by Jody Gehrman
Felicity shakes her head slightly, as if waking from a dream. “You two go ahead. I’m not in a hurry.”
“No!” Colin says. “It’s all yours.”
She hesitates, then opens the door. “Well, have a nice weekend.”
“Yeah, you too!” I chirp, way too brightly.
Her eyes meet mine, and there’s no mistaking the hatred there. Fuck. This is not good. My stomach does a swan dive for my toes.
As the cab drives away, careening through traffic, Colin and I look at each other. The spell we’ve been under all night suddenly breaks, leaving us both stone-cold sober. I recall the rumor Simon whispered in my ear the other day, the one about Felicity crushing on Colin. What if they had a thing? I’ve avoided dwelling on the possibility, but suddenly there it is, sitting like a grenade between us.
“Well, that sucks.” I try to sound breezy.
“Yeah,” he agrees uneasily.
“Guess it was extra stupid to party so close to work.”
He glances across the street at our office building, looking a little sick.
I gaze at the sidewalk. “You’ve never—I mean, you and Felicity never—?”
“What?” He looks mystified, then suddenly pissed. His face closes up like a slammed door. “Are you asking if I’ve slept with Felicity?”
“She obviously likes you,” I say lamely.
He gapes at me. “You think I’d—?” He gestures vaguely in the direction of her cab, which is long gone by now. His sentence sputters to nothing.
“I’m not accusing you of anything.” I don’t know why I should feel so defensive; I’m just asking a question. Unlike him, I didn’t jump to any conclusions. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. But if he’s so innocent, why is he turning on me just for bringing it up? And if nothing happened between them, why did The Stick give me the death glare just now?
Suddenly the whole night tilts on its axis. Everything we’ve shared, so exhilarating and out-of-control sexy just a second ago, now feels sordid.
“Maybe we should just, you know, call it a night.” A part of me longs to hear him protest, to feel his arms wrap around me, his mouth clamping down on mine in a firm, demanding kiss.
Instead, he looks wounded. The hurt in his eyes is fleeting, though. He quickly pastes on a stony grin. “Fine. Let me get you a cab.”
“Colin, I didn’t mean to—”
“No, you’re right. It’s late. Let’s be adults, shall we?” His arm sweeps up and, wouldn’t you know it, a taxi pulls over instantly.
I curse my luck. This feels all kinds of wrong, but now I don’t know how to fix it.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
He opens the door for me. “Good night. Have a good weekend.”
I give him one last imploring look, but he won’t even meet my eye.
“’Night. See you Monday.” My whole body aches with a potent cocktail of sexual frustration and regret. I have no choice, though. I take a seat; he slams the door closed.
I struggle not to cry as the taxi sweeps me off into the night.
Chapter Sixteen
The Stick’s Wrath
Monday morning, Felicity calls me into her office. Though I tell myself I have nothing to fear and certainly nothing to be ashamed of, my sweat glands beg to differ. I feel clammy all over. Big damp patches are spreading steadily under my armpits, which are thankfully hidden beneath my off-white blazer. I’m back to boring neutrals today; no retro cherry-red polka dots for this reformed office slut.
“Nice weekend?” she inquires innocently.
“Fine, thanks. You?”
She stretches in her chair. For some reason I’m reminded of Nero feigning indifference when he’s got a half-dead mouse squeaking for mercy beneath one ruthless paw. “Fantastic! Biked over to Muir Woods. So pretty! You cycle?”
I think we both know this question is patently absurd. My cycling enthusiasm is rivaled only by my love of Novocain-free root canals. Still, I don’t let my polite smile slip. “Not really, no.”
“I just love it! Working out is like a religion for me. I’m addicted to endorphins.”
I nod, thinking, where’s she going with this?
“Anyway, enough about me. I think it’s time we have a serious talk.”
Gulp.
“Okay. Sure. What do you want to talk about?”
She spins away from her desk and saunters over to her window. She has an incredible view of the bay, a blatant reminder to all of us that she’s queen bee of Creative.
