The Night I Got Lucky

“Billy?” Lizbeth said. “Did you want something?”

I shook away my thoughts about the strangeness of it all. No sense fighting a good thing, I told myself. “What I really wanted to ask you was if you remember some information I got about furniture and technology stipends.”

“Yeah, I think it was in that packet of material from Ms. Frankwell.”

“Great, great. And where do I—I mean we…keep that?”

“You told me to file it at my desk, remember?”

I made a big show of snapping my fingers. “Right! That’s right. Could you grab that for me?”

A few seconds later and she was back with a stapled set of papers, headed New Vice President Information Packet.

“Thank you, Lizbeth. And can you find out for me where the firm buys our computer equipment?”

I leafed through the packet while Lizbeth trotted off down the hallway. The terms were the same that Evan had received. Perfect.

Lizbeth soon buzzed me with the name of a computer dealer we used. Five minutes after that, I was on the phone with one of the salesmen and browsing their Web site for different computers and monitors. I finally settled on a sleek, flat-screen monitor and a top-of-the-line computer that had tons of memory and would allow me to burn my own CDs and download lots of music. Not that I knew how to do that. Not that I even owned one of those cute MP3 players. But then maybe that was different now, too. I’d gotten what I wanted overnight, and I’d always wished I could be one of those iPod people. It might all just flow from my hands as soon as I got the new computer.

When that was done, I buzzed Lizbeth. “I’m going to look for new office furniture,” I said. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Don’t forget about your 1:30 lunch meeting.”

I looked at my watch. It was 12:00. “No problem.” I clicked the intercom off, and sat staring at my watch for another minute. It had a large mother-of-pearl face and a burnt orange leather strap. My mother had given it to me for Christmas last year, and she’d selected it carefully. Was she now selecting dresses and skirts from a runway in Milan?

I knew where the company-approved furniture store was because I’d been there with Evan. Outside our building, I fought the tourists for a cab and headed to the intersection of Ohio and Franklin.

The showroom was a loft space with brick walls and high ceilings. I found a salesman and told him I needed a new desk and chair, explaining that I already had a pine credenza I planned to keep.

The salesman, a short, balding man in a suit, clearly saw a purchase ready to happen. He practically clicked his heels together before whisking me around the showroom, pointing out various styles of desks.

“You know, maybe I should just focus on the chairs,” I said after a few minutes. Who knew how ridiculously expensive desks could be? And my stipend wasn’t that large.

The smile on the salesman’s face dimmed a little, but he gave me a pert nod and began showing me chairs. All of them seemed to be black leather—black leather with chrome bases, black distressed leather, shiny black leather with buttons.

“These are all so—” I searched my mind for the word “—typical,” I said at last. I thought of the wine-colored chair in my office. It was entirely too huge but at least it was a little different. Maybe I should stick with that.

But then I saw it. Across the showroom, next to a mod, curved desk was a small, butter-yellow leather chair. I quickly made my way and sank into it. The chair hugged me like an old, comfortable sweater, yet it was stylish and sleek.

I glanced at the price tag. One hundred dollars more than my furniture stipend, but I could pay that out of my own pocket. “I’ll take it.”

When I got back to the office, I called Chris. “I have some news.”

“What?” He actually sounded excited.

“How about dinner tonight and I’ll tell you?”

I waited 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 Competition!” Needless to say, Miss Martha was no longer a client of Harper Frankwell.

“That was a grave error,” Roslyn said, “but I believe she’s improved greatly since then.”

“Has she brought in business?” Lydia asked.

“No,” Roslyn said, “but—”

“Well, you know the policy,” Lydia said. “It’s been in place since Bradley was here.” She gave a wistful smile at his memory. “If there are two written warnings in someone’s personnel file, that person can be terminated.”

I froze at the word “terminated.” Fire Alexa? I really just wanted her to get a corporate slap on the wrist, maybe a little demotion.

“Billy, you’re her immediate superior for the team,” Lydia continued. “If you truly believe she’s undermining our employees’ ability to do good work, then something should be done. Isn’t that right, Roslyn?”

Roslyn still had that slightly troubled look, but she nodded. “It’s your decision, Billy. But if you decide to do anything, that’s your responsibility, too. You’ll have to be the one to tell her.”

