Lisa had been stationed outside George Green’s office for over an hour, yet there’d been no sign of the notorious ad man. In fact, there’d been no sign of anyone, and she was beginning to hope that George was away on vacation, or out of town on business, or trapped under something heavy. Then she remembered the earthquake victims and cringed. Not even George deserved that. She settled for stuck at the dentist, getting a root canal.
A year ago, she would have been thrilled to get inside the hallowed halls of Burnam & Green, or B&G, as everyone in the know referred to it. However, this morning she’d been so mortified by being in the same building as George that she’d barely noticed the architectural marvel. She only dimly recalled the atrium held aloft by massive, reclaimed Douglas fir beams, and the graceful skylights that flooded the space with a warm glow.
She’d once aspired to join this moneyed, hipster cult. Now that she was here, all Lisa wanted to do was run away. Temporary Heroes had been good to her, and assured her they’d help her find a full-time job once she’d finished her degree, if that ever happened. Her art school had been closed for months. She’d heard nothing from them but vague assurances they’d reopen as soon as repairs were complete.
A man stepped out of the elevator. Lisa peeked from behind her computer monitor and to her immense relief, saw that it wasn’t George. Leaning back in her chair, she eased her shoulders down and looked cautiously at the first visitor to the sixth floor she’d seen all day.
Typical ad agency creative, thought Lisa. She’d seen plenty in her months as a temp, and they were all starting to blur together in their banal faux-eccentricity. He was another white male
thirty-something pretending to be twenty-something in raw denim jeans and a See See Motorcycle hoody. The man wore a precisely trimmed mustache and looked overly caffeinated and utterly full of himself. Walking directly toward her, he kept his eyes locked on his phone the entire distance. He stopped and glanced up just before colliding with her desk.
“Where’s the other girl?” he demanded.
Lisa flushed with irritation at his tone. Why were all agency types such assholes, she thought. She took another deep breath, willing herself to not be intimidated, and answered with a shrug. “I don’t know.”
He sighed loudly. “Seriously? The girl from yesterday? How can she not be here?”
“I’m sorry, I really have no idea. I’m a temp.”
“A temp,” he repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. “Well, that’s just great. She almost seemed capable of getting shit done.” He went back to staring at his phone, tapping quickly. “How is George today?” he asked, gritting his teeth.
“No idea. I don’t think he’s in his office.”
“Oh, he’s in there. Rumor has it, George hasn’t left the building in weeks,” he said with raised eyebrows. “We think he’s living here.”
“Really?” Lisa asked. She had been too nervous to take in much of her surroundings. Now as she glanced around the lobby, she saw there were only two offices, a small kitchenette, and a door marked WC. Looking toward George’s office, she realized if she leaned far enough in her chair, she could just see through his clear glass door.
Lisa cringed and her heart started pounding. She could see George. He’d been in his office this whole time. She looked more closely and realized the creative genius behind Burnam & Green sat at his desk with his head buried in his arms, crying.
She turned back to the man. “I can confirm Mr. Green is in his office, and he appears to be weeping.”
The creative rolled his eyes. “Will this company ever get real leadership?” He dropped a folder on Lisa’s desk. “George needs to review this presentation. We’re meeting with the client at eleven.”
“You’re welcome to check in with him directly. Just head on in. I’m not going to stop you,” said Lisa with a sweep of her hand.
He looked deeply uncomfortable with this suggestion. “Why can’t you give it to him?”
“No. I don’t do that,” said Lisa, the panic rising in her voice. “That’s not in my job description.”
The man leaned over, looked in the office and watched as George’s shoulders heaved with sobs. “You’re a temp. Everything is in your job description. I’ll be back soon. Make sure George is ready to go. The client asked for him personally.”
Lisa watched helplessly as the creative walked back to the elevator and stabbed at the down button with his index finger.
“Can I at least get your name?” she called out to him.
“Steve.” In a moment, the elevator dinged its arrival, and the creative disappeared.
Lisa rubbed her temples. Why does this keep happening to me, she thought. She picked up her phone and tapped Jamie’s number. At least she could laugh about this with her best friend. The phone rang once, twice, and then went to voicemail. Disappointed, she hung up without leaving a message.
She tried to remind herself that she’d been through so much worse. Today she’d face whatever chaos the universe decided to throw at her. If that meant seeing George again, bring it on. He probably wouldn’t even recognize her. Her hair was shorter now, and she was dressed in understated business casual, the polar opposite of the sparkly gold cocktail dress she’d worn on that fateful night last summer.
Feeling the tiniest bit more confident, Lisa picked up the presentation and stood. She’d hand the folder to George, along with a big cup of coffee. Then, she’d head right back to her desk and hide behind the giant monitor. He wouldn’t even have time to remember her, Lisa assured herself.
