How to Be a Grown-up (33 page)

And my last thought as I fell asleep? I was now no longer even qualified to get a summer job at my parents’ bank.

I wanted a do-over.

Chapter Nineteen

“Rory, get in here,” Claire called from her bedroom where she was painting at her easel early the next morning.

“Claire, this is awethome,” I said, admiring her work, toothbrush in hand, mouth full of foam.

“No, no, no,” she said, pointing my attention to the TV, where JeuneBug’s home page was floating behind Joe Scarborough’s head.

“Why is he talking about uth?” I asked, looking around for somewhere to spit.

“It’s something about banks funneling money to Iran.” She handed me her coffee cup.

“JeuneBug’s not funneling money,” I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

“Are health care costs spiraling?” she added, piecing it together.

“The company’s on Stellar’s insurance plan.”

“And more people have fallen below the poverty line in the previous month than any other since 2008,” she tried to follow Scarborough’s thread.

“What?” I asked.

“Oh,” she said, slapping her forehead. “You’re evil! That’s the story. JeuneBug represents everything that’s wrong with the one percent.”

“Well, yes.” I waved my toothbrush. “So do a lot of things! I don’t manufacture sharkskin wipe dispensers. I just feature them.”

“Well, technically, that’s not true.” And there, on CNN, were my designs. “Chris Cuomo just said your snowflake bed retails for $15,000.”

“It does?” I was stunned. Pricing hadn’t exactly been under my supervision.

“What I’m interested in,” the commentator was saying, “is how this reflects on Asher Hummell. The CEO is his daughter, right? Was there any oversight? Was she just given the keys to the Ferrari? And where was Mort Studecker in all this? What does a toddler in lobster shoes say about America?”

“Nothing,” I shouted at the TV. “The shoes are French. And nobody lost dialysis coverage because of them.”

“Rory, you don’t even like JeuneBug,” Claire reminded me, taking her paints to the kitchen.

“But this is a bad moment for America to agree with me. I need money. Desperately. I can’t be without a job for even one minute. If JeuneBug’s getting demolished, I have to be the rat that rides out on the wrecking ball.”

“Then do me a favor,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“Hit me.”

“Take my old crutches today.
Please
.”

What is it scientists warn about before hives collapse? Chaos in the hive? We had chaos in the hive. As I got off the elevator, people were dashing from one terminal to the other, as if doing their jobs at manic speed might help us outrun the deluge of vitriol being heaped on us. Not since Octomom had a national news story about, really, let’s face it, nothing, invited such universal condemnation.

I could see Taylor on the phone in her office. Kimmy was holding up a yellow pad on which she’d just scrawled a solitary “FUCK.” I powered up my desktop, praying my e-mail opened to reveal messages my phone had yet to deliver. Between Sage’s showboating and the sales spurred by my vertical, companies had begun wooing me for placement. Only yesterday a nursery muralist had sent a flower bouquet made from paint tubes and now . . . radio silence. Not one vendor had responded about the graduation shoot. An e-mail appeared from the custom-embroidered bedding company who’d become my go-to. In one legally delicate sentence, they informed me they were “putting a pause” on “any further exposure” with JeuneBug.

In a few strides I was at Taylor’s doorway. Kimmy swung her bat-wing sleeve to block my entrance. “Taylor, let me help,” I said over her arm. “We have to say something to the press or at least to our vendors—”

“We have this covered.”

“I have curated the most profitable vertical on this site.” I stood my ground. “And my vendors—our vendors—are bailing. We have to pivot and then we have to get the word out. Immediately. If Sage won’t give us talking points, we’ll craft our own. What are we telling people?”

“ ‘People?’ ” she mimicked. “Tell your Facebook friends we’re getting slaughtered and Mort Studecker’s coming in for a front row seat at five. I swear to God, Rory.” Taylor was shaking. “If you don’t get out of here right now, I’m going
to kill you
,” she bellowed, tears springing from her eyes as she charged forward. The door slammed, causing the glass wall to undulate in one massive, unsettling wave. And for a split second, the bullpen was still. Just one. But in that time, I managed to ask myself the question I hadn’t asked in I didn’t know how long. The voice came clear and sharp into my ear,
What do
you
want, Rory?
And when the answer shot back I knew exactly where I needed to go.

Kathryn’s assistant was waiting to usher me inside her office, which was piled waist-high with design books and boxes of samples awaiting her verdict. The desk was vintage Knoll, the Chesterfield upholstered in raw silk, but the focal point of the room, the anchor piece, was the woman herself.

“Rory.” Greeting me, Kathryn pulled off her glasses and came around to give me a kiss on the cheek. “It should be noted I’m tearing myself away,” she said, tossing her hand at her computer. “Can I get you something? Espresso? Pellegrino? Marshmallows to roast?”

“No, thank you,” I said, not sitting down.

She nodded to dismiss her assistant and I waited for the door to click shut.

“It’s time to do something.” I put my bag on the couch. I wasn’t carrying a burned broom, but I was ready to have my request granted.

She leaned back against her desk and crossed her arms. “No, it’s time to do
nothing
. Asher dug his own grave with his little sausage fingers.”

“There’s a grave,” I countered. “But we don’t know who’s going in it.”

