Russell Wiley Is Out to Lunch (27 page)

“Can I take Angela’s card?” Barbara is still hovering near my desk.

I look at it again. We—the people saying good-bye—are depicted as a sad-looking bunch of cartoon animals. The messages inside are variations on the usual entreaties to “Stay in touch!” and “Come back and see us!” Though maybe they seem a little more heartfelt this time around. Angela has made friends throughout the building. I can’t send Barbara away again, so I scribble, “Thanks for all your efforts! Best wishes for a successful future.” As soon as I sign my name, Barbara snatches it away. She’s in a hurry to whisk it to its next signatory.

“Just a second,” I say. I take the card back.

I write, “P.S. Don’t forget to rent
The Godfather
sometime soon.”

Barbara reads what I’ve written, gives me a worried look, and is gone.

I turn to my computer and begin to read.

“
Chronicle
Crisis: New Revelations May Push Struggling Title Over the
Edge
. Burke-Hart insiders are already panicking amid steep readership and advertising declines at the
Daily Business Chronicle
. Latest hopes to impress new boss Larry Ghosh are pinned on upcoming launch of tabloid dubbed the
Daily Edge
. New edition to be distributed as a supplement for current subscribers and as stand-alone newspaper for commuters in top twenty metro markets. Free distribution ploy marks last-gasp effort to connect with ‘lost generation’ of eighteen- to thirty-four-year-old readers. As
Chronicle
rushes
Daily Edge
to market,
Vicious Circle
quotes ‘well-placed Burke-Hart source’ who reveals devastating flaws in business plan. Among the problems: Prototypes of
Daily Edge
fail to excite current or prospective readers; advertisers refuse to commit additional funds; and most devastating of all,
Chronicle
insiders presented
wrong
version of business plan to management. Contrary to optimistic statements by
Chronicle
publisher Jack Tennant,
Vicious Circle
asserts the
Daily Edge
will be a financial drain on money-losing
Chronicle
for three-plus years. New revelations unlikely to please investors or impatient management at Ghosh Corporation. Meanwhile, Burke-Hart spokesperson claimed to be unaware of either
Vicious Circle
magazine or specific problems cited.”

I leave another message on Sam’s cell phone. As I’m doing that, my other line starts ringing. I cut my message short and pick up.

It’s Susan Trevor. “Turn on your TV. Right now. CNBC.”

I reach for the remote. Fergus’s face fills the screen. He’s being interviewed about his article.

“What I think is most sad,” says Fergus, “is that before Ghosh took over, the
Daily Business Chronicle
was one of those rare brands that actually stood for something.”

“Can you believe this shit?” says Susan. “Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse.”

“Susan, I’ll call you back. That’s my other line. I’m expecting a call.” I hang up on Susan. As I pick up my other line, the fire alarm starts sounding.

“Hi.” It’s Sam.

“Hi.”

“How’s it going?”

“You tell me.”

“What’s that noise? Is this a bad time?”

“It’s just a fire drill.”

“Do you have to go?”

“I can wait a minute.”

“I can call back.”

“Just tell me one thing.”

“Let me call you back.”

“Are you and Greg fucking up there in Springfield?”

The fire alarm keeps ringing.

“I get the sense you don’t like Larry Ghosh,” says the CNBC interviewer to my best friend, Fergus Larner.

The fire alarm stops. A muffled voice starts giving instructions over the sound system.

“…destroys everything he touches…” says Fergus.

There’s a knock at my door.

“…polluting our culture…”

It’s Erika Fallon, wearing her orange fire warden’s vest.

“…in the event of a real emergency…” says the disembodied announcer on the building’s intercom.

“…the consequences could be devastating…” says Fergus.

“I’ve come to rescue you,” says Erika.

“I’ll be right there,” I say, one hand over the receiver. I pick up the remote and mute my TV. The fire drill announcement stops. The alarm stops ringing. Suddenly everything is silent.

“Are you still there?” I say to Sam.

“Yes,” she says. “And yes.”

There’s one last close-up of Fergus, then the CNBC show cuts to a commercial. I’m holding the phone to my right ear. I pick up the remote with my left hand, turn off the TV. My chest feels tight, but I’m not feeling any emotion.
Is this shock?
I wonder. And then I stop thinking. My head feels heavy but hollow.

