The Lost Girls (4 page)

The challenge had been proffered. So dedicated did I become to my job that I was willing to downgrade every other priority in order to put in more time at the office, to achieve that next level. Did I ever feel conflicted as I turned down trips to the beach with my girlfriends, guilty at blowing off night after night of friends' happy hours, or anxious over the fact that I hadn't left myself much time to go on dates with guys, let alone attempt a new relationship? Hardly a day went by that I didn't. But I'd gotten a later start than most. If I ever wanted to be viewed as something other than a mail-retrieving, phone-answering, yes-girl junior editor, I couldn't afford to slack off now. And if I got the promotion to associate and moved one more spot up the masthead, it really wouldn't matter what I'd given up to get there. I was still years away from my thirtieth birthday. There'd be plenty of time for family, friends, and new boyfriends then—right?

 

W
hen I checked my messages on the last day of the trial, I had a voice mail from my executive editor, Helene, telling me that she wanted to discuss the associate spot as soon as I returned. Something in her voice threw me. I couldn't tell if she was being her typically reserved self or if something was wrong—but I couldn't wait until Monday to find out.

I forced myself to get through the closing arguments and the half-hour jury deliberation (unanimously not guilty! Now let's go!) without making it too obvious how much I wanted to run. Scrambling down the front steps of the courthouse, I dived down to the subway platform and slipped through the doors of the N train just before they slammed shut.

My body was shot through with adrenaline by the time I arrived at work. A few sidelong glances in the elevator reminded me that I hadn't dressed in uniform—I was wearing a pair of
faded terry cloth pants and a long-sleeved tee—but I was too preoccupied to care that people were staring.

Rocketing past reception, I saw that my entire floor looked like a ghost town. Computer screens were on, proofs slung across desks—but no editors. I walked around until I spotted our office manager on the phone in her cubicle.

“Where is everybody?” I asked.

“Conference room,” she mouthed, pointing down the hall.

The room was completely packed with both editorial staff and salespeople. I slipped in the back and shimmied in the direction of the other assistants. Our editor in chief, Beth, had just finished presenting the upcoming issue, something she did so the staff could get a sense of how the content in the whole magazine worked together. We'd had several of these presentations before, but never with champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries, which were reserved for baby and wedding showers and, occasionally, promotions.

Then it hit me. Were they going to announce the promotion? Now? I was suddenly mortified that I'd worn something so unkempt into a room full of fashion editors.

“Such an impressive issue, everyone. Thanks again for your hard work. I know you all have pages to attend to, places to be,” said Beth. “But before you bolt out of here, I hope you'll join me in celebrating another piece of good news. Today I'm proud to announce the promotion of one of our hardworking assistants.”

I glanced at Claire, who immediately looked away—and then I knew. There was no doubt in my mind that when Beth reached the end of her speech, it would not be my name that she announced.
Oh, my God, I have to get out of here.

But there was simply no way I could escape without being noticed. There was no time. As everyone raised their glasses, Beth said how proud she was of Elizabeth Morton; no one would do a better job as the team's new associate editor. While everyone
else sipped, I silently choked. I forced my throat not to close up and cut off my oxygen supply; I willed my eyes not to fill up with tears and commanded my body not to shake.

Mercifully, the meeting broke up, and at the earliest possible second, I made a beeline for the door. As I scurried away, miserable little hamster that I was, I felt a hand wrap around my upper arm and maneuver me down the hall to an office. It was my old boss, Kristen.

For once in my highly verbal life, I couldn't speak. I knew if I opened my mouth, torrents of tears and dammed-up emotions would come flooding out.

“I'm sorry, that was a terrible way to find out,” she said. “Look, I know that Helene wanted to talk to you before you came in on Monday and heard it from someone else.”

“But I don't get it, I just thought…” I managed to squeak. “Why?”

“Well, I think that Helene and Claire just have a few…concerns. I know they both wanted to talk to you sometime next week. We didn't think you'd be here today.”

“Please, just tell me what's going on. I'd really just rather hear it from you so I can at least be prepared.”

She sighed. “Well, it's not the end of the world. But it was a bit unprofessional that you never came in to work this past week. Everyone really feels that you should have taken care of your responsibilities and assignments, jury duty or not.”

“You mean no one covered my section?” I was floored. “I was supposed to come in at night? After jury duty?”

She didn't say anything, but her silence confirmed it.

“I don't understand. Why didn't Claire just tell me that I needed to be here?” As the words left my mouth, I realized I already knew the answer. My bosses couldn't legally require me to come in after jury service—but a dedicated editor would have done it on her own.

“I think you should just meet with them,” she said kindly. It was sinking in that things might be a lot worse for me than simply not being promoted.

 

A
n agonizing weekend and two weekdays passed, but the following Wednesday, I finally shut the sliding door to Helene's office and sunk into the chair next to Claire's. Helene, well known among our staff for being direct but fair, didn't waste precious seconds. “So, we want you to understand that you're not being let go—”

Let go?!

“—but in light of your recent performance, we're beginning to question whether you're really committed to your position at the magazine.”

My head snapped left to get a read on Claire, who kept her eyes firmly forward.

“Claire has told me that since she's been your manager, you've been focusing on larger projects but neglecting your assistant duties. She says the newspapers don't get clipped daily, the mail hasn't been opened and distributed on time every morning. Is that correct?”

I knew it would be useless to explain that with the huge number of tasks on my plate—editing a monthly recipe section, writing features and front-of-book pages, running the internship program—sometimes phones didn't get answered on the first ring and I had to save clipping newspapers and opening boxes for the weekends.

I nodded, dejected.

