Reality TV Bites (16 page)

“Why?”

“You didn't see the news?” She beckons me forward, and I take a seat in the chair opposite her desk. Five years ago I sat in this same spot, in this same office, although it wasn't decorated the same, spouting off about my experience and
credentials while Miranda flipped through my portfolio and résumé.

I wanted this job so badly. I'd spent almost four years working my way up the ladder at Enger and Associates, a large design firm that's respected in the industry, but I wanted to work for the best. In Chicago, Interiors by M was and is the best.

“I saw it, and I guess everyone else, too, because people were calling me all night. I have nineteen messages on my voice mail at home, and I haven't even checked my e-mail or my voice mail here. What's going on?”

Miranda lifts a thick, legal-size document and passes it over. It's a copy of my contract, exactly the reason I came in this morning. I start reading and Miranda says, impatiently, “Page seven, section twelve.”

I flip to page seven and scan the legalese. I have to read it twice before I understand, and when I do, I feel like I'm going to throw up. I glance at Miranda.

“You didn't know?” she asks.

“No. I didn't read it that carefully.”

She sighs. “Me either.”

We stare at each other for a long moment, then I say, “But surely Nicolo would have known. Why did he—”

Miranda scowls. “Maybe he knew, maybe he didn't. My question is how a copy of the contract got leaked to the media.”

“Our relationship hasn't been a secret. Dai Hoshi had the contracts and once they filed suit the media—”

“They haven't filed yet.”

I frown. “But the news said—”

“I got a call from one of the lawyers at Dai Hoshi. They're willing to negotiate.”

“What do they want?” I press a fist into my belly, forcing the nausea down.

“They want your employment at Interiors by M terminated, effective immediately.”

“What?”

“Allison, I have no choice but to let you go. If I don't, they'll run us into the ground.”

I start to speak, but she waves a hand.

“Allison, we are in the wrong. You violated the contract—there is to be no fraternization between contestants and the employees of Dai Hoshi or Carpathian Enterprises—that's Parma's company, if you didn't know.”

“But maybe if I talk to Nicolo, he'll speak to Ramosu Kobayashi, and they'll drop it.”

Miranda gives me a patronizing smile. “Are you on good terms with Parma at present?”

The reality of the situation hits me, and I almost double over from the slash of pain in my belly. “No, not really. Are you sure he knows?”

“He
knows
. Dai Hoshi didn't decide to sue a little firm like us for a minor breach of conduct for the hell of it. They'd spend more money on lawyers than they'd win in court.”

I nod. She's right, of course. She's completely right. And can it be a coincidence that it's all come out only twenty-four hours after I told Nicolo off?

“They've offered to settle if I fire you,” Miranda says. “This isn't about Interiors by M, Allison. You messed up, and he's using it against you.”

The office is quiet, just the rush of the air conditioning and the hum of Miranda's computer. Finally she says, “Why don't you clear your things out now before the reporters get here. Keep a low profile. I'm sure your parents would like it if you kept this as quiet as possible.”

I nod and rise. I'm in a daze and don't see Miranda come around the desk. She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Allison, you're a gifted designer. Take a few months off, let all this die down, then look for another job. If not in Chicago, maybe New York or Washington. It's a big world out there.”

I swallow my tears and say, “Thanks, Miranda. Tell Lila and Natalie I said good-bye, and I'll miss them.”

“I will.”

I close her office door behind me for the last time and stare at my own office. Pale gray light filters through the blinds on the outer windows, transforming the desk and furniture into phantoms haunting the dark office.

I stare at it—at what was my office—and my stomach heaves violently.

 

Okay, so maybe shopping isn't the best thing to do under these circumstances, but how else am I to keep occupied all day Friday? I don't feel like talking to anyone, even if my phone would stop ringing. I'd like to bury my head under the covers, but I did that the last couple of days. There's nothing to watch on TV, nothing good to read, and I'm not hungry. I thought I might work on organizing my desk area and making it more feng shui, but I didn't have any purple cloth for the wealth corner. No wealth corner was a crisis I didn't want to consider, so I rushed out to purchase beaucoup purple cloth (more cloth = more money, right?). Somehow I ended up at Neiman Marcus.

