Because She Can

by Bridie Clark

  “I’d lost hope for a return phone call before lunch,” Vivian spat at me, rising on her toes to bridge some of the gap between our faces. I could tell it drove her crazy that at five feet one, she was more than half a foot shorter than me and had to crane her neck when we were speaking face-to-face. My stilettos had become a major act of defiance, and I wore them every single day—no matter how badly they pinched my feet, no matter how brutally hungover I was.

  I glanced at the clock behind David’s desk—9:03 a.m.—and then I cowered, ready for the full-body blows to start coming.

  “We need to talk,” Vivian snapped. “I’ve got four crash books that I need you to deal with. A three-week production schedule for each one, and the authors have three weeks from this second to deliver the full manuscript. Can you handle it?”

  I’d have preferred the body blow. I might have even chosen a few bamboo shoots under the nails.

  Four crash books, each on the same insane schedule, not a one written yet, meant that I’d be spending at least twenty-four hours a day at the office for a solid six-week stretch, and I’d still potentially not make the various deadlines. Unfortunately, it was a plank I’d been forced to walk before; in November, I’d once resorted to bringing in a sleeping bag to catch occasional doses of sleep. Phil had been known to do the same, and Graham stayed at the office almost as many nights as he did at home. No matter what Randall said, investment bankers had nothing on us—except an extra zero on the end of their salaries.

  Four crash books, all at once. Man. I knew from past experience that this would be a sleepless and a thankless job, because no doubt something would go wrong with one of the books, at least one, so on top of all else, I’d have to endure Vivian’s unmitigated rage.

  What she was asking, really, was if I could handle full-scale martyrdom.

  “That’s, um, a lot,” I mumbled. “I could try … but do they really all have to be on the same schedule? That’s going to be tough, Vivian.” God, I was lame. Where was my backbone? Why couldn’t I stand up for myself? “I’ll try, though—David, please ask Tad to get us the terms of each deal and we’ll get started on the contracts this—”

  Vivian snorted. “Deals? In case nobody filled you in, it’s the job of the ed-i-tor to negotiate deals. You think I have time to go over the details? To hassle with semiretarded agents? I’ll give you the offers I’m ready to extend for each book, and it’s up to you to make it happen.”

  “Of course,” I answered. I should’ve known that. In other words, I’d have to convince each agent to accept Vivian’s offer to the letter (agents who’d all had dealings with Vivian in the past and felt understandably wary about waving their clients off to the wolves), explain the concept to the author, convince him/her that he/she could in fact write a full four-hundred-page manuscript in, oh, ten days, and if he/she couldn’t, go through the entire process again to find a ghostwriter (those who’d actually agree to such an unreasonable turnaround time were generally hacks), and finally seal that deal to everyone’s (read: Vivian’s) satisfaction. Times four.

  And then the really fun part—getting the inevitably quarter-baked manuscript at the end of the two weeks, rewriting entire chapters, harassing the poor, exhausted author/writer for more work, and turning the whole steaming pile of dung in to production in … two more weeks. Times four.

  “But you know, Vivian, that’s a lot,” I repeated, bewildered. “Maybe another editor could take one of those off my plate. I just don’t want to promise more than I can deliver, and frankly, that’s more work than any one person can get through.”

  There, I’d said it.

  Instead of the expected explosion, Vivian looked pleased. Smugly triumphant.

  “You’re right, Claire, you’re probably not equipped,” she agreed. “Phil’s got a full plate, but I’m sure Lulu would be more than happy to take on two of these books. She’s already working on two crashes of her own—but you know Lulu, always happy to pull her weight and then some. Wish I could clone her!”

  Grrrr. Saintly Lulu. I knew I was being manipulated, but I still loathed the thought of Lulu’s pedestal being raised higher. Could my status in the Grant hierarchy fall even lower if I didn’t step up? Would Vivian next expect me to move my office into a large cabinet and work by flashlight? I shook my head, temporarily unable to force words out of the emotions swirling and seething inside of me.

  “Forget it,” I said after a moment, hating myself for giving in. “I can handle all four, Vivian. Let me know what terms you’d like me to extend, and we’ll go from there.”