She walked to the kitchenette and assessed the upscale equipment. Fortunately, it featured the same upmarket coffee machine that her mother had at home. It ate small metal pods filled with coffee grounds and spit out espresso. Lisa fed the machine three until she had a full cup. Presentation tucked under her arm and coffee cup in hand, she steadied her nerves and walked to George’s door. With a jolt, she saw that his desk was empty. He couldn’t have snuck by her. How could he have escaped? Frantically, she craned her neck and scanned the vast corner office. Finally, she spotted him. George had moved to a large sofa along the far wall and was lying down with his back to her, his knees tucked up.
Knocking lightly on the door, she waited. Nothing. No movement, no sound. What if he’s passed out, she thought. She noted a fifth of bourbon and a collection of prescription bottles sitting on the coffee table next to the sofa. Suicide attempt? No. The George she’d met last summer was far too much of a narcissist to kill himself.
She pushed the door open a crack. “Mr. Green?”
He didn’t respond.
She spoke more loudly, “Mr. Green, are you awake?”
“Yes? Who’s there?” George sat up. His expression was hopeful. “Has Sue called?” Lisa could see he held a framed photo clasped to his chest. It was of George and Sue on their wedding day.
“No, Mr. Green, I’m sorry. Your wife hasn’t called.” Lisa cleared a small space on the cluttered coffee table and set down the cup. “I brought you some coffee.”
He looked at it suspiciously and grabbed the liquor bottle instead. He pulled the top off and took a swig.
Lisa counted to three before he finally stopped drinking and set down the now empty bottle. She looked George over. The man was a mess. His button-down shirt and jeans were rumpled and had obviously been slept in. His hair was peppered with more gray than she remembered, and his five o’clock shadow was a few days old. She couldn’t imagine that a cup of coffee was going to be enough to prop him up for a client meeting. What he needed was a shot of adrenaline to the heart.
“The team needs you to review this for a meeting at eleven. It’s offsite so you should be ready to leave soon,” said Lisa. She handed him the presentation.
He gently set down the wedding photo, then took the folder from her. He flipped through the pages. “We’ve been trying to get face time with these pricks for weeks,” said George, rubbing his eyes. “With the earthquake keeping us offline for so long, most of our big clients have jumped ship, so we had to go local. Never thought I’d be begging them for work. Then out of the blue, boom, we get the call. I should be celebrating. But I . . .” He paused for a long moment. “I don’t think I’ll ever celebrate again.” George stood and turned to face the floor to ceiling glass windows of his office. They overlooked the city, currently obscured by rain and fog. “I don’t care about anything anymore. It’s all so meaningless without Sue. She was my angel. My rock.” George looked back at Lisa, his eyes bright, his face yearning for her to understand. “She won’t even talk to me. It’s been months.”
“How about that coffee?” Lisa suggested. “It’s chock full of stimulating caffeine.”
“I love Sue more than anything. I have to win her back. I started a list.” He pointed at one of his glass walls, covered in scribbles of erasable ink.
Lisa knew she shouldn’t linger. She’d delivered the presentation and told him about the meeting. But she couldn’t help herself. Morbid curiosity got the better of her. And in this state, George seemed so harmless. She walked to the wall and saw in the middle of some other illegible scrawls a neatly written list titled “How to Save My Marriage.”
Holy shit, she thought. Did he make one of the other temps draft this?
The list stated in bold letters, “Buy flowers. Do the dishes. Take out the garbage. Happy wife = happy life. Compromise. Compromise. Compromise. Be better at communicating my needs.”
Lisa picked up a black Sharpie from a pile of pens on a large conference table. She glanced back at George to make sure he wasn’t watching her. She needn’t have worried. He was gazing intently at his wedding photo again, tears streaming down his face.
She quickly added to the list: “Stop cheating. Leaving the scene of a hit-and-run is a crime. Organic coke is not a health food.”
Satisfied, Lisa returned the permanent marker to the pile and headed toward the door. “Okay, well, I better get back to my desk. Good luck with the meeting,” she said.
“Wait,” said George. He wiped the tears from his eyes with his shirt sleeve, then sat up and looked at her more closely. “Do I know you?” he asked.
She stepped quickly toward the door and said over her shoulder, “No. I’m just a temp. We’ve never met. Ever.”
George jumped up from the sofa. “You!” He pointed his finger at her. “You’re the mayor’s daughter, Lisa.”
“I should really go. I need to be at my desk in case the phone rings. Sue might call,” she added hopefully.
“Did Sue put you up to this? Is this some kind of a test?” George asked. “She still cares. I knew it.” He beamed with joy.
Lisa almost didn’t have the heart to crush his hopes. Almost. “No, Sue didn’t send me. My temp agency randomly assigned me this job.”
“There is nothing random about this,” said George, his shoulders slumping. “It’s the universe punishing me.”
Lisa shrugged. “Probably.”
George’s face fell. He collapsed back down on the sofa, overwhelmed with sobs.
Wonderful, thought Lisa. She looked around the office for some way to drag George out of his funk. She walked to his desk. One side of it was heaped with self-help books. He must have emptied out Powell Books’ entire relationships section. She glanced at a few of the titles: A Manual for the Unfaithful, Idiots Guide to Surviving Separation, and Out of the Doghouse: The Step-by-Step Guide for Men Caught Cheating. Several were bookmarked with post-it notes and a few lay open with passages highlighted in neon pink and yellow. At least he’s doing his homework, she thought. She pulled her phone from her back pocket and snapped a photo, thinking how much Jamie would enjoy seeing the wreckage of George’s marriage.
