The Balance Thing (2 page)

“Not bad.” Connie nodded absently while looking over the list of lunch specials. “What do you think pushed her over the edge? The growly thing when he ate?”

“Probably the whole deal about not killing spiders because they're our friends,” Vida guessed.

“No,” Connie reconsidered, “my money's on the way he said ‘for all intensive purposes.'”

“You're both wrong,” Max informed them. “It was Smells Fargo.”

“Are you three sure you don't need me for this discussion?” I asked them. “Really, it's okay, because I'm right here.”

They all looked at me for about two beats, then resumed the conversation, leaving me out of it. Which was fine. I needed the practice. I was going to die alone.

D
espite the firmly held belief among my friends that the only problem I had was the lack of a man I could stand for more than two months straight, I had bigger concerns. The most pressing of which was the increasingly large gap in my résumé. My real-world résumé. The one that didn't mention my connection with the computer-generated undead. My biggest problem now was that I hadn't worked—aside from voicing Vladima—since my most recent layoff. Almost five months ago.

And it hadn't been for lack of trying. Convinced that a lot of the game was knowing who to know, I had developed a phased, systematic approach to networking. I'd gone through every contact on my BlackBerry and created a spreadsheet with specific categories for everyone. Where I'd met them. What we had in common. Where they were now. What they could do for me.

And then I'd started making calls. And I'd kept making calls. Because my initial results had been dismal. Apparently not one of the dozens and dozens of people I'd cultivated over the years was now in a position to help me.

Either that or I was doing something wrong.

Looking over my call stats, I tried to objectively assess where my approach might be weak. As I thought about it, I realized that what I'd been doing, when you broke it down to basics, was telemarketing. I was the product, and the people on my networking list were the leads. And what did every telemarketer have that I didn't have? A script.

I grabbed the laptop and began.

LIST OF ESSENTIAL CONVERSATIONAL POINTS

• GREETING:
  Keep it light and informal. Confidently assume they remember you and greet them as they would great one another. Try: “Hey, how the hell are you?”
  
• PRELIMINARIES:
  Let them know you've followed their careers and demonstrate your delight at their successes. Inquire as to their happiness in their present positions.
  
• PRIVACY:
  Do not let them draw you out about your recent period of unemployment. (Never use the word unemployment.) Be cheerful and vague. Change the topic.
  
• EMPLOYMENT STATUS:
  Wait for them to bring it up. Surely you will be asked where you're working. That is the moment to casually mention that the right offer (and there have been many) hasn't come along. Present yourself as very, very desirable and very, very choosy.
  
• THE CLOSE:
  Do not be obvious. The initial contact is simply to plant the knowledge of your availability. If they instantly suggest a position with their
  group, that's a bonus. But
  under no circumstances
  must you ask about one. Let them hang up feeling refreshed by your conversation and reminded of your stellar attributes, not hounded by your blatant need.
  

After a certain amount of time spent adjusting the font and margins, I faced the fact that eventually—no matter how perfect the talking points were—I would still have to pick up the phone. I took a deep breath, visualized a successful conversation, and dialed.

 

“MITCH? HEY YOU!
It's Becks Mansfield! From Tarantula!”

One of the creepier aspects of the Internet business was the tendency to name companies after spiders. It's the whole Web thing. I should have realized the company was doomed just by the name. Tarantulas don't really do webs. They're nesters. And the World Wide Nest didn't quite have the right ring to it.

But this wasn't about the past. This was about networking. According to my spreadsheet, Mitch Hastings had landed a director gig at PlanetCom. He had three stars in the “Useful” column.

“Becks? Hey, how the hell are you?”

Excellent. And proof that I shouldn't have chickened out of using the “how the hell are you” greeting.

“I'm good, great. How are you? Congratulations on the new job!” No gushing, just an easy familiarity.

“Yeah, it's pretty cool here. Where are you these days?”

The fateful question. Remember, be cheerful and vague.
“Oh, you know, I've been taking a break. I really wanted to do some traveling, you know?”

“Yeah, sure. Sounds great.”

