Citizen Girl (23 page)

The following morning I jostle my way off the M23 cross-town and plod up Eleventh, armed with every bit of gratitude-evidence I could shake down from Julia.
It felt great – Julia’s face – everyone clapping
. I give the security guard my morning nod.
Then it felt awful – the forced photos – the uncashable check
. I squeeze onto the elevator.
And now it just feels desperate
. The door opens on ten.
Because it is. This has just got to be the binder to end all binders. It has to knock Guy’s fucking socks off
. I push into the bright office.
And he will not fire me. I will give him no opening, no opportunity, not a single window to point his pruny finger in my face and hiss—

‘Girl.’

I bolt around to find Guy glowering in my face. ‘Hi! How are you? You’re here! You’re back!’ I slide the bags onto my desk, shakily stepping against it to distance myself from his glare. ‘So, good flight? Good trip? Good business?’

‘You’re being —’

‘Guy, I’ve gathered everything you wanted from Magdalene,’ I breathlessly pre-empt him. ‘I’ve got the
presentation right here. You sit right down. I’m going to—’

‘Promoted,’ he spits.

‘Sorry?’

‘To Vice President,’ he continues in the same jarringly hostile tone. ‘That’s a twenty per cent increase effective today.’

‘Promoted … thank you —’

‘Fifteen thousand bonus if you stay on for thirty more days.’

‘I don’t know what to say …’

‘Don’t say anything. I want you in this meeting immediately.’ Guy stalks off to his office, the sun reflected off the river giving his figure a nuclear glow. Sucker-punched, I drop my coat and reach for my yellow pad, locking eyes with Stacey.

‘He did say “promoted”, right?’ I ask, his words and tenor jousting in my head.

‘Yes,’ she says curtly, still typing.

‘I wasn’t expecting that.’ I sit down in a daze onto my coat.

‘Uh-huh.’

Vice President …

‘I know,’ Stacey continues. ‘It’s not like you’ve done all that much.’

‘Sorry?’ I look back to her as she studies her screen with a pinched expression.

‘To be promoted, I mean.’

‘Well, maybe not in the last week, but I’ve had a lot on my plate since I got here.’

‘Of course.’ She nods, swiveling her monitor and torso away from me as much as her desk will allow.

I have. I have had a very full plate. And I’ve hit every mark he’s asked me to and he did behave totally inappropriately and why the hell not?! Why
not
Vice President?!

‘Girl! Now!’ Guy yells.

I charge my VP self up the three steps and into his office, where I find him angling around an impeccably put-together man, late forties-ish, seated at the table by the window, his legs crossed primly at the knee. ‘Still have your place in Southampton?’ Guy asks as he struggles with the blind cords. ‘Seline keeps nagging me about driving out to nab a rental for the summer.’

‘Oh, no,
much
too crowded.’ The man widens his taut eyes, their youthfulness betrayed by his budding wattles. ‘I got the house on the Vineyard when Mother died, so Tad and I are up to the family crest in renovations.’

The wooden slats drop open with a crash. ‘The Vineyard – yeah, of course,’ Guy recovers. ‘This is Girl.’ He indicates my presence without turning around and, even though I stand here as Vice President and am wearing the most powerful of my new power suits, I still feel like I’m dripping in a towel.

The man places his subtly manicured hands on the table, his gray summer-weight wool suit sleeve pulling up to reveal a David Yurman ensemble of cufflinks, watch and ring. He smiles politely, looking me over with a sniff.

‘Hello,’ I say, taking a seat across from him.

‘This is Jeffrey.’ Guy joins us at the table. ‘Friend of
Rex here to lend a hand.’ Jeffrey’s face flattens into a tolerant cast.

‘Oh, great.’ I lean back, cross my legs, and square my shoulders, instinctively needing to take up more space. ‘Welcome!’

Jeffrey smiles wryly, his eyebrows rising enough to lift his meticulously tussled salt-and-pepper hair. ‘Thank you, Girl,’ he murmurs with the slightest undercurrent of sarcasm.

I hate him.

‘Jeffrey’s here to make sure this whole thing stays on track. He’s
the
brand man —’

‘Eighty-six the intro,’ the vestiges of a New England lockjaw audible beneath his Beverly Hills locution. ‘Let’s just get on with it, shall we?’

‘Sure. So, Girl, let’s get an overview.’