I stroll through the departments, touching silk scarves, velvet tops, chiffon dresses. I buy a pair of Manolo Blahniks that I probably can't afford anymore, slip them on, and listen to the way they tap when I walk. At four in the afternoon, I drive to Rory's office. I've never been inside, but I know where she works. The receptionist for the Yates and Youngman
accounting firm asks if I have an appointment with Ms. Egglehoff and when I say no, she tells me Ms. Egglehoff can't see me today.

“Look”—I glance at the gold plate on her desk—“Meredith. I'm her sister, and it's a family emergency, okay? Please call her and say I'm here.”

Meredith's eyes narrow. “You're her sister, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Her sister was in here a few months ago, and you look nothing like her.”

I close my eyes and press my hands on Meredith's desk. My OPI Don't Socra-tease Me! polish stands out against the tense white of my fingers.

“Okay, I'm not Rory's sister, but I
need
to talk to her. I called her on my cell, and I got her voice mail. Why don't you just tell me which one is her office, and I'll wait for her?”

“Ms. Egglehoff is in a meeting, so you will have to come back another time.”

The phone rings.

“One minute.”

I frown, pace, and glance down the hallway behind Meredith's desk. It's absolutely silent in here. No one's chatting, no one's got the radio on. It's so quiet I hear the hum of the fluorescent lights. I glance around the lobby. Horrible decorating. How can anyone get any work done in a place like this? The lights alone make my head ache.

A typical accountant-looking guy steps out of an office and starts walking down the hall toward the reception area. His pants are too high, his hair looks uncombed, he's wearing glasses and a pocket protector, and his arms are laden with files. One almost slips, and he tries to catch it, losing all of the files in the process. They spill on the carpet—burnished
orange, cheap, stained—the papers fanning out against the wall.

He bends down to retrieve them, and I notice he's wearing a Tasmanian Devil tie. Where have I seen that before? I don't know anyone who'd wear—

Tedious Tom. Rory's ex-boyfriend.

“Tom!”

The receptionist glances at me at the same time Tom's head pops up. He squints at me.

“Excuse me,” I tell the receptionist and start down the hall.

“Wait! You can't—”

“Tom, hey! I haven't seen you in a while. How are you?” I bend down and gather some of the errant files together, making sure to bend over enough that Tom gets a good look at my cleavage without having to try too hard.

“Um, do I know—”

“Tom. Don't tell me you don't remember me.”

He straightens and I follow, handing him the files. He shifts from foot to foot, obviously not knowing what to do. God, how did Rory put up with this? I hear Meredith calling out behind me, so I link my arm through his and say, “I'm Allison Holloway. Rory's friend.”

He stiffens. “Oh.”

“Miss! Miss! You can't just barge on through!”

Okay, time to wrap this up. “Tom, would you be a sweetie and take me back to Rory's office? I need to see her, and I think she forgot to let that lion back there know I was coming.” I look into his eyes, blink coyly once or twice—I hope my eyeliner isn't smeared. “Can you help?”

“Okay.”

The receptionist finally reaches us. “Miss!”

Tom turns to her. “It's okay, Meredith. Allison's a friend of mine. I'll take her back.”

“But Mr. Thompson, are you sure?”

He nods. Twenty minutes later, I've gone through all the books on Rory's shelf, finished off her stash of M&Ms and her can of Diet Coke, played with her computer—but everything that looked interesting is password-protected—and finally decided to balance my checkbook. Hey, there's a first time for everything. And after being surrounded by calculators and adding machines for almost a half-hour, I feel like I should do something mathematical.

I remember feeling this way in school a lot, too. Like if I was just around beakers and Bunsen burners, somehow chemistry would seep into my brain. I learned early on that atmosphere is everything. If I was surrounded by scientific, professional-type things, I
felt
scientific and professional. Hmm. Problem is, it didn't work then, and it's not working for me now.