Was there a touch of wariness creeping into his voice? I upped the nonchalance a level, broke my own rule, and skipped straight to the Employment Status point. “Besides, none of the offers I've been getting really do it for me, you know? I mean, I'm just not excited enough to want to commit.”

“Sure. It's better to wait for the right thing.”

Okay, he was relaxing again. I could backtrack to the Preliminaries.

“So, how do you like it there at PlanetCom?”

“Yeah, it's great, but Becks—hey, I've got someplace to be. But it was great talking to you. Let's grab a beer sometime, okay?”

“Great!” Keeping it bright. “See you soon.”

I hung up cursing, robbed of my close. The whole point had been to refresh his memory about how fabulous I'd been to work with, and let him know that I'd be open to entertaining the right offer. Then, the next time he heard there was trouble in his marketing department—and when wasn't there?—he'd think, “Bingo! I'll just call Becks and talk her into coming here and sorting everything out. Good old Becks.” And he'd smile fondly and I'd have a job.

Instead, he was probably sitting in his director's office right now, thinking, “Good old Becks. I wonder when she lost it. Maybe she has a drinking problem.”

 

I ALLOTTED MYSELF
twelve minutes for that line of thought, walking laps around the ground floor of my loft. It
was a big space, with twenty-foot ceilings and a glass wall at one end looking out on a courtyard I shared with my neighbors. On the opposite end of the room a spiral staircase led up to the sleeping deck.

I looked around the place as I made my circuits. I wanted to put a huge mirror over the fireplace. I wanted to install bookshelves all the way up the wall by the stairs. I wanted to paint the bathroom purple. But mainly, I wanted to be so busy I wouldn't have time to think about redecorating. I wanted a job.

 

“LEON!” I SOUNDED
surprised and delighted, even though I was the one who had placed the call. “How the hell are you? It's Becks!”

I'd worked with Leon Stevens for a while at WiredGlobe. I had even, in a fluke of organizational restructuring, been his boss for about three weeks. Just long enough for me to have been handed the dirty work of laying off the entire department before I'd been let go myself.

“Becks! How the hell are you?”

It really was the magic greeting. “I'm good. I'm great. What's new with you?”

“Oh, you know.” He sighed, and I could picture him scratching behind his ear in that kitten-with-a-flea way he had. “I'm totally busy, totally stressed out. Same as always.” He laughed. “I'm sure you are too.”

“Me? Oh, no!” I tried to sound surprised, despite the fact that we were following the script to the letter. “I'm totally chilled. I've taken a real break.”

“Really? A break? You?” He sounded skeptical.

“Yeah, well, I really wanted to just take care of my life for a while, you know?”

“Since when have you had a life?”

I laughed, as if it was a shared joke. He went on before I had a chance to come up with a clever reply.

“Hey, Becks, great talking to you, but I'm late for something. See you soon, okay?”

“Sure, great, Leon.”

He took the time to cackle “A life!” before the line went dead.

It came back to me that I'd always hated Leon. I paced some more. Of course I had a life. Wasn't I currently walking laps in my loft? A loft is a life. Wasn't I going to be a bridesmaid for Connie? Being in a wedding is a life. Didn't I have a—well, no I didn't have a boyfriend anymore, but having a boyfriend isn't having a life.

Having a job is having a life.

I cursed and referred to my spreadsheet.

The sad truth of the matter was that I'd already gone through most of my A-list resources. I was now clearly in the realm of these gosh-I-haven't-seen-you-in-ages-how-
are
-you sort of guys, and with most of them I couldn't really remember many personal details. Like whether they had wives, or children, or pet iguanas.

I stared at the phone with loathing. Part of me knew I didn't have to get another marketing job right away. Believe it or not, showing up in a recording booth every so often and saying things like “Impale this, you filthy worm!” was lucrative enough that I didn't have to worry about making the mortgage.

But it wasn't about the money. It was about having a
career
. At this rate I'd never make director by thirty-five,
and that meant I could kiss being a VP by thirty-eight good-bye. And as for being made CEO by forty…doubtful.

