And amid all those tears of pain and anger, I felt one thing above all else: happiness.
****
Marty Bensen, on the other hand, was not the cuddling type.
“Monroe,” he said, once our entrees arrived. “I’m impressed with your dedication. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bensen.”
“Call me Marty, please. Can I call you Tessa?”
“Sure, Marty.” I spooned a large amount of mashed potatoes into my mouth so I would be excused from talking for a bit. My business dinner with Marty was not going very well, and I would have preferred many things to this. Taking Lucy’s cats to the vet or changing Riley’s diaper when he had explosive diarrhea.
“I must say, Tess, that I always find women who assert themselves to be very attractive.”
A tea party with Hitler. Jet-skiing in molten lava. The dentist.
“You have a rare gift for commanding attention.” He was still talking, his voice thick from the alfredo sauce he was inhaling. I decided in that instant that I much preferred it when he called me Monroe, given that his breathy pronunciation of my first name made me quite ill. I let him go on.
“I just couldn’t help noticing, now that we’re working so closely together, that you and I seem to have made a special connection. Am I imagining it? I think there’s something powerful between us.”
Your beer gut? At least, that was my initial response, which I later regretted not speaking aloud. In the interest of being diplomatic, and keeping my job, I decided to brush it off casually. “I think we have a great working relationship.” I stressed the key word in that sentence, hoping that noticing subtleties was among Marty’s talents.
“I thought so,” he grinned, alfredo sauce dripping down his chin. It was true; this man had the social skills of Tarzan, without all that jungle charm. “I’m glad you agree.”
“Listen, Marty, could we focus on the presentation for now? I’m eager to talk about my plans and see what you think. I’d really like to go over it together to ensure everything goes smoothly.” If subtle cues wouldn’t do the trick, at least I could distract him.
“Sure, sure,” he said, a key of annoyance in his voice. Before coming to the restaurant, I’d psyched myself up by deciding I’d read too much into his invitation. Of course it would be professional, I thought, even Marty’s not
that
inappropriate. I launched into my description of
Prime of Your Life’s
first issue, noted his split attention, and concluded that yes, in fact, Marty was that inappropriate.
“So we’re working to assemble content for future issues that will hit a full spectrum of expertise. This demographic is diverse in its understanding of financial investing, so we need to capture readers who have no experience as well as those who are already active traders,” I was saying, trying to ignore Marty’s open-mouth chewing. I reached for my giant handbag and extracted a manila folder. “I brought a list of the topics I’m suggesting for the next five issues.”
“That’s nice,” Marty said rudely, glaring at his empty plate.
“With all due respect, Marty, I was under the impression this meeting was for professional purposes only. Is there another reason you’ve asked me here tonight?” Might as well make him spit it out.
“If we’re being frank with one another, as seems to be the case,” he said more forcefully, regaining some of the bullying demeanor I’d grown accustomed to these many years. “I’m curious whether this ‘special connection’ we have extends anywhere outside of the office. Particularly if you’re hoping to move up to VP anytime soon.”
I ground my teeth together so my bottom jaw wouldn’t fall off. No amount of dreading can prepare you for a statement like that. I stuttered for a second, taken aback by the sheer disgustingness of the suggestion. This was my career, how dare he even suggest that I couldn’t get ahead without spreading my legs?
“Mr. Bensen, I think we’re done here.”
He blinked a few times. Did he really expect a different answer? Aside from the fact that this was completely inappropriate, all he had to do was look in a mirror to answer his own question. He wasn’t exactly charming, inside or out.
Suddenly, he stood up, bumping into the table with his girth, and sending my water glass careening over onto the table. The contents of the glass exploded in my direction, drenching me, my brand new
leather
purse, and every business document I had with me. I jumped back, and bringing several tabletop items with me. “One wrong move, Monroe—”
“I don’t think so.” I stood up, my sleeves sprinkling water drops in all directions. “
You
make one wrong move and I’ll report your ass to those Powers That Be you’re so afraid of.”
“Good luck with that presentation tomorrow, Monroe. I certainly won’t be cheering for you.” His mouth snapped shut and he stormed from the restaurant, leaving me to cover the bill and apologize to nearby diners for the disturbance. As my mascara ran down my face for the second time that day, it was difficult to see where the positives of my life remained.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I needed a win and I needed one bad. It had been a rough forty-eight hours, one that this “new Tessa Monroe” should’ve been ashamed of. I’d vomited, cried all over Christian, pissed off my boss—although, granted, that was more his fault than mine—and now I was a nervous wreck. Kendra couldn’t help me, although she promised to salvage what she could of my new power suit when I dropped by after dinner.
“Do I look like a dry cleaner?” She raised an eyebrow at me, turning over the damp fabric in her hands.
“I need to wear it tomorrow for the presentation. There’s no time to get it properly dry-cleaned,” I sighed, sinking into her couch. The sweatpants Kendra lent me were too comfortable; I wanted to take a nice nap right there.
“Just wear something else.” She plucked a mushroom from the front pocket and held it up between her thumb and index finger. “Chicken marsala, Tess?”
I groaned, trying to bury my face in a pillow. “There’s nothing else to wear. I bought that suit for tomorrow’s presentation. I’ve been wearing it all week for good luck.”
“Eww! Did you barf in this?”
“Can you help me or not?”
“Maybe,” she chewed on her lip, examining the stains on my lapel. “You know, this is an all-time high for you.”
I looked up from the throw pillow. “It could’ve happened to anyone.”
