“If you have a prayer of a career in the beauty biz, you have to go through me. You’ll never make it east of the Susquehanna, let alone the Hudson. New York’s way out of your league. I can make sure your welcome comes with a wakeup call that’ll have you running right back to St. Louis.” I looked her in the eye, heart banging against my ribs.
“I’m taking the next opportunity. You’ve done this too, in your own career. I give you total credit, Linda. You’ve taught me fairness to all employees, the importance of listening to their suggestions and concerns, and recognising work done well.” Her employees complained to HR so often, we both knew the last part was a complete crock. “I’ve flown here to explain face-to-face.” She sipped her coffee, no doubt as stone cold as she was.
“I’ll give you twenty-four hours to reconsider.”
“Darling Emma, Linda’s savvy and sensed this was coming,” Neil said when I called from my hotel room. “If not this offer, you’d take the next one. You’re quick, smart, and not the type to be stagnant in your career. Of course you want to behave professionally—fair warning, proper exit and all that—but you must watch out for yourself over everything and everyone else. It’s the lesson every O’Farrell learns in the crib. Now buck up. I’ll see you in New York.”
Sweaty fist-to-queasy gut I called Linda’s voicemail within the twenty-four hours, couched my message in gratitude, and added I’d accepted the New York offer. She did not reply.
The stand-off with Ethan continued. He left our business matters to me, and the lease was in my name. Our landlord agreed to break it. (He could raise the rent for new tenants.) I left Ethan the details in voicemail.
Mid-month, in decent weather, I returned to Brucknerfield for Easter weekend. I attended Maxine’s church service by myself, hugged her during the greeting, and assured her Ethan was well. My parents were speaking to Dad’s parents again so we crossed the field. Darby arranged an egg hunt for Genevieve’s kids, and while my nephews searched the sorry landscaping for plastic containers, Dad ground yet another cigarette butt into the dirt and slung his arm around me.
We lingered over what passed as family dinner as my sister’s well-being, Dad’s health, and my disintegrating marriage chewed at me. The distance to New York, and my doubt chewed at me as I assured my ragged family I’d stay in touch. I needed the separation as much as the job. Ethan did too, whether he knew it or not. New York would keep us from life in a doublewide off an unpaved Missouri road.
My Olympia team surprised me with a farewell party full of my key regional directors and loyal store managers. No Ms. Clarkson, of course, but even Andrew caught a turnaround flight from Chicago to laugh and reminisce. I returned to my half-packed apartment and a phone message that Ethan had rented an apartment with a teammate. He didn’t name the place or the person; I didn’t call him back.
The morning the van arrived, Dad surprised me in his latest beat-up car, insisting on helping me pack. Never mind there was little left to do. I burst into tears and buried my face into his familiar, tobacco-scented shirt.
He held me at arm’s length. “O’Farrell’s got another success coming. No tears. I already brag on you like I do Cousin Neil. In fact I brag to Neil. You’ll make us proud, up there with them corporate big shots.”
“It’s not working out the way I planned,” I whispered.
“Look here, Ems, you know Ethan’s got a dream he can’t shake, stubborn as me and your mother. He’ll come around.”
I hugged him hard, terrified of the hole I’d dug myself into, but there was no backing down. Movers packed the truck for the cheapest corporate relocation ever. I’d gotten rid of our hand-me-downs, cast-offs and thrift store items. They loaded Ethan’s motley treasures, our out-of-season clothes, and the few decent household items we’d bought together, all of it destined for storage. I’d been allotted six weeks in a residential hotel while we—now I—found permanent housing.
The sterile apartment looked as though we’d never occupied it. The truck drove off. Dad hugged me as my airport car service idled at the curb. “It was a good run,” I managed, not sure if I meant my professional St. Louis days or my marriage.
My flight to New York was as bumpy as the trail I’d blazed to get there. My burgeoning luggage and I were delivered to the Upper East Side boutique hotel the company provided for eight weeks. Welcome to Platinum & New York! See you Monday morning, All best, Marsha, peeked from a spring arrangement.
I unpacked and settled into the eight hundred and fifty square foot suite. The wet bar included a microwave, fully stocked mini-fridge plus tea/coffee station, and pantry shelf. Comfy couch and club chairs separated the almost-kitchenette from a pine desk and work space. Ethan would love it all.
