The Hole in the Middle (7 page)

“You lost me there,” I say.

“Trust me when I say that you will not care about what I'm going to tell you, but I got an earful from Janelle on this so I'll share my pain. There are four big spring-summer fashion weeks—New York, London, Milan, and Paris—and they all run between February and March. So in a nutshell—and I'm doing some serious editing here—by the time our event happens in March, these ladies will have seen most of the collections, and it won't be that exciting.”

“So in what way does it have traction?” I ask.

“At a basic level, by introducing shopping and models, which everyone agrees are fun,” says Justine. “But there seems to be consensus now that it's not enough to build an event around.”

“So we're no further ahead,” I say.

“Correct.”

I take a deep breath. “Justine,” I say, “today is Tuesday. If we don't get a theme nailed down by the end of the week, there is no chance that we will have an effective marketing strategy in place for this event, which means we won't hit our ticket sales targets, we won't raise enough money, and the event will be a complete failure. I need you to understand how serious this is.” But, to be honest, I'm having trouble finding the energy to care.

“These women are impossible,” Justine says, not very nicely. “You deal with them, if you think you can do a better job. I've had it.”

“Hey,” I say, in what I hope is a soothing tone. “It's not your fault. We'll figure it out.”

There is an ominous pause, and Justine says, “Sophie, I have to tell you—”

But I interrupt her, because I've just noticed the time, and we are both late. “Shit! Justine, we have a senior management meeting now.”

“Oops,” she says, and we slam down the phones in unison and sprint out of our offices. We're overdue for our weekly dose of public shaming, otherwise known as Barry's weekly senior staff meeting, and we both know that arriving late is an invitation for retaliation.

Barry is sitting at the head of the table, obviously annoyed, as Justine and I enter. The rest of the team is seated, leafing through a pile of handouts that show our progress toward our annual fund-raising goal. The atmosphere is vaguely funereal, suggesting that we have missed Barry's opening comments on our fund-raising performance. There are seven of us on the senior management team, representing community relations and stewardship, operations, major gift fund-raising, annual fund-raising, research, events, and communications. As a general rule, the head of operations, a pudgy, pasty fellow by the name of Arthur, gets to sit there smugly while the rest of us get raked over the coals for our failure—however indirect—to encourage people to give us money. The rest of us went out for a quiet and wholly inappropriate drink the day the computer system crashed and a bunch of data was lost, and operations took it in the chops.

“Thank you for joining us, ladies,” says Barry, darkly—a bad sign. “As I was just telling the rest of the group, it's time to talk turkey. The latest campaign totals are in and they are extremely disappointing. We have just over three weeks until year-end and we are going to have to bear down hard to meet our targets.” He gestures to Peter, our director of research. “Peter has produced the report in front of you, which indicates that we have forty million in verbal commitments and solicitations in progress. You can't be a little bit pregnant, people. These numbers mean nothing until we have them in black and white.” He scowls at Marni, the director of major gifts; this too is a bad sign, since Marni is a relentless suck-up and, consequently, the closest thing Barry has to a favorite. “Tell your staff that we need to close some deals. I don't care if they have to work 24/7 for the next three weeks. They need to stick to their knitting.”

“Understood.” Marni winces, but she rallies quickly. “And let me just say, Barry, that I completely agree with your strategy here. The economy is a challenge, but great leadership like yours inspires us to meet and overcome it. Thank you for keeping us focused on what we need to do.” She is rewarded with a gracious smile from Barry. The rest of us avert our eyes at her shameless display.

Of course, Barry's expectations are completely unrealistic. No one is
papering deals these days, because the economy is—to use a technical term—in the crapper. Philanthropy is a business based on hope and optimism, both of which have been in very short supply for the past couple of years. So while there are lots of donors who are willing to entertain funding proposals, and even some willing to tell us that they will give us money, almost no one wants to sign on the dotted line. Everyone wants to wait until next year, in the optimistic belief that recovery is just around the corner.

“And that goes for your team, too.” Barry spins on his casters and points to Jason, the director of community relations and stewardship, which is a fancy term for sucking up to people who have already given you money in the hopes that they might give you more someday. “We've got a bunch of donors on the verbal commitment list from your stewardship program.” He waves his fingers at Peter, who hands another document around. “I want you working with Marni's team to make sure that anyone on this list with any possibility of closing a gift is feeling the love. I want you two to put your heads together and come up with a strategy for each and every one of these folks. I want a full-court press, people. Senior volunteers, hospital staff, whatever it takes. Just close the gifts.”

