by Cassia Leo
If Brady laid off his own assistant, who’s been at Close-Up longer than I have, my head is definitely on the chopping block. An editorial assistant like me, who’s already on probation… I might as well just hand them the executioner’s axe. Actually, except for my ability to get almost anyone to dish gossip on any celebrity, I’m not sure why I’m still here.
For the past two years, Brady and I have had to attend a probation review hearing every six months, where we’re called into a meeting with the director of human resources, Jane Rowell. Jane assesses whether Brady and I have been pulling our weight, making sure we’re violating as few privacy laws as possible while still getting the good celebrity scoops. Also, she likes to check that I haven’t been taking too many days off or taking two-hour-long dumps in the employee restroom.
Oh, and whether I’ve finished paying off the insanely high-interest personal loan issued to me by Close-Up magazine two years ago.
At the time, I was in desperate need of money to pay my father’s past due mortgage, which he’d fallen behind on because he drained his bank accounts to pay for a special wheelchair. Brady, being privy to aspects of my personal life, suggested a $47,000 advance on my salary. Brady authorized the personal loan, which is only part of the reason we’re both on probation.
The other reason being the six-week fling Brady and I engaged in shortly before I was promoted from copy editor to editorial assistant. Despite the fact our fling was very much over when I received the promotion, and Brady was dating someone new by the time I received the personal loan, Jane Rowell insisted our previous connection made the promotion and loan seem like a quid-pro-quo.
As if I’d ever sleep with someone for a raise.
As Jen takes a seat in the empty cubicle next to mine instead of her own desk, she stares at the blank computer screen for a while in a daze. I give her a moment to process whatever happened in the conference room, then I stand from my chair and go to her, wrapping my arms around her soft shoulders.
We are quickly joined by our thirty-seven-year-old coworker Gail Henderson. She’s ten years our senior, but Gail is every bit one of the girls. And Jen will need Gail’s words of wisdom today.
“Look on the bright side,” I say, trying to maintain cheery tone. “Now you won’t have to take Knickknack to that expensive doggy day care.”
“But he loves doggy day care,” she pouts. “What if I never find another job and I have to live with my parents for the rest of my life?”
“You’ll find another job in no time,” Gail replies fiercely. “You’re great at what you do.”
Jen sighs. “Not as great as you two,” she replies, looking at me. “Miss Celebrity Whisperer.”
I tuck my curly light-brown hair behind my ear, almost blushing at the mention of my nickname around the office. “Believe me, being able to convince a disgruntled chauffeur or personal assistant to dish on a celebrity is not going to save me from the unemployment line. I read an article just last week about how some of the biggest publishing houses in New York are being bought out by investors. They’re cutting staff left and right. My days are numbered.”
Jen narrows her eyes at me. “You read this last week and you didn’t think it was important enough to share with me? Now, I’m going to have to start buying the cheap dog food and Knickknack is going to die.”
Her question jolts me into defense. “Well, I didn’t think you’d be let go. You’re too important to Brady. You’re too important to Close-Up.”
Jen’s face softens as she lets out a deep sigh. “It doesn’t matter. I should have seen it coming. Normally, Brady will ask me to go down to HR and pick up an employee audit report. I opened the folder and peeked at the report a couple of times, and I figured out Brady uses it to see who has the most negative points against them.”
“Negative points?” I say as Gail and I exchange a confused look.
Jen shakes her head. “Negative points are things like unplanned absences, no degree, disciplinary actions, and, get this, a high salary.”
Gail and I gasp.
“That dirty little weasel,” Gail snarls.
Jen nods as she continues. “Well, whoever has the most negative points and the highest salary ends up canned within two days of Brady asking for the report.” She pauses a moment to look around, presumably to make sure no one is eavesdropping on our conversation. “Anyway, two weeks ago, he asked me to get the report again. When I peeked inside, I noticed that I was now the highest paid employee with the most negative points.”