  “Fine, then, come by my office,” she said brusquely before stalking away.

  I turned to David. “Would you please check with Tad to see when Vivian’s free this morning?”

  “I’ll check with the temp,” said David. Then, lowering his voice to a whisper, “Tad flew the coop yesterday afternoon. Apparently she konked him over the head with a lamp. He wasn’t badly hurt, though, so that’s good.”

  I nodded. He’d lasted two and a half weeks, which was more than average. No offense to Tad, but I suspected he was too slow to pick up on Vivian’s more subtle psychological warfare—that probably bought him the extra week.

  “Brace yourself for a very challenging few weeks.” I tried to smile, but my facial muscles refused to cooperate.

  “We’ll get through it, Claire,” David said reassuringly.

  I ducked quickly into my office so he wouldn’t see the tears of frustration stinging my eyes. Be professional, I scolded myself, wiping them away angrily. I’d vowed never to cry at work, even though I’d seen dozens of my colleagues do just that. The ladies’ room on the twelfth floor regularly echoed with the sound of weeping, and Phil told me that the men’s room was just as bleak.

  I called Beatrice, needing a second to decompress before throwing myself headlong into the day. “I think my boss is trying to kill me,” I whispered to my best friend. “Did anyone ever die from being overworked?”

  “Of course. And it’s a terrible way to go,” Bea said. She paused, and I could imagine her biting her pinkie, trying to find the right words. “Claire, I know you’re hung up on making it for a full year over there. But isn’t it time you thought about looking for a new job?”

  The thought had obviously crossed my mind—but it was hard to explain, this intensely stubborn streak that Vivian had awakened in me. Quitting before a year had simply ceased to be an option. I couldn’t give her the satisfaction. I couldn’t cry mercy. And I couldn’t abandon Luke without an editor in the dark vortex of Grant Books. I’d brought him into this place, and now it was my responsibility to make sure he got out safe and sound.

  “I don’t even have the energy or time to think about a job search right now,” I told Bea. “I’ve got the move this weekend, and then our trip to Iowa next week, and now four crash books on top of everything else … and I think I’m still a little drunk from last night.”

  “Last night?”

  “Yeah, I ended up meeting Luke for drinks and talking the poor guy’s ear off. Anyway, Bea, I’ve got to get back to—”

  “Will you promise me you’ll take better care of yourself, Claire? I’m worried about you.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Good. Call me tonight, will you? I’m running for a yoga class that starts at ten. Oh, and are you coming over to watch The Bachelor in Kiev tonight?”

  “Not unless it’s on at three in the morning.”

  “Ugh! What a bummer, Claire. It’s the final five! And Harry thinks that the Dallas cheerleader has something up her sleeve.”

  Her words brought great sadness to my heart, as I had absolutely no clue who the Dallas cheerleader was.

  I hung up the phone and turned toward my computer, in whose icy sapphire glow I’d be basking for weeks. Bea got rose ceremonies and yoga, I got computer radiation and bending to satisfy my boss’s every whim. Unfortunately, green was less flattering on me than blue.

  My coffee mug was nearly empty. I
headed to the kitchen for a refill.

  “It’s brilliant!” I heard Vivian exclaim from the conference room as I walked by. “I just knew Lucky’s would be the perfect spot to throw tomorrow’s book party. The strippers will serve the drinks when they’re not performing onstage! Our sales reps will be offered complimentary lap dances—that’ll spice things up! Edible underwear for door prizes! Fabulous!”

  “Oh, my God,” brayed Lulu. “You are an absolute genius, Vivian! How do you do it? And this party is genius! Genius! It’s just too good!”

  The girl sucked up more than a Hoover vacuum.

  “I know, Lulu. This is why I’m head and shoulders above every other publisher in this business,” Vivian boasted. “They’re all, like … the undead. Zombies with lifeless ideas. No fresh perspective, not a drop of sex appeal in the whole sorry batch. Withered-up old snobs… .”

  I realized I was lingering in the hallway and continued on to the kitchen. My head hurt. Tomorrow night was the launch party for Blow Job: An Illustrated History of Oral Sex. I’d assumed that publishing the book put us safely at rock bottom of the canyon of poor taste—but now it was clear that there were still greater depths to plumb. Like throwing the book launch party at Lucky’s, the city’s most infamous strip club.

