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But they can't do everything I can do, or at least I hope not. Experience should count for something, right? That's what I keep trying to tell myself, anyway. Sometimes it's not the freshest voice or the newest slang. Sometimes it's experience or wisdom… or some other bullshit excuse I make up.
I stand up, slipping my bare feet into these ridiculously awesome Louboutin heels. I want to whisper to them. You, my darlings, I will miss you most of all. When the swag stops flowing to the door of my Greystone, when I'm back to being my real self who doesn’t give product endorsements, I will miss you very, very much.
I glance up. There it is. 121,000 shares.
No! 121,047!
With an optimistic smirk, I snap the laptop closed and drop it into my Hermès knockoff, heading for the door and ready to start this day winning.
The parking garage is almost abandoned when I arrive, since I’m showing up during the hours between oh-you-are-late and let’s-go-grab lunch. Hannah said I could borrow her parking space, which is great. I don’t actually have parking privileges since I am never here. And I hate parking downtown because thirty-five dollars just for leaving my car somewhere an hour enrages me.
The attendant waves me under the liftgate when I hold up my ID card. Hannah must have called down to let them know I was coming. Feeling quite special as I drive slowly up the curving concrete ramp, I smile to myself with satisfaction. Everything is lining up nicely.
No more fluff pieces. I sigh happily.
The executive level is quite posh compared to the other two. Every space is lit, ensuring only the most sophisticated purse-snatchers would even dare to try. I roll around, squinting into the concrete voids until I find the placard of my boss and longtime friend, Hannah Bonham.
It’s right next to the elevator too. Some people get the best perks.
I practically skip to the elevator, one step away from dancing when I get inside. But the camera that is surely trained on me is discouraging. I give it a wink though, just to let out some of my excitement. Probably some security guard will get a charge out of it.
Hannah holds up one finger when I walk into her office as she continues to type with her other hand. She nods in concentration, murmuring into the phone little sounds of agreement. Squinting at her computer screen, she takes notes about the conversation while she continues agreeing repeatedly and profusely with whomever is on the other end of the line. I shift from foot to foot, trying not to stare at her.
Her ginger hair is swept up into a complicated, boho braided crown that swims around her head like a slightly descended halo. Now that it's midsummer, she's mostly given up on shoulder pads and today is wearing a jade green, silk surplice top that makes her peachy complexion glow competitively. Her skin is so flawless it looks like she's dusted with flour. Even her freckles appear perfectly painted on.
She jerks her chin at me slightly in approval as I lower myself into the le Corbusier chair in front of her desk. I drop my bag quietly on the floor next to me and pull out my laptop, trying not to make any sound that could be overheard on her conference call.
Which does not seem to be going especially well.
“Uh huh,” she says for the thousandth time so far, but it doesn't really sound like an agreement, it sounds like a retreat. It seems like she's being chased away, and that's just the sound she makes as she's running.
Metaphorically running, of course. I am a writer, after all. Metaphors are what I do.
Finally, she sighs. “Okay. Okay, yes,” she nods emphatically, though they can't see her at all. “Well, thank you. Yes, okay. You bet. Thanks very much.”
She stabs the front of her cell phone to disconnect the call and rips the Bluetooth out of her ear, then drops her head back and stares at the ceiling with her mouth open for a few seconds.
“You okay?” I venture to ask.
Without looking at me, she says, “Sure.”
Comically, she lets her arms and legs go all loose for just a second, like a marionette that's just been granted a momentary reprieve. She looks wounded. Slightly gawky, a little bit less composed.
That's the Hannah I remember from middle school, from softball games and debate club and fundraisers. The one who was constantly growing out of her clothes, shooting up like a beanpole, as her mother always said. Too long, too gawky. She grew out of her clothes so fast, they always seemed just a little obscene. Too tight around the places that grew fastest. Prone to bunching up and exposing her navel, that sort of thing.
But just look at her now, the CEO of Riordan Publishing. Badass boss lady overseeing three publishing imprints and a dozen online magazines, including TurnPost. She barely ever shows anyone that it takes even the smallest effort on her part. Who knew all of that would come from that awkward beanpole? Must have been some fairytale-quality magic beans.
“You want to talk about it?” I offer.
Normally she says no, that I wouldn't understand. First of all, she's probably right about that. Second of all, I have a feeling it's not terribly interesting anyway.
But to my surprise, she says: “Oh my God, I am so fucking screwed."
I giggle a little, knowing that this is the kind of language she uses only in front of me now. To everyone else, she's the frighteningly beautiful dragon lady who would never defile her own perfectly-lined and lipsticked mouth with a swear word of even the most innocent kind. She looks like Nicole Kidman twenty years ago, with a little dash of Lana Turner and Bette Davis thrown in for good measure. She barely even uses contractions, much less words like fucking or screwed. It's just for me.
Because I'm special. Because we’re friends.
“Oh, it can't be that bad, can it? I’m sure you’ll come out on top. What's going on?” I ask her.
