First Chapter - Fifty Acts of Kindness
okay, so I promised on Facebook that I would post the first chapter for my Fifty Acts of Kindness social media campiagn. LIKE Ellyn Oaksmith Books on Facebook to watch me embarrass myself for 50 days trying to promote my book and annoy other people by trying to help them. I am sure at some point a shotgun will be involved as I try to help elderly people. In the book they are very violent people. The women.
Chapter One
“Revenge is sweet and not fattening.”
-Alfred Hitchcock
It happened on a fair June morning, as most horrible things do. Manhattan was misted with morning fog promising to burn off into silvery blue. Rectangles of Central Park grass were draped in picnic blankets anticipating office workers who would mysteriously break out in hives, sick kids, barfing pets or broken water pipes. Of course, I didn’t notice any of it. Glued to my desk since 5:00 a.m., I was slaving away on a presentation that my account assistant, Betsy, had failed to ready. My under-slept brain was the consistency of sticky tarpaper mixed with grit. Since college, I’d rocketed upwards so fast I’d sharpened to a very fine point, perfectly suited to the world of high tech marketing.
By mid-morning my admin Stella delivered on tiptoe, my usual piping hot half-caff Americano with soy. My biological clock knew that at 10:15, I moved my hand and coffee materialized.
Normally Stella drifted away like fog but today, as I was about to connect a call, she whispered, “Kylie, B-b-b-Bob wants to s-s-see you.”
Startled, I jumped, spilling my Americano, tangling myself in the phone headset.
Stella flew to the Kleenex box on my desk, extracting a handful, frantically blotting at the stain, getting her hands far too close to my crotch. “Hey!” I batted her away, my hands tangled in black cord.
Stella quivered. “S-s-sorry.”
Mopping at the stain, I stunk of soggy linen and curdled soy instead of my misted Dior Hypnotic Poison. Fabric clung to my thighs in unflattering detail. Angrily blotting with fresh Kleenex, I looked up.
Stella remained at the open door, studying me, with what – pity?
“What? It doesn’t show. I’ll live.” It was annoying that she hadn’t buzzed me before entering but then again maybe she had. Sometimes I was oblivious.
When I’d hired Stella three months ago, she was a fresh faced college grad with a degree in communication, perfect diction and a ramrod spine. Taking her on, I thought maybe I could mentor her as Dorie did me; scare out the idealism and beat in the competitive edge. Unfortunately she’d wilted like lettuce in the hot sun, acquiring the nervous stutter.
Standing, I slipped into my cream linen Zac Posen jacket. “Did he say what it was about?”
“N-n-n-n-no,” said Stella. Why on earth didn’t she just shake her head?
Since I was an account director and Bob, my boss, was two flights up, we communicated through e-mail, weekly staff meetings and occasionally by phone. It wasn’t like Bob to summon me to the 17th floor unless it was something unusual.
Like a promotion.
It all made perfect sense. After a mere five years, I’d reeled in Maxxilate Software. Although they aren’t a whale, they are a nimble Tiger Shark. They could, with my help, become a thrashing Great White. The timing is ideal.
My mind whirled with possibilities. As vice president I’d move from coach to first class on business trips. I’d quit haggling with pinched accountants about my third world expense account, switching to sleek town cars instead of eau-de-armpit taxis. I’d have a view office and, hopefully, acquire a less verbally challenged assistant. As I find a mirror, pinch my corpse-white cheeks, I’m pretty sure I’m driving Stella into an early grave. Firing her would be my gift. “Go teach preschool,” I’d advise.
I looked up from my reverie. Stella was slumped in the doorway, the same worried look plastered to her face. Despite the fact that she’s five years younger than I, she reminds me of my hippie mother, always puzzling over our vastly different natures.
“Anything else?” Why is a girl whose paycheck barely keeps her in heavily rotated Ann Taylor Express separates, inhabiting one-fifth of an ant-farm walk up, worried about me? I have a fabulous job, a shiny new condo on the Upper West Side. I’m about to get promoted.
Stella opens her mouth, as if she’s going to spit out something but loses her courage, sprinting back to her warren.
Dislodging my make-up bag from a drawer, I ready myself. This is really happening, despite my account assistant Betsy, a pregnant thorn in my side. An average day for Betsy consists of surfing mommy-to-be websites and wearing a triangular path between her desk, the break room and the bathroom. Despite Betsy the albatross, I could, almost certainly would, be joining the executive ranks where no woman had ever gone before, except Helen, who hates me.