“Oh, but it happened to you.” She shook her head at me, half amused and half intimidated by the mess of wine sauce, mushrooms, melted ice cubes, and possibly candle wax. Basically anything that had sat on top of that dinner table now decorated my gorgeous pinstripe suit. “It’s going to take a few days to get this cleaned, unless you want to smell like a candlelit Italian meal tomorrow. Are you positive you don’t have another suit? After eight years working in that fashion magazine you call an office, you must have something you can wear.”
I thought of my “big-time” outfit right away. In fact, that suit
had
always brought me good luck, unlike the new pinstriped hotness Kendra was wringing out over the kitchen sink. I’d been wearing that to manufacture some good vibes for myself, but all it had done for me was contract a stomach flu, inspire a nervous breakdown over coffee, and prompt a sexual harassment lawsuit against my boss. That suit was a sham. The real good luck suit was the one I
should
be wearing. The one I would go home right that instant and lint-roll for—
Crap. I left the jacket at Christian’s.
When I turned up on his doorstep, wearing Kendra’s maternity sweatpants and a baggy Red Sox t-shirt Grant had worn far too many times, Christian was surprised. I’m not sure if it was surprise to see me standing there, or surprise at my attire. Either way, he wasn’t alone and I was clearly interrupting something.
He stood in the doorway, not inviting me in, and I caught of glimpse of Savannah pacing the room behind him. Christian’s frown and crossed arms were enough of a message for me to make it quick and clear out. He didn’t even say hello.
“You haven’t seen my big-time suit jacket lying around, have you?”
“Why would it be here?” he snapped. Yup, definitely interrupted something.
“I came by the night that—um—the night that—” I didn’t know if Savannah could hear me, or how much she knew about Christian’s ex, but I couldn’t just say her name. I needed a different approach. “The night after we had lunch together, the three of us. I came over to tell you my big news about the presentation but um—you weren’t here. And so I left. In a hurry.”
I watched realization dawn on him, shifting his pinched expression to something closer to surprise. He really didn’t know that I’d come by that night at all… what happened between him and Marcy anyway?
“Well, it’s not here,” he shrugged, leaning closer to me. “She picked up some of her things and left that night.
She
might have it, Tess. I’m sorry but it’s not here.”
Savannah slammed a door somewhere inside his apartment, and Christian shot me a pleading look. “Okay, okay. I’ll go. Sorry to have interrupted.”
I hurried out of there, a little embarrassed but mostly steamed. Marcy had my jacket, Savannah was interfering in my friendship, and I’d just walked in on something that I—well—I just preferred to ignore any thoughts of Christian and Savannah… like that.
So on Thursday morning, I tore apart my closet in the hunt for something that screamed “Promote me, board guys!” There was no time to clean anything, track down thieving ex-girlfriends, or go shopping. I could either make do with what I had or go naked. I settled on a hybrid-look of the big-time skirt, a plain white shirt, and a colorful blazer from Ann Taylor that called just the right amount of attention to me. It was teal, the new business blue of the next generation. Although I missed my brand new power suit, the outfit made me feel like the old Tess again. The one who knew what she was doing.
Moderately concerned about my early signs of split-personality disorder, I marched into work, past Marty’s office, and straight into my own. Nobody was going to mess with me today. I’d had my fill at dinner the night before.
Savannah bustled around my office for most of the morning, setting up the layout boards and checking and re-checking that all the font colors were correct. I let her set the tone and she seemed happy pretending that I hadn’t turned up on her boyfriend’s doorstep twelve hours before. She looked a little sleep-deprived and puffy-eyed, but otherwise fine. I was relieved not to have to deal with an apology on top of everything else.
Jake Tisdale made an appearance, tail between his legs, to wish me luck. The article he turned in was fantastic, so the screaming paid off. Marty’s tactics weren’t my style, but with results like these, I could see why he’d stuck with his approach for so long. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right?
When it was finally time for the big presentation, I gave myself a pep talk in the bathroom mirror, straightened my collar, and marched into the conference room like I owned it. I am Tessa Monroe, future vice president and possible editor of this damn publication. A publication which has sucked all the life force out of me and dammit, I wanted it back.
Savannah was on hand as my materials assistant, but the actual presenting was up to me. I stared at my audience, a group of stuffy board members, all male and all over the age of fifty. Only about half of them still had hair and exactly all of them were wearing a black suit with a white shirt and small-patterned tie in either blue or red. I had to convince these men that a fun, edgy publication was the choice of tomorrow’s investors with only a projector screen, some poster boards, and my charming wit.
God help me.
“Good afternoon, gentleman,” I smiled that pearly white presentation smile with my entire face. “My name is Tessa Monroe, Assistant Vice President of Marketing here at Prime. I’ve been charged with the task of designing and bringing to life an idea. An idea in the making for nearly three years, finally given a look and a name by my dedicated team. I really believe this is the future of investments, the way to reach the up-and-coming investors of tomorrow.” I hit the button on the pointer to flip to the first slide of my PowerPoint presentation, the cover of the first issue. A couple smiled, holding hands in front of their new home, a “Sold” sign blurred in the distance. The teal title bar framed the classic scene, a bold contrast that popped off the page. Each featured headline had been perfected after many painstaking hours of brainstorms and edits—and re-edits.
“I’d like to present our newest publication,
The Prime of Your Life
, geared specifically toward the young twenty- and thirty-somethings who are just learning about investments, building their first portfolio, and saving for their own retirement. The theme of our first issue, as you’ll glean from the featured article titles, is ‘making smart choices with your finances.’ We’ve included real stories about first-time homebuyers using Prime’s services, as well as a test column by one of our top financial writers, which will give quick tips for new investors. We’ve also included articles about commodities versus stock investments and the benefits of bonds.” I gestured for Savannah to pass around the hard copies. “This is the final prototype of the first issue for your perusal.”