by Janis Powers
I put some clothes on and considered how to get my life back on track. If I just had some certainty about my professional future, I might be less mentally fatigued. I considered Angela’s advice. Maybe I should look for another job. It might be the best time to do it. I could take off for interviews when I was working from home, and no one at McCale would be the wiser.
I pulled up my résumé, determined to update it, my LinkedIn account, and my alumni profile for Columbia Law by the time Henry woke up from his nap. As I started to summarize my Parfum Aix experience, Dale entered the apartment.
“Hey! What are you doing?” His hair was matted with sweat as he made his way to the refrigerator for a drink.
I pushed my chair away from the desk. “Interesting you should ask.” He plopped on a chair in the living room where I was working. “I’m looking for a job.”
Dale was grasping around for the remote when he said, “As what? Don’t you have enough to do at McCale?” He turned on the television. The bulb in the TV monitor seemed to set one off in his head. “Wait a second. Are you looking to leave McCale? Did something happen? Did you get fired?”
“No,” I said, slightly alarmed by his reaction. “It’s Sunday. No one gets fired on Sunday.” Dale looked at me sideways. “But I am thinking about looking around. If I can’t find a nanny, things are not going to turn out well at McCale. I can feel it.”
Dale sat up on the couch. “Has anyone actually said anything to you? I think you’re over-reacting.” Dale read the concern on my face and put the TV on mute. “Maxine. You’re doing all your work just fine, right? Why should anyone at McCale care if you work part-time out of the apartment?”
I crossed my arms in front of me. “How do you think Bobbie would feel if you suddenly started to work part-time from home? How would that go over at Worthington?”
Dale raised his voice defensively. “Look. You just had a kid. It’s a completely different situation.”
I sat down on the couch next to Dale. Here was a guy working himself to the bone to reach his potential, to be as successful as he could be. I knew he was a driven man, a competitive man. But the notion that Henry’s entrance into the world would disrupt his path in any significant way hadn’t even registered with his psyche.
“I did not just have a kid. Henry was born almost six months ago. But for all the clichéd reasons, I am in a completely different situation than you are.”
“What do you want me to do?” he asked earnestly. “Do you want me to talk to some nanny candidates? I can have Sabrina work some into my schedule if you think that would help.”
We had tried something like this before. I had delegated babysitter identification duties to Dale for the occasion of Mike Simonson’s 35th birthday party. Dale claimed that the sitter was “certified,” but in what, I had no idea. When we got back from Mike’s party, Henry was asleep in his crib wearing the stinkiest diaper imaginable. Not only were his clothes ruined, the sheets and part of the bumper were stained. The sitter claimed that the voluminous bowel movement must have occurred after Henry had gone to sleep.
Dale was totally blotto from the party, so I had to negotiate pay with the sitter, bathe Henry, clean the crib and get our son back to bed. It would have been easier if I had just looked for the sitter myself. And there was no doubt that having Dale screen potential nannies would just result in a straight pass-through of all candidates from NYC Baby Prep directly to me.
Deep down, I knew that the Olga debacle had scarred me. I had no faith that any hired help would be satisfactory. Now I was risking my career because I was paranoid. I knew there had to be good childcare out there. I just couldn’t bring myself to trust anyone.
“I’m having a hard time with the nannies, Dale. I think I need to come clean with Deirdre. I asked her if I could work from home for a week or so. Over a month has gone by.”
“I disagree. She probably hasn’t even noticed. You don’t need to call attention to your situation.”
“I’m tired of skulking around. I need to deal with this head-on. The best thing is going to be for me to negotiate some interim set-up until Henry is over the hump.”
“When’s that going to be?”
“Well,” I said inconclusively, “Whenever I think the time is right.”
“Good luck with that negotiation strategy, Maxine.” Dale put the TV back on. “If you don’t know what you want before you talk to Deirdre, you’re not going to get it.”