My eyes widen. “Because of your vacation to brown town?” I ask, referring to when Jen ate some bad Indian food and got explosive diarrhea a few months ago. She was out sick for six days, two of which she was hospitalized for severe dehydration.
“Diarrhea kills more than two million people every year!” Gail proclaims.
Technically, Jen’s illness wasn’t planned, so it did result in an unplanned absence, but it wasn’t exactly her fault.
Jen shrugs. “I literally flushed my career down the toilet.”
“Wait a minute,” I say, holding up a finger. “You said he got the report two weeks ago, but normally it only takes him two days to let someone go. What went wrong?”
She purses her lips and shrugs. “He claims he was fighting for me to stay, but he was overruled. I don’t know if I believe him, but I guess it doesn’t really matter. Either way, I’m still out of a job.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “You’ll find another job. There are plenty of editorial positions on ZipRecruiter. Or you can freelance.”
“Yeah, I’m not sure I want to stay in a business where people think it’s okay to stalk celebrities and go through their trash cans to find out if they’ve cheated on their paleo diet,” Jen says.
Gail crosses her thin arms across her chest and leans against the cubicle partition as she lets out a hoarse cackle. “No kidding. We should all be looking for jobs now.”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure why I’m still here, with my being on probation and all. I’m sure I’ll be joining you very soon.”
Jen shakes her head. “Doubt it. Your name never came up on those audit reports.”
“What?” I say, unable to hide my shock. “That doesn’t even make sense. I must have the most negative points of anyone at this company. I mean, I have so many negative points, I’m practically the Knicks.”
Jen looks up at me, her brown eyes shimmering with a glint of hope. “You should apply for that new opening at Open Sky for travel features editor,” she replies.
I shake my head adamantly. “No, I am not applying for any positions within Kensington Publishing. If they’re downsizing Close-Up, they’re probably laying off people at Open Sky, too. Besides, I’m not qualified to be an editor.”
“You are beyond qualified,” Jen replies.
I smile at Jen’s ferocity. It does take a bit of nuance to be good at this job.
Most gossip columnists are just looking for a steady paycheck. It’s usually the editors who are to blame for the sensationalized stories and headlines. Most columnists don’t actually believe half the crap they write. Of course, that only makes it all the more repulsive. Sensationalism sells, so editors package it to have the most punch.
The truth is, what you see published in gossip columns and tabloid rags is far less sensational than what some of these editors want to print.
And most of these so-called “journalists” have very poor opinions of their readers. I once heard Rita Brenner, the editorial assistant in our celebrity style section, say that our target audience is “idiots, fascists, and self-loathing stay-at-home moms.” That soulless bloodsucker was promoted to managing style editor a few months later.
It’s true. Many gossip columnists — though not all — are as awful as we imagine they are. But there are still plenty of decent ones out there. I’d like to think I’m one of the good ones.
“You know what we need?” Jen declares. “We need midnight margaritas.”
&nbs
p; I cock an eyebrow. “Is that a Practical Magic reference?”
Jen smiles. “Margaritas and a Sandra Bullock marathon cures everything!”
Gail shakes her head. “I have swim practice with the kiddo tonight. You guys will have to do midnight margaritas without me,” she says, patting Jen on the back. “I’ll bake you some of your favorite cream-filled, penis-shaped Twinkies.”
Jen’s face lights up like a kid on Christmas. “I want chocolate filling this time.”
I rub her arm. “Of course you do.”
Four margaritas and two Sandra Bullock movies down, and Jen and I are sloshed. She plops down onto the sofa next to me, spilling a little bit of the lime margarita in her hand onto my bare thigh. I gasp as she positions herself next to me while trying to wipe away the sticky liquid from my skin with the cuff of her cream cashmere cardigan.
“You’re going to ruin your sweater,” I proclaim, pushing her hand away.
Jen holds up her damp sleeve. “This is cashmere. Do you know how cashmere is made?”
I chuckle. “What?”
“It’s made from a goat. Goats are ruminants.”