“Well, okay then. What I have here is a list of the various areas where we”—she glanced over at Claire—“feel that your performance has been slipping. And you'll have one month to make improvements in these areas. If you can't, then we'll have
to discuss whether or not this magazine is really the right place for you anymore.”

Instantly I knew what was happening. I was being put on probation, the legal formality required before a company can show its undesirables the door. Here, when people were given a month to shape up, it was their cue to look for another job.

As Helene read slowly through the list, making comments after each point, I felt my body temperature start to rise along with her words. Fear ebbed away and was replaced with less polite emotions. She wrapped up her presentation and asked me if I had any questions or anything I'd like to say. You know, before the clock started ticking.

What
could
I say? That I really
was
a hard worker? That my mean new boss just didn't like me? That I couldn't possibly be on probation or lose this job, because the magazine was my whole life now? Please, please, pretty please don't fire me? The reins on my own future had been yanked from my grasp. There they were, dangling in front of me but just beyond reach. There was only one way I could think of to take them back—and so I did.

When I opened my mouth, instead of the Chernobyl-like explosion I feared, someone else's eerily collected words issued out: “Helene, I appreciate you letting me know about the areas where I could use improvement. Based on your feedback over the past two years, I really thought I'd been doing a good job, even exceeding your expectations. This is the first time that I'm hearing that I'm not.”

I turned to my new boss, who still wouldn't look at me.

“Claire—I'm not sure why you didn't talk to me earlier. If I'd known that you wanted something done differently, I would have tried to fix it. But now I'm getting the feeling that it's already too late to make the changes that you want.”

I dared myself to keep talking, knowing that if I stopped, I would never again be foolish enough to say what I did next.

“Helene, I've truly enjoyed working with this staff, and I've learned so much at this magazine. I don't think I need a whole month to get my act together. Please consider this conversation my two weeks' notice.”

 

T
en minutes later, I was sitting at the Bryant Park sandwich kiosk, waiting for my friend and former coworker Stephanie, whom I had emergency-called on my flight from the building. By the time she got there, my face had already melted like sidewalk chalk after a downpour, streaks of charcoal, bronzer, and pastels rolling toward the gutters.

“
La-aaady.
What the heck happened to you?” Her jaw was agape as she approached. “You look like you got hit by a bus or something.”

Indeed, I did feel as if I'd been pushed in front of an oncoming M15, but I wasn't surprised that she'd called my attention to it. Steph had never been the type to sugarcoat things, one of the main reasons I liked hanging out with her. Even now, as I hiccupped out the story of a pretty dismal few days, she gave me her unglazed opinion on the whole situation.

“So it sucks that you were put on probation instead of getting promoted. But seriously—what are you so upset about?” she asked.

“Well, for starters, I just lost my job.”

“Hell, yeah, you did. But that's because you wanted to lose it.”

I tried to correct her, but she cut me off.

“Come on,” she said, in a familiar tone that indicated I was to cut the bullshit pronto. “You were the one who gave your notice. Tell me that you really wanted to stick around, that you were willing to do everything they were asking so you could keep your job.”

“No, but I didn't want—” I dug a heel into the pavement.

“Look, I know that this seems like a really lousy situation right now, but give it a few weeks and you'll realize that it's so much better things worked out this way. That place was making you
miserable
. You're always working or stressed out that you should be working. I barely even see you anymore, and I sit four floors above you.”

Ouch. She was right, but it still stung. I stared down at the black splotches of petrified gum polka-dotting the damp pavement, feeling a hot flush creep up my neck.

“But you know what's the best part about all of this?” she said. “You've been given this really cool, unexpected opportunity. This is your chance to cut the cord from work, to figure out something else to do with your life besides setting up base camp in your cubicle.”

“You mean, like not get another job? What else am I supposed to do?”

“Anything—as long as it's different than what you've been doing every day for the past few years. Take some classes at the New School. Go on that big trip you've been talking about with Holly and Jen. E-mail editors and start freelancing. Haven't you told me that you want to break into travel writing?” She looked at me expectantly.

“Eventually, but there's no way I could do it now. You need to be, like, the next Bill Bryson to get an assignment from a major travel magazine. I'd have to get a lot more experience before I could even think of pitching a story to one of the glossies.”

“And how are you going to get that experience if you're hanging out here?” Steph pressed. “You have to actually
leave
the island—and then you can write about the world.”

Leave New York? The very thought threw me into a panic. I'd just lost my job; I didn't think I could handle losing my city, too.

“Regardless of what you decide to do from here, the hardest part is over. You may not have planned to leave, but you've outgrown your desk chair. It's so obvious; you're itching to challenge yourself, try new things. Don't you think?”

I was still too shaken to see the bigger picture. “I guess. Maybe.”

“Don't talk craziness. Of course you are,” she said, glancing down at the dial on her enormous watch. “Crap. I've got an interview that I've already rescheduled fifteen times. But don't worry. If you start to question whether you did the right thing, just ask yourself, ‘Do I really need to work for a boss who wants me to improve my letter-opening skills?'”

It would have been kind of funny if it hadn't been so true. Steph gave me a quick squeeze and bolted across Sixth Avenue just before the light turned green. A fleet of taxis streaked across the intersection, and she was gone.

 

U
nemployment felt like a spa getaway compared with my last two weeks at the magazine. Once I'd used the company FedEx number to ship my stuff three miles north to the Upper West Side (my final act of rebellion) and organized my files for the next assistant (to prove that I wasn't above it all), I found myself in workplace purgatory with no real responsibilities to call my own. Claire, who sat four feet from me, spoke to me only when vitally necessary. On my last day, she forced out a tight-lipped good-bye and slipped off without another word.