When I was sure I could trust my voice, I called him. “I made it. I’m here,” I said to the recording. “You’d like this hotel. It’s right over from Central Park. Practically an apartment. We have French doors into the separate bedroom. It’s all English country style, the sort of sofa you’d plop right into—” I stared at the dark TV screen.
“Never mind. I’m tired of rambling into an empty phone every time I try to talk things out. You’re out there chasing your own dream. I get that. You know I do. You make me crazy, Ethan. Okay, Maybe I hate you for refusing to come with me, but that’s not the worst part. The worst part’s I love you. I need you here.” I hung up and filled the cast iron, claw foot tub with scalding water and complimentary bath salts, then soaked till my fingers pruned. Navigating life alone in New York City had never been the plan.
We’d been given the weekend to settle in and explore so Saturday I crossed two blocks to Fifth Avenue, thinking of the Missouri bumpkin five years earlier here to train for Linda Clarkson. She lived here, too. I wandered up to the Metropolitan Museum of Art over to Madison, half expecting her to spring from behind a bush or a bus.
I paused for men loading a Range Rover and followed them into Lobel’s Meat Market. Charts on the wall and the sound of cleavers and hacksaws. I ached for the son of the butcher who had to convince me Brucknerfield had a meat judge team.
Monday morning, the last week in April, 1995, I left my hotel at 8:30 a.m. sharp, for the brisk walk to my new office. Corporate headquarters filled two floors within a midtown high rise and Marsha had spared no expense. I had just enough time to admire the frosted glass, gleaming chrome, high tech ambiance of the executive area before I realised the executive hall crackled with tension and awkward whispers.
Marsha called me into her office and gestured at the chairs facing her desk. “Welcome. I am not a fan of gossip and you’re not to be, either. I know things appear unsettled.”
“No more than I am.” I sat down. “I’m looking forward to unpacking and digging into orientation information.”
“You should know I’ve let the director of sales go.”
“Was there a problem?”
Brief as it was, she studied me. “Emma, I’ve been brought on board to fulfil an agenda. Entre nous You’re not to tell a soul but this termination’s been in the works for weeks.” Entre nous?
“Things are going smoothly. I timed pulling the plug to your arrival.” She studied me again. “There’s another issue, however. One that’s less clear. I’ve been led to believe I might have misjudged you.”
I shifted in my seat.
“An old nemesis who disguises herself as a colleague seems to think she’s done me a favour by forewarning me. ‘Not ready for The Big Apple’ is how she put it. ‘…a reputation for brash behaviour. Disloyal.’ Frankly, she’s never exactly had my back.”
Her phone call was decidedly out of character. I could feel the heat in my face.
Marsha’s feet barely touched the floor but she managed to spin in her chair, French twist pivoting in front of me. “Have I hired an incompetent, scheming, Missouri red neck?”
Oh my God. “You’re referring to Linda Clarkson. You ask so I’ll answer. Linda put time and effort into my training and it paid off. You’ve seen my resume, the awards for my results. She and Olympia Beauty have profited a lot from my expertise. She’s furious, vindictive – I’m appreciative. I was loyal. I gave her everything for five years.” We made eye contact. “She’s lost the best account executive she’s ever had, but it’s time I move on from my Midwest territory.”
Marsha spun again. “And I can count on that loyalty?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you. You’re being quite diplomatic, considering.” She had no idea how long it had taken me to understand vindictive, snippy, truth telling could haunt me worse than any business foul-up. “I’m aware of her anger, but I’m also aware of what she’s losing.”
Marsha raised an eyebrow. “I shall remain cautiously optimistic.”
The office manager handed me HR folders on relocation services and orientation, then whisked along a two-floor tour covering corporate team introductions to coffee making kitchen rules (four scoops per full a pot). Veronica Williams, Director of Marketing, took me to lunch. I returned from comfortable chat sprinkled with industry politics to find a third woman waiting.
“Welcome to Platinum. Shelia Bianco, Marsha’s assistant.” She gestured. “Second best office on the executive floor.” Second best and clearly recently vacated. It even smelled faintly antiseptic. Manhattan filled the windows. Cartons and files marked Emma Paige sat on the sleek desk in the otherwise sterile space. She smiled. “When you’re ready to start house or apartment hunting, let me know and I’ll connect you with Platinum’s relocation team.” She handed me a thin folder.
“You’ll need to review and sign this revised employment letter.” I skimmed until I hit $105,000 on the annual salary line.