An overview … Let’s see … I’m an unfireable incompetent psychobitch who shouldn’t mean/feel/think anything. And Vice President. ‘Yes. From which juncture?’

‘From the beginning, Girl,’ Jeffrey says, his nostrils flaring to accentuate his equine profile.

‘Of course.’ I begin to recite the original
Ms. Magazine
pitch, while carefully trying to avoid using the actual words ‘
Ms. Magazine
’, and triggering the implosion of Guy’s head. ‘After years spent answering women’s beauty questions, My Company wanted to rebrand from serving a solely commercial purpose to serving a more socially conscious one. We began to explore a plan to align with a certain … someone —’

‘I don’t care for it.’ Jeffrey wrinkles his nose at Guy. ‘Too strident. Do you do anything else?’ He turns back to me.

Burp the alphabet? ‘Sorry?’

‘Any other bits?’

Guy, his face curdling, tosses me a copy of my 5 a.m. attempt at job salvation.

‘My proposal. Okay.’ I flip it open. ‘I began by conducting focus groups in the metropolitan area. The attendees fell into two camps. The first were self-identified feminists who feel alienated by the MC site, perceiving it to promulgate the commercial agenda, such as keeping women preoccupied with their weight rather than with their status and rights. The second group, the vast majority, frequent the MC site, and have reinterpreted liberation —’

‘This is the proposal?’ Jeffrey looks at Guy.

‘The bottom line, Girl.’

‘Um.’ I awkwardly scroll through the document, my mouth going dry as I confront what I proposed to save my own ass. ‘Essentially, we could bring the second, larger group material that validates what they already embrace so enthusiastically, reconfiguring and relabeling what some would call sexist content under a feminist banner, thus encouraging them to embrace the term …’ And I continue nauseously on, uninterrupted. On and on and on, through a list of ideas, which, upon hearing them out loud, should revoke my NOW card. Jeffrey slowly removes his glasses, sliding one tip into his mouth and nodding at me as if watching TV. Guy puckers his lips
and nods along with him, staring down at the table, elbows perched on his knees.

Jeffrey’s hand pats Guy’s. ‘She’s perfect.’

This shuts me up.

Jeffrey places his glasses gently on the table and fingers his open collar. ‘Perfect. Wherever did you find her?’

‘Thanks, yeah,’ Guy fluffs from the praise. ‘Some networking thing.’

‘Divine find. You certainly have the lingo down. And a size four, am I right? Just a few tweaks here and there and we’ll have an excellent show.’

‘Jeffrey, man, you’re like a breath of fresh air!’ Guy stretches up.

Sickened, I scramble to undo the damage. ‘But, Jeffrey, there’s a much more direct way of reaching our goal. I don’t know if Guy’s shared with you, but I’ve created an action plan for making the site
genuinely
compelling to actual feminists —’

‘Yeah, no. So.’ Jeffrey crosses his slim arms, his attention fixed on Guy. ‘What do woman want?’ he asks rhetorically, his eyes tracing an arc across the ceiling. This coming from a man whose life would clearly thrive without impact should every woman on earth simultaneously drop dead. ‘Fun,’ Jeffrey pronounces as he clasps his hands in an affected prayer. ‘They want fun, Girl. So no more of this dreary activist poo.’ Guy leans down and pats him on the back. ‘Just that part about the commercial stuff from now on. Nix the rest.’ Jeffrey slides his sleeve back to look at his watch. ‘Anything else for her in New York, Guy?’

‘Nope. Jeffrey’s office is in LA, so we’ll be heading back this afternoon for some major prep for the big client pitch. Cool?’

‘So, there’s a client?’ I ask, trying to recall the potential companies he mentioned at our first and only lunch. ‘Nike came through?’

‘Close. It’s an entirely female-run company, right up your alley.’ Jeffrey winks at me before turning back to Guy.

‘Sounds wonderful. Which company is that?’

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ Guy retorts, fighting to keep his reigning title as King of Vague.

‘Well, then.’ I stand. ‘Have a safe trip.’

Jeffrey smiles patiently. ‘No, Girl, you’re coming along. Be ready to leave by noon.’

‘Oh.’ My eyes dart out the window to the Nelson ball clock.

‘And, Girl,’ Jeffrey calls after me, ‘don’t forget your little yellow pad.’

One flailing trip home to stuff wrinkled summer clothes in a suitcase later, I twirl the spiral phone cord around my fingertip. Overwhelmed with self-loathing about what I’ve set in motion, I watch the cord cut off my circulation, and will Grace to pick up.