In the elevator, I practice acting surprised, checking my expression in the brass panels. I can’t look too shocked, like I’m secretly terrified, wondering if some random monkey could do better. But I can’t look like someone coasting to the top between power naps. Sucking in my gut, I throw back my shoulders and march across the sea of open-concept desks. The perimeter is where senior executives are wedged, the nerve-riddled epicenter decked out in exotic woods, buttery leather, cool granite and thick, icy glass. Something is definitely up. People are staring.
OMG.
Bob ushers me in with a wave, finishing up a call while I mentally paint his office Benjamin Moore bright linen, laying down wainscoting. Accent color: hyacinth blue. One year, two max. I’ll have his job.
While I wait for Bob, I itch with excitement. Dorie will be so proud. Where should we go to celebrate? Daniel? Le Bernadin? Per Se? I’ll insist on treating her for all the help over the past six years. We’ll order champagne. Good champagne. I won’t even look at the prices.
Bob hangs up, turning his spaniel eyes on me with surprising anger. He doesn’t look very pleased for a man about to share happy news. “Kylie, to be honest, I don’t understand this. You are one of our rising stars. You are driven, focused and relentless when it comes to our clients.” He sighs heavily. “Given all that, I have to ask, do you have something to say?” He waves vaguely at his desk, clear but for his laptop and Iphone.
I am baffled. He is a grade school principal confronting a toilet stuffing miscreant. Does he assume I already know about the promotion? Is he distracted by another issue?
I cock my head, smooth my skirt primly. Far from any toilet stuffing, I get straight A’s.
“Thank you?” I wonder when the rest of the executive team is going to file in, balancing a look that says “super busy” with “great for you.” Maybe they will bring in a cake. Or at least Starbucks.
“Thank you?” Bob is puzzled. He runs a tan hand across his balding pate.
Why didn’t I wear a nicer dress? My new Lauren black label; I’d been starving for months, hoping to wedge into it. “Um, maybe you’d better clue me in…” I smiled graciously, offering an opening.
“Seriously? Come on Kylie. You have no idea?”
What? What is going on? Am I completely misreading his signals?
“Kylie, come on. You have no clue why you are here?”
I get the ball rolling with the first item on my agenda: albatross removal. “Not really but while we’re here, I’d like to discuss transitioning Betsy to another department. Her pregnancy is proving to be challenging.” His eyes narrow, so I elucidate, “For me.”
I am about to explain why someone else’s pregnancy could have a deleterious effect on me personally when Bob groans, rubs his eyes. “Stop! Stop right there.” He shakes his head. “How could you not know that your little performance with Betsy Rollins has gone viral?”
He types something into his computer, turning the screen to my vantage.
A cold wave of fear creeps up my spine. My little performance? What little performance? Why does he know Betsy’s last name?
For the last two days Betsy has called in sick. I am about to find out why.
Bob conveniently has YouTube on full screen. There I am, sternly towering over Betsy, who did, as I now recall, have her cell phone propped on her protuberant belly while I was talking, okay, yelling. At the time I thought she was monitoring her heart rate.
Stupid me.
It is hard not to wince as she catches me mid-vent. “And the bathroom breaks. My God, during the Cellex meeting you left the conference room nine times. I counted. Nine times after one bottle of water!” I screeched. “The last time you came back with your skirt hiked into your underwear! The only thing they’re going to remember about that presentation is granny panties! Who does that?” My voice is not my best feature and when I am exhausted and overwhelmed. Shrewish comes to mind. An icy chill grips my spine.
“Pregnant women,” Betsy said. There were tears in her voice. I don’t remember that. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t listening. “The baby is pressing on my bladder.”
“And your brain.” The YouTube version of me sighs heavily. Inwardly, I curdle. “Does it say in What to Expect When Your Expecting that your brains will be sucked out for the duration of the pregnancy? Because when I put the flash drive in at the Digitech meeting do you know what I found? Your ultrasound. Yep. Those dudes had a great time. They decided that you are giving birth to a ghost/alien/zombie baby and used the rest of the meeting to play foosball. I had nothing! I suck at foosball! You weren’t even there because you had a doctor’s note. What is this, high school?”
“My doctor did say that.”
“We are a technology marketing company. People don’t want to see our underwear or ultrasounds or try to run a meeting while you jump out to pee.”