“How long have you worked here, Ruby?”
“Four years.” My armpits have officially gone from damp to soaked.
She turns to face me, leaning against the window. “I think you’ve really grown while you’ve been here.”
“At least two sizes,” I quip. This is so unlike me; I never make fat girl jokes, even at my own expense. It’s as though the stress has morphed me into someone else entirely.
She studies me. “Have you thought about where you’re headed, career-wise?”
“Up, I hope.” I try a smile, but it feels all wrong. “I hope to be in advertising for the rest of my life.”
“Uh-huh.” Her expression is completely blank. She squints, clearly waiting for me to say more.
“And I like it here! This job has given me plenty of opportunities,” I ramble. I feel like I’m interviewing for a position all of a sudden. Is she toying with me? She’s definitely toying with me.
She presses her palms together as if in prayer. “Like I said, you’ve come a long way. I’m very proud of you.”
“Thanks.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not sure Wright, Milton and Sykes is the best forum for your work anymore.”
Cue horror movie soundtrack.
“What do you mean?” I sound like a child asking her mommy why Santa didn’t show.
Her prayer hands turn into clasped fingers. “I think you’ve gone as far as you can go in this company. It’s time to move on.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Mr. Wright’s here to check out our office, make sure everything’s running smoothly, review our accounts, that sort of thing.” She’s wearing a concerned little frown, but it’s pretty obvious she’s enjoying herself. “He studied all the employee files, and frankly he’s a little concerned about you, Ruby. We both are, actually.”
I feel like she’s just punched me in the stomach. “Concerned about what?”
“Your performance.” She shrugs. “Your level of enthusiasm.”
“I see.” It takes great effort to get those two syllables out.
“We don’t think your heart’s in it anymore.”
I clear my throat, looking away. “So, are you firing me?”
She smiles. “That’s not the way I’d choose to phrase it.”
“Oh, yeah?” I stand, suddenly furious. The words shoot from my lips like machine gun fire. “How would you choose to phrase it?”
“Before you say another word, I just want to remind you that we can make this painless or painful. It all depends on your attitude.”
“Really? I don’t consider getting fired without warning after four years of working my ass off ‘painless.’” I glare at her, resisting the urge to slap her perfectly made-up face. “I think it’s pretty painful, tell you the truth. Not to mention totally unfair.”
She treats me to another frosty smile. “You’re entitled to your opinion.”
* * *
I don’t even get my things. Filling a cardboard box with staplers and framed photos while Simon and the others look on with pity would just push me right over the edge. I’m afraid I’ll make a scene. I’m so furious, I can’t even see straight. White-hot rage courses through me. What I’m most afraid of is run
ning into Colin, though. If that happens, I’ll lose my shit, and it won’t be pretty.
I leave the building without a word and climb aboard the bus to North Beach. A homeless guy who smells like pee is ranting about the president. I try to ignore him. Leaning my forehead against the cool glass window, I stare at my ghostly reflection. What did I do to deserve this? Did Colin seriously tell her to fire me? What exactly did they see in this ominous “file” of mine to warrant cutting me loose? I may not have the frat boy swagger of Matt, Dylan and Luke, or even the perkiness of Carrie and Heather, but I do better work than them. That must count for something! It is a company, right? Don’t they feel the need to generate a quality product, for fuck’s sake? Or is it all just politics—kissing ass and sucking up and doing it with a smile?
All at once, my fury dissipates and I feel numb. It’s like a blanket of snow falls over my heart, coating it in pure, frosty silence. I obviously don’t understand how this stuff works. Maybe I never will. What are my chances of getting another job now, anyway? Somehow, I can’t imagine Felicity giving me a glowing reference. Despair takes over. I can feel it choking me.
Fucking bitch. Okay, there’s still a little rage beneath the suicidal apathy.
Just as I’m climbing off the bus, my phone rings. It’s Simon. I frown at the display listing his name, puzzled. I consider ignoring it, but curiosity gets the better of me.
