Chapter Nineteen
F*ck-Ups Four-Eighty-Five through Five-Hundred-Three
Sick Burns
Mel pulled me together enough for us to strategize that night. I told her that I wanted Marlene to have the book and she agreed, provided the dollar signs were lining up. That would be tough, as a small press didn’t have quite the funds of a Big Five, but maybe we could work out a higher percentage of sales to compensate for a smaller advance. Momma(s) needed retirement plans.
485. Especially me, as I was probably toxic to the general male populace now and would die alone with Myrtle
486. That reminded me: Time to adopt, like, eight more cats
We arranged three more agent interviews to happen over the phone the following evening. After all was said and done, we’d liked Lillian’s sunny attitude and track record the best—there were reasons we’d picked her in the first place—so we signed a contract for the book and all subsequent titles in that series. Agent in hand, we arranged to meet Carmichael at his office on Thursday of that week. He’d asked to take us out to dinner, but I’d said no freaking way.
That entire office would see me strut in there and put him through his paces.
I doubled-down at my own job to make up for the mess earlier in the week. My phone rang off the hook from journalists, well-wishers, and nay-sayers—one of whom mailed a box of severed doll heads to me. Marlene asked reception to start screening my calls and getting rid of anyone who wasn’t Hysterical business. I bought Jenny in reception a box of cupcakes as a thank you, and she grew quite fond of getting rid of callers in nice and sometimes extremely nasty ways.
As for me, I was numb. Whenever the black cloud named Yash stormed across my heart, I jumped to edit a manuscript, strategize with an author, or even do the dishes.
My apartment had never been so clean, and Myrtle had taken to running away from me, I tried to brush her so many times.
487. Her food bowl was a mountain of Overcompensation Vittles
Only at night did I let it all out, crying myself to sleep in such a hysterical fashion, I would have slashed it from a manuscript as ‘over-dramatic.’
488. My purple prose brings no boys to the yard
Thursday morning, I iced my eyes to de-puff them and took extreme care with my hair and makeup. My hair flowed long and wavy—thank you, hot curlers—just the way Carmichael liked all of his women to look. I put on a flirty blue dress with a skirt just on the correct side of too short for business, black tights, and heels. I topped it with a cream princess coat—I looked sexy and every inch the successful cool girl I now was.
Marlene had given her okay to meet Carmichael during work hours, provided, of course, that I recounted it for laughs in the book. She knew hell would freeze into slushies before I rewarded Carmichael with any book I had a hand in.
Mel and I met up in the coffee shop at the bottom of Carmichael’s building, and Lillian joined us there.
Lillian flashed the cutest smug smile I’d ever seen. “So, this meeting is a waste of time, right? We’re just doing this for the ‘fuck you’ factor?”
I sat on one side of Lillian, Mel, the other. We enclosed her in a hug, an Oreo of love.
She threw her head back and laughed. “I’ll take my cues from you two. This is going to be the cat’s pajamas.”
As one, we marched onto Carmichael’s floor and informed reception of our exalted presences. I didn’t have to tell Matt, at the desk, who we were there to see. He jumped up and swept me into so fierce a hug it took me off the ground. “You look fantastic!” he said. He swiveled around to see if the coast was clear and whispered in my ear, “Give that bastard hell.”
I started giggling, and it was exactly what I needed to chase away the nervousness. My stomach had been fluttering like a bird just because I’d set foot in the building. Here, the site of my wimpy past.
Screw that.
And fuck Carmichael.
Ack! Don’t fuck Carmichael! The thought was too, too gross.
Matt procured us coffee and ushered us toward Carmichael’s office. The entire staff, my former coworkers, stood as we walked by, all of them grinning from ear to ear. They flashed me thumbs-up and whispered praise for the blog. Several said they missed me—I definitely owed a few lunches.
Funny—my most pathetic fuck-up had been filmed for posterity, and it had made me seem like some kind of romance heroine. I was the Meryl Streep of the book-nerd set.
489. Except to Yash, of course
Nope. I pushed his beautiful face from my mind, for we had arrived.
Carmichael opened his door. Jazmine scurried out of the office, the smirk on her face wiped clean when she took a good gander at me.
490. I know it’s petty
491. And un-feminist
492. But I was hotter than her now
493. With a better job
494. And I fucking knew it
I ignored her. As did my compatriots.
Carmichael wiped his hands on his pants and shifted a nervous glance from one to the other of us before finally landing on me. A. Nervous. Glance.
Oh, yeah. This man would beg me for my favor.
495. This was gonna be fuuuuuuun
I smiled with my mouth, leaving my eyes out of it, and waited for him to speak. The first one to speak is always the weakest. And no matter what I’d been through, I would never be the weakest ever again.
I faced him down. Well, up. He’s a lot taller than I am.
I faced him up. Our eyes met. His slipped down to my tits. I sneered and shook my head, but stayed silent. Ha! Not even his leching would distract me from my up-facing!
Finally, he turned and gestured into his office. “Come in, Dag, Melanie. Hello, Lillian, always a pleasure.”
“It’s all yours, Carmichael,” she replied.
Mel met my eye, as if to say, “We have chosen wisely.”
Carmichael laughed, as if what she said had been a joke. Lillian laughed too, but a wicked gleam twinkled in her Mrs. Claus demeanor.
He sat behind the Hemingway desk and said, “Well, who knew little Dagmar had it in her!”
Little Dagmar said, “Who knew that little Carmichael would call me to beg for it?”
A choking noise sounded from my right, followed by a quiet, “Damn, sug’,” from Mel.
His full-of-shit bluster deflated for a moment, two even, before he puffed it back up again from his reserves. “You’d still have your job with me if you’d displayed this kind of ballsy attitude.”
I pulled a face. “Thank goodness it came after.”
