In lieu of the surgery, I book a screening at NY3C, the alternate path for a high-risk cancer patient. I am increasingly distraught as the date arrives, certain something will be found, a punishment for my cowardice. Nothing. I’m perfectly healthy, which is its own complicated diagnosis. If I’m in such good health, why consider a life-changing procedure? A hard, angry part of me is almost disappointed. My worst self wants to get sick, just so everyone can feel really fucking bad about not coming through for me.
I go through the motions with Clean Clothes, giving the lion’s share of the work to Suzy-from-Texas, our other outfit curator. Vivian’s in San Francisco for a conference and investor meetings; we haven’t talked face-to-face in weeks. The next time Steph and I have one of our cheap-and-cheerful dinners, I tell her about Cooper but play down how much it crushed me. “Probably for the best” and “easy come, easy go” are both phrases that come out of my mouth. When Steph tries to dig deeper, I change the topic.
I throw myself into work, keeping my sales numbers high even through the dog days of summer. I do what I should’ve been doing this whole time: refocus on the fashion editor position, bombarding Eloise with textbook-perfect reports, being sure to CC Patricia. My one on fashion influencers in the Middle East is so good, I’m asked to present it in-house. It goes well, and Patricia decides to put it on the site, for paying customers.
“You look surprised,” Patricia says.
“Well, yeah,” I manage. “The standards for editorial are as high as Miley Cyrus on any given day.”
Patricia chuckles. I trust she knows I’m actually quite fond of the wily Ms. Miley. My boss has a laser-sharp ability to know when to laugh at a joke and when to hook the dreaded eyebrow of disapproval. It’s part of what makes her such a successful member of the upper echelon: Patricia has taste, in people, as well as in things.
* * * *
One day later, Eloise’s assistant sends me a meeting invite. Just me and Eloise, in her office. It has to be about the job. One step closer. I dress as carefully as one defuses a bomb. At the last second, I add the gold Miu Miu headband that Eloise gifted me when I first started. Full circle.
I haven’t been in her office since I was an intern. As I take a seat opposite her, I try not to stare at the gorgeous black-and-white photographs of Paris street scenes, the 1920s silk nightgown hanging on a satin coat hanger, the tall bunch of white roses. Every detail, perfect.
Behind her desk, her stomach blooms like an overripe heirloom underneath a tight white bodysuit. She looks fantastic. Naturally, Eloise understands all the implicit rules of modern pregnancy: be beautiful, not sexy. Talk of cravings is okay; talk of placenta and shitting yourself on the delivery table is not. Love every single second of it and never, ever complain. She caresses her belly gently as she gazes at me from behind her desk. “Patricia thinks you’re the right fit for my job.”
Patricia has talked to Eloise about me. I try to make my rehearsed words sound natural and genuine. “I am so excited about this opportunity and I really feel that—”
She cuts me off with a little wave of her hand. “I don’t agree. I don’t think you’re a fit.”
I’m thrown. I wait for clarification or an amendment. Nothing. Unease seeps into my stomach. “Well, I’ve . . . I’ve been here for three years.”
“I know. I checked your file. Patricia does like an underdog.” Her gaze is curious. Cold. “I just had no idea how much that would blind her.”
I’m taking small, shallow breaths. “What?”
“I’m going to be frank. You don’t have the pedigree, taste, or composure to be a fashion editor at Hoffman House. Your taste is colorful but parochial. You’ve shown no real commitment to this place.” She taps a piece of paper on her desk: my résumé. “You never did an MBA. You’ve never even attended a conference or a course outside the city. For you, fashion is a foreign language. You speak it conversationally. But you’ll never be a native like me and the members of my team.”
My jaw works, opening and shutting. My vision swims. I can’t conjure a response.
“I really believe in this place,” she continues, her gaze fixed on me. “I respect it, as much as I respect my own reputation. And I’m telling you: you will buckle. You probably think I’m being mean, but honestly, Lucy, I’m doing you a favor. You don’t have what it takes.”
She called me Lucy. She doesn’t even know my name. I make myself respond. “I . . . I . . .”
“Yes? What?”
“I’m right for this job. I believe I’m qualified.”
She shrugs simply. “I don’t. I know it’s ultimately Patricia’s call, but when we talk, I’ll have to be honest. The members of my team know how I feel.”
I stare at her. Frozen.
She looks pointedly at the door, then back at me. This is over.
With limbs that feel waterlogged and a rapidly pin-holing vision, I make it back to my cubicle. I’m panting. My hands leave sweat marks on my desk. I rip the headband off so fast I pull strands of hair from my head. I walk to the nearest window and in one easy motion, toss the headband onto the street below. It arcs gracefully, like a glittering, falling star.