  I dumped sugar in my coffee and returned to my desk. I had a mountain of paperwork that threatened to avalanche at any second and a call list that was close to a hundred names long. David had made concise little notations next to each name, and at about the fifty-name mark, I could read between his lines that several disgruntled repeat callers were getting mutinous. I’d have to start with them.

  “Claire?” Phil stuck his head into my office. His arms were full with his office lamp, a large cardboard box, a framed print, a houseplant.

  Shit, I thought, the word echoing around in my hollow, aching cranium.

  “She’s had my head on the block for the past year, Claire.” Phil shrugged. “Not to mention other anatomy. Today she finally swung.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Vivian had fired Phil, a senior editor? He was one of the best in the business, and certainly the very best at our imprint. How could I get through the week without him? Who would be my ally in skirmishes with Lulu? And much more important, Phil would be without a paycheck to support his growing family… . I felt as if I were going to be sick again. His wife, Linda, had just given birth to their second son three months earlier, and I knew Phil was already a bit stressed about making ends meet. He had an impressive résumé, but the job market was so tight.

  The intercom buzzed. Her Vileness. “Claire, I’d like to see you in my office. Immediately.”

  Phil smiled wanly. “Hang in there, kid,” he said, giving me a hug. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got friends at other houses, and I’m sure something will open up quickly. Just don’t let her get to you.”

  “Claire! I said my office, NOW!” shrieked my intercom. I involuntarily jumped out of my chair; her voice was like a blast of electroshock. Phil just shook his head and continued off down the hall.

  Enraged, I stalked over to Vivian’s office and, not bothering to knock, charged in to find Lulu—predictably perfect in a pale gray suit and pearls—already seated across the desk from our boss.

  “You fired Phil?” I fumed. “How could you, Vivian—he’s the best editor we have! That makes no sense!”

  You could’ve heard a pin drop. It dawned on me, during the seconds of complete silence, that I had never questioned Vivian so boldly. I could see the shock flicker on her face, but she recovered quickly.

  “Past his prime,” she spat back at me. “Dead weight. I kept him on board as long as I could. Now, there’s the question of who will take over his books. Where the fuck is Dawn?”

  “I’m right here.” Dawn pushed open the office door, carrying a stack of files almost as tall as she was. “Okay. I’ve got a list of Phil’s books, along with his files, and I’m thinking it makes sense to basically divide them between the two of you.” She shot me an apologetic glance.

  “Oh, no problem,” Lulu answered in a saccharine voice. “I’m excited to take on his projects, breathe new life into them!”

  “Well, good,” said Dawn, dropping the files heavily onto a side table and dealing them out with the emotionless efficiency of a blackjack dealer at the Bellagio.

  Was I the only one here who felt completely rattled by the fact that a senior editor—one with Phil’s incredible record and commitment—could be fired out of the blue? Dawn and Phil had worked together for four years—four Grant Books years, which was like twenty years somewhere else—yet she didn’t seem remotely fazed by the fact that Vivian had heartlessly chucked him.

  Come to think of it, I’d never seen Dawn get the least bit ruffled, and she was usually in Vivian’s direct line of fire. Part of me admired her stalwart professionalism. Part of me found it frightening.

  “That should do it,” she said briskly after we’d finished divvying up Phil’s books.

  “May I stay and talk to you about a few other matters?” Lulu asked Vivian as we packed up the files to leave, and Vivian nodded. Dawn and I walked back to our offices in silence.

  “Is there anything you can’t take in stride, Dawn?” I asked when we’d reached my office door. “To be honest, you don’t seem the least bit upset that Phil got fired for no good reason.”

  Dawn paused. Then her eyes began to dart around the hallway as if she were a hunted animal. After a moment, she seemed satisfied that we were the only two people within earshot. “If you show her that you’re upset, ” she whispered so quietly that I could barely hear her, “she’s won.” Then she padded off down the hall.

  I closed the door to my office behind me, feeling a sudden chill. I sort of wished I hadn’t asked. Thinking of Dawn as some kind of a professional robot was easier than seeing her as a real human being trapped in a long-term dysfunctional relationship with her abusive boss.