“I’m due in two weeks.”
Her whine still grates on my nerves but my recorded words slice. “I cannot do your job and mine. It’s killing me. I need you on the ground and running. Oh no wait, you can’t run. Which is why you missed the flight to Miami where you got dehydrated.” I used quotation marks around dehydrated. My spine was now a solid icicle. This was bad. How could I have not known she was recording me?
“I was dehydrated.”
We’re both so very tired. “Right. Which is why you ended up lounging in Miami while I ran yet another meeting solo. I stayed up until three a.m. doing the Power Point you’d forgotten.”
“I ended up in the hospital.”
“And missed the flight back to New York and yet another day of work. If you are dehydrated you drink water. It’s not rocket science!”
I remember this day clearly. Sleep deprived from a red eye, I’d left Betsy in New York, begging her to prep for a meeting the following day. When I got back, the slides weren’t ready. She’d gone home. I’d miss another night’s sleep to finish them.
It was the perfect storm and she’d caught it.
Leaning forward to downsize the screen, I saw the views. “It got 2.7 million views?” She titled it: “Worst Boss Ever?!” There were lots of comments, many expletives and a passionate nine exclamation points in a row.
Bob dug a crust from his eye. “It’s not something to be proud of.”
My mind raced. How to spin this before he threw something out? I managed a casual shrug. “I’m in marketing. I can’t help it.”
Bob ruefully shook his head. “This makes us look soooo bad.”
Crunch time: no complaints or excuses. “Does it though? Does it? What I see is that we expect a certain professionalism and energy from our employees, a requirement that, pregnant or not, they perform to the best of their abilities. My delivery was very rough but it was a message she needed to hear.” He wasn’t buying. I grabbed for a straw. “Isn’t posting this on YouTube a violation of my privacy?”
“I don’t know,” Bob said wearily. “That’s 2.7 million negative hits with MLJK’s name attached.”
My heart clutched. I needed a cigarette. Now. “Whatever happened to any publicity is good publicity?”
He ignored my lame joke. “She’s threatening to file suit. I checked with legal. We can tie her up in court but the claim is legit.”
I inhaled sharply, forgetting, in my growing panic, to exhale.
“Breathe Kylie.”
“S-s-suing us?” Great, now I was stuttering.
“You called her fat. She says you created an unhealthy work environment.”
My jaw dropped. This was not the time to point out that, as a former chubette, I never, ever use the F word. “The operative word here is work. I was running on vapors.”
Bob got up, looked out the window at his fabulous view. “Stella, by the way, corroborates everything you’ve said.” My eyebrows shot up in alarm. “Yes, I’ve talked to her. I’ve talked to a few people but the point is that sooner or later we all have to deal with this. Pregnant women deserve-” He stared off into the silver buildings, the cloudless sky. When I entered, the view felt empowering. Now it was an invitation to jump. “Latitude. We are a family friendly company.”
I snickered bitterly. MLJK years were dog years. Most of the senior partners were divorced. “And what about women who aren’t ever going to have children? We just put up and shut up?”
He gazed at me, his eyes weary. “Come on. You’re what, not even thirty? You don’t know that.” Bob was still in his marriage of origin.
“Look at me Bob. My relationships have the longevity of a fruit fly. I have nothing left at the end of the day.”
“Maybe it’s time to branch out.”
Clearly he pitied Betsy. It was time to grab the controls. “I don’t want to branch out. This is who I am. I can fix this. I can smooth things out. Get my assistant her own assistant. At least until she’s had it.”
“Her baby is not an it,” he snapped.
“Did I say ‘it’?” I’d been talking so quickly. Had I just made a tactical error?
“Yes,” Bob said quietly, losing his starch. Crossing his arms he glanced at a framed photo: a gap-toothed pig-tailed toddler on a swing, pushed by his beaming, very pregnant wife. “You’re going to have to leave until this dies down.”
For a second I felt nothing but a weight pressing on the top of my head, a dull ringing in my ears. This could not be happening. “This isn’t Survivor. You can’t let random strangers on YouTube vote me off because I lost my temper.”
“They’re not. Lance is.”
The CEO? I was in a tippy canoe and by golly, there went my paddle.
I made a tiny bubble of an objection as I sank. “She wasn’t doing her job.”
“Effective immediately,” he said. I knew what preceded those two words: terminated.
This wasn’t a break.
This was permanent.
