” I call after the brute.
But the suit ignores me and hurries toward his track. You sorry excuse for a commuter. I forgot how rude, pushy, and inconsiderate of other people’s existence subway-takers can be. So much better to walk to work. Easy to say in summer. Wait until it rains, snows, and blizzards, then see how fun it is to walk on a bridge exposed to the elements.
I squish myself onto the first uptown train and, oh, the stench. Exposed to the elements sounds more promising than squeezed to within an inch of my life by smelly strangers. I’m walled in by three people. If there’s one place where being short is a clear disadvantage, it’s inside a subway car. Behind me stands an overweight gentleman whose bulging belly is warmly pressed against my back. On my left, a tall girl—I hate genetics right now—has a bony elbow dangerously close to my jaw. And I can count the pills on the tie of the guy standing directly in front of me, who, besides having a dreadful fashion sense, is also drinking coffee from a paper cup.
I watch in horror as Mr. Old Tie removes the plastic lid. Is he crazy? The last thing I need is a hot-coffee shower. I try to edge back. But bulgy-guy’s belly stops me. I search left and right for an escape route. Nothing. My head is level with my fellow riders’ shoulders at best; I can’t see anything. I can’t breathe. Please, New York fairies, let this ride be a short one.
I spend the next thirty minutes watching that paper cup like a hawk. When I finally emerge on Columbus Circle, unharmed, if not a bit traumatized, I take a few deep breaths of air, even relishing the smog. If I come back to work at Northwestern, I’ll walk. I’ll get Chevron a dog-sitter nearby. What about winter? She’ll get a doggy rainbreaker, I don’t care. I’m never taking that line at seven in the morning ever again. If my relationship with Gerard had one merit, it was his Park Avenue address.
I swap flats for stiletto heels and cross the threshold of Northwestern’s evil tower of power. The glass and steel are overwhelmingly cold around me. Oh, so now you even miss brick walls and decrepit wooden floors? What if I do? Just saying, you used to love the power of glass and stainless steel. Right, used to. Before they kicked me to the curb. So what are you doing here? It’s business. A publishing house wants to make me an offer and I want to hear it. Mini-mental-me snickers at that.
As I did the first time I ever set foot in the building, I have to register as a guest at the reception desk. It feels weird not to bypass security. The receptionist hands me a visitor pass and starts giving me directions to Emilia’s office. Great, my least favorite place in the building.
“I know where Ms. Peterson’s office is, thanks.” I cut the girl short and make my way upstairs.
Emilia’s office is the same: white everything and minimalist. Emilia also appears the same paper thin and groomed within an inch of her life. She invites me to sit with the warmth of a popsicle. I take my place on the white chair opposite her white desk and fold my hands on the immaculate surface.
Emilia’s icy blue eyes follow the gesture with an air of disgust. Is she worried I’ll taint her space? Is she a germ freak? Her eyes focus an extra second on the tip of my fingers and her nose creases in the slightest wrinkle.
I quickly pull my hands down and check my nails. My index is missing a microscopic speckle of nail polish. So, yeah. I stopped doing my nails every night and started doing them every other night—or two. Big deal!
Emilia’s displeased scrutiny continues. This time, I follow her razor-sharp gaze to my blouse where, just over my left breast, there’s a tiny—again, almost-invisible-to-the-naked-eye—brown circle. So a droplet of that man’s coffee did land on me. Oh, well. Shoot me. It’s not like I’m wearing a T-shirt that says Cece Chanol.
How could I forget how much pressure they put on appearances here? A few months in Brooklyn have relaxed my standards to unacceptable levels of shabbiness it seems, given the sour expression on Emilia’s face. What a wonderful way to start the interview. Was Emilia forced to offer me the job despite her—almost certain—recommendation against it?
“So, Blair. How have you been?”
“Great, thank you.” But no thanks to you. “You?”
“Busy, as always.”
I think she meant, “Bitchy, as always.”
Emilia continues. “Tell me about your experience at this”—she stares at my CV and raises an eyebrow—“online hub you’ve been working at.”
I launch into a professional presentation of my achievements over the last few months. The regular beauty features I’ve established. The team of influencers I’ve put together. The sponsorships. The celebrity photoshoots and interviews… The more I talk, the more I surprise even myself at the amount of work I accomplished in such a short time. I basically built an entire fashion magazine from scratch. An awesome one.