Aside from all that, the simple truth was that I missed my old life. I missed the press tours where I never quite knew what city I was in. I missed waking up with a jolt of adrenaline as I realized how packed my day's schedule was. I missed being too busy to think of anything other than my next deadline. I missed the old me.

I picked up the phone and dialed.

 

“HEY, STU! IT'S BECKS!
How the hell are you?”

The third time was not the charm.

“Becks who?”

“Becks Mansfield”—keeping it light—“from CyberVision?” Damn! Why had I put a question mark at the end of that?

There was an uncomfortable pause.

“Becks Mansfield?” Disbelief.

“Stu, you remember—”

“Becks Mansfield from CyberVision?”

“Yes!” Now it was clicking for him. “How the hell are you?” Brightly.

Another pause.

“How did you get my number?” Not the response I'd expected.

“Oh, gosh…”
I Googled you, you idiot
. “I heard you were—”

“Why in the hell would you ever call me?”

Okay, we were way off script here. “Stu—”

“I can't believe your nerve.”

It may take me a while to catch on, but I was definitely cluing in to the fact that Stu was not pleased to hear from me.
“Um…”

“You don't even remember, do you?”

“Well…” Remember what?

“The post-launch review meeting?” he prompted angrily. “The one where you pointed out thirteen different ways I'd fucked up the—”

“The X32 launch!” I finished for him, everything falling into place. “Right! Of course! That was a complete disaster. What ever happened to—” Oh. I had a feeling I knew what happened.

“They fired me!”

I winced. Why hadn't I remembered that? “Well, Stu, I hardly think you can blame me for that.” Could he?

“You bet your ass I can!”

“But, Stu, I was only offering constructive criticism. I mean, the point of those review meetings was to learn from our mistakes, right? And let's face it…” No, better not go down that road. “But look, you've landed on your feet, right? And, really, you can't fault me just for being direct.”

Apparently he could. “Direct? You were a complete bitch!”

Okay, that stung. I had no idea how to come back from that.

“Good-bye, Becks.”

Click.

I stared at the receiver. I took a breath. I knew that, statistically, there were bound to be people in my professional past who remembered me less than fondly. And I knew that, statistically, women in the workplace are called bitches in
direct proportion to how high they climb on the corporate ladder. Also, statistically, women who can deal with that fact generally do better than those who can't.

I knew in my heart I was one of those women. I could deal.

I hung up the phone and closed the laptop. Because I also knew I could deal a lot better after a massive amount of ice cream.

I
think you're crazy for wanting another stupid marketing job anyway.” Connie's opinion was not blunted by the silk-organza-with-hand-sewn-pearl-accents bridal veil engulfing her face.

“That one's too stiff,” I told her. “I thought you wanted long and drapey. And I don't see what's so crazy about trying to get my career back on track.”

“Are we still on the job thing?” Vida entered the elaborately feminine dressing room with her arms full of something sheer and silky. “Seriously, Becks, why don't you just enjoy the time off?”

“It isn't time off unless it's time off from something. And I don't have anything, so it's just time. Wasted time.” I looked at the new veil, which Vida offered with the resigned fortitude of a handmaiden who realizes she isn't destined to please the queen. “That's nice.”

Connie wrinkled her nose. “Too plain. I want simple and elegant but not plain.”

The handmaiden rebelled. “Well, you're going to have to explain the difference to me because the last thing I brought in was ‘too fussy.'”

Vida was definitely not in her element at Bridal Elegance. As usual, she was wearing sunscreen instead of makeup, and her straight blond hair was in a ponytail. She wore cargo pants and a long-sleeved polo with a software logo on it—her office clothes. She'd come straight from her job as a coder at one of the big tech companies on the peninsula.

Vida went surfing before work every morning she could, and I knew if I got close enough to her, I'd probably still be able to catch a whiff of riptide on her skin. She was sure and graceful on a surfboard, but surrounded by bridal flounces she looked about as comfortable as Rambo in a tea shop.

I heard Connie's voice from somewhere inside a cathedral-length cloud of sheer white silk. “I hate this.”