Jason nods, resigned. We all know that no amount of team-building is going to change the global recession, but as Barry likes to say, he's a mind-over-matter guy. And now his color rises as he turns to Bill, the director of the Annual Fund, whose results have dropped by thirty percent this year. Annual funds flow directly into the operating budget of the hospital, and are made up of many small gifts that are typically renewed year over year. In a recession, though, donors reduce or cut their monthly or annual gifts to charities as part of an overall belt-tightening exercise. Bill's been tightening his belt too; he's lost about fifteen pounds in the last six months from pure stress.

Barry shoots the Blowfish directly at Bill, who shudders visibly while the rest of us cringe in solidarity. “Well, Bill, there's no way to put lipstick on this pig. The Annual Fund results are disastrous. You leave me no choice.” The rest of us exchange anxious glances. Surely Barry wouldn't fire Bill in the middle of a senior management meeting, would he?

“We are going to have to run a holiday appeal ad.”

There is a collective exhalation, and we all rejoice inwardly that Bill has escaped the guillotine for now. But then Barry's pronouncement sinks in. A holiday appeal ad? These usually take weeks to write and shoot, and they air on television in the run-up to Christmas, which is to say, now. Several months ago, Barry announced, over Bill's objections, that we would be cutting the holiday ad, as it was too expensive to run and we couldn't prove that it made a measurable difference to the Annual Fund results. At the time, all of us (except Bill) breathed a sigh of relief, since the production of the ad never fails to drain time and energy out of every department.

And almost before Barry spins toward me, the penny drops and I realize that it's payback time for my too-vigorous participation in the search committee meeting yesterday. “Sophie,” says Barry. “We will need the full attention of the communications office on this project. The fund-raisers need to drill down on bringing dollars in the door, so it's all on you. Today is Tuesday. I want something ready to air on Monday.” He smiles, and his perfect capped teeth seem to glitter in the fluorescent light.

“Barry,” I say, carefully, “I will do my best, of course, but the deadline is, um, tight.”

“I have confidence in you, buddy,” he says, but I can tell from the cold light in his eyes that I'm no buddy of his. He turns to the rest of the group. “What's my motto?”

“There are no excuses in business!” we all parrot, with varying degrees of self-loathing.

“You said it,” says Barry. “And now, I have one more announcement. I'm sorry to tell you that Justine will be leaving us at the end of the week to spend more time with her family. Let me assure you that I tried to persuade her to stay, but she had made up her mind. I realize that this will seem like very short notice, but Justine asked me not to make her resignation public until after this week's meeting with the Gala Committee.”

And now Barry spins back to stick it to me one more time. “Since
you are already involved in the Gala, Sophie, you will take over managing the Events group until we find a replacement for Justine.” He winks. I feel cold all over and wonder if I am going to vomit. Instead I force myself to meet Barry's eye.

“It's all on you, pal,” he says. “Time to bring your A-game.”

tuesday, december 3, 2013

I sit, bent at the waist, with my forehead on the cool laminate desktop. I turn my head and gaze out at the expanse of artificial wood grain, contemplating the luminous effect of the red message light from the telephone flashing through a fluffy mound of used tissues. For a moment, even this seems like too much stimulation, and I entertain the possibility of crawling under my desk and staying there for a while, just until I feel a little calmer. It's tempting because anyone walking by would assume that I'm at a meeting, but dangerous, because Killjoy would probably find a way to blow my cover, and what would be more humiliating than being caught hiding under my desk? It would be a fate worse than, well, being in charge of the Gala, or having to produce a holiday appeal ad by Monday with absolutely no assistance from any of my senior colleagues, who are afraid that they'll be fired if they have a conversation with anyone who isn't a prospective donor in the next three weeks, although not as bad as being caught drinking at my desk, which is almost as tempting. This brief environmental scan of my professional life complete, I summon the inner fortitude to reach over and dial Geoff's extension, and then close my eyes while I wait for him to arrive.

“Uh-oh,” I hear him say. “That doesn't look good.” I sit up and feel a rush of affection for reliable Geoff, the picture of caring and concern.

“Not so much,” I say. “Do you want the bad news, or the really bad news?”

Geoff groans. “Let's hear it.”

“The bad news is, Justine quit, and Barry's decided to put me in charge of the Gala for the foreseeable future.”

“Ouch. What's the really bad news?”

