Two Last First Dates

by Kate O'Keeffe

  “Well, that sucks,” Bailey said.

  “I know.” I let out a sigh.

  “But if you did lose your job, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, would it? I mean, you never really say anything positive about it,” Bailey said.

  I snapped my head up. “What did you say?”

  “I said, you don’t seem to like your job that much. Sorry if I’m barking up the wrong tree here, it’s just you never have anything good to say about it.” She looked from me to Cassie and back again.

  “Actually, Bailey has a point. Are you happy in your job?” Cassie asked.

  “Yes, of course I am,” I insisted. Wasn’t I?

  “I must have it wrong.” Bailey smiled. She glanced over at the counter where one of her staff was flirting with a customer, holding a growing line of customers up. She pushed her chair out with a sigh. “Sorry to cut this short. I’m going to have to go and sort that out.”

  Once Bailey had left the table, I said, “I think I’m happy in my job.”

  “Okay,” Cassie replied, nodding. “It’s your life, Paige.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  And Bailey’s words rang through my head for the rest of the day.

  Chapter 3

  BACK AT MY DESK, I was like a caged animal, constantly poking my head out of my cubicle to check for Portia, half expecting her to dig her claws into my back and drag me, kicking and screaming, into a secret dungeon behind her desk where she would torture me, and then dump me out the window, plunging to the street eight stories below.

  I had an overactive imagination.

  Deep in thought, staring at my screen, Helena made me almost jump out of my skin when she placed her hand on my shoulder. I swiveled around in my chair, banging my heels into her shins.

  “Ow!” she complained loudly.

  “Sorry. I thought you were Portia,” I said in a loud whisper.

  She pulled a face as she rubbed her legs. “Thanks a lot. Do you want to grab some late lunch? I mean, if I can walk after you maimed me.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Such a drama queen.” My tummy rumbled, right on queue. “Sure. Lunch sounds good.”

  I threw on my cream vintage seventies jacket with the wide lapel I often wore to work. I guess it was my go-to jacket, the one we all have in our closets, despite lusting after other jackets half our lives. As Helena slipped on her own jacket, I peered in my pocket mirror to apply some fresh lipstick. I paused, holding the lipstick up. Why was I bothering with trying to look good? After all, I’d decided to give up on the whole finding love extravaganza on the beach that night.

  I lowered the lipstick and my shoulders slumped. With the anxiety about what Portia was going to do, I’d pushed my predicament to the back of my mind. In some weird way, it had almost felt like a holiday. Wow, that made me sound like such a sad sack.

  Lipstick-free, Helena and I lined up to get our lunch at a local salad bar. I listened as she raged on about Princess Portia this and Princess Portia that. The fact the woman had been out of the office most of the day only served to anger Helena all the more.

  “I mean, she’s hardly ever here. She’s always off swanning around up on the exec level in her Chanel suits, ‘networking.’” She did air quotes, her face a picture of disgust.

  “Yeah,” I managed to get in before Helena continued.

  “And she’s always bragging about who she knows and where she goes and stuff. All those industry events. Why doesn’t she ever let one of us go?”

  I shrugged as we shuffled forward two feet in the line. “Yeah, it’s terrible. But . . . would you want to go?”

  “Of course, I would! Are you crazy? All those contacts, hearing what’s going on in the industry, what the new innovations are. That would be awesome.”

  I scrunched up my face. Although I’d have liked the opportunity to get out of the office and do something other than stare at my screen all day, I couldn’t say I was too excited about doing it with a bunch of work-obsessed industry types. No. Give me a slice of cake and a coffee with my good friends at the Cozy Cottage over schmoozing any day, thank you very much. “Do you really think so?”

  “Yes, I do! Don’t you?” She didn’t wait for a response, getting back to moaning, instead. “But no, we’re stuck in the office, analyzing numbers while she has all the fun. Yawn.”