I've added up about three columns in my checkbook register, but then I pressed a wrong button on the calculator, and now every time I try to add any numbers arcs and lines pop up on-screen. I open Rory's top drawer. Doesn't she have a normal calculator?

“Hey!” Rory rushes in. “Tom told me you were here. What's wrong?”

I frown. “I can't figure out how to work this stupid calculator. I just want to add up my checkbook, but it keeps asking for the
X
value.”

Rory reaches over, hits a key, and turns the calculator back toward me. “Here.”

The screen looks normal again. It's even showing my last total. “Thanks.” I lean back in her leather chair. “Nice chair, but your office could use some help. You don't have any artwork, no knickknacks, not even a fake plant. And this
arrangement is all wrong. The desk would be better near that wall.”

“You came here to redecorate my office?”

“No. I came to give you this.” I pull the Kate Spade clutch from the shopping bag and hold it out to her. “This is totally your style, and it will go perfectly with that black dress you wore to the reunion.”

She takes it, her expression bewildered, then shocked. “Creator! This costs a hundred and forty dollars!”

“It's a Kate Spade.”

“I don't care if it's the plans to the Death Star, that's too much. Where am I going to take this? I never get dressed up.”

“So, tell Hunter to take you out. I saw this cute dress by Jones New York, and I know you'd love it. I would have bought it for you, but I wasn't sure which size. We can go back and—”

“Stop.” She plops in the chair across from me. “What's going on? Is it the
Kamikaze Makeover!
show still?”

I shake my head. “Worse.”

“What?”

“Miranda fired me.”

Rory's eyes pop open. “What? You are kidding me. How the Dark Side could she fire you?”

“She said, ‘Allison, I have no choice but to let you go,' so I went.”

“But what does that mean, no choice? Because of the vibrator thing?” She lowers her voice on the word
vibrator
because the door's still open.

“No. I violated my contract. There was a provision against any of the contestants fraternizing with the bosses. I broke that by going out with Nicolo.”

“But why didn't Nicolo say something? Why did you go
out with him if you knew it would be in violation of the contract?”

I glower at her, and she sits back. “You never read the contract.”

I look down.

“Okay, I'm not going to be a nerf-herder and say I've told you three thousand seven hundred and twenty times to always read paperwork, but maybe if you call Nicolo—”

I shake my head. “He's the one who did this.”

“Oh, no.”

“Yeah, and isn't it convenient that they'll drop the whole thing if I'm terminated?”

“That Mynok! We can't let him get away with this.”

“Slow down, Rebel crusader. He's a prince. We won't win.”

“But we can't let the Dark Side win.”

“Rory, I don't want this in the news. I'll get another job, but in the meantime, I don't want to embarrass my parents more than I already have. Okay?”

“Okay. But I want to do something to help. What can I do?”

“I know you probably have plans with Hunter.”

She waves my concern away. “He'll understand.”

“Okay, then, can I stay with you this weekend?” I say with a weak smile. “My phone won't stop ringing, and when I stopped home to drop off my stuff from work, there were a couple of reporters hanging around. It was bad before, but now…”

Rory stands. “Of course you can stay with me. I need to shut down my computer and get some files to work on, and we're out of here.”

“You won't get in trouble?” I scoot out of her way.

“No. Mr. Yates is at a conference this week. Everyone's been cutting out early.” She starts stuffing files into her bag.
“This is going to be fun—a slumber party! Should we order pizza? You need pizza and ice cream after all this. I couldn't stand being the center of attention. I'd have a panic attack if a bunch of reporters were waiting outside my door.”

“Yeah. Rory, I kind of need you to do one more thing for me.”

“What's that?”

“Brave the reporters in front of my house, go in, and feed Booboo Kitty.”

Her face crumples, then she takes a fortifying breath. “Okay, this is like in
Return of the Jedi
when Han, Luke, and Leia needed to disable the shield generator on the Endor moon so the Rebel fleet could blow up the Death Star. They went in the back way. Of course, there was an ambush, but that's only because Darth Vader sensed—”