  No sooner had I shut the door to my office than something in me broke. I buried my face in my hands and let myself cry.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE BELL JAR

  Bellini?” a blonde in a G-string and quill-shaped pasties asked me. Vivian had special-ordered them for all the girls.

  “Um, no thanks. I’m good.” I wouldn’t be staying long enough to finish a bellini.

  A heavy bass pulsed from the speakers, providing the beat for a topless brunette on the stage to gyrate around a pole. I scanned the room. Poor David sat huddled with a few acutely uncomfortable assistants, none of them sure where to cast their eyes.

  Vivian had truly outdone herself. The whole floor had heard her battling with Sonny Wentworth, the company CEO, over whether Lucky’s, a well-known Manhattan strip club, would be an appropriate venue for a book party. She’d won. But then, didn’t she always?

  “Claire,” said Lulu, sidling up next to me. Dressed in a tight black leather minidress and a matching newsboy cap, she looked like an emaciated Britney Spears. “Isn’t this party too genius?”

  Lulu never made chitchat. I knew she was trying to bait me.

  “It’s something,” I muttered. If by genius Lulu meant crass, fiercely inappropriate, and probably grounds for several lawsuits, then yes, this party was genius. If by genius she meant insanely ill-advised—throwing a party at which a crowd of top sales reps and media heavyweights were handed sex toys as parting gifts—then yes, this party was genius.

  “Did you see my tat?” asked Lulu. She held out her scrawny little bicep, which was covered by a temporary tattoo that read I The Boss. “I picked it up on a Springsteen fansite. I’ve got to go show Viv.” With that, she bounded off.

  Why had I never noticed how cuckoo bananas this girl was? During the months that she had refused to speak to me, I’d just thought she was a bitch. Now it had come into sharper focus: Lulu was insane, Vivian was insane, and the inmates were running the asylum.

  “Hi there, Claire,” Sonny said quietly. He must have just walked in behind me, an
d he held his coat over his arm as if ready to make for the door again at any second.

  I liked Sonny. I’d met him at a new-employee breakfast during my first month at the company, and despite being on opposite ends of the Mather-Hollinger food chain, we’d forged a natural connection right away. He was so down-to-earth and accessible, you’d never guess that he held the most powerful position at a major publishing conglomerate. Sonny was a small man, no taller than five feet five, with close-cropped hair and horn-rimmed glasses. His demeanor was quiet, understated.

  “You look as mortified by all of this as I am,” he mumbled.

  I didn’t know quite how to respond. If Sonny realized how ridiculous and wrong this party was, why had he condoned it? He was Vivian’s boss—if anyone could keep her in check, it’d be he.

  “I just can’t believe it,” I said. In one darkened corner, our author was leading a small group in a workshop on giving the perfect blow job. Mary from Accounts Payable was taking notes on a yellow legal pad. One of our sales reps was being coerced into getting a lap dance. It was extra-mortifying to witness the scene while standing next to the company’s CEO.

  Sonny shook his head sadly. “You’re telling me,” he said. I felt a pang of sympathy for him. Yes, he was a coward—but he knew it, which was the worst punishment.

  And we were all cowards right along with him. I didn’t want to lose my job, and Sonny didn’t want to offend the company’s biggest cash cow. After all, Grant Books accounted for nearly a third of Mather-Hollinger’s bottom line. Given that it was one of twelve imprints, that contribution was significant—Vivian, financially speaking, pulled four times her weight. As a result, the company ignored all the other ways in which she was a severe liability—settling lawsuits with disgruntled ex-employees, taking her side in every dispute, throwing book parties at the least suitable venues the city had to offer.

  “Sonny, baby!” Vivian called loudly, shimmying across the room toward us. “Is this party the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen, or what? We’re shaking up publishing, baby! We’re doing it!” She looked positively triumphant. Her strawberry blond hair had been yanked into a high ponytail, giving her face a look of perpetual surprise. And she’d forgone her usual power suit in favor of a tight red lace bodice, a feather boa, fishnets, and black patent-leather thigh-high boots. All in all, a disturbing ensemble to see on one’s middle-aged boss.