Lillian sat up straighter. “So, Carmichael. Tell us why we’re here.”
He sat back in his chair, his feet flying up to perch on the desk. His favorite ‘man grunt in control’ pose. He had about as much in common with Hemingway and real man grunts as Moaning Myrtle did. Finally, he gifted us with his wisdom. “I think the blog is a great example of how when girls decide to behave like men, they get ahead.”
Mel stood with a, “Nope.”
I had to hide my grin. I put my wounded hand on her shoulder to tap her back down again. I flicked my eyes to my other hand, in which sat my phone. The audio recorder was going. I wanted to be able to recount this stupid meeting in all its glory in the book. I would never name Carmichael.
496. But everyone would know
This appeased her, so she gritted her teeth. Carmichael had watched this while smiling. Oh, how cute we were, right?
He continued taking a crap into the air. “The focus of the book needs to be about how women can start taking control of their lives, finally, and think like a man. Like how Dagmar tried to sleep with that guy from the coffee shop to get ahead.”
I cleared my throat. “Wouldn’t that be acting like Jazmine? Is she a man, Carmichael?” I leaned in closer. “Is there something you want to tell us?”
“Ha ha.” He did not laugh. “The idea clearly came from me, and I promise, Dag, I’m all man.”
Mel bristled, and I shot her a sideways glance to keep her still.
Wait a minute… Perhaps my take-down of Carmichael Burns should consist of killing with kindness. Everyone in the office understood the way to Carmichael’s heart—telling him exactly what he wanted to hear.
I smiled my sweetest smile and said, in my most adorable tone, “Yeah, I think I see what you’re getting at. So, you took control of the situation like a man and told her that she’d get a promotion if she slept with you? That’s why you’re the boss.”
He pointed at me. “Finally, you’re fucking figuring out life. I knew you had potential. It took me canning you to really bring out the best in you, but then again, I knew that.”
“Canning me because I was too naive to sleep with you?”
“I can see you’re learning. I think it’s fantastic the way you took that guy…Mahatma, for a ride. Although that blubbering thing was… Well, I guess you can’t take all the girl out of the girl. And who would want to?” He bestowed us with a wink. “Men are men, women are women. You can borrow some of our traits, but you still need to act like a lady.” His massive head nodded. “The book can talk about applying things learned from men for business, but keeping it womanly at home. No guy wants to sleep with a bitchy boss. There’s a place for everything.”
By this point, Lillian’s mouth hung wide open.
Carmichael scratched at his belly. “I don’t really like the whole ‘mistake’ concept, though. Women need to keep their shit together. If you’re anything less than ideal at work or at home, you’ll fall further behind than you already are. It’s a self-improvement book, after all. You’re trying to improve women.”
I nodded. “You’re right. But what about men’s mistakes?”
He laughed. “Dagmar, you’re cute. Women are so much more forgiving than men. You’re better than us!” There went that wink again, with a side of casual sexism.
Lillian swallowed—no doubt around the bad taste in her mouth. “Uh, well, we’ll take what you’ve said here and…and think about it. I’ll email you the auction details.”
“You’re the hot bitches in town right now,” he said, addressing me and Mel, “but don’t get caught up in it. You need a star to really make a breakout book. You need me. I can bring you the male readership you desperately need. I’m seeing you, Dag, on the cover. Bikini and neck tie. Six-Hundred-Sixty-Six Ways to Succeed Like a Man (While Being the Ultimate Woman). Like it?”
Mel choked on her own spit.
I stood. “Oh, I love it, Carmichael. I’ll start a diet today.”
He stood. “Good! For every ten pounds, you’ll go up a slot on the NYT. Remember, my experience is worth at least quadruple the bid I make.”
We made our way outside and stood on the sidewalk, gob-freaking-smacked.
“So”—I turned to Lillian—“we’ll wait until he’s made an offer to tell the CEO and board that he admitted to trading a position for sex with an underling, right? And also that he fired me for not doing so? We can send them the recording.” I held up my phone. “After all, women are supposed to be helpful!”
Lillian rubbed her hands together. “Why, yes! I think it’s only right to let them know why they won’t be getting this holiday’s nonfic bestselling title.”
“Provided Dag drops two hundred pounds,” Mel joked.
“I’ll stop eating immediately and for all of time,” I promised.
As one, we threw our heads back and cackled. Dagmar, Melanie, Lillian—The Witch Bitch Coven of Publishing.
Lillian wrapped her arms around our waists, me on one side, Mel on the other. “Ladies, I feel honored that you chose me to run around town and cause trouble with.”
I squeezed her back. “You are a welcome addition to the coven.”
Mel said, “Lillian, you don’t know the half of it.”
Her eyebrows rose. “I bet. Dag, I cannot believe you goaded him into saying all that.”
I turned to face them both. “His ego is the size of Jupiter. You can’t imagine the stuff he says to his inner circle. Enough drugs and sexual harassment to choke a coke-head horse.”
We parted ways then with a promise to have a call at the end of the day to begin parsing interested parties and go to auction. That way we would see all the bids, with the final choice being ours.
I worked, worked, worked, didn’t eat—
497. Because of emotions, not bikini cover
498. Which would never happen
Worked, and worked some more. Anything not to stew about you know who. Not to send my itchy fingers to my phone to text him. To email him. The struggle lasted through every minute—tick email him, tock think of another way to say sorry, tick I loved him, tock maybe today he’d unblocked me?
Finally, I asked Latisha to take my phone away. I couldn’t be trusted.
499. Obviously
Sometimes I would sit there and edit, tears streaming down my face.
500. My poor Latisha
501. What a shitty surprise I turned out to be
502. She’d probably request a transfer to a toilet stall
503. It couldn’t possibly stink worse than I