“That’s a relief.”
“No, unfortunately I have to eliminate your position.” I put down my glass.
“…cutting corners to make the board happy… More important, to make sure they don’t fire me.” She gave me a brittle smile. “Don’t fire me so I can make sure you’re taken care of. I’ve assured your security for the immediate future…a stunning reference letter.”
“What the hell. You agreed to dinner to terminate me?”
“To explain that streamlining and financial belt tightening is in the best interest…”
Could I have been more naïve? My ears burned. “So much for being Platinum’s Mini-Marsha. You’ve been my role model.”
“This is never easy.”
The gurgling reflecting pool kept our conversation private as I fought the urge to toss her into it. “I’ve supported you even through the Brian Cox fiasco.”
“I’ll help you find your next big thing. You’re young, talented, smart, and beautiful. Quite a package.”
“You made that clear when you poached me from Linda and Olympia. My god, I invited you here to offer my assistance.”
“And I accepted so we’d have a pleasant atmosphere for me to explain.” She morphed from embarrassed to steely-eyed and dismissive. “In these five years you’ve learned how the industry works. You’re a cat; you’ll land on your feet. It’s nothing personal.”
Like hell. “When would you have told me?”
“Tuesday afternoon when you return from the Tri-State Mall appointment.” Without pause she produced the folder she would have given me then and slid it across the table.
My throat closed as I fought a mental image of Sheila Bianco and Marsha conspiring over the appointment calendar, choosing the most opportune time to lower the boom on me.
I stood. “You’ll understand if I don’t stay for coffee.” I paid for our meals on the way out, and left the Seagrams building overheated by the embarrassment of shoving Marsha’s exit folder into my satchel. Humiliation propelled me out to Fifty-second Street and over to Park Avenue Rush Hour-dinner-theatre-holiday weekend pandemonium. For once I’d worn my flat heeled Louboutin boots. I leaned into the crusty cold and headed blindly up the twenty blocks toward home.
Fragrance industry waters roil with sharks, most of them female. We were nearly at the millennium. Weren’t we supposed to support each other? Show the bastards in suits a better, civilised, cooperative way to succeed? Hadn’t I been loyal? Okay, I’d bailed on Linda Carlson and Olympia to take the Platinum job. But from Day One with Marsha I’d swallowed concern over her tactics, turned a blind eye to her spending sprees and protocol stretching. And so much for keeping my mouth mostly shut through the Brian Cox fiasco.
At Fifty-fourth I elbowed my satchel against my ribs and pulled on my gloves. I hadn’t been this cold and furious since I’d abandoned Brian at the Summit Diner. The subway ran under
Lexington; buses crawled up Madison. I knew diddlysquat about either. At Fifty-sixth Street I swiped my tears. This time no train to catch. No Ethan waiting at the station.
Oh god, what about Ethan? What about my ability to support him and our half-assed, long distance excuse for a marriage? I snivelled my way north, swamped in melodrama, my feet as cold as my cheeks were hot.
I had sixteen more frozen Park Avenue blocks plus two along Seventy-second Street, when a cab pulled to the curb. A mink wrapped woman decamped. Before her doorman could bow and usher her into the high rise, I pressed into the vacated backseat, suddenly the ten years old pressed into Dad’s recliner. I spent fourth grade bearing the brunt of my ‘mean and hateful old witchy witch’ teacher’s sarcasm, demeaning comments, and snide insinuations. By that afternoon my obscenity-laced kick to our threadbare couch was one too many for my father.
Dad stubbed out his cigarette and slung his arm around me. “Emma, now and forever you got to remember two things.” He tapped my forehead. “First: when troubles come atcha, it’s not always about you. Mrs Peterson might be worrying she can’t pay her rent. Maybe her husband doesn’t love her anymore. Maybe—”
“—she swallowed too many mean and ugly pills.”
“Could be!” He tapped my forehead again. “Second thing: Even if it’s you giving her fits, you need what that old witchy witch has. Knowledge! Soak it up. Be a sponge. Get knowledge from her and use it for you. That’s how you get ahead in this world. Know what them’s in charge know. That’s how you lead people.” He widened his fingers. “This makes V for Victory.”
I looked at his nicotine stains and separated my fingers.
“Someday you’ll look back and laugh at that old witch and know you won the battle. Now give me a high five!”
I did.
