This morning, I was up before Tom and Trina to try to knock out a storage unit before heading back into the city for my lunch interview with the VP from Polar House.
I’m running on very little sleep—couch sleep at that—and the more I throw random things into Brutus, the more I’m regretting my morning choices. Somehow, the prospect of showing up to lunch reeking of stale old newspapers and moth-eaten clothes with giant bags under my eyes doesn’t seem like the greatest first impression I could make.
CiCi, goddess that she is, appears around nine with a latte in exchange for all the details from the night before.
“I can’t believe you gave him that check,” she says, wrinkling her nose at a bag of shoes that look as though they were worn to death before being tossed in here. I see one in particular with duct tape keeping the sole attached.
“I wasn’t going to keep it,” I say with a sigh. “It’s practically blood money.”
“Okay, I hear you,” she says, rubbing her palms on her pants, “but you’re killing yourself digging through other people’s ancient trash for five thousand, and that was a heck of a lot more, hon.”
I peek into a box and see stacks of old magazines. “There is nothing I could have spent that money on that wouldn’t have wound up screaming at me, ‘Tell-Tale Heart’ style, for the rest of my life.”
“It’s not like you haven’t earned it,” she says, sitting on the open bed flap of Brutus. “You could have considered it compensation for humiliation and suffering.”
The sound of Darth Vader’s breathing emanates from my pocket, and I pull out my phone with a snarl.
Lunch today. Meet me at the theatre at noon and we will leave from there.
“Fuck!” I shout. I see CiCi jump out of the corner of my eye.
“What?” she shrieks.
“The sadist wants lunch! What the hell!?”
“Nooooooo!” CiCi gasps. “He can’t do that! Not today!”
“No,” I growl, “he can’t.” I start typing.
Sorry, Your Majesty, I have plans.
He writes back instantly. Yes, you do. Lunch. With me. Meet at the theatre at noon.
My heart is in my throat, and I start to panic. I can’t even find the breath to explain to CiCi before I’m hitting CALL.
“What?” is his charming greeting.
“I seriously can’t come at noon,” I say into the phone, trying my best to control the desperation in my voice and failing miserably. “I have a job interview, and I can’t miss it or reschedule this close.”
“Our arrangement isn’t about convenience to you, if you’ll recall,” he says. I can hear him moving around, and I am horrified and annoyed that he’s just going about his day while he’s in the process of ruining my life.
“I can meet you after,” I beg, despite myself. “Seriously, I will go wherever you need me to go after the interview, but I can’t cancel this, Caspian.”
“Oh, I’m ‘Caspian’ now? What happened to ‘Your Majesty’ and all your other flattering nicknames?”
CiCi’s watching me with captivated curiosity. I flash her what I assume is the look of someone pre-stroke.
“Look, we have our mutual hate, and that’s great and all, but I’m not canceling this interview. I need this job. You can’t make me do this.”
“You can’t possibly need the job that badly if you were able to so generously hand over your hard-earned tabloid money to me,” he says, and my stomach drops. “Our arrangement stands. Noon.”
The line goes dead.
“Oh my god,” I yelp.
“He can’t be serious!” CiCi yells.
“Why, why did I have to be such a sassy snot about that check with him last night?” I wail. “What did I think was going to happen when he saw my name on it?” My email chimes, and I clutch my phone so tightly I worry I may crack the screen. “Please, oh please, let this be Mara from Polar emailing to say something came up and she can’t meet me until dinner or tomorrow.”
It’s the promised email from Donna Miller at McEnroe with the job offer details.
“Is it from Polar?” CiCi asks, reading over my shoulder.
“No,” I groan, scanning the email. “McEnroe. Figures I’d get an offer at a place suffering from Caspian fever.”
I feel CiCi shrug. “I mean, at least the money isn’t terrible?”
I shake my head violently. “This is as good as that check from yesterday. It’s got Tiddle-stench all over it.”
“Yeah, but I still think you should have kept that check, so I’m kind of not against you taking this job.”
I tuck my phone in my pocket and turn to her. “No way. I want a job offer because I earned it, not because of—” I freeze, a horrible thought forming. “Oh Jesus.”
“What?”
“What if Polar is like McEnroe? What if the only reason they contacted me at all is because they heard about Caspian?”
CiCi blinks at me for a good fifteen seconds. “No way,” she insists, but her tone suggests less than solid resolve. “You said it yourself—you’re great at what you do. If they saw your résumé at all, they would know that. That’s why they want to interview you.”
“Oh my god,” I whimper. “I don’t think I could stand it if Polar is all star-fuckery, too. What if I stand up Caspian for this interview and it ends up being exactly like McEnroe and then I’m still unemployed and he goes to the police, CiCi?”
I can see the wheels turning in her head, and as much as she is trying to look resolute, doubt is written all over her face. “No. It’s not even a possibility a place like Polar would even give a shit about someone like Caspian. They’ve published presidents and stars way bigger than him. I bet real money they don’t even know about the two of you, and even if they did, they wouldn’t care in the slightest.” Now she’s starting to look convinced of her own monologue. “You definitely need to go to this interview, because they are going to be blown away by the awesome that is you, and Tiddleswich can go fuck himself.”
