by Dana Bate
Daphne leans forward and places her elbows on her desk with her hands clasped together. “Hannah, I want you to know this is a safe space. Anything you say in here is between you and me.”
Yeah: you, me, and the board of trustees.
“Listen,” I say, “I can provide absolute assurance that nothing has happened between me and Mark. He was trying to help me after I fell over in one of his chairs. The leg was propped up on some of his clothes.”
“But see that’s what’s so curious: what were Mark’s clothes doing on the floor?”
Is this woman on glue? She clearly does not know me at all. If Mark so much as laid a finger on me, I’d scream so loud the whole office would know about it. Is she suggesting I am complicit in this? For Christ’s sake, the man is totally insane and looks like a Muppet.
“Daphne,” I say. “Look at me. The chair tipped over. That’s it. End of story.”
“I still need a statement from you, and I will need to take one from Mark as well.”
“A statement?”
“Yes,” she says. “We will need to keep this on file in case another staff member reports an incident in the future.”
“But nothing happened.”
“Yes, well, this is protocol. If you don’t mind?” She pushes a form across the desk. “Make sure you sign at the bottom.”
I grab the pen from her pudgy fingers and write a two-sentence statement explaining what happened. Then, on the dotted line, in a firecracker move that would surely make Adam cringe, I scrawl my signature in grand, swooping cursive: “Bull Shit.”
After lunch, Mark stampedes down the hall, dragging his wheely briefcase with one hand and clutching a manila folder with the other.
“Hannah, I just had lunch with someone at the IMF, and I am very worried about the situation with Greece,” he says. “I’d like to write an op-ed for the Post or the Times. I need you to summarize this report by the end of the day.” He drops the folder on my desk.
“Okay … sure …”
He cocks his head as he skims the titles of the books on my desk. “I also want to chat about your progress with my book,” he says. “Give me a few minutes to settle in, and then let’s talk.”
Yesterday, I e-mailed Mark a twenty-page outline—per his request—on the origins of the Federal Reserve, with annotations and room for expansion. I don’t normally brag about my work, but I must say, I did an excellent job.
Mark calls me into his office, and I pull up a chair behind his desk, dragging it through the detritus on his floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the remnants of a cheese sandwich sitting atop a pile of economics journals. I’m pretty sure I saw the same sandwich sitting there last week.
“So,” Mark says, “how are you coming along with the outline?”
“Did you see my e-mail?”
“No. What e-mail?”
“The one I sent you yesterday. With the outline attached to it.” Like you asked me to, you moron.
Mark presses his glasses up the bridge of his nose and scrolls through his in-box. “Let’s see … Ah, yes. Book outline … from Hannah Sugarman …”
He opens the attachment and, as if deciphering ancient hieroglyphics, squints as he skims through the outline.
“I’m sorry, what is this?” he asks.
“The outline you asked for. On the creation of the Fed?”
“But this is a banal compilation of facts. Where’s the insight? Where’s the analysis?”
“It’s … an outline. I figured I would add the analysis later.”
This is only partially true. I thought I did a fairly good job at putting the history of the Fed into context. Though who knows. Mark’s demands and desires are like the wind: erratic and imprecise, changing every few hours. My outline may be exactly what he wanted yesterday, but today he fancies something else entirely.
“Let’s hope so,” Mark says. “If people want a generic history of the Federal Reserve, they can go on Wikiphilia and get it there.”
“Wikipedia,” I say.
“What?”
“The site is called Wikipedia.”
Mark frowns. “That’s what I said. Wikipedia.” He pulls at one of his untamed eyebrows. “Anyway, try to send me something a little more substantive by the end of next week. Take a look at that book your parents bought you. It might help with organizing and streamlining the process.”
“Good idea,” I say. I start to stand up, but I pause. “How did you know that book was from my parents?”
“Because I recommended they buy it for you.”
I sit back down in the chair, my shock over the fact that Mark has ever so much as glanced at a book about organization supplanted by the unwelcome news that he has spoken to my parents. “When did you do that?”
“When I talked to them a few weeks ago.”
I’m sorry, what?
“You called them?”
“They called me, actually. They sounded very concerned about how you’re fitting in here, and we had a long talk about your work and your direction. We agreed that lately you seem aimless—unfocused was how they put it, I think. That book on organization has helped my daughter Emma a great deal,” he says. “I thought it might help you, too.”
How can this be true? How could my parents call Mark and discuss my career with him, when I specifically asked them not to do that? I am twenty-six years old. Why are they still treating me as if I’m in kindergarten?
Mark studies my expression and puckers his lips. “Frankly, you should be happy they reached out to me. After the CNBC incident, I was prepared to terminate your position. I didn’t think you took this job seriously enough. But they reminded me how valuable you’ve been over the past few years and convinced me to give you a second chance. That’s when we came up with the idea to have you help me with my book. It’s all worked out rather nicely for you in the end.”
No, it’s all worked out rather nicely for them in the end. Unbelievable. I could scream. But, before I can do that, I hear the phone on my desk start ringing.