35
Joy was in the elevator when I arrived for work. She, of course, knew all the intimate details of my work schedule—and my work location. She was highly empathetic towards my situation and had probably covered for me in ways I had not even imagined. The fact that I didn’t bother to touch base with her before scheduling my monumental day in the office was pure stupidity on my part.
“All the partners are where?” I stammered as we walked off the elevator.
“They’re at an off-site retreat for two days,” said Joy. It was 8:30, and barely half of the staff was in the office. Those that were there were sporting business casual attire.
“So you’re telling me that the day I decide to come in for face time, no one’s here?” I threw my suit jacket on my desk, which had piles of files and mail on it.
Joy rubbed my back. “Pretty much. But Nancy will be here, so at least you’ll get props with her.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, she’s been not-so-subtly walking by your office each day at regular intervals to see if you’re here.” Joy walked towards the door. “She’s probably charting it out and giving it to Deirdre for brownie points.”
I shook my head, thanked Joy, and closed the door to my office. Being back in situ made me realize just how ridiculous it would have been to suggest my plan of working from home to Deirdre. She’d never go for it. Not because it was a bad idea, but because she’d have to deal with the wrath of Nancy Lallyberry. Nancy had barely taken any maternity leave and hadn’t had a sick day since Troy had been born. I was screwed.
I sat down to read the news on my computer. Perfume X ads were popping up all over the margins of the pages I frequented. I pushed my chair back from the desk. It made complete sense. Perfume X had to have initiated a massive online campaign, buying up Google AdWords and targeting advertisements to people just like me, users who regularly accessed Parfum Aix on the internet. It would take some time to look at the ads, but if they were misleading enough, Perfume X might be duping potential Parfum Aix buyers all over the world into purchasing their lousy imitation. The revenue hit to Parfum Aix, not to mention the damage to the brand, could be devastating.
I searched through my contacts and pulled up Jacques’s number in Grasse. If he was working this evening, I just might catch him in his office. After a few pulses, someone picked up the receiver. “Bonsoir. Le bureau de Jacques Deschemel.”
I responded in French, identifying myself, and asking if he was available. I was informed that he was in his lab. The French admin seemed to recognize my name. Maybe she was the one who had sent me all those perfume and gin samples. She told me to hold the line while she tracked Jacques down.
“Maxine!” said Jacques, about two minutes later. “Comment vas-tu? How are you?”
We exchanged some pleasantries. Jacques was appreciative of the photos I had sent him of Henry; I asked how his gin was coming along, etc. Then I got to the point. “Jacques, I wanted to ask you about something, not as a lawyer, since I am not on the Parfum Aix account.”
“Yes, I know. I am still upset about that. I tried to talk to Caine. . .”
I had to interrupt him since that was water under the bridge. “Jacques, have you ever heard of Perfume X?”
“Perfume X?” he repeated. I couldn’t tell if he hadn’t heard me properly, or if he wasn’t sure if he knew what I was talking about.
“Perfume X is a knock-off of Parfum Aix. And they are aggressively pushing their product. Is McCale helping you with this at all?”<
br />
“Oh, right! Perfume X. Yes, Vivienne told me about this company. She talked to Monsieur Seaver about it.” I could tell that Jacques had a strong dislike for Caine because he never called him by his first name.
“O.K. Good. I assume they are taking all the requisite legal action on your behalf.”
“Well, there’s nothing to do.”
“What?”
Jacques’s tone became stern. “We were told that Perfume X would not compete with Parfum Aix because we have exclusive distribution rights in selected stores—Saks Fifth Avenue, Bergdorf Goodman, Henri Bendel. Monsieur Seaver was going to look into Bloomingdale’s. This Perfume X,” said Jacques with repugnance, “would be sold at other retailers, like Lord & Taylor and Macy’s.”
I communicated Angela’s experience to Jacques, which, not surprisingly, infuriated him. But his rage was directed more towards Vivienne than Caine. “Vivienne is my local representative for Parfum Aix. She is supposed to monitor the competition! Mon dieu! What has she been doing? Shopping?!”