Tempers were getting frayed. Luckily, the saleswoman had years of experience to call upon. She poked her head inside the creamy satin drape and asked the magic question. “Does anyone here need champagne?”

 

AN HOUR LATER,
a much more mellow bridal party had identified the perfect veil (perfect was the theme for Connie's wedding) and moved on to another room and the tricky subject of bridesmaid shoes for Vida and me.

“They need to be high enough so you look good, but low enough so you can dance all night,” Connie said with authority. “Just because the dresses are full-length doesn't mean that nobody will see your feet.”

I must have made some sort of harumphing noise because both Vida and Connie looked at me.

“What?” Connie asked. “What's wrong with the shoes?”

“It's not the shoes,” I said, although at an average price of
three hundred and twenty dollars there was plenty wrong with them. “It's just that, unless you find me an eligible Englishman, I don't really need to worry about dancing.”

My friends exchanged glances.

“What?” I demanded.

“You can't date an Englishman,” Connie told me.

“What do you mean I can't date an Englishman? Is that part of NAFTA or something? They can have our wheat, but we can't have their men?”

Vida gave me a serious look. “NAFTA has nothing to do with England,” she said. “It stands for North American—”

“I know what it stands for,” I snapped. “I just mean, what rule says I'm prohibited from dating an Englishman?”

Connie sank onto one of the shoe department's fringed ottomans and considered a black Stuart Weitzman pump with a little crystal bow on the front strap. “Well, Becks, you know how you are.”

“How am I?”

Vida handed me a Marc Jacobs ankle strap stiletto and a straight answer. “You're a steamroller. You crush every man in your path.”

“I do not!” I turned to Connie with the expectation she'd defend me.

Instead she nodded briskly. “You do, Becks. You walk all over them.”

“I do not!” I said again.

Vida removed the shoe from my hand and replaced it with a refill on the champagne. “Think about it,” she said. “When was the last time someone broke up with you? You're totally the one who dumps them.”

“And over the silliest things,” Connie continued, her
attention on a kitten-heel mule with a little fur pom-pom. “I mean, we always know when it's coming because you start making fun of them behind their backs.”

“Oh, that's so true,” Vida sat beside me eagerly. “You totally do that. And then, about a week later, everything they do irritates you—”

“And then poof,” Connie finished, “they're gone.”

“I'm not like that!” I protested. “It isn't me! It's them!”

Connie gave me a highly significant look while Vida nodded in satisfaction.

“What?” I demanded.

“Nothing. You're right. It's them.” Connie agreed. “But here's a question—Who's the one picking them out?”

“What?”

“You totally dismissed Sean,” Vida said.

“Sean who?” My head was beginning to spin. I'd set out that morning perfectly prepared to drink too much at lunch and spend too much on wedding stuff. Having my recent disastrous dating history dissected and thrown in my face had not been on the agenda.

Vida compressed her lips briefly before answering. “He's the guy from the mayor's office that I introduced you to at Connie's engagement party.”

I searched my memory. “Oh, Sean. I thought he was gay.”

My friends exchanged pitying looks.

“He isn't gay,” Vida explained to me, speaking as though I was a rather slow five-year-old. “He's perfect for you. He's got a great job, a great house—”

“And a sailboat,” Connie supplied.

“And he has a degree from the London School of Economics,” Vida continued, ticking off the meritorious qualities
of this guy I could barely remember. “And season tickets to the opera and—”

“And a boyfriend he keeps in a little place on Potrero Hill,” I concluded.

“He's not gay!” They both insisted loudly. The saleswoman poked her head around the corner with a curious expression on her face. She probably thought we were discussing the groom. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then smiled brightly and backed out of the doorway.

“Maybe it's time we were going,” I suggested.

“He's not gay.” Vida refused to be distracted. “I know someone he used to date, and she said he was unbelievable in bed. Apparently he did this thing—”

“The point is”—Connie cut her off before Vida could provide any details of Sean's advanced sexual technique—“that you, Becks, when presented with this perfectly good specimen of the single male of the species, didn't even take a second look.”