“That’s it?” says Sam. “You’re not going to say anything?”

“What is it you want me to say?”

I hang up the phone, put on the bright fire warden’s jacket, and head down the hall to make sure no one’s trapped in the men’s bathroom.

At her good-bye party, Angela is wearing a white hooded sweatshirt with a glittery red letter A over her left breast.

The conference room table is covered with a paper tablecloth. On top of that are plastic cups and a selection of sodas, along with an ice cream cake that most people will try not to eat. Next to the cake are plastic plates and napkins. Plastic forks are also provided. But it will take at least twenty minutes for the ice cream cake to melt sufficiently for these forks to serve any useful purpose.

Angela may not know it, but this is the standard setup we use for every office party. I’ve instructed my team to make sure that all birthday and farewell celebrations are equally lame. It’s the best way to ensure we don’t play favorites—that no one gets upset when their own celebration comes around. Only gifts under twenty-five dollars are allowed, along with any suitable premium items we can dig out from the storage closet.

Kelly Gardner helps Angela cut her ice cream cake and distribute pieces to the assembled group. A couple of guys from the mailroom have shown up, as well as that bald guy Bryan from corporate finance. Jeanie and Judd are nowhere in sight. They’ve been keeping a low profile all day.

Sally Yun presents Angela with a bag filled with
Chronicle
merchandise. There’s a baseball cap, a T-shirt, a sports bottle and a zero-gravity pen. People don’t usually get emotional at these events, but Angela seems close to tears as she opens and reads her card.

“Thank you all,” she says, and the room goes quiet. “I’ve really enjoyed working here. I can’t believe my time here is over already. I’ve learned so much. Everyone’s been great. Thank you so much for your help. It was especially great having such a friendly and understanding boss. Thank you, Mr. Wiley. Sorry—Russell.”

She smiles at me sweetly, and everyone waits for me to say something. I’m expected to sound enthusiastic, steadfast and bland. While saying good-bye to one person, I’m supposed to reassure the rest of my team that life goes on, the work routine continues, it’s OK to be left behind.

“Well, Angela. It’s been great having you,” I say a little louder than I’d intended. “Be sure to come back and see us! Stay in touch!”

I’m pouring myself some more ginger ale when Barbara appears at my side and informs me that I’m wanted in Jack Tennant’s office immediately.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I enter Jack’s office. He’s sitting behind his desk with the Project D-SAW business plan, a copy of
Vicious Circle
, and assorted printouts of the day’s news reports spread in front of him. Jack’s always been known for his energy and enthusiasm. But today he seems subdued.

There are two empty chairs to choose from. I sit in the one on the left. I sink into it a little, realizing immediately the other one might have been a better choice. Because this is the moment I finally start losing my grip.

“Well, Russell, this has been quite a day,” he says.

I hear wind rushing in my ears. I close my eyes. I’m about to be fired. I always wondered if I could handle my own execution with dignity, but I fear I’m about to fail the test. I open my eyes. I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I exhale slowly.

“Are you OK?” says Jack.

“No,” I say. Even though it’s only a single syllable, I can’t say it without my voice cracking. Then suddenly I’m sobbing. My body’s shaking and I’m clinging to the arms of the chair, tears running down my face, trying not to look like too much of a baby in front of the publisher of the
Daily Business Chronicle
.

This is embarrassing. But I can’t help myself. I’ve been betrayed by my wife. And by my best friend. I’ve screwed everything up at work. I’m a failure. I’m a traitor. And a sham. Plus, I’m scared. When Jack is done firing me, I’ll walk out of this office all alone in the world. With no job. No one to turn to. And nowhere to go.

“This…hasn’t…been a…good day…for…me,” I manage to say.

Jack pushes a box of tissues across his desk. I don’t want to let go of the chair, but there are bubbles of snot emerging from my nostrils. I grab some tissues and blow.

I start to feel a little calmer. I stuff the wet tissues into my pants pocket. I need to explain myself, confess all I’ve done wrong, make Jack understand why I’ve been reduced to this blubbering mess.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK,” says Jack.