‘Chatsworth.’

‘Mom! Oh, I’m so glad to reach you!’

‘Okay, so you’re fired. Once again, not the end of the world —’

‘What? No – how do you —’

‘Jack said your “tush” was hanging in the balance.’

‘Gi-irl!’ Jeffrey calls out in a singsong from the front door. ‘We’re wai-ting!’

‘Chica?’

‘No, I’ve been promoted. And I got a raise.’

‘That’s
wonderful
! Congratulations.’

‘Thanks, yeah, I’m really excited.’

‘And what do they have you doing now?’

I’m Vice President of Ann Coulter’s Crack for Minors division. ‘More of the same, you know.’

‘And what does that mean, exactly?’

‘Gi-irl! Come on!’

‘Mom, sorry. I’m heading out to LA for work, but I just wanted to give you the good news. I know we haven’t talked in a while, but I’ll call soon. I promise.’

‘Okay, I really would feel better if I knew what it is that they’re paying you all this money to do.’

‘
Gi-irl
! For goodness’ sake!’ His back turned, Jeffrey is no doubt rolling his eyes at Guy, as if we’re heading out clubbing and I’m the roommate changing her bra for the third time.

‘I’ve got to go, Mom.’ I release the cord, my fingertip numb.

‘Oh, be sure to check out the Getty – what’s today? April … twenty-sixth? I think the Henry Moore show just opened.’

‘Yes, I’ll try —’

‘We miss you, chica.’

‘Me, too. Love you, bye.’ I hang up the receiver, hating myself.

*

Lightning cracks as we roll and scrape our luggage out of the building onto the dampening sidewalk. The limo driver hastily comes around the car to help us load in our bags before the sky opens. ‘Ugh, the one thing I do not miss about living in New York is this ghastly weather.’ Jeffrey pulls his Burberry trench tight around him, flashing a watermelon pink custom lining. I catch the driver shake his head derisively as he opens the rear door.

‘Girl, you’ll be more comfortable in front,’ Jeffrey offers as Guy slides in.

‘It’s okay. I don’t mind squeezing on the bench opposite.’

‘Not okay,’ he counters. ‘I think you should sit in front.’ I wait while the driver leans in and swipes empty coffee cups and soda cans to the floor. The hours-old VP in me bristles, but keeping in mind Jeffrey’s the only one at MC who thinks I’m ‘perfect’, I smile graciously and do as instructed.

‘Which airline?’ the driver asks, readjusting his mirror and turning on the windshield wipers.

‘American, domestic terminal,’ Jeffrey calls up before raising the opaque partition. ‘I need a little tête-à-tête time with my Guy.’

The smoked glass slides into place, effectively excommunicating me from My Company, and the driver gives me a sadly mistaken knowing nod. ‘Fruits,’ he mutters in a thick Greek accent. I huddle down in my seat as raindrops pelt the windows, wishing he were right, that they wanted privacy to get it on, rather than shut me out.

*

When we arrive at JFK, I follow Guy and Jeffrey to the Business Class counter attendant. ‘Oh no, Girl, that’s you.’ Jeffrey points over to the endless line of plebs shuffling their way in minuscule increments towards the Economy check-in. ‘Try not to miss the flight!’

The last one to board, I pass Guy and Jeffrey reclining in wide-seated, full-leg-roomed splendor, drinking champagne. Jeffrey raises his flute to me and smiles. ‘See you in LA!’

See you in hell.

Dropping into the cramped seat, I remove my blazer and fan my boarding pass to cool down, my mind falling over itself to catch up with the day’s events.
Still employed. Promoted even. Making more money than I ever anticipated. In this economy
. The plane taxis to the runway, rain streaming down the small oval windows, blurring the lights from the tarmac into yellow pom-poms.
So they took my idea. My awful, awful idea. Not that a million people aren’t having the same awful idea
. I rest my forehead against the cool plastic as the plane picks up speed, hurtling down the runway, a small jolt in my stomach as it makes that first bounce off the earth before we lift off completely.
A female-run company. That’s probably doing great stuff. Really great stuff. Stuff that will negate this sellout
. I take a deep breath as the plane dips and circles back over Manhattan, finding its course west.
Maybe even
—

‘Traffic?’ an apple-cheeked young man in the seat beside me asks.