“Right,” Vida agreed. “Sean didn't jump up and say ‘I'm interested' so you didn't even notice him. Instead, you went out and got involved with Greg.” She scrunched her nose in distaste as she said his name. “Who was an okay guy but totally wrong for you.”

“But he did all the work. He called you. He pursued you. He fell right into your lap,” Connie said.

“Until you kicked him back out again,” Vida concluded. “Right on schedule.”

I behaved in an un–Bridal Elegance manner by chugging the rest of the bubbly. It gave me time to recover.

“Wait a minute.” I turned to Vida. “If this guy Sean is so perfect, why don't you go out with him?”

“Becks, it's not like there's one man who's perfect for everyone. He's so not perfect for me. But he was completely perfect for you.” She sighed and looked at herself critically in the mirror. “Besides, he's one of the huge number of men who don't seem to realize I'm a woman.”

“You're not.” Connie's matter-of-fact statement came from somewhere behind a rack of white silk stilettos. “You're one of the guys.” She reappeared holding a Manolo Blahnik with a completely unreasonable heel. “But we're not talking about you. I'm the bride and therefore the rightful center of attention.”

Vida and I performed synchronized eye rolls.

“Hang on,” I said, “you can't just blast me like this and then change the subject. Do you guys really think my radar's that off?”

Connie gave a martyred sigh and sat down. “Fine, but I don't have the time for you to fight me on this,” she said. “Your only problem is that you're date lazy.”

Oh God. Had she been cruising the self-help aisle at Barnes & Noble again? “What does that mean?”

“Date lazy,” she explained. “It means you don't put any effort or thought into who you date.”

“I do too!” I protested. “I have a whole list of rules.” I began counting them off. “Don't date a guy who wears more jewelry than me, don't date a guy who uses
party
as a verb, don't date a Taurus because they're emotionally unavailable—”

“Becks, that's not what she's talking about,” Vida cut off my recitation, which could have gone on much longer. “What she means is you don't ever go out with a guy you totally want to go out with.”

“Of course I do.”

Connie snorted. “You're never the one who chooses. You date the guys who approach you, instead of making the effort of finding someone you really want.”

“Exactly.” Vida nodded. “You're date lazy.”

“I am not,” I said firmly. “I just have better things to do than troll bars looking for some mythical Prince Charming.”

“We're not talking about bars, and we're not talking about Prince Charming. We're just talking about opening your eyes a little bit and looking around at the men you meet. Geez, it's like some guy has to conk you over the head and say ‘please go out with me' before you even think of him as a prospect. And then what do you do? You consult your stupid list of rules, and if he gets a passing grade, you go out with him. Do you stop to ask yourself if you're even interested in him? No! And so of course you end up turning into a total bitch and dumping him six weeks later because you shouldn't have been going out with him in the first place!” Vida sank onto a nearby couch looking exhausted.

“Gosh, Vee, tell me what you really think.”

“We just want you to be happy, Becks,” Connie said. “Like me.” She gave the Manolo a critical eye, then dropped it with a look of distaste.

I almost said something about how I didn't know if it was realistic to rely on some guy to make me happy, but I didn't want to get yelled at anymore. Besides, Bridal Elegance was hardly the venue for that conversation.

“You just need to think about it a little bit,” Vida suggested. “For God's sake, you have a point-by-point plan for every other aspect of your life, why don't you come up with a man plan?”

“A man plan.” I nodded. “Right. And then I'll make a wish on the evening star, and before you know it, he'll ride right up to me on a white stallion.”

“Fine,” Connie sniffed. “Don't listen to your best friends. I don't know why we're even having this conversation when my entire wedding is in jeopardy over your stupid shoes!”

 

WE'D GONE
from the bridal shop to a restaurant, and from there to a bar, and by the time we called it quits the shoe crisis had passed, and I was willing to admit to a certain inattention to my love life. I still didn't think it was my biggest problem, but after the fourth margarita I'd stopped arguing.

When I got home, the light was blinking on my answering machine. “Could that be Prince Charming himself?” I mumbled as I reached for the button.

But it wasn't.

It was better. It was Mitch Hastings.

It was a job.