“Ruby?” His voice is barely above a whisper. “You okay?”
“Yeah. No. Why, what’s up?”
“Why did you quit?”
“What?”
“I heard you quit,” he repeats. “What happened?”
For a second, I consider pretending I did quit. Maybe Felicity’s giving me a chance to get out gracefully. To save face. Could that be it? I reject this notion almost immediately, though. The Stick doesn’t have an ounce of compassion; her heart’s about as big and soft as a cherry pit.
“I didn’t quit,” I tell him. “She fired me.”
“Who? Felicity?”
“Yeah. Who else?” I don’t mean to sound bitchy, but it’s hard not to. I’m walking home from the bus stop, my feet hurt, and the drizzle is turning into full-on rain. I forgot my umbrella, of course. Fucking fantastic. This day just keeps getting better.
He whistles. “Shit. I just heard her tell Colin you quit.”
I stop dead in my tracks. “Really?”
“Sorry. Have to go,” he mumbles, all furtive. I guess Felicity must have shown up. The line goes dead. I stand there, my heart pounding. The rain falls harder.
So Colin didn’t fire me. He didn’t, right? Felicity just wanted me out of there.
Unless Simon heard wrong. Or Colin and Felicity decided to give me the ax together, as she implied, and this is a PR move. That doesn’t sound right. My gut tells me Felicity wanted me gone, and she took it upon herself to pull the trigger.
As I continue plodding home, getting increasingly soaked, a bizarre mixture of emotion bubbles inside me like some toxic stew. On the one hand, I’m thrilled to think that Colin didn’t want to fire me. Imagining the two of them conspiring against me was like rubbing salt in a gaping wound. On the other hand, thinking about Felicity doing this all on her own, then lying to Colin, probably making me look like a total flake, fills me with a fresh wave of fury.
I let myself into the building and trudge up the three flights of stairs, which reek of mildew. I wonder idly if ten o’clock is too early for a stiff drink. As soon as I open the door to my apartment, though, all thoughts of emergency martinis instantly vanish.
I’ve got a real emergency on my hands. Nero’s on the floor by the couch convulsing. He’s foaming at the mouth. His eyes have rolled back in his head and he’s making a terrible sound, a yowl of anguish that cuts through the air like a siren.
Chapter Seventeen
Emergency
I rush to him, all thoughts of work—of Felicity and Colin and everything else—instantly evaporating.
“Oh, my beautiful boy! What is it? What’s wrong?”
My heart’s slamming away inside my chest like a sledgehammer. For a second all I can feel is blank dread and panic. Nero’s never been seriously ill. I don’t even remember my vet’s name. Something to do with food...Dr. Rice? Dr. Plum? When humans are injured you’re not supposed to move them—is it okay to move a cat? Wait, that’s spinal injuries. Fuck, fuck, fuck! What do I do, what do I do?
My belly’s turning cartwheels as I sprint to my bedroom, find the cat carrier at the back of my closet, and gently deposit Nero inside. He doesn’t resist, even though his massive girth barely fits in the narrow box. His wide green eyes just stare at me in horror. He’s stopped convulsing, but he’s weak and limp.
“You’re okay,” I coo. “That’s it, baby, you’re going to be fine. Look how good you are! My sweetie, my kitten! You’ll be just fine.”
I call a taxi and demand the driver race across town to the vet. My pulse throbs in my ears as I contort like a yogi on the backseat, putting my face close to the little metal door of the carrier, keeping up a steady stream of nonsensical baby talk. Whenever the cabbie stops at a red light I find myself hollering in a shrill, panicky voice, “Can’t you go any faster?!”
The vet—whose name is Dr. Appleton, I knew there was food involved—explains that my baby ingested something poisonous. “Probably licked a puddle of antifreeze or ate some detergent.” He peers over his spectacles, his eyes full of reproach. Like this is my fault!