  Honestly, I never thought I would end up as an Email Marketing Assistant. I’d studied marketing and graduated with a solid degree, moving happily into the workforce, confident I was going to be the best marketing manager, probably best marketing director, the world had ever seen. I was full of creative and interesting ideas, inspired by total faith in myself and my desire to market, market, market! But somehow along the way, things had changed. I guess I got stuck. I had lost my mojo.

  As I listened to Helena enthuse about all things marketing, it struck me: would it really be so bad if I lost my job?

  What?!

  I shook my head, trying to dislodge the thought. That’s crazy talk! I liked my job. Well, not liked it, exactly, more . . . tolerated it. Yes, that was it: I tolerated my job. Most of the time, anyway. Except on Monday mornings, and let’s face it, who really jumps out of bed with the alarm first thing Monday morning with a “Yippee! I’m off to work!”? Answer: absolutely no one. And perhaps I didn’t really like my job on Fridays, either, when it was nearly the weekend and you couldn’t wait to get out of that oppressive environment. But otherwise? Tuesdays through Thursdays I was a career girl, pure and simple.

  Wasn’t I?

  By five twenty-seven that evening, there was still no sign of her regal highness. Maybe today wasn’t the day Portia would fire me. I logged out of my computer and switched off my screen. I wasn’t the kind of marketing assistant who felt the need to stay past five thirty to impress the bosses these days. Oh, no. That particular ship had sailed a long time ago. And, anyway, I didn’t want to see my boss, let alone try to impress her.

  As Helena and I walked to the elevators, I let out a puff of air. I’d made it through the day without having to deal with Portia’s wrath. Now I could head home, whip up a healthy, vegetable-laden meal for Dad, and lose myself in my reality TV shows.

  “You know what you should do?” Helena said as she pressed the down button.

  “What? Are you going to get all ‘medieval on her ass’?” I let out a chuckle, feeling giddy.

  Helena’s face broke into a grin. “You watched Pulp Fiction?”

  I nodded, enjoying her reaction. Thanks to the Cassie-Will thing, I had been in the dumps for almost an entire month. I’d listened to sad, soppy breakup music, I’d watched endless rom coms where the girl always got the guy (so nothing like the way it worked in reality, at least not for me), and decided it was time to move on. Time to watch something that might spark something inside of me other than the soul-crushing sadness I’d been wallowing in. And from what Helena had always said about Quentin Tarantino, I knew one of his classic movies would fit the bill.

  She nodded at me, still grinning. “Pulp Fiction. Oh, yes. You started with the best, Paige, the best. It’s awesome, isn’t it?”

  “It’s pretty good, lots of great one-liners, angry people, and bad hairdos. Right up my alley right now.”

  She put her arm around my shoulder, positively beaming. “I’m so proud, so proud.”

  The elevator pinged and the doors slid open. My heart sank. Portia took a step out, looked directly at me, and said, “Ah, Paige. A word?” She walked off without hearing my response.

  “Sh . . . sure,” I said to her retreating back. I shot Helena a panicked look. I was so close, so close!

  She gave my arm a squeeze. “Be strong and don’t take any of her crap.”

  I blinked at her. In a daze, I turned and slowly took the death march to Portia’s office. Standing at the threshold, I looked at Portia, already settled at her desk. She looked up at me, her jaw locked, her intention as clear to me as a bright, summer’s day.

  “Close the door beh
ind you. We need to talk.”

  * * *

  I woke up before my alarm the following morning and lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling of my room. I could still make out the contours of the moon and the stars Dad had stuck up there for me when I was obsessed with the solar system at age seven. That and fairies. Oh, how I loved fairies.

  The sun peeked through the edges of the curtains, and I could hear Dad puttering around in the kitchen downstairs, brewing our morning pot of tea and setting the table with butter and strawberry jelly for our habitual toast. I smiled to myself. My dad and I’d had the same morning routine since I could remember, though in the winter it was oatmeal rather than toast, and the occasional pancakes or waffles if we were really splashing out for a special occasion.

  But today was supposed to be like any other day, so tea and toast it was.

  “Hello, lamb chop,” Dad said brightly, giving me a peck on the cheek as I sat down at the table. “Nice cup of tea here for you. Good sleep?”

