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But I’d stay here forever, given the chance. I loved everything about it, even saying hello to Christophe the security guard, riding the elaborately decorated and constantly malfunctioning elevator, and entering the offices stacked mile-high with books. I passed Gretchen’s office door, holding my coffee in one hand and my bagel in the other, and I felt exceedingly grown up. I’d liked AmeriCorps, but a very different part of me loved dressing up for work and looking down at Broadway from the ninth floor. “Morning, Gretchen.”
“Good morning.” At fifty-six, Gretchen wore her short hair naturally salt-and-peppered, had a short, round body and matching cheeks, and had one of the sharpest minds I’d ever encountered. She juggled this job along with three children and a commute from Jersey. Now, she smiled from behind small glasses. “How was your weekend?”
Bewildering. “Good. I bought a ticket for my high school reunion at Thanksgiving. How was yours?” I’d learned to keep my answers brief. Gretchen cared about her employees, but she only engaged in real conversation when she needed a break from her own work.
“Good.” The one word answer was my cue to smile and walk on by. I entered the office I shared with one of the other interns and Marie, an associate editor. Books spilled off shelves onto the floor, while posters of covers plastered the walls.
Marie swiveled her chair around, her jean clad legs casually crossed tailor style. She gestured to a recycling bucket filled with mail. “Morning. Your presents are here.”
I smiled wryly. Twice a day, huge piles of mail arrived—manuscripts, galleys, final copies of books. Not to mention bills, advertisements, correspondences with international offices, and the occasional office supply. I plunked down on the carpet, armed with a letter opener, exacto-knife, and pen.
I had hardly made a dent when I heard the clicking of designer heels in the hall, and Laurel McKenzie breezed in and dropped her Parisian purse on her chair. Like me, Laurel wanted to work in publishing, but she could always fall back and work at her father’s financial empire if no job appeared. “Guess what I did this weekend.”
Marie smiled tolerantly. “What?”
“I went on a date to the Ivory Room!” Laurel leaned against her desk, too filled with energy or caffeine to start helping me with the packages. “He was gorgeous. Couldn’t keep the conversation off Wall Street for more than five seconds,
but so good looking. And Rachael, you would have loved it. They had those, you know, those things. I wouldn’t eat them since spinach always gets stuck in my teeth, but I know how you love Greek food.”
“Spanokopita?”
“Yeah! Those.”
I smiled. Laurel was a trip-and-a-half with her obliviousness to the recession, but we got along.
We took our lunch break at a small pizzeria on 7th Ave, where I learned more about Laurel’s date than strictly necessary. “What about you?” she asked as we finished off our meal. “How was your weekend?”
I decided against the unabridged version. Laurel would’ve been impressed, because celebrities impressed her, but it felt too private and I’d acted too badly with Ryan. “I saw John again.”
The first time I’d gone out with John, he’d wowed me with literary quotes, a degree from Yale, and rectangular glasses. On the second date, he’d taken me to see Spring Awakening. On the third, to his apartment. I’d practically swooned every time I’d seen him in his tan coat and polished loafers. Well-educated, well-dressed, employed and interested in me—what wasn’t to like? It had been my first week in the city and I’d been determined to make myself into the kind of person who easily slipped into relationships. The next day, I’d spilled the entire story to Laurel. I’d stupidly wanted to impress her, and dating an ad-agency executive seemed very Sex and the City.
Now, Laurel leaned forward with vicarious interest. “What? Where?”
“I was temping in the building he works in. He asked me out for a drink.” I shook my head. “It was so awkward.”
“Did you say yes?”
I set down my slice. “He has a girlfriend. Remember?”
She waved a hand, leaning back in her chair. “Well, didn’t he say they were open?”
“He did.” I regarded my curved stick of pizza crust morosely before chomping down on one end. The problem was that I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the whole open-relationship thing, because I had thought that we were starting an exclusive relationship.
Well, I never claimed to be people-smart.
“And to be honest, I just so want to make out with someone, and it would be so easy to call him up.” Ryan’s fault. Awful, nasty Ryan, who was so gorgeous that he’d ramped my horniness into full drive, and such a jerk that I certainly couldn’t do anything about it with him.
“Well.” Laurel shrugged, as though it was reason enough for infidelity. “John is hot.” I’d shown her a picture from his company website. We were not Facebook friends. “And it’s not like you’d be cheating or whatever. So why don’t you just use him for a little harmless sex?”
I bit back a nervous giggle. I had never used someone for sex in my life. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“I mean it, Rachael. When was the last time you hooked-up with anyone? John, right? That’s two months. I didn’t even like my date on Saturday, but I still slept with him.”
I examined my nails. I was used to way longer dry spells than two months. This was just depressing.
When lunch ended, Laurel took off. “I already cleared it with Gretchen.” Her eyes danced. “I told her I have a dentist appointment, but it’s really for a mani-pedi. But nails are like teeth, right?”
If a job opened up and it went to Laurel instead of me, I would cry.