Then, behind the pile, she saw it. A framed photo of Sue was partially obscured by the clutter on George’s desk. Lisa picked up the picture for a closer look. Sue was posed on Cannon Beach with the iconic Haystack Rock hulking in the background. Hands on hips, all severe lines and low body fat, she looked at the camera—and presumably at George behind it—with a look that said George, this beach, the state of Oregon, the Pacific Ocean, and the world could all go to hell.
Over the last few months, Lisa had peeked at Sue’s social media. Okay, maybe more than a peek, she admitted grimly. It was amazing what one could learn from a few hundred selfies. Lisa visualized starving herself every day in a house full of food, going to yoga, then Pilates, then suffering through painful beauty treatments, all to look perfect for a cheating husband. Sue would be hungry, angry, and wouldn’t tolerate George’s pity party for a second. Be mad like Sue, she thought.
“George. Get up,” Lisa said, in what she hoped was a stern, no-nonsense voice.
George kept crying.
“George. Get up now.”
“Why should I?” he wailed.
“George. Your team will be here in fifteen, no,” she glanced at her phone, “Ten minutes. Ten minutes, George. They are expecting you be prepared to present to the client. The client who asked for you personally.”
George looked up. “Present what?”
“Are you kidding me?” she said, keeping her tone stern. She walked over and picked up the folder from the coffee table. “This.” She handed it to him.
He took it and started leafing through the pages again.
“You are totally unprepared,” she continued. “You’re going to humiliate yourself. Is that what you want, George? To be humiliated in front of your staff? And in front of a potential client? A client that you desperately need to save this sad excuse of an ad agency?” She was kind of enjoying herself. Then she saw his terrified expression and realized she’d probably gone far enough.
“What time is the meeting?” he asked.
“In an hour.”
“Shit.” He sat up straight. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Those idiots. I can’t believe they’re trying to pass off these crap logos again. It’s the third time they’ve tried to fit them into a pitch.”
George set down the folder. He knelt down and pulled a suitcase out from under the sofa, and started rifling through it.
Wow. Steve with the mustache was right. George has been living out of his office. That’s so sad, she thought, looking forward to sharing this juicy tidbit with Jamie.
George pulled a toiletry bag from the suitcase, then stood and stepped behind the sofa, opening a hidden closet door in the corner. Hanging neatly inside were sports jackets, distressed jeans and a collection of bright sneakers—George’s standard uniform. He pulled out a few items, then opened another door into a full bathroom.
Lisa watched in fascination. His office was huge.
“Get the team up here now,” he said.
“Who should I call?” she asked, grabbing his desk phone.
“Everyone,” he called from the bathroom. She could hear water running.
With the help of the very competent Sharon at the front desk, Lisa managed to track down Steve with the mustache and the rest of the team. After several frantic minutes of calls and texts, Steve, two Mikes, and a Chris had assembled around the conference table in George’s office.
She knocked on the bathroom door. “George, the team’s here.”
The door opened and George stepped out. He was clean shaven, and his salt and pepper hair was neatly combed. He wore a pale blue shirt with French cuffs and silver cuff-links, a gray sports jacket, and jeans. His neon yellow sneakers would have been an abomination on anyone else, but somehow, he managed to pull the look off.
He stormed into the room and started yelling. “Why isn’t the presentation on screen? What is this, the aughts? Why are you idiots still printing this shit?”
The flock of creatives scurried to find the right connections and dongles. In moments, the presentation was up on a massive flat screen monitor.
“We need to drive faster acceleration, not boil the ocean,” yelled George. “Trash the logos and move the social strategy to section one. It’s the strongest piece we have.”
He continued. Lisa recognized only a fraction of the jargon and acronyms he tossed out, but after thirty minutes of proclaiming loudly that he was still unhappy, that the work was shit, and that he should fire the lot of them, he acceded that it would do for now.
“Sharon called the car service,” Lisa told George as he followed the rest of team towards the elevator. “The drivers should be downstairs waiting. Good luck.”
“You’re coming to the meeting,” he said.
She shook her head and said firmly, “No, I’m not.”
“That wasn’t a question. I need the moral support.”
“What about them?” she said, pointing to the creatives.
“They’re a bunch of assholes. You, Lisa,” George said, as he stepped uncomfortably close to her. “You, I can trust.”
Lisa took a step back. She thought she’d had it under control, but now she saw she’d gone too far. She should have left George a sad and pathetic puddle of a man.
George spoke, his voice low. “We know too much about each other. You’re going to help me pull my life back together. You’re going to help me win back Sue. In return, I’ll keep your secrets safe.”
His swagger back, George walked past her and stabbed at the elevator call button. “Drinks on me after. Vodka martini, up with olives, right?”
“Nope,” she said glumly. “I’m off martinis.”