I tried to calm Jacques. “Look. I don’t know how long this switcheroo thing has been going on at Macy’s. It may have just started. I am sure Caine can help get this resolved expeditiously.”
“Yes! Yes! Absolutely! I will talk to him,” he said. “Thank you for being so conscientious. Perhaps now that you’re back from maternity leave, you can come back on the account?”
I graciously avoided his question, and we hung up. I was trying to fly under the radar at work, so the last thing I had considered was approaching Deirdre and Caine for a transfer.
But I had to believe that Caine would reach out to me once he got a call from Jacques. Then I could tell him about the online marketing angle, which I’m sure he hadn’t even considered. He’d have to be impressed by that. Then maybe I could get back on Parfum Aix and fix this whole mess. And if Jacques could operate from France, maybe I could work from home.
I was pulled from my daydream by the buzz of my phone. Want me to review your resume b4 you send it out? Another text from Angela. She had been digitally harassing me since I had arrived at the office, telling me to keep my options open. I only answered her texts because she kept sprinkling in details about one of her subcontractors who had been using prostitutes in a Porta Potty. The details were riveting.
What first seemed like a hilarious comic bit had transformed into a tale of cheap desperation. I couldn’t stop thinking about how disgusting it would be to have intercourse in a hot, plastic box that housed human excrement. How did either one of those characters get to a point in their lives where sex in a Porta Potty was even remotely alluring? I guess I had to factor in some massive doses of self-loathing for one party and financial destitution for the other.
And my life was in the gutter because I couldn’t find a nanny. Wow.
Oddly, this tale of base human behavior was highly motivating. With no one of importance in the office, and six more hours of freedom (from pre-paying the babysitter), I followed Angela’s advice.
I updated my résumé and sent it over to Mrs. Perretti. While she reviewed it, I joined every applicable Facebook and LinkedIn group, emailed friends from law school, and scoured the online classifieds. After incorporating Angela’s comments, I sent my résumé to the human resources departments of all the Manhattan law firms with departments in my specialty. I started research on consumer products companies with the intent of applying for an in-house counsel position. And just for the interviewing experience, I applied to a bunch of not-for-profits in town. By the time I was done, I had spent an entire day at the McCale offices without billing a single minute of time to a client.
36
I never heard from Caine about Parfum Aix. And no one had sent me any threatening emails about my lack of presence in the office. I just kept hammering away, billing hours to HKI and juggling life with Henry at home.
Interestingly, my job search bore almost immediate fruit. Within a week, I was contacted for an interview with the Landmark Preservation Association of Manhattan. I scheduled a sitter, re-arranged my conference call schedule at McCale and breezed through 90 minutes of chit-chat with Linda, the director. I had somehow convinced her that my knowledge of copyrighting consumer products was easily transferable to preserving architectural monuments in Manhattan. She was highly enthusiastic about my qualifications and my fit with the organization.
The next week, I had a phone discussion with one of the group’s major donors. It took about five minutes of active listening, but I was able to find common ground in the fact that his third wife was expecting their first child. I couldn’t relate to the multiple marriages, but I had the baby chit-chat nailed. At the end of our talk, he told me I was perfect for the position.
The job seemed to have more plusses than minuses. The schedule was completely flexible, enabling me to work from home at my discretion. The work would not be anywhere near as challenging as it was with McCale, and I was all but guaranteed a pay cut. However, I was sure to learn something new. And I would avoid breaks of employment on my résumé that might raise red flags later. When I was ready, I could return to corporate life on my own terms.
And then there were the contacts. My phone interview had been with Larry Symcox, a man who had made his fortune in the high-tech industry. Dale was practically salivating at the notion of getting intimate access to figures of this stature through my potential employment with the association. Ultimately, I might even find another job for myself through the relationships I could make.