I blink a few times as I try to bring Jen’s face into focus. “I think you should stop moving or I’m going to spew the ruminants of my last margarita all over you.”
We stare at each other for a moment before we burst into uncontrollable laughter. When she’s composed herself, she takes one more sip and sets her drink on my coffee table. Scooping up my laptop, she places it on her thighs and begins navigating to the company website login. Using my credentials, she logs in and quickly finds the page soliciting applications for a travel features editor for Open Sky magazine. In my inebriated state, I make zero protest as she uploads my resume and enters all the necessary information.
She clicks ‘Submit’ and raises her arms in the air like an Olympic gymnast who’s just nailed a difficult dismount. “Done!” she declares with pride. “What do we watch next? The Proposal?”
I nod fervently. “Oh, yeah. Give me some of that sweet Ryan Reynolds man-chest.”
But as Jen is about to close the lid on my laptop, the ding of a new email gets our attention.
“It’s probably just a confirmation that your application was received,” she says, closing the lid.
I smile as I snatch the laptop from her and slur, “You never know. It could be Brady responding. ‘Sophie, you can’t work at Open Sky. I can’t lose you. I’ll double your salary if you stay.’”
“Or maybe it’s Ryan Reynolds,” Jen replies deadpan, staring at me in silence for a long moment before we both burst into laughter again. “Hurry up and check it while I get the movie ready.”
I open my laptop and click on the Gmail tab in my browser. The subject of the email reads: Re: New Application for Travel Features Editor. The name of the person it’s from reads: Interim AI. Must be some sort of artificial intelligence responder system. I click the subject line to open the email.
* * *
Dear Mrs. Bishop:
* * *
I regret to inform you that Open Sky magazine and Close-Up magazine have been bought out. Therefore, we are now in the midst of a hiring and promotion freeze as we attempt to reorganize. Talented as you may be, in theory or reality, your application for travel features editor is hereby denied.
Have a wonderful weekend.
* * *
Respectfully,
Mr. Pierce, Interim CEO of Close-Up magazine
* * *
“Bought out?” Jen says, staring at my screen.
“In theory or reality?” I say in utter shock.
“No wonder they’ve been laying people off left and right,” Jen continues. “They’re trying to make Kensington look more attractive to investors. Such bullshit.”
I stare at her, mouth agape. “Is that all you took away from that email? Did you not see how rude this asshole is? I mean, what kind of scum uses the phrase ‘Talented as you may be, in theory or reality’?”
Jen shakes her head as she grabs her margarita off the coffee table and sits back again. “It’s not like you can do anything about it. What are you going to do? Demand an apology?”
My nostrils flare as I realize the injustice of it, then I begin typing a response as Jen looks on. She gives me suggestions for better insults, and we laugh hysterically as we go back and forth composing the perfect reply email, which I will obviously never send. But it’s nice to pretend we have spines.
I sit back and chuckle as I read the email one last time before I delete it.
* * *
Dear Mr. Pierce:
* * *
For your information, my name is Ms. Bishop, not Mrs. The last time I checked, there is no wedding ring on my talented finger. In fact, my fingers are so talented, they’re probably better suited to flipping you off than typing up blathering gossip about B-list celebrities. You can take your promotion and shove it up your tight, shriveled asshole.
I will have a wonderful weekend, using my talented fingers to look for another job, while you use yours to jerk yourself off.
* * *
Respectfully,
Sophie Bishop, Staff Writer/Editorial Assistant and Certified Badass
* * *
Jen tsks as she grabs the laptop. “Okay, enough admiring our work. It’s time to watch—”
My life flashes before my eyes as Jen loses her grip on her drink and it begins to tip toward my computer. Without hesitation, I snatch the laptop away, one hand clumsily covering the keyboard as my other reaches underneath to stop it from falling. Jen’s drink spills on my arm, but only a tiny splash hits the keyboard. I quickly use my shirt sleeve to wipe the liquid away, then I hold the laptop upside down, with the keyboard facing the floor to let gravity do the rest of the work.