  “Hmm?” I looked up at his face. “Sorry, Dad. My mind is on other things.”

  “That’ll be because you’re a high-flying executive with important deals to be made, right?”

  I smiled at him. “Something like that, Dad.”

  My dear old dad had never worked in an office a day in his life and seemed to have an image in his head of it as all high-powered, serious meetings between people in expensive business suits who talk about “buy-buy” and “sell-sell.” Basically, he had formed his opinion when he watched Wall Street back in the eighties, and it hadn’t budged since. I admit, I didn’t do much to disabuse him of this image, however. He was happy with it and the reality was so much less exciting. Why spoil his fun?

  We munched on our toast, sipped our tea, and chatted about the things we always seemed to talk about these days: me telling Dad not to eat any sugar, to get some exercise, and to take his meds. He always agreed, always saying the things he knew I wanted to hear. And then I would often find empty chocolate wrappers stuffed behind sofa cushions at the end of the day. But I knew he was trying, and I knew he found it difficult, so I tried to be understanding, all the while fretting about the state of his health.

  “Well, I’d better get myself ready for work,” Dad said, putting our dishes in the dishwasher.

  Dad’s work was at one of the local supermarket chains. For years, he’d stacked the shelves and graduated to the checkout, where he’d stayed, happily chatting away with the customers, indulging his genuine love of people. Then, when I was a teenager, he’d been promoted to managing a team of cashiers. That was a big day in the Miller household. We celebrated with sparkling wine with a fake French-sounding name and the best hot dogs money could buy. He’d been at the same supermarket ever since, happily working, never questioning if it was the right thing for him to be doing with his life—or if he did, never letting on to me.

  I had snapped the mold in two when I went to university straight out of high school. No one in my extended family had even attended university, let alone graduated with an actual degree. I was something of an anomaly, my career a constant talking point at family gatherings. It was “clever Paige” this and “our girl with the degree” that. Really, you’d have thought I’d won the Nobel Prize, they were so impressed with me. But of all my family—and with Dad’s many siblings, there were a few—it was Dad who was the proudest of me. I could tell by looking at him when he’d be talking to my Aunt Jocelyn or Uncle Barry about me. He’d beam. He’d glow. Usually, it made me all warm inside.

  Not today.

  I showered and dressed carefully, choosing just the right outfit, preparing myself for what was to come. My wardrobe choices had diminished lately. Not because I’d given my clothes away, but because I’d had no desire to do anything but watch reality TV shows and eat junk for the last month, and consequently, my clothes were a little tighter than they should be.

  Finally, dressed in my brown and orange checked wrap dress—because, thank god, wrap dresses can be very forgiving—with my dark hair scooped up into a loose bun, I headed into the office.

  I dropped my purse, my jacket, and a box on my desk. I pulled my lipstick out from my purse and applied a fresh layer. I may not be on the hunt for a man any more, but today I needed lipstick. I took a deep breath and walked straight toward Portia’s office.

  “Paige!”

  I snapped my head in Helena’s direction. She stood up, took two strides with her long legs, and was next to me within a nanosecond.

  “How did it go last night? You didn’t return my texts. Did you lay into her?”

  It was true, I’d ignored Helena’s messages. I wasn’t in the headspace. I needed to think, to work out what to do.

  “Look, Helena. I’ve got to do something. I’ll talk to you later, okay? I promise.”

  She gave me a meaningful look. “Sure. You go, girl. I’ll back you up, no matter what.” She hit her fist against her chest, like she was a centurion, pledging her allegiance to me.

  I turned and walked through the line of cubicles to Portia’s office, nodding as people said hello. This wasn’t the time to be social. I was on a mission, and I wasn’t going to allow anything to get in my way.

  I arrived at Portia’s office and stood, collecting my thoughts. I could see her sitting at her desk, immaculate as always in a pale pink suit with black trim, tap-tapping on her keyboard. I lifted my hand and knocked firmly on her door. Her head popped up, a look of surprise on her face.

  “Paige. What are you doing here?” she asked, pushing her chair back and standing up.