Emilia lets me talk, her face a studiously unimpressed one. “That all sounds marvelous,” she comments when I’m finished. “Now, as I’m sure you remember, here at Évoque we operate on a high-end profile. As a Junior Editor, you’ll only be in charge of assisting more competent and experienced professionals.”
“So I wouldn’t be responsible for any project? Not even smaller features?”
“Never say never. We’re very open minded and it’s our desire to groom the next generation of leaders. So we encourage all employees to bring forward new ideas…”
Her rehearsed speech is dribbling with so much condescension, I can’t listen. I’m finally back on the thirty-eighth floor of this shiny Manhattan skyscraper, and I can’t seem to find a single good reason to be here and work with these people. It’s your dream, always has been. Yeah, but why? Why was it ever my dream to work at Évoque? Why come back? This company used me for years and then discarded me without a second thought. And all they’re offering now is another junior position with no real independence. One you would’ve killed for a short while ago. Only because I didn’t know better.
“So you encourage the people who work here to bring forward new ideas?” I challenge her.
“Of course, we do.”
“You mean like when the story about Maison Vanderbilt committing tax fraud was brought forward.”
Emilia’s nostrils flare. “Blair, in case you’ve forgotten we’re a fashion magazine, we don’t do investigative journalism. Now, I’m sure at this”—she waves one hand in the air dismissively—“online-whatever you’ve been working for, lines and roles were more… let’s say blurred, but—”
“Of the fifty-or-so papers under the umbrella of Northwestern Publishing, not a single one could’ve picked up the story?”
“I honestly don’t see what you’re trying to accomplish with this sterile polemic.”
“I’m trying to say that this company doesn’t encourage people to bring forward ideas, it forces them to kill stories to keep easy advertising money flowing in.”
“Blair, let me be perfectly clear. This is a unique opportunity. You blew your first chance at a serious career and were lucky enough to get a second, which doesn’t happen very often and wasn’t the wisest idea in the first place if you ask me… You won’t get a third.”
Oh, she’s just confirmed my worst fears. Someone higher up forced Emilia’s hand, but she never wanted to offer me the job. The Talent Manager Coordinator hates me. Which means she’d try to make my head roll every chance she got. Another good reason not to come back.
I stand up. “No, Emilia. I’d like to be perfectly clear. You screwed up your first chance by promoting the wrong person for the wrong reasons. This was your second chance, and you blew it. Sorry, you won’t get a third. Goodbye.”
I don’t wait for a reply, I simply show myself out of the witch’s office. Humph, goodbye. There should be a better word. I don’t want to wish her goodbye I want to say bad-bye. In the long elevator ride down, I envision a whole article on the topic.
Title: The Power of Bad-Bye
Subtitle: When Enough Is Enough
In the lobby I give back my pass, hardly paying attention, already typing the first paragraph of the article in my head. With no regrets, I walk out of Évoque for the last time.
***
That afternoon I knock on Richard’s door as soon as I get into the office.
Richard lifts his eyes from a document, and a deep frown appears as he spots me standing behind the glass. He waves me in with a dismissive flick of his fingers.
Uh-oh.
This is the first time I’ve approached him since our fight on Sunday and he gives me attitude? I thought we could defuse the situation and at least try to be civil to each other. After this morning, I have a deeper appreciation of the trust Richard has put in me. Sadly, only professionally. I’ve also realized I love the work I’m doing here and that I want to keep doing it regardless of my personal feelings for the boss. But if he wants to give me attitude, I can give attitude right back.
“What do you want?” Richard fires at me.
“Hello, good afternoon to you, too,” I snap back.
“Yeah, exactly. Afternoon. Glad you finally decided to show up.”
“I texted you to say I needed the morning off.”
He pierces me with an angry look. “And why was that?”
I stare at him, frozen.
Does he know about the job interview? How could he?
I’m still not talking, so Richard scoffs. “That’s what I thought.”
We glare at each other for a few more seconds before he adds, “Are you handing in your notice?”
He knows. “No, I’m not. Yeah, I went to an interview, but I didn’t accept the offer.” That seems to throw him a little. “So you can take your self-righteousness and stick it… well, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you where.”