“I’m so sorry!” Jen cries.
I laugh as I wipe the keyboard a bit more before turning it right side up again. “It’s no big deal. It’s a laptop. If it’s ruined, I can get another one.”
But my easy-going demeanor is quickly erased when I look at the screen. In the process of trying to wipe away the liquid, I accidentally sent the email.
Suddenly, I’m very sober.
I walk into the ground floor lobby of Kensington Publishing, and I’m immediately accosted by Gail. Her thin blonde hair seems to be only halfway blown out, and she only has makeup on one eye.
“What happened to you? You look like your house caught on fire while you were getting ready this morning,” I say as she attempts to block my path toward the elevator. “What are you doing?”
Her blue eyes are wide with fright. “Jen called me this morning to tell me what happened this weekend…at your little Sandra Bullock movie marathon party.”
“Oh, yeah. It was such a blast. I’m sorry you couldn’t be there.”
Gail waves off my apology. “Never mind that. I’m talking about the email heard ’round the world.”
I roll my eyes. “I know. It was horrible, but it’s not as if I’m not going to be fired already. I just have to suck it up, go up there, and take it like a woman.”
Gail shakes her head adamantly. “No, no, no. You don’t understand.” She fixes me with a grave expression. “I got a call from Harold yesterday morning. He said Brady was let go after we left the office on Friday. The new editor-in-chief and interim CEO of Close-Up magazine is Jasper Pierce.”
I shrug. “I know. He signed the email he sent me and I Googled him. I’m familiar with his son, I think his name is Logan. Typical man-whore with a trust fund. But I don’t know much about Jasper, other than he seems to favor hostile takeovers.”
Gail shakes my shoulders a bit, possibly to shake me out of my complacency. “He’s up there right now.”
I stare at her for a moment as I try to decide if I should panic. “It’s not as if I didn’t expect this. Though, admittedly, I didn’t expect to be ambushed first thing in the morning.”
“Well, you never know,” she says, her panicked tone evolving in
to a maniacal faux optimism. “Maybe your reply email didn’t even go through. Maybe that’s why he never responded.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, and maybe he’s decided to forgive my $30,000 loan balance and give me a raise. Wee!”
Her shoulders slump as she realizes there is no use trying to sugarcoat this. I’m getting canned today.
“Okay, so what’s the plan,” I ask.
Gail narrows her eyes at me as she thinks. “Maybe you should consider groveling?”
I let out a deep sigh. “Why do I mess everything up?”
Gail’s expression hardens. “You do not mess everything up! You’re a smart, caring, capable young woman. And anyone in your situation,” she continues, alluding to the two and a half years I took care of my father in the latter stages of his illness. “would have been hustling to make ends meet. You did nothing wrong.”
“Thanks for the pep talk. So what am I going to do?”
Gail straightens her back and pulls back her shoulders. “You are going to march in there and apologize for the unfortunate email mishap. Then, you’re going to demand an apology, because no one — not even Jasper Pierce — gets to talk to you like you’re some kind of loser.”
I chuckle softly. “I think that may be the worst advice you’ve ever given me.”
She purses her lips at me. “Hey, I didn’t get to where I am today by letting assholes like Jasper Pierce walk all over me.”
I scrunch my eyebrows in confusion. “But…you haven’t had a raise in almost two years.”
“Oh, right. Well, so much for my pep talk. We have to go up before we’re late.”
Gail locks elbows with me and pulls me toward the elevator. With a determined expression on her face, she punches the button for the sixteenth floor and unlocks her arm from mine as we stand side-by-side in the elevator cab.
The tension is as thick and menacing as cobwebs. Gail has always been assertive, maybe even a bit pushy and motherly, which I’ve always welcomed since my own mother died when I was seventeen. But the sober, determined expression on her face is making me a bit nervous. My paranoia assumes she may know more about my fate with Close-Up than she’s letting on, but the reality is probably that she knows more about what it’s like to get laid off.
