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What the hell is wrong with you? You know exactly what you did. I can practically smell the brimstone from here.
To: Clarke, Margo
From: Markman, Andrew
Re: what the hell?
Don’t play innocent with me. You’re right there with me in hell.
To: Markman, Andrew
From: Clarke, Margo
Re: what the hell?
This means war.
To: Clarke, Margo
From: Markman, Andrew
Re: what the hell?
Promises, promises.
Sent from my iPhone
He had some nerve keeping that signature. The first thing most associates learned was to always pretend you were in the office, which meant making your phone email as close in appearance as possible to your work email. “Always obfuscate” was Cynthia’s motto. Andrew, however, had kept his on, a big fuck-you to the partners emailing him after hours. If he had been anyone else, I would have admired his brashness.
Fury made my skin tight and my palms sweat. I regretted every interaction we’d ever had. I regretted being friends with him, regretted the way he got under my skin. He made me feel like I was a high school girl, being made fun of for being too smart, too awkward. Andrew would never be my ally. He wasn’t nice. He would always be slightly insane, domineering and ruthless.
I clicked back into my document, shaking my head.Forget about him.I was keeping my eye on the prize.
3
Andrew
The post-it next to my desk told me I need another four billable hours today, and 14 every day before January 30. That was the goal. I knew Gerald and Ann had each done that many in the year before they had made partner, and I didn’t want anything negative they could point to on my record. I scrubbed a hand over my face and took a sip of my now cold afternoon coffee to wake up. Despite appearances and what the office gossip said about me, I did get tired and I wasn’t a robot. But I wanted to be partner more than I wanted to be friends, so I was here, in my tiny office, staring down the barrel of another long evening.
My mother had called and I had rejected the call. Was I avoiding my parents? Yes, though I’d never admit it to their faces. I still had a ton of work to do over the next few days and so I was grinding away just like Margo down the hall. I shook my head as I jiggled my mouse to wake the computer. She was tireless, that one. You had to admire it, even if it her hard work and dedication came with a heaping pile of hatred for yours truly. She had been so pissed in the kitchen earlier. The days were long at the firm, but needling Margo Clarke had to be one of the best things I could do to put a smile on my face.
I had just popped in my earbuds and was getting going on a mark-up of the latest term on the Aggregate Shipping deal when I saw the email. It was just a subject line, no body.
To: Markman, Andrew; Clarke, Margo
From: Reed, Gerald
Cc: Dillon, Ann
Subject: Conference Room 2A, 20 minutes
Shit. Subject line no body meant someone was pissed. I had a firm belief that the person who sent the longer email was the other person’s grunt and sending just a subject line was the ultimate power move. I called Margo, who picked up on the first ring.
“What do you want?” She sounded both pissed and distracted, so par for the course when dealing with me. I pictured her in typical Margo sitting position, one leg under her, the other hanging free. She probably had her cashmere scarf wrapped around her like a blanket.
“Check your email.” I knew she wasn’t great about checking regularly when she was in full drafting mode.
“Okay…” she sounded suspicious. I waited.