“The great Blair Walker will be staying with us another day. How exciting.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I just told you I didn’t take the job. Why do you have to be a dick about it?”
“Because since the first day you signed your contract, you’ve been waiting for the moment you could get out.”
“That’s not true. I’ve busted my ass off to create something from nothing for this magazine and I’ve given it one-hundred percent. You can’t deny that. And, yes, Northwestern offered me a job at a magazine with a better name, better pay, and better benefits. So I went and listened to what they had to say. Shoot me.” I raise my hands in surrender. “But I turned the offer down because I believe in what we’re building.”
My volume has gone up a notch and I’m uncomfortably aware that everyone outside must be able to hear us. If our body language wasn’t already clear enough. Stupid glass walls!
“If you say so.”
Richard’s dismissive attitude sparks more anger and frustration. He wants to pretend nothing has happened between us? He wants to ignore his feelings? I’ve let him so far, but now he’s pushed all the wrong buttons and I’m furious enough to tackle the real problem between us.
“Are you mad at me for the job offer, or are you mad at yourself because you can’t admit what’s really bothering you?”
“And what would that be?” Richard sneers.
“That you got scared you’d lose me for good, and you’re too afraid to admit you have feelings for me.”
“That’s a bit presumptuous on your part.”
“Then tell me it isn’t true! Tell me I’m wrong. I mean, if you’re not too afraid.”
“Careful, Walker. You’re taking it too far.”
“You can puff out your chest all you like, the fact remains you’re too much of a coward to admit the truth.”
Richard jumps up from his chair. “Who are you calling a coward?”
“You, it’s what you are!”
“It’s better if we end this conversation now before either of us says something we can’t take back. You want the truth: I can’t stand to look at you right now.”
“Oh, the coward wants to run away. How surprising.”
“I’m out of here.” Richard rounds his desk and is out of the door and leaving the main office before I can say anything.
Nuh-uh. He’s so not getting out of this one.
I follow him. “You want to run?” I yell. “Fine. Run! But remember I can run faster.”
I don’t care if everyone in the office is blatantly staring at us. It’s time Richard and I had this discussion and if he wants to have it in full public… his choice.
He stops in his track and turns toward me, eyes glaring. “What’s that even supposed to mean?”
“That I don’t quit. That I don’t run away from the things that scare me. I run after what I want.”
“No, you live in a world of unicorns and rainbows. Real life is not like that.”
“Real life is what you make of it.”
“Walker, I’m sorry. I don’t live in a pink cloud of optimism.”
“No, right. You prefer a black hole of fear.” Ah, gotcha. He gapes at me but doesn’t reply so I go ahead and announce it to the world, “I love you, Richard Stratton, and I’m not afraid of saying it.”
“Love isn’t enough.”
“Love is everything.”
“It’s not.”
“It is for me. Tell me you don’t love me and you’re free to go. This is the last you’ll hear of it. Come on, say it. SAY IT!”
Frown deeper than ever, jaw clenched, Richard shakes his head. With a seething look, he turns on his heel and walks out of the office.
Bang! The doors slam shut, and I’m left standing in the middle of the room like an idiot. Chest heaving, breath ragged, the same as if I had just run a marathon.
I lost.
People around me seem intent on their screens. They must think I’m a t-rex. That if they don’t move, I won’t know they exist. Even Indira is avoiding my gaze. Figures. What could they possibly say to a colleague who just embarrassed herself in the worst possible way and was publicly turned down by her boss, their boss?
The only soul who shows any sympathy is Chevron. She nuzzles my calves in a comforting gesture, whining understandingly.
What now? Should I crawl back to Manhattan and beg Évoque for the job? It’s clear I can’t keep working here. I knew having a relationship with the boss was wrong. I knew commitment-phobic men don’t turn into commitment-happy boyfriends overnight. Despite all that, I gave it my best try, and now I’m back where I started. No job. No love life. Well, at least I have a loyal companion. I pat Chevron’s head, pick my dignity up off the floor, and turn back toward my desk. I need to collect my things and get ready to leave. For the day? Forever? I don’t know.
That’s when the office door bursts open again and there’s a collective gasp. Indira lifts her eyes from the screen, her expression changing from I’m-so-busy-pretending-you-don’t-exist to well-well-well-let’s-see-what-happens-now.
Very slowly, I turn and watch Richard storm back into the room.