“I can’t argue about him needing to go fuck himself,” I say, pulling my phone back out to check the time. “But the rest of that has yet to be proven. And shit, I need to lock all this up if I’m going to have time to wash the unit stink off me and make it into Midtown by noon.”
“For your interview, right?” she asks, gathering our empty cups and throwing them into Brutus as I jog out of the unit and pull the sliding door back down. “You have to go to it. You can’t let him mess with your career like that.”
I mean to nod, but instead it comes off as a weird spinning combination of yes and no.
“Look,” she says, walking over to the driver’s side of Brutus, “I’ll drop you off back at Tom’s and take the truck over, because that will give you more time to focus on getting ready for your interview. Deal?”
My head continues to spin.
I’d hoped that showering and getting dressed in my chosen blazer would give me the time and confidence I needed to stop panicking about whether or not it’s worth it to blow off Caspian to meet with Mara, but nope. As I walk up the steps from the train station, my body is fighting itself trying to decide which way to head once I hit the sidewalk.
Every minute, I think I’ve reached peak internal hate for Caspian Tiddleswich, but it just continues to build.
I stand off to the side of the steps, making sure not to get trampled by lunchtime commuters, and realize it’s time to woman up, here. I’ve gone round and round inside my head about all the possible horrible endings my choice here could lead to, but ultimately, I know what I have to do.
Feeling as though I may puke right here on the sidewalk, I head in the direction of lunch with the Polar VP. As I walk, my mind can’t stop picturing my heinous drill sergeant, who is likely sitting in a Broadway theater at this very moment, watching the clock and gleefully counting down the minutes until he can call the cops and have me thrown in whatever prison caters to the whims of the rich and depraved.
I take as many deep breaths as my lungs will allow and try to ready myself mentally for the meeting. I’ve dreamed of interviewing with Polar House since I was a wee baby editorial intern back in the day. As much as he’s succeeding at destroying everything else good in my world at the moment, I refuse to let Caspian sink this opportunity for me before I even meet the woman.
Then it occurs to me that a job offer from the house of my dreams will mean very little if I’m stuck rotting away in a jail cell, and the panic surges once again.
I find the restaurant and make my way inside. The hostess smiles at me. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. I’m meeting someone,” I manage to croak. “Do you know if Mara Aaronovich is here yet?”
“Clara!” a voice calls out. I see my interviewer stand up from a booth off to the side of the restaurant and wave. I slap on a professional grin and wave back.
The hostess guides me over to the table and sets a menu down. “Your server will be right with you,” she says and leaves us to it.
“Mara,” I say, reaching out to shake her hand. “It’s a pleasure.”
“That’s very mutual,” she replies as I take my seat. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”
“Not at all!” I say, pleased with how confident I sound. I may never be as good at putting on airs as Caspian, but at least I’ve managed to drown my nerves and residual fear for the time being.
Mara Aaronovich is a very sleek woman. She’s got gorgeous dark, curly hair that’s smoother than any curl has a right to be, which is pulled halfway back and out of her face. Her suit looks perfectly tailored, and I can safely assume she didn’t have to iron the hell out of it after digging it out of a suitcase from the bottom of her brother’s coat closet.
I pour myself a glass of water from the gleaming glass pitcher on the table, and Mara launches into a thoughtful welcome and tells me a bit about Polar.
“You’re having a heck of a year,” I say, taking a sip of water. “If I’m remembering right, you’ve got four of the top ten YA bestsellers this week, yes?”
She lets out a humble laugh. “We’ve got a great team, and some incredible authors, it’s true.”
“I’m honored to even be considered for that team,” I say truthfully. My Caspian nerves aside, I’m struggling a bit to keep myself from fangirling all over my menu.
“From what I hear,” Mara says, taking a sip of what looks like iced tea, “you’re having quite a year, yourself.”
I nod a bit solemnly. “Yeah, it was really sad to see my old imprint eaten up by a company whose main contribution to society seems to be free overnight shipping, but things happen.”
“Well, yes, that,” she says with a light chuckle, “but I was referring to your personal life as well!”
My hand freezes halfway to my water glass. “I’m sorry?”
Mara smiles. “I don’t mean to pry,” she says, leaning forward with a conspiratorial look. “But do you know if Mr. Tiddleswich is writing anything new right now? I know young adult wasn’t the genre for his short story collection, but honestly, I thought his writing was incredibly versatile. I believe he could easily create some amazing content for kids if he was interested.”
“You’re asking me if I could get Caspian to consider writing YA?”
She chuckles again, and my heart falls right into my shoes. “Trust me, we are very willing to be flexible. Any of our imprints would be thrilled to look at whatever he wants to work on.”
I feel like I’m trapped on a roller coaster and I’m about to hit a giant loop, but I can see the track is missing halfway through the turn, and there’s nothing I can do to get out of the car.
Our waitress appears as I try to remember how breathing works. “Hi, there! My name is Nicole,” she announces. “Are you ladies ready to order, or do you need some more time?”
I realize my hand is still frozen in midair, halfway to my water.
“I’m...” I stammer, letting my hand drop to the table. Mara is still staring at me with her professional smile intact, and I use every molecule of my person that I still have control over to muster a poker face. Somehow, I think collapsing into a screaming tantrum about how Caspian Tiddleswich irreparably fucks up anything he comes into contact with isn’t the career-boosting move I need to make right now. “I’m gonna need a minute.”