I wait in the lobby while Dr. Appleton treats Nero. I long for a cigarette but chomp my way through several pieces of gum instead. I feel terrible, a hopeless cat owner, reckless and remiss. When he’s finished, Dr. Appleton lectures me on common household items that pose a threat to cats. He hands me a glossy brochure with a demonic looking tabby on the front and the ominous heading “Danger: Cat Poisons Are Everywhere.” Some distant part of my brain critiques the layout, the font, the phrasing. I stuff it into my purse, promising to read it tonight. An hour and three hundred dollars later, Nero and I are released, disaster averted.
I call Wanda to see if she can come get us, but it goes to voice mail right away. My whole body feels limp and shaky as the adrenaline gradually ebbs from my system, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. I hail a cab, trying not to think about how thoroughly I can’t afford this decadence, especially now that I’m unemployed. The warmth of the taxi and the soothing burble of Middle Eastern radio lulls me into a sleepy trance. Hugging the cat carrier tightly in my lap, I watch the dreary winter streets whir by. Headlights and neon signs cast pools of slick wet color across the rainy pavement. Nero meows in listless protest, sounding utterly forlorn. Umbrellas hurry along the sidewalks and men in suits huddle under newspapers, dashing for doorways. The windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm as a singer on the radio keens mournfully in some indecipherable tongue.
I’m twenty-eight years old, I think. What have I got to show for almost three decades on the planet? I have no job, no boyfriend and no imminent prospects for either. In one day—less than that, one morning—my life has gone from semi-stable to disastrous. I feel as if I’m dangling in midair without a safety net. When Nana was alive I could always turn to her in a crisis; she knew how to listen. I’d sit on her floral couch and weep into her Kleenex. Her craggy face, always painted with rouge and lipstick, would frown sympathetically from within a cloud of blue smoke. Now I don’t know who to turn to. I’d rather dial my way through the phonebook than call Mom. She has a new family in L.A., and she hasn’t the faintest interest in what happens to me; I’m the mistake she made in high school, one she’d rather forget. The only souls on the planet I’m really connected to are Nero and Wanda.
I try calling Wanda again. Voice mail.
I text her: Emergency! Disastrous day. Bring booze.
* * *
“Where w
ere you?” I can’t keep the whine from my voice when Wanda finally shows up at my place ten hours later. I must have sent her a dozen texts, each one increasingly more desperate, pathetic and poorly spelled.
She breezes in, smelling of pipe smoke. In her arms she cradles a brown paper bag that looks vaguely booze-shaped.
Wait, pipe smoke?
“Why do you smell like someone’s grandpa?” I ask.
She looks furtive. “What are you talking about?”
“Pipe smoke.” I put my face in her hair and sniff again. “Smoky sweet, like chocolate cigarettes. You know what I mean.”
“Have you been drinking?” She neatly sidesteps my question with one of her own.
“A little.” I hold up my nearly finished tumbler of merlot. “Had no gin.”
She fishes a bottle of Bombay Sapphire from the brown bag, but yanks it beyond my grasp when I lunge for it. “No, no, no! Don’t you remember the rule? Beer before liquor, never sicker.”
“I didn’t have any beer!” I sound like a toddler, but I don’t care.
“Beer, wine, same thing.” She shakes her head. “You start in on the gin now, there’s no way you’re going to work tomorrow.”
I stomp over to the couch and flop down with a groan. Somehow I didn’t feel like sharing my disastrous news via text. “No worries there. I got fired.”
“No way!” She deposits the gin on the counter and follows me. Slipping off her mules, she folds herself into the opposite end of the couch, Nero sandwiched between us as usual.
I pet Nero tenderly. “Felicity gave me the ax first thing.”
“The Stick wouldn’t dare!”
“Oh, she dared.”
She looks incredulous. “Never would have thought she had the nerve.”
“She said it was Colin’s idea.” My voice trembles slightly. Already I can feel a red-wine headache setting up camp in my skull. The buzz I carefully nursed most of the afternoon has now faded into a sloppy pre-hangover blah. The sea of hopelessness I’ve been swimming in all day rears up in a tidal wave.