I reached my apartment and tossed my keys next to the fabric swatches and invoice for three rooms of custom window treatments. Home! Upper East Side, beyond expensive home. Was it shock or my constant companions Anxiety and Low Self-esteem that had me in a tailspin? Fifteen years in the fragrance game. Who was I kidding? Employees were expendable at every tier. I was no different. The wasn’t DNFUA, it was SOP.
I changed into my sweats and called Atticus, Jennifer, and Dustin. With each voicemail I left my news and discreetly implied I’d be coming after them once I found my new position. On the home front my unconventional marriage worked in my favour.
Per usual Ethan did not need to know, or worry, or criticise. But for his sake, too, my new position had damn well better materialise ASAP.
Saturday morning I studied Marsha’s severance package: six months’ salary and health care, plus my unused but booked airline tickets. A perk to keep me at least satisfied, if not happy? I had no experience with legalese so I emailed my attorney, Darlene Duke, the news, and hoped we could discuss it Tuesday. She called within the hour and asked for the full package, read it and call again. “Take the offer and run!”
“Wouldn’t Marsha expect me to negotiate?”
“Nope. Platinum’s giving you more than a standard exit package. New York’s an ‘At Will’ state. They don’t have to offer you anything but a So Long, Farewell walk to the door. Negotiation’s not in their vocabulary. Plus, you’ve got nothing big to counter with, no sexual harassment, no discrimination. Plus you’re not a Bobbi Brown or an Estee Lauder.”
“Not yet.”
She laughed. “Soon, no doubt. All the more reason to leave Platinum with a clean break and firm handshake. I’ll contact HR first thing Tuesday and make it clear you’ll be in with the original document and a copy, both signed. The sooner you accept and close, the sooner you get paid and get on with your career.” Darlene’s advice eased my anxiety and set my weekend path. By Saturday afternoon my credenza top was cleared of Ethan’s scouting files. I laid down Marsha’s folder of now-signed documents. Next to it I created PEOPLE, a file of regional reps to notify with stars for those I could network with. I added a spiral notebook for agenda notes, and a 1998 bank freebie wall calendar, the perfect day planner. I shaded February eighth. The annual fragrance industry suddenly loomed as the perfect venue to schmooze and explain my new employment position. I finished Day One on our home office carpet, studying, highlighting, and tearing out classifieds from the week’s Women’s Wear Daily and Beauty Universal. Sunday, I reviewed my resume, regularly tweaked to match interviews and job openings. Mini-Marsha on a mission. From my window Central Park looked like a monochromatic photo: bare sepia-to-charcoal trees, blacktop, iron railings, against oyster skies and remnants of snow. Scarf-wrapped tourists and locals hunkered into parkas and down coats. I buttoned up, yanked my Louboutins over my jeans. Thirty-degree wind propelled me two blocks down Fifth Avenue to the Frick.
When Ethan was away my solitary, tunnel vision life often caught up with me on empty Sundays. No best girlfriend to commiserate with, not even a pack of friends to meet for lunch. I rattled through the museum galleries, past old masters, and French porcelain, lost in thoughts of what would have been my packed upcoming work week.
Oh, to be a fly on the Platinum wall Tuesday morning as Marsha dealt with the schedule, she’d yanked me away from. Oh, to have another job by Tuesday afternoon.
Snow started early Monday morning as I frumped around in my terrycloth bathrobe. The robe stayed on and the snow fell through the endless grey holiday. Ethan was pinning his hopes on his new coaching gig, extra work and easier on his pitching arm. Part of me wanted him to succeed, part of me wanted him home getting on with whatever came next. All of me was our financial support. By mid-afternoon Atticus and Jennifer returned my calls and commiserated. When Dustin checked in, I asked him double check everything when assigned to pack and arrange delivery of my office contents.
“No worries. I packed and shipped Brian’s crap, even the damned Tootsie Rolls stuffed in his desk drawers. I’ll do a clean sweep for you, right down to bubble wrapping your photos of Ethan and Muriel Beausoleil.”
“I’m so sorry packing for departed employees is required of a Stanford graduate sales manager,” I said.
“Emma, I’m sorry pounding the pavement is required of a savvy, self-made woman who took a chance on a business major who didn’t know Eau de Cologne from Eau de Toilette, or Aldehyde from Bergamot. You’ve given me constant opportunities.”