She cocked her head. “What does that mean?”

“Mort’s already decided on Asher. You’re out, Kathryn. Taylor told me.”

“Oh, Taylor,” she scoffed, retreating to her desk chair and putting her glasses back on.

“We need to move. Mort’s shutting Jeunebug down at four o’clock. Announcing his successor can’t be far behind.” I dug my hands into my pockets, grabbing the business cards I’d been given by those blue chip companies I’d chatted up at her marathon party. I came around, dropped them on her blotter, and crouched so we were eye to eye. “Get on the phone. Call every one of these guys and anyone else you can think of. Offer them free ads on JeuneBug for the next month, or three months—whatever it takes to get them onboard. They’ll do it if you ask them to; you know they will. They’d strip naked in Times Square if you say so. Call in your favors. It’s time.”

“To say what?”

“That my vertical has consistently sold out. There are waiting lists for almost every item I’ve featured.”

“For that to have any weight, they’d need a commitment that you’re staying.”

I wasn’t ready to play that card. I stood back and crossed my arms. “Tell them that despite the smug press for the site, our sales are strong and our customers loyal.”

“How does this help the company—help me?”

“It will stabilize the losses and buy time to keep the revenue growing; then you can talk them into buying ads at full value in the fall. And
you
can be the person who not only didn’t gamble Mort’s $5 million; you rescued it.”

She nodded, knowing I was right. If she was going to beat Asher, she was going to need this insurance policy. As I picked up my bag, she raised her eyes to me. “I’ve never said this before, but I’m going to owe you.”

I reached for the door. “I know.” And I knew exactly what I was going to ask for. “But first save yourself.”

Arriving back at JeuneBug, waiting for word from Kathryn, breath held, I stepped off the elevator to see Ginger tearfully trimming her bangs at the reception desk with a pair of fabric sheers. She pointed the blades toward the conference room.

Mort.

Was already there.

Shit. Shitshitshit. I texted Kathryn,
“MORT MEETING RIGHT NOW!”

As I slipped in behind her, Taylor was talking very quickly: “A blip, that’s all. We just have to wait this out. Goop rebounded and so will we.” Overnight someone had put up the long-awaited wallpaper—a photomural of Kimmy and Taylor stretched out on Asher’s yacht, toasting champagne bottles at some club, leaning into each other on skis. “We can absolutely sustain this,” she continued emphatically. “Our revenue’s climbing, and we’re on target to be profitable by next year.”

“Next year?” Mort wheezed. “At this rate, you don’t have an hour. I’m not throwing good money after bad.”

“You are being totally shortsighted,” Taylor spit.

“Enough,” Asher admonished. “The decision’s been made.”

“And you’re siding with
him
?”

Pointedly ignoring her, Asher stood. “Sorry to disrupt your day, Mort. I wish you’d let me take care of this.”

“Hold on.” I stepped around Taylor, who was wild-eyed but didn’t stop me. “Despite this not being her blunder, Kathryn Stossel’s been on the phone all morning, offering her advertisers free banners on JeuneBug—”

“Free?” Asher scoffed.

“Free until we
stabilize
,” I finished. “These are personal relationships she’s leveraging on our behalf.”

“Uh-uh. No way.” Taylor shook her head. “I swore we wouldn’t do ads. We’re not going backward.”

“What brands?” Asher demanded. “Name one deal.”

I gripped my phone with its unhelpful black screen. Fuck me. “I’d be happy to.” I stalled. “Let me just pull it up.”

“Would somebody tell me who this is?” Mort asked the room.

“Rory McGovern, sir.” I walked to him with my hand extended. “I’m the director of the Be vertical, which has been selling out since launch.”

“And you work for Kathryn?” Mort tried to piece it together.

“
With
her,” I corrected him. “I’m working
with
her.”

“This is bullshit.” Asher stared me down. “Even the mighty Stossel couldn’t pull that off.”

“We have deals, Asher,” I told him. “Yes, we do. I wouldn’t just barge in here if we didn’t.”

“With who?” Kimmy genuinely asked.

“Yeah, who?” Mort turned to me.

“And I will tell you. Here I go . . . I’m going to . . .” Sing the three verses of “Bye Bye Miss American Pie” I can remember from choir. My phone buzzed, and I whipped it up—almost kissing it when I read the word. “Cartier!” I proclaimed. “Cartier will be placing an ad with us.” My phone buzzed again. “And Armani Casa. Armani Casa’s in too. And that’s just the beginning.”

Asher scowled, the bronzed folds of his face layering like a shar-pei.

Taylor shoved back her chair. “With ads this just becomes every other site!”

Mort stood and was not much taller than when he’d been sitting. “If Kathryn can see the way, so be it. I have a lot to think about. And I have a lunch.” As he shuffled his way clear of the door, Asher gripped the table as if the room was spinning.

“Sorry!” Just then Ginger was standing in the doorway, trying to octopus herself across it to bar . . . Gavin, pushing past her into the conference room.

“Hey, like, dude,” he said, “No one’s answering my calls and I had five orders through your spread. Am I still filling them? Cuz your vendor portal crashed and—Oh, hey—” he said, stopping short at the sight of me, his whole face smiling broadly, sexily. Taylor saw and her eyes narrowed to murderous slits.