“You should probably answer that,” Mark says. “It could be important.”
“Yeah. Probably.” I shove the chair back and stomp toward the door, clutching my notebook tightly in my hand.
“Oh, and don’t forget,” Mark says as I leave, “I need the summary for my op-ed by close of business.”
The phone has stopped ringing by the time I reach my desk—which is probably a good thing, since right now I’m mad enough to set the building on fire.
Ah, but what luck. The phone rings again. Hey caller? Go fuck yourself.
I yank the phone from the receiver and answer in a clipped monotone. “Yeah?”
“Hannah? It’s Daphne Curtis again. Listen, I was looking over your statement and, well …” She trails off.
“Yes?” I ask, taunting her.
“I’m going to need you to come back and sign another statement,” she says.
“And what happens if I don’t?”
“Well … I …”
“You’ll fire me?”
“Now, Hannah,” she says. “This is a serious matter. I need your cooperation.”
“Well, guess what? You’re not going to get it.”
I suddenly feel reckless. Bold. But, more than anything, angry—at my parents, at Mark, at NIRD, at myself for staying here so long. And I’ve packed all that anger into a big, ugly emotional bomb that is about to explode.
“Hannah, I need you to sign a proper statement,” Daphne says.
“You want a statement? Here’s a statement: fuck off.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“And you know what you can do with that statement?”
“I … I …”
“That’s right, Daphne. You can shove it up your ass.” There is silence at the other end of the phone. “And don’t worry about firing me,” I say. “Because I quit.”
CHAPTER
thirty-six
I think I went a little overboard wi
th Daphne. Although it’s almost not my fault. If it weren’t for my parents’ meddling and Mark’s smug face and NIRD’s ridiculous sexual harassment policy and those damn books, none of this would have happened. But telling Daphne to fuck off, that was a little much. And the shoving it up her ass part. That wasn’t good either.
The thing is, I didn’t even want to quit. I need a steady income stream while I figure out my future. I still need to pay my bills. But it’s not like I can ask for my job back now—not after I hurled a bunch of expletives at the head of HR.
Whatever, the point is, I quit, and now I have to deal with the consequences. On the bright side, I won’t have to deal with Mark or Millie or Susan anymore and can focus all my energy on a career in the food industry without any distractions. This will be good—productive. Silver linings, and all that.
I pound out a one-page note to Mark, march into his office, and hand him the piece of paper. “My letter of resignation,” I say, trying not to betray my utter lack of confidence in this decision.
Mark cocks his head. “Your what?”
“My letter of resignation. I’m leaving. Today.”
Mark whips off his glasses and folds his arms across his chest. “Hannah … I … I don’t know what to say. Is it because I criticized your outline? Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”
“It has nothing to do with my outline.”
“But what about the conference? You’ve been instrumental in ironing out some of the details.”
I shrug. “I’m sure Millie can pick up the slack. I already spoke with Daphne Curtis and cc’d her on this letter. It’s official. I’m leaving.”
“Well, I’m very sorry to hear that.” Mark puts his glasses back on and skims the letter. “Thank you for letting me know.”
I head back to my desk but stop short of Mark’s doorway. “And don’t even think about saying anything to my parents. I want to be the one to tell them.”
“I won’t say a word,” he says, shaking his head.
“Good,” I say, and then I walk out the door.
At five on the dot, I leave the office carrying a box with all my office belongings and head straight for the bar. I told Rachel to meet me after work so that we could “talk.” She has been at an off-site conference all day, so she is blissfully unaware of my resignation. Her reaction could go one of two ways: “Congrats, I’m so excited for you!” or “You crazy bitch, what have you done?” Frankly, I’ve been thinking the latter myself for most of the day.
I burst through the front door of the Bottom Line and scan the barstools and tables for Rachel. When I don’t see her, I plop myself down on an empty barstool and slide my box onto the stool next to me.
“Bombay Sapphire martini, straight up,” I say, throwing my wallet on the counter. “Extra olives.”
By the time Rachel arrives, I am already on my second martini. I wave sluggishly with one hand as she approaches my barstool, using my other hand to guzzle more of my drink, letting the cool, herby gin trickle down the back of my throat. Whoever said alcohol doesn’t solve problems was an asshole.
“You have martini dribbling down your blouse,” she says as she sticks her mahogany Mulberry tote under the bar.
I look down and see a big wet splotch on the front of my blue button-down. “Huh,” I say and let out a small burp under my breath.
“Classy.” She slips out of her cream cashmere peacoat and sits on the stool to my right. “So what’s going on?”
I nod toward the large cardboard box sitting on the barstool to my left. “I quit my job.”
Rachel’s eyes spring open. “What?”
“You heard me. I quit.”
“But … why?”
I take another sip of my martini. “Seriously? You’re asking why I’d quit my job at NIRD? How long have you known me?”
“I know the general ‘why.’ I meant, why today? What happened?”
I sigh and shake my head. “Where do I begin?”