“No,” I say. “It’s all my fault. The mistake in the business plan. It wasn’t Judd who screwed it up. It was me. I told my friend at
Vicious Circle
all about it. I didn’t know he was going to write an article. But I should have kept my mouth shut. And the one about Unicorns. That was me too.”

“Unicorns?”

“Yes. I wrote it. I’m Christopher Finchley.”

“Let me get this straight,” says Jack. “You’re saying you made the ten-million-dollar mistake that
Vicious Circle
is writing about?”

“Yes.”

“But after you made the mistake, wasn’t the plan reviewed by Judd Walker?”

“Yes.”

“And then Jeanie Tusa?”

“I guess.”

“And then Henry Moss?”

“I think so.”

“So three people signed off on your mistake?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And how did you come to make the mistake?”

“I was helping Judd with a spreadsheet. I typed a number wrong.”

“Why wasn’t Judd doing the spreadsheet himself?”

“He asked me to help.”

“So yours was an honest mistake?”

“Yes. But I could have owned up to it sooner.”

“Do you normally prepare the spreadsheets your finance department presents?”

“No.”

“So you weren’t the one responsible for any of Jeanie Tusa’s previous errors?”

“No.”

“Well,” says Jack, “let’s assume this article in
Vicious Circle
is correct and there was a mistake in the business plan as it was presented. Who should I hold accountable? You, the typist? Or the consultant who presented the plan? Or maybe the financial director whose job it was to verify the numbers? Or should it be the financial director’s boss? And for the purpose of this discussion, let’s say that this boss had been alerted by corporate finance to an ongoing problem of serious budgeting errors coming out of his department.”

“Well,” I say, “when you put it like that.”

“Russell, I applaud your honesty. But this was not your project. And verifying the numbers was not your responsibility. And neither was ensuring the necessary fail-safe mechanisms were put in place. Henry had been warned about this. Your mistake was a test of the system. The system should have been fixed.” Jack looks over at his credenza, where various mementos, awards and pictures from his long career at the
Chronicle
are on display. “Perhaps if Henry hadn’t been so busy plotting…” He trails off, shakes his head, then refocuses his gaze at me. “Regarding this article.” He picks up the copy of
Vicious Circle
that’s lying on his desk and waves a hand over the printouts of online articles from CNN, the
New York Times
, even the BBC. “The good news is that it’s given us the kind of publicity money can’t buy. The whole world is now talking about our plans to launch the
Daily Edge
.”

“They’re not saying very nice things, though.” My voice sounds nasal. I reach for another tissue and blow my nose again.

“As I told Larry Ghosh this morning, I’m used to being abused in the press and to being underestimated by others,” says Jack. “Even by those who claim to be my most loyal lieutenants. Anyway, Russell, as for this alleged mistake, the official word from me, the
Daily Business Chronicle
and from the Ghosh Corporation is that there was no mistake—there
is
no mistake. We are standing behind the numbers we announced to Wall Street. The launch of the
Daily Edge
will proceed as planned. We will simply need to find a way to launch successfully with ten million dollars less than we might normally have spent.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible,” I say.

“You may be right,” says Jack. “Unfortunately, given the level of scrutiny this project has generated, we can’t go back and adjust the numbers. But let’s put that topic in the parking lot and deal with it later. I want to tell you the real reason why I called you here this afternoon.”

Jack stands up and walks around his desk. I look over my shoulder as he walks past me. His assistant, Nora, heavily pregnant, has entered bearing a tray of tea and cookies.

“I’ve got it,” he says to her. “Russell, why don’t you join me over here?” Jack sets the tray down on his coffee table and waits for me to walk over and sit on his couch before he lowers himself into his armchair. He pours me a cup of tea.

“Milk or lemon?” he asks.

“Milk, please,” I say. “Thank you.” It was Sam who got me into the habit of drinking tea the English way, but I push that thought aside. I drop a sugar cube into my china cup and stir the tea Jack has handed me. I look over at his desk, which now seems far away. I blow on my tea and take a sip. It’s Earl Grey. I realize how large Jack’s office is, even compared to Henry’s. I count fifteen windows as I wait for him to prepare and taste his tea, then place his cup and saucer down on the table.