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Lucy read her loud and clear. She left without another word, slipping out the door into the hall. She pretended to be on her phone so no one stopped her on her way to her next destination. Her legs shook as she walked. Adrenaline flooded her veins over the serious drama she’d just started.
She rounded the corner to Amanda’s office. Again, she knocked, but she didn’t bust through the door in case there was something truly confidential going on inside.
Amanda greeted her, looking just as frazzled and exhausted as Joanna had, and Lucy hoped it wasn’t only the women doing the emotional labor of navigating the meltdown, but she had a strong feeling it was.
“Lucy,” Amanda started. “Is everything all right?”
“I need to talk to you. Alone.”
Amanda glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Ericsson, who was poking at the remnants of takeout lunch. The conference table had even more binders and papers than it had when Lucy had left it not long before. The room was in shambles and smelled like balsamic vinaigrette.
“Robert? Do you mind?” Amanda asked.
He took his time wiping his mustache and pushing back from the table. He gave Lucy a weak smile as he passed. “I could use a walk to stretch my legs,” he said, like he was thanking her for the excuse. He didn’t look nearly as flustered as Amanda, but then, it wasn’t his company that was up in flames.
“What can I help you with, Lucy?” Amanda asked once they were alone with the door shut. Lucy noted a takeout container where Amanda had sat during their meeting. The green salad looked untouched, all fresh and crisp with tomatoes and cucumbers.
“I’m here to give you a heads-up. I was probably supposed to keep things confidential, but I couldn’t. This Annie thing is about to go external, and I think it’s an opportunity.”
Amanda recoiled like she’d said something insane.
“What I’m saying is, everyone will be watching, and you’ve got the opportunity to do something—to actually make a change. We’ve seen this story time and again; the headline isn’t new. But the reaction can be new. There’s a movement gaining momentum, and we need to be part of it. Jonathan—and men like him—have gotten away with too much for too long, and there have to be consequences. Don’t just slap him on the wrist. Don’t send the message to abusers that they can get away with it. And for the love of god, don’t validate victims’ fear that speaking up won’t achieve anything. Listen, do something, and make a difference.”
Lucy exhaled, and Amanda stared at her in awe. She heard the echo of her own words like thunder.
“Please,” she tacked on politely.
Amanda closed her mouth, which had fallen open, and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I’m doing my best to do... all that.”
“Good,” Lucy said a bit awkwardly. She came in spitting fire and was happy to see Amanda agree with everything she said. No need for a fight. “Thank you.” She turned to go.
“Lucy? Before you go, I just want to say...”
The dismay on her face surprised Lucy. “What is it?”
Amanda sighed like her nerves were frayed. “I just want to say I’m sorry you didn’t feel safe coming to me, or anyone, about Jonathan. You should have been able to report him without fear of repercussion, and I take responsibility for it.”
That was perhaps the last thing Lucy had expected her to say.
“Amanda, it’s not your fault, personally, that I didn’t report him. You’re part of a system that works against women in these situations.”
“Yes, I know, but... We’ve just known each other for a long time, and I hope that you will forgive me for not providing the resources or seeing the need for them.”
It dawned on Lucy that the weary look she had seen on Amanda’s face during their earlier meeting was disappointment directed internally at herself, not at anything Lucy had done.
A soft smile tugged at her lips. “I’ll forgive you as long as you promise to do everything in your power to make sure there are real consequences this time.”
Amanda softly smiled back and gave her a determined nod. “I’m working on it.”
“Good.” She turned to go and thought of one more thing. “Oh, and you should order something else for lunch instead of your salad. Get a sandwich or pizza or a burger or a giant burrito because you want it, not because we’re only allowed to eat things like that when we’re cheating on a diet or stressed or convincing ourselves it somehow doesn’t count. And there’s cake in the kitchen.”
Amanda blankly stared at her, probably unused to another woman supporting her choice to eat whatever she wanted. Lucy had to admit, it was unusual. She was guilty of qualifying delicious things as cheat meals or stress eating because it was against the norm to allow herself to enjoy them otherwise—and she held other women to the same standard. She indulged Nina when she said she was being bad when she wanted a cupcake, and she held her accountable for the number of pizza slices they shared on days they ate carbs. All of it was plainly absurd, she realized. And the look on Amanda’s face, the slow, scandalous smile, made her sad that they lived by such rules when they were happy to see them broken.
Lucy left Amanda’s office hoping she ordered carne asada fries to gorge while she waged war against the injustice of workplace harassment. She checked for a response from Monica, but nothing yet; it had only been ten minutes or so. Once the story broke, she would have to triage the fallout. She’d be in her office on the phone with her clients for the rest of the day, but when the actual bomb went off, she wanted to be nowhere in sight. She’d go for some fresh air, she decided, as soon as she dropped in on Oliver to warn him of the pending scandal.
She found him at his desk, editing some behind-the-scenes footage of a photoshoot with one of Joanna’s clients. Brazilian supermodel Alma Pereira posed in the surf during her shoot in Tahiti last month. J&J’s social media manager liked to tease behind-the-scenes photos of upcoming magazine issues, major Hollywood events, movie premieres. Lucy had a folder of similar footage on her phone she could sell to a tabloid for half a million dollars if she wanted. Of course, that would violate the NDA she signed and was guaranteed to get her fired and probably blacklisted from every publicity-related outlet in the country, except for perhaps the tabloids.
Alma posed in powder white sand with a shock of teal sea behind her. She stood in the surf up to her thighs, wet like she’d gone for a swim and wearing a sheer white dress that plastered to the yellow bikini and her bronzed skin beneath. Her hair was wet, though Lucy was fairly certain she hadn’t actually dunked her head in the ocean; someone had spritzed her down with salt water. She gripped the hem of her dress in her fists, suggestively pulling it high enough to reveal her bikini bottom on her left hip, and shifted her weight side to side, tossing her hair, pouting, tilting her head, and only holding still long enough for the photographer to snap a few hundred rapid-fire images between poses.