All I had to do was nail the last interview. It was scheduled at the association’s mid-town location, which is where I would report if I needed to come to the office.
Unlike the spatial offices of McCale, the mid-town offices of the Landmark Preservation Association were cramped and low-tech. Rolls of architectural drawings were shoved into any available crevice, thereby restricting the workspace for the staff. When I inquired about the possibility of converting the drawings to an electronic format, Linda informed me that many of these plans had been signed by the original architects and were treasures all to themselves. When I saw one of these little gems being used as a doorstop, I held my tongue. I could re-organize the office once I got the job.
And I was absolutely delighted when Linda offered it to me. I didn’t know what the salary was, and I didn’t care. An extraordinary wave of relief rolled through my body, accompanied by a whoosh of empowerment. Everything had finally come together, in a way I had never expected. Gleefully, I accepted on the position on the spot.
As Linda showed me to my office, which I was to share with a file clerk and a research analyst, I asked when she would like me to sign the requisite employment papers with the human resources department. Suddenly, her face turned grim.
“Well, Mrs. Pedersen, we’re too small to have a human resources group. Brenda, here, usually handles payroll and such.” She pointed at a gray-haired woman hunched over a file drawer. Wiry hairs protruded from her lip and chin, and she snuffed at me like she was blowing into a handkerchief.
“O.K.,” I said, determined to minimize contact with Brenda. “Who handles the benefits, the on-boarding process, all of that?”
Linda repositioned the pencil that had been lodged in the bun on top of her head. “I think we have a bit of a misunderstanding here, Mrs. Pedersen.”
“We do?” I scratched my own head. “I apologize if I was being too forward. Shall I give you a few days to compile a compensation package?”
“Mrs. Pedersen, there is no compensation package.”
Yes, there definitely was a miscommunication. “I’m sorry—did I miss something?”
“The Landmark Preservation Association is a non-profit entity. The revenue we receive is used exclusively for the operational upkeep of the office. Unfortunately, we are unable to pay any of our workers. We’re all volunteers. I thought this was clear to you.”
I dropped my briefcase on the floor. Had I really been so desperate for a job that I had missed the sig
nals that my best option for intellectual stimulation would be a volunteer position? “Well, I apologize for the confusion. I would love to work with your organization, but I really need salaried work.” I thought I might be able to salvage the situation. “Do you offer contract work? Perhaps I could offer my services on an as-needed basis?”
Linda laughed out loud. “Can you imagine the talent we’d have lined up if people found out we actually paid our employees? You are a hoot, Mrs. Pedersen!”
My disappointment over the lost Landmark Preservation position evaporated when I got an email from the H.R. department of McCale, Morgan & Black’s major competitor, Hershel & Dixon. The notion that I could make a somewhat lateral move without slashing my paycheck was an alternative I had hardly dared let myself imagine. I responded to the email immediately.
I was offered an interview slot for the upcoming Tuesday at 11:15. Not 11:30. Or 11:00. Either of which would have implied at least a 30-minute discussion. An 11:15 interview just sounded cursory. And although I knew the first discussion would be a phone screen, I was hoping for more than the duration of a sit-com episode to sell my skills as a superior attorney.
In preparation, I consulted Angela about how to handle screening interviews. She advised me to prepare crisp, concise responses to the questions I would most likely be asked. I was also instructed to list the achievements I wanted to cover before I hung up the phone. All good advice. I completed her tasks and felt confident and prepared for the call.
Interview day arrived, and at 11:10, Henry was happily playing in his crib and well fed. I had given him a brand new toy that I expected would engage him for some time while I took the call in the living room. I got myself some water and dialed the number to Hershel & Dixon.
Someone picked up the phone, but no one said anything.
“Hello? This is Maxine Pedersen, calling for an interview. Is this Hershel & Dixon?” I squeezed the handset of the receiver and winced, wondering if I had called Deidre Morgan’s number by accident.