“Do you remember the huge fight that Barry and Bill had about running the holiday appeal this year?”

He nods. “Barry thought it was too expensive and told Bill to man up and hit his numbers without it?”

“Correct. And now—surprise, surprise—the Annual Fund numbers suck, which is, of course, Bill's fault. But Barry has a plan. We're going to run a holiday appeal after all.”

“Last year's ad? Isn't it a bit late for that? We don't have any ad space booked.”

“I don't think you have the full picture here. He wants a brand-new ad to air on Monday.”

Geoff sticks his fingers in his ears, wiggles them around. “I'm sorry,” he says. “My hearing must be going. I thought I heard you say that you wanted a new ad for Monday, which is obviously impossible.” He looks stern. “If we were going to run an ad on Monday, which to be clear is six days away, we would have to find a director and crew prepared to shoot and edit all weekend, and we'd have to get on the phone today and try to buy time to run the ads, which is by no means a sure thing, and we would have to produce the script in-house, because we are out of time to hire a freelancer.”

“Correct.” We both remember how much work it was last time we got pulled onto this project, on a much more generous timeline. “On the upside, though,” I say, “you won't have to pay someone to write something lousy that you rewrite for free.”

Geoff snorts. “It's a kamikaze mission,” he says. “We'll have to kill
ourselves to make it happen, and spend a small fortune, and there's no guarantee that whatever we can churn out is going to be good enough to see the light of day.”

“Let's work backward,” I say. “Nothing happens unless we can get the airtime. So let's give Erica a chance to save the universe, since she's feeling so neglected.” Geoff snorts again, but this time it sounds a little more like a laugh. “I'll ask her to pull out all the stops with her media contacts and try to get the stations that ran the appeal for a reduced rate last year to give us the same deal this year. If we can't buy the spots, there's nothing more we can do and Barry will have to live with it.”

Geoff sighs. “Fine. We'll have to start on the script at least, on the remote chance that Erica is able to find something. I'll get the guys on it. Can we use the same basic storyline as last year?”

“Of course,” I say. “But we'll have to use an older kid this year, someone who doesn't need as much coaching. We don't have time for multiple takes. I'll call Carolyn Waldron and see if she can suggest someone.”

Geoff is scribbling notes, a good sign. “We'll need to shoot on-site, so can you ask Joy to find some soundproof space—meeting room, operating room—that we can book for the weekend?”

“Yes,” I say. “I think it's doable—just—if we can get someone to do the shoot and edit on short notice.”

Geoff looks up. “Don't even think it,” he says.

“I know how you feel about Claudio,” I say, “but I can't think of anyone else.”

“Seriously, Sophie, no way. The city is full of aspiring filmmakers.”

“We don't have time to vet them,” I say. “We know he does good work. And he'll do it if we ask him.”

“You mean if I ask him,” says Geoff.

“Right, if you ask him.”

Geoff grits his teeth. I've actually never seen him so irritated, and it would be funny if he weren't so genuinely unhappy. I understand it. Claudio is a good filmmaker, very good in fact, but he doesn't get a lot of commercial work because he is so high-maintenance. He has the demands of an Oscar-winning director on a blockbuster budget, and he
usually insists on having Geoff as his personal assistant whenever he works for us, and he hits on him relentlessly. Last year I promised Geoff that he would never have to work with Claudio again.

“Fine,” he says. “I would only do this for you.”

“It's my winning personality,” I say, lightly. “Just ask Nigel the germ Nazi; he's a big fan of mine.”

I expect a forgiving grin at this, but Geoff's expression is strangely unreadable, and I am struck with the horrible thought that the day may come when he will have had enough of working for a stressed-out, neurotic, and emotionally unavailable boss who allows freelance filmmakers to sexually harass him, and will go off in search of greener pastures. And when he does I will be in deep, deep trouble. “I'll make you a deal,” I say. “You get Claudio to commit and I'll oversee the shoot.”

“Sophie, you don't have to do that,” says Geoff. “It's below your pay grade. I can handle it.”

“I don't really get paid that much,” I say. “And I'll feel less guilty for making you miserable if I share the pain.” I grin. “Just don't tell Claudio. We're not exactly interchangeable in his eyes.”

“You're not making me miserable,” he says. “I . . .” Geoff pauses.

“Yes?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says. “Just that I should go and get started.” He stands up and walks over to the doorway. “I'll give you an update tomorrow morning. Let me know what Carolyn says. We should meet with the patient as soon as possible.” He steps into the hall and turns, and I hear him say, “Sorry, my fault” as he collides with someone just outside my view.