Rachel beckons the bartender with her slender, manicured finger and orders a glass of white wine, and I tell her about everything: my parents’ Excel spreadsheet, their call to Mark, Daphne Curtis, Blake’s pep talk, my application to L’Academie. Rachel stares at me, taking in every word. When I finish, she sits in silence for a good ten seconds, staring at the bar counter as she bites her lip.
I jab her gently with my elbow. “Say something.”
She pulls the sleeve of her gray cashmere sweater over her knuckles. “Did you really tell Daphne Curtis to fuck off?”
“Yeah, I know, that wasn’t my finest hour.”
She shakes her head and sighs. “I’ll say.”
“But in the end, this is a good thing. Now I can concentrate on culinary school and the supper club.”
“Don’t you think we should hit the PAUSE button on the supper club, now that Blake won the election?”
“We’ll hold it somewhere outside of Dupont Circle. It’ll be fine.”
“So you’ve found somewhere else to hold it.”
I throw back the rest of my martini in a single gulp. “Not yet.”
“With everything you’ve been through, are you sure you don’t want to cancel?”
“I quit my job. I packed up my things and left the building. I officially have no income. Let’s just do this one more time, so that I have enough cash to make next month’s rent.”
“Couldn’t you ask your parents for some cash to tide you over?”
“I most certainly could not,” I say, at a volume that causes the patrons around us to turn in our direction. “I’m not saying anything about anything until I see how the culinary school application plays out. In an ideal world, I’ll get into L’Academie, and then I’ll tell my parents I’m leaving IRD, and that will be that.”
“And if you don’t get in?”
I fiddle with the base of my martini glass. “I’ll figure something out. For now, I don’t want to explain to them why I need the money—I don’t want them to think I’m a total failure. We’ll do the supper club one last time so that I can make next month’s rent, and then we’ll take a break while I figure everything out.”
“But … I mean, even if you do get in to culinary school, won’t you need money to pay your tuition? As in, a lot more than one month’s rent?”
“That’s what financial aid is for, my friend. And that’s also when I’ll go crawling back to my parents. But I’m not ready to do that. Not yet. At least if I get into culinary school, I’ll be able to show them I can succeed at something.”
I flag the bartender and signal that I’m ready for another martini, but when he arrives, Rachel jumps in before I can speak. “She’ll have a water. Thanks.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks, Mom.”
Rachel purses her lips and shakes her head. “Anyway … I actually have an idea for another supper club location …”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. But … first, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
“Shoot.”
Rachel tucks her hair behind her ear. “There’s … a guy.”
“A ‘guy’?” I take a sip of water.
She nods. “We’ve been seeing each other … for a while now.”
I start choking on the water and pound my chest with my fist. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I’ve been dating someone. He’s … kind of my boyfriend.”
“Your boyfriend?”
Rachel brings her finger to her lips. “Shhh, Hannah, keep your voice down. You’re shouting.”
“What the hell? Who is he?” I ask in a drunken whisper, which, by the other patrons’ reactions, I gather is not a whisper at all.
Rachel looks sheepishly at the bar counter. “Remember Jackson?”
“The muscular Asian dude I saw at the farmers’ market?”
She nods. “Yep. Him.”
“So you’ve been seeing him for, what …?” I try to do some drunken arithmetic. “A month? Six weeks?
“
About two months, actually,” she says.
“Two months? Why didn’t you tell me?”
She shrugs. “I tried—a few times, actually—but we kept getting interrupted. And honestly, you never seemed all that interested in following up or asking why I’ve been preoccupied over the last few months. You didn’t seem to care. All you want to talk about these days is you and Adam and Jacob and the supper club and you, you, you.”
My face grows hot, and I gulp down the rest of my water. “Oh. I see.”
I want to tell Rachel she’s wrong—that I have wondered about what’s been going on in her life, that I do care—but the truth is, I’ve been so focused on my breakup and my career path and my familial dysfunction that I haven’t given anyone else much thought. I somehow lulled myself into believing my problems are the only problems that matter. Like a brat. Like a selfish fucking solipsist.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I guess I’ve been a crappy friend lately.”
“You haven’t been at your best, that’s for sure.”
“Why didn’t you say something—about Jackson, about me being a crappy friend, about anything?”
“To be honest, I wasn’t sure what to say. You’ve had a lot going on. And I didn’t want to rub my budding relationship in your face, so soon after your breakup with Adam.”
“But I would have been happy for you,” I say.
“Really?”
“Yes—of course.” I would have, right? I’m happy for her right now, aren’t I? I should be. Maybe I’m too drunk to tell. “Where did you guys meet?”
“At an information session at Johns Hopkins, back in August …”
“Wait, you were in Baltimore, looking at grad schools?”
She nods. “You know I’ve always wanted to get a master’s in public health …”
“So you didn’t tell me about Jackson, and you didn’t tell me you were applying to grad school. What else have you been keeping from me?”
Rachel’s cheeks flush. “What? Nothing.”
I stick out my jaw as I swirl my water glass. “Oh, yeah? Then why do I suddenly feel like I have no idea what is going on in your life?”
She shrugs. “Probably because, in some ways, you don’t.”