  Did she look nervous?

  I stepped into her office and closed the door behind myself, leaning up against it as my heart raced. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Okay,” she replied uncertainly. She gestured for me to take a seat. I shook my head in refusal. I needed to be standing for this.

  “I thought we’d said all we were going to say last night?”

  “No, Portia. You said all you were going to say. I didn’t.”

  She tilted her head. “Oh?”

  I clenched my hands at my side, preparing to launch into the speech I’d practiced on the way here this morning. My mind was made up; I had something to say.

  I took a deep breath and looked directly at her. “Portia, I quit.”

  Okay, so it wasn’t much of a speech, and practicing it hadn’t exactly taken very long this morning, but I wanted to ensure I hit the right tone. And hadn’t I learned in my years in marketing that a clear, simple message was the most effective?

  To my unutterable surprise, Portia laughed. “I think you misunderstand, Paige. I fired you.”

  “No, you didn’t. Your exact words were, ‘I’m moving you on.’ I remember. You never said I was fired.”

  She shot me a condescending look, as though I was a three-year-old who needed to have the difference between a hug and a punch explained to them. “Paige. We talked about this. Your work has not been up to scratch for some time now. That’s why I am moving you on.”

  I jutted out my chin, defiant. “But you can’t. Because I quit.”

  She put her manicured hands up in surrender. “Sure. If that’s the way you want to play it, fine. Take your petty revenge over whatever it is you think I have or haven’t done.”

  “I will. Thank you.” My voice dripped with sarcasm.

  As I turned and put my hand on the doorknob, ready to leave, she added, “So, do I take it you don’t want that job in Dwight’s division, then?”

  I pursed me lips. It was true, Portia had fired me—or “moved me on,” as she’d insisted on calling it—but she’d also offered me a role in her colleague Dwight Barlow’s team, working in product development. She thought I’d be a better “fit” there as she didn’t think email marketing campaigns were “quite my passion,” as she’d put it. I’d almost scoffed. Of course, email marketing campaigns weren’t my passion! Was she insane?

  My interest had been piqued by the chance to work for
a different boss, someone perhaps whose team wasn’t plotting to torture and kill him. That never makes for a harmonious working environment, in my experience. So last night, I’d agreed. Getting away from Portia and my yawn-inducing job had been the most important things to me.

  And today? Things felt . . . different.

  I narrowed my eyes at Portia, with the supercilious look she so often had on her face. Although I’d never shared Helena’s Tarantino-inspired depth of hatred for her, this was the last time I ever wanted to lay eyes on her again.

  “You know what, Portia? I don’t want that job, or any job at AGD. Let’s agree I quit and I’ll leave right now. I even brought my own box to clear my stuff.”

  She pursed her lips and stared at me through her designer glasses.

  I locked my jaw and squeezed my hands into fists at my sides once more. What was her next move going to be?

  Still staring at me, she let out a puff of air and nodded.

  I’d won.

  I smiled at her. “Good. We’re done here.”

  I could almost hear that old nineties band, singing I’ve got the power! as I flung Portia’s office door open and strode toward my desk, people popping their heads over the tops of their cubicles to see what was going on as I passed by. My heart was racing, adrenaline was pumping around my body at a rate of knots, and it felt good, oh so good! Daa-da, da-da-daa-da . . . I’ve got the power!

  I reached my desk and began to collect my things. Before I could say “wannabe gangster,” Helena was at the entrance to my cubicle. “Oh, my god! What happened?” She glanced at the box in my hands, half full of my personal paraphernalia. “Oh, hell. She fired you, didn’t she? That nasty, conniving bitch!”

  At Helena’s loud exclamation, several more of my colleagues arrived at my cubicle. “Did you say Paige was fired?” one asked. “Oh, my god!” exclaimed another.

  It's getting, it's getting, it's getting kinda hectic. Daa-da, da-da-daa-da.

  “You cannot take this, Paige! This is wrong, so wrong. You must have your revenge!” Helena exclaimed vehemently, her fist in the air, her face turning purple with rage.