“My turn,” says the last person I want to see right now, and my mother steps into my office. “Sweetheart, for heaven's sakes, you look terrible! I had my eye appointment with Dr. Rogers, and since you haven't returned my calls I thought I'd pop up and see if you were trapped under a rock. And now I see that you might as well have been. You have huge circles under your eyes!” Her eyes light on the pile of tissues on my desk. “Are you sick? What are you doing at work? No one is going to thank you for infecting the whole office, I can tell you that right now.”

She draws a breath, and I say, “It's just a cold. I got your message. It's been a little busy this week.”

“Well, of course you're busy, good grief, with this crazy job of yours and two little boys at home. No wonder you're sick. But your brother is busy, too, and he still manages to return my calls.”

“You mean Dana returns your calls.” Dana is my sister-in-law, who is as beautiful as she is lovely and generous and kind. For years, when Dana was an aspiring kindergarten teacher and my brother, Mike, a.k.a. “The Stuntman,” was famous among his engineering brothers for his dominance in a drinking sport that involved doing a shot of tequila, snorting a line of salt, and then squirting a lime wedge in his eye, I was tempted to tell her that she could do better. But Dana saw something that the rest of us didn't, because somewhere along the way Mike persuaded a bank to let him invest other people's money, and now he has a fancy title and a Porsche, and Dana is a stay-at-home mom with a full-time nanny. Dana remembers birthdays, bakes, makes Halloween costumes by hand, and calls my mother back. She is much, much nicer than I am, and would certainly never be as rude to my mother as I am about to be.

“It's a lot easier to return calls when you have a full-time wife to do it for you. I should really get one of those. Maybe I'll ask for one for Christmas.”

My mother puts her hands on her hips. “Nice talk,” she says. “You don't think it's worth the effort to make Christmas special for everyone?”

“I didn't say that, Mom, but it's still three weeks away! I haven't turned my mind to it. I haven't bought any presents. I don't even have a list of the presents I haven't bought. I don't have any opinion about what we should have for Christmas dinner, and I'll happily eat whatever you put in front of me as long as I don't have to plan it or cook it myself. Barbecue hamburgers, whip up some Kraft Dinner, whatever—I honestly don't care.”

I see my mother straighten and square her shoulders, a gesture I know well. She is willing herself to rise above my childishness, to be the mature adult in this conversation.

“I can see that I've caught you at a bad time,” she says. “I should have called first.”

“No, Mom,” I say. “You don't have to call first, of course not—it's always nice to see you.”

She softens a little. “You know, honey, I had another thought about a present for Jamie. Dana was telling me about this amazing kids' program at the art gallery where they experiment with art forms from around the world. He's such a creative little boy, and I know how hard it is for you to do extra programs for him, but Dana was thinking about enrolling Lola, so she could probably figure out a way to get him there every week. It's a shame for him to miss out on these opportunities. What do you think? Would he like to do that?”

“Let me talk to Jesse about it, Mom,” I say, with a calmness that I don't feel. “That seems like a lot to ask of Dana. Why don't I see if they offer a program on the weekends so that I could take him?”

“Whatever you think is best, honey. I'm just trying to help.”

“And I appreciate it. I'm just a little tired today.”

“Tired, always tired!” says my mother. “That's all I ever hear from you. These are the best years of your life! You must have something more interesting than that to tell me.”

“Honestly, Mom,” I say, “tired is all I've got.”

I'm the last one home, but the kids are still up. As I come in the door, I hear shrieking, and I pray that they are only playing and not hurt. There were very high-level spousal negotiations involved in having Jesse do the daycare pickup and dinner for the kids today, on account of my also having a job that occasionally requires attention; and it's possible, although I'm not inclined to admit it at the moment, that there were tears and recriminations on my part, which ultimately led to a grudging acceptance of responsibility on Jesse's part. But I can see, as the boys and Jesse race out to meet me, brandishing light sabers, that they are having an excellent time: Scotty is wearing a Batman costume, Jamie is Darth Vader, and
Jesse has a triceratops hat perched on his head at a rakish angle. They are all flushed and giddy and ready to carry me off to Jedi prison, and I can tell that Jesse has forgiven me for reading him the riot act.

“Wait, wait,” I laugh. “Let me change my clothes and I'll be right there. Do they have dinner in prison?”