“Me?” I gulped. I had never handled any personnel issues before, much less fired someone. “Oh, I don’t know…I just—”

“Billy, it’s your responsibility,” Roslyn repeated.

I felt power surge through me. It scared me, and yet I loved it. “All right,” I said. “I’ll consider it.”

I went back to my office and mulled it over. I thought about how impossible Alexa was to work with. If I found her so difficult, others must too, and if that was the case, then wouldn’t it be easier for everyone if she wasn’t here? The firm wasn’t overloaded right now. We could spare her until we found someone else.

I went down the hall and spoke to our Human Resources director. Alexa, she told me, was entitled to severance due to the number of years she’d been at the firm. There was no employment contract, but according to our guidelines, it could be anything from two weeks severance to three months. Since she was being terminated for cause, it was my decision, she said. A rush went through my body.

I thought about Alexa blaming her bad work on others and the way she taunted me with not being promoted. “Two weeks,” I said with what I hoped was an authoritative tone.

An hour later, the power surging even stronger through my veins, I phoned Alexa and asked her to come see me.

“Hey,” Alexa said, appearing in my doorway. She crossed her arms casually and leaned on the frame, but her expression was suspicious.

I said hello, and asked her to sit. My body was nearly twitching with nervousness, excitement and shock at what I was about to do.

Alexa glanced around my office as she slipped into a chair. “Nice place,” she said. She shook her head a little, her face saying, I can’t believe you’re a VP. That look irritated me—like everything about Alexa—but I could hardly believe it myself.

“I need to talk to you about something.” My words faltered then. How, exactly, did you go about firing someone? I’d read the company HR manual. I knew the few key phrases I was supposed to say and how to explain what would happen to her benefits and such, but with her sitting in front of me, I couldn’t think of how to start.

“Is it the Channel 7 News account?” she said. “You probably need help with the budget recommendations. You’re not exactly proficient with that.” Her mouth twisted into a smirk I was all too familiar with. “I’d be happy to review the figures for you.”

And with that, the words rushed into my brain, all waiting like soldiers in perfect formation, ready to march. “It’s not the news account,” I said. “It’s you.”

Alexa tossed her hair over her shoulder, her eyes wary. She said nothing.

“You see,” I continued, “your attitude has become a problem.”

“Is that right?” Still, the smirk rested comfortably on her mouth.

“Yes, that’s right.” My voice became stronger. “You tend to be condescending. You push projects off on other people. And your attitude makes it very hard to work with you.”

“Really? Well, I’ll try to improve on it, okay? Thanks for the chat.” She began to stand.

“Alexa, please sit down.” My voice was still strong.

She sank back into the chair and sighed as if she were barely tolerating me.

“Alexa, I have to tell you that we’re letting you go.” My skin tingled with the words. I was firing her.

The perma-smirk disappeared. “What?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, but as you know, you already have two warnings in your personnel file.” I made a show of looking at the piece of paper where this was documented. “First, there was the comment you made to the president of Ryder Sports Network when you said—” I glanced at the paper again “‘—go fuck yourself.’”

“He grabbed my ass.”

I blinked. I hadn’t known about that. I would have said the same thing. “Yes, well…” I nearly faltered. “I’m sure you could have handled it better.”

Alexa’s eyes were steely now.

“And then there was Miss Martha,” I said.

“Clara was the one who was supposed to check the last copy.”

“Clara was working under you, correct?”

Alexa said nothing.

“So, that was your responsibility,” I continued, the rush surging back. “Due to these past problems and those I mentioned with your attitude, we’re letting you go.”

“What?”

“You’ll get two weeks severance.”

“That’s it? That’s insulting.”

“I’m sure you’ll find another position during—”

“I want to talk to Roslyn,” she interrupted.

“I’m sorry, Alexa, but the decision has been made. It’s done.” The words sounded strong, confident, managerial.

“You’re not sorry.” The anger in her voice startled me.

She was right. My whole body was humming from the experience, so I kept talking, filling her in on the termination of her benefits, how she would have twenty-four hours to clean out her desk. She sat rigid, looking at me with what I could only assume was intense hatred. I talked faster and faster. Finally, I asked her to sign the severance agreement.

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