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“Remember Jake Kirchner?” I looked into Neil’s eyes for some kind of acknowledgement. His mouth parted, and a vertical line appeared between his eyebrows. He didn’t remember, and he was going to try a guess. I rolled my eyes. “The editor who resigned this week?”
“Yes, oh. The insufferable one who always wedged Truman Capote references into as many conversations as possible.” He shook his head in amusement then froze. “You told Rudy to keep an eye on him. I assume this phone call has something to do with his resignation?”
“Jake left Porteras because he’s going to work with Gabriella on a project.” I took a deep breath. I figured I might as well get it all out. “She’s starting up her own magazine. That’s where your advertisers are going. She’s going to crib Porteras’s subscribers and you’re going to have to fold. She’s got someone who can feed her the subscription list, but I swear to God, Neil, it’s not me.”
“Well, I didn’t expect that.” Neil pinched the bridge of his nose. “How long have you known about all this?”
“I had a vague idea something was going on while you were in London taking care of your mom,” I admitted. “That’s why I told Rudy to keep an eye on Jake. And I wanted to tell you about the subscription list, but you looked so tired and things were going so well with us... I didn’t want to stress you out any more.”
He looked hurt. I wasn’t prepared for that.
“Jake is trying to get me a job with Gabriella’s new organization. He told me earlier this week and I hadn’t made up my mind, so... I felt like I couldn’t tell you.” I’d picked my job over our relationship. This kind of thing probably happened all the time with people who dated coworkers, right?
Except... Neil wasn’t just a coworker. He was my boss.
“Oh shit,” I whispered. “I just told my boss that I was conspiring with a competing publication.”
He didn’t look at me. He pulled his hands away from mine. Very quietly, like he was fighting for control, he said, “Sophie. You’re fired.”
I considered it a personal victory that I didn’t start crying again. My biggest worry was that if I cried, Neil wouldn’t actually fire me, and that would make me feel all manipulative and shitty. I already felt manipulative and shitty enough.
“Answer your phone. We’ll talk about this, but I need a moment to myself.” He got up and left the room, and I wondered if I was supposed to run after him.
No. He needed a moment, I would give him one. And I would see what the hell Gabriella wanted.
I took a deep breath. The phone was ringing again. I answered it.
“I don’t remember it ever taking twelve calls to get in touch with the Sophie I knew.” Gabriella spoke slowly, dragging each word out like honey dripping from a bottle. “I hope this isn’t a indication of what I can expect in the future.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t near my phone.” Why was I apologizing? I didn’t work for her anymore. I didn’t have to answer the damn phone if I didn’t feel like it. Given my current state of unemployment, I wasn’t going to mention that part.
“The details don’t concern me. I need you to meet me for brunch tomorrow afternoon. One o’clock. My assistant will text you the restaurant.”
And then she hung up. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I’d thought she might not treat me like her employee, since I wasn’t anymore. I guess that faith was woefully misplaced.
I found Neil in the living room. A few weeks ago, he’d replaced the white couches Elizabeth had chosen with a black leather sofa and matching armchairs with deep seats that were perfect for curling up in, but which probably infuriated his daughter. Neil was on the couch, slouched in the corner of it, one foot up on the cushion, his wrist braced on his bent knee as he stared at the flames in the fireplace.
“Hey,” I said from the door.
He looked up. “That was fast.”
“She just wanted to ask me to lunch tomorrow.” I shrugged. Then, without thinking, I blurted, “I’ll probably go home tonight. You know, be well-rested.”
He gazed silently at me for a long time. I felt like I was on trial. I suppose I did that to myself, so I endured it.
Finally, he said, “Please keep in mind as we have this conversation that I do still love you, and I am in no way suggesting we end our relationship. I would rather cut off my own thumb than break up with you.”
“So, fired from the magazine, not fired as your girlfriend. Got it.” I breathed a long, shaky sigh of relief.
That struck me as odd. I wasn’t as bothered about losing my job as I would have been by losing Neil? Where the fuck were my priorities?
