The Night I Got Lucky. Laura Caldwell

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СКАЧАТЬ for him to “cry swamp,” as I called it—I’m so swamped with this merger, I’m swamped with my billing statements, I’m swamped with this deposition. But to my surprise, he said, “Absolutely.”

      “How about Spring at six?” Spring was a restaurant in Bucktown where Chris and I first started talking about getting married. We’d been giddy that night with our plans for our future. For some reason, we’d never been back.

      “Perfect,” I said.

      “I’ll make the reservation.”

      Just then Lizbeth buzzed me. “Your meeting is about to start.”

      I grabbed my purse from under my desk, patted powder on my face and swiped lipstick across my mouth. Ready. I ditched my purse again and looked at my watch. One-thirty exactly. I felt a rush of nervousness. I’d insisted for years that I was cut out to be a VP, but I wasn’t sure what to expect from the role.

      In the conference room, a long thin space with an oval glass table, Roslyn was studying a file and silently munching on a plain green salad.

      “Hi, Billy,” she said, glancing up. “You prefer Caesar, don’t you?”

      “Um…yes, I do.” Had I ever told Roslyn that? I couldn’t ever remember discussing my favorite books or movies with Roslyn, much less salads.

      I moved to the sideboard and picked up a Caesar. A second later, Lydia Frankwell swept into the conference room, filling the place with the scent of Chanel No. 5. She was a very well-preserved woman somewhere in the age range of fifty to seventy. Twenty years ago, she’d started the firm with Bradley Harper. Rumor had it that she and Mr. Harper had been having an affair while at their previous firm, an affair that continued when they started Harper Frankwell. Mr. Harper died eight years ago, right before I’d joined the firm, leaving Ms. Frankwell at the helm. I’d always found her a bit flighty. Not that she wasn’t business savvy, but she seemed more of a figurehead, a yes-man who schmoozed clients around the country while Jack, and now Roslyn, ran the real show.

      “Roslyn. Billy,” Lydia said. I watched her, ready for a Congratulations on your promotion! but nothing came.

      Roslyn murmured a greeting. I paused a moment, debating the use of first names versus my usual “Ms. Frankwell.” I must have paused too long, because both she and Roslyn looked at me strangely.

      “Afternoon, Lydia,” I blurted out. I held my breath.

      Roslyn looked back at her file. Lydia gave me a serene smile that barely lifted the corners of her heavily BOTOX-enhanced eyes, then headed for the remaining salad. I sighed internally as I took a seat.

      “All right,” Roslyn said when Lydia was seated as well. “Let’s discuss Teaken Furniture.”

      “Mmm, good,” Lydia said. I was unclear whether she meant the salad on which she was now munching or the Teaken Furniture account. It was an account we’d had forever, and one I’d inherited from Evan. They were an old-school Chicago furniture business who’d been running the same advertisements for years. There was really nothing new about their products, and therefore very little that we could get decent PR on, but the owner was friends with Lydia and so we worked with them year after year, begging magazines to write about their Frank Lloyd Wright look-alike chairs and their design team.

      Roslyn launched into a discussion of the Teaken budget for the next six months. Lydia asked a question or two. I tried to do the same, but I found myself with little to contribute. It wasn’t just that I was new to budgets and these types of meetings. I was, quite simply, bored.

      This surprised me. I’d always spied on Evan in such meetings, walking by the open door at frequent intervals, trying to eavesdrop. It seemed so glamorous—meeting with the owner, coming up with the budget for some large account—but now I could barely keep my eyes open.

      “Okay, that’s done, isn’t it?” Roslyn said at last. “Lydia, anything you need?”

      “Hmm?” Lydia said. She was fiddling with a paper napkin. “Oh. Well, I should mention that I’m going to be in New York again for most of the next month. If there’s anything you have to discuss with me—personnel issues or such—we should do it now.” She made it sound as if she were going to the Antarctic instead of the Ritz-Carlton in Manhattan.

      Roslyn frowned at her for a second, then gave a slight shrug. “Well, there is Carolyn.”

      Lydia lifted her eyebrows, or at least it seemed she was trying. “Who?”

      “Our receptionist,” Roslyn said, as if talking to a five-year-old. “She’s been here for two years and keeps asking for a raise. Frankly, I think she deserves it.”

      “Fine,” Lydia said. “Anything from you, Billy?”

      I was about to say no. I’d been a VP for all of five hours, so what personnel or other issues could I possibly have? But then I thought of one. Alexa. I saw her smug face. I heard her voice say, Oh, I’m not suggesting that you handle this on your own…God, no. I heard her condescending laugh over and over.

      So I said her name. “Alexa Villa.”

      Roslyn frowned. I was about to do a U-turn and say there was really nothing wrong with Alexa, it was just a mistake, but Lydia sat straighter. “Ms. Villa, yes,” she said. “Tell me about her.”

      “It’s just…” How to put this? I hadn’t officially formulated anything about Alexa in my head, I’d just stewed internally about it for years.

      “Yes?” Lydia said with an encouraging nod. “Go ahead.”

      And it all began to spill from my mouth.

      I told Roslyn and Lydia exactly what I thought—that Alexa was constantly pushing off work on other people, that she didn’t respect authority, that she was rude and patronizing and very difficult to work with.

      Roslyn looked a little troubled, and I wondered if I’d overstepped my new boundaries. I pushed salad around on my plate. The conference room was silent.

      “I might be mistaken,” I said, about to take it all back and head for the hills. No need to screw up my new position by bringing up Alexa.

      But then Roslyn spoke again. “I suppose I have noticed some of that. I just didn’t realize it was so bad.”

      “Has this been documented?” Lydia asked.

      “We’ve had a couple of issues with her,” Roslyn said. “A few years ago, there was a complaint from a client about a comment she made.”

      “Mmm-hmm,” Lydia murmured.

      “And then of course there was the incident with Miss Martha’s.”

      “Good Lord, that’s right,” Lydia said.

      Miss Martha’s was a famous Chicago bakery, and they’d enlisted us to promote the fact that they’d been chosen by the Today Show for having the best chocolate chip cookies in the country. Alexa was in charge of approving and sending out the press kits to media all over the United States. The title of the kit was supposed to be, “Miss Martha Sacks the Competition!” but Alexa failed to check the final copy properly, and the kits went out reading, “Miss Martha Sucks the СКАЧАТЬ