Читать книгу Bombshell - Jody Gehrman - Страница 8

Chapter One

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I’m sitting at my desk, sipping my second vanilla latte, when my world tumbles wildly out of control. Carrie Hoban and Matt Clark sneak covert glances at me as they pass my cubicle, sniggering. I glance down at my blouse, wondering if I dribbled salad dressing at lunch. More titters erupt throughout the offices of Wright, Milton and Sykes. Don’t panic, I tell myself. It’s probably got nothing to do with you. Still, I fish my compact from my purse for a quick, furtive glance. I confirm: no spinach between my teeth, no latte mustache. As I take another sip of coffee, though, I hear Dylan Mackintosh’s braying laugh explode from the far corner of the office and my heart starts to pound.

Something’s wrong.

But what?

Dylan swaggers over. He’s got that walk, the athlete’s strut. Since time began, that walk has struck fear in the hearts of girls like me—big girls who have put up with fat-chick jokes from elementary school on. The sight of his lightly tanned face looming near my cubicle invokes a primal instinct, the gazelle’s urge to flee from the lion.

His eyebrows arch so high they’re in danger of escaping into his hairline. “Loved that photo, Ruby. Pretty kinky.”

“What are you talking about?” Fear makes my voice squeaky and barely audible.

He leers. “Very Bettie Page.”

“Wait—what?” I’m really not this stupid, but panic has made my tongue grow three sizes; I can barely form words.

“Felicity’s going to love it.” He glances at his watch. “She’ll be back in ten minutes, tops.”

As he saunters off, exchanging fist bumps with Luke Neal, I turn to my computer. For a second, I feel so sick I can hardly see. My vision swims and the floor of our fifth-story office roils beneath me like the deck of a ship. Email. Felicity. Kinky. Oh god. No! Noooooo!

With trembling fingers, I open my sent mail. Yes. Oh, fuck. There it is. The email I intended to forward to by best friend Wanda. Except I didn’t hit Forward. Instead, I hit Reply All.

Reply fucking all!

From: Felicity Franco

To: Creative

Sent: Friday, January 4, 10:15 a.m.

Subject: Colin Wright’s Visit

Heads up, folks: Colin Wright will be visiting from the New York office Monday, January 14. This presents an exciting opportunity to impress a founding member of this amazing company. I want to be sure everyone pulls together to show him what a top-notch professional team we have out here in San Francisco. I know you won’t let me down.

Yours,

Felicity

From: Ruby Sugars

To: Creative

Sent: Monday, January 4th, 1:30 p.m.

Subject: RE Colin Wright’s Visit

The latest missive from The Stick. You know “top-notch professional team” is Stick speak for “everyone lose twenty pounds and get Botox.” Think I’ll show up Monday in this.

I’d attached a picture Wanda took of me during her “fantasy photography” phase last summer. She wanted to start her own studio, and she’d employed me as her guinea pig. We’d taken it one Saturday night well into our second shaker of martinis. Dylan’s Bettie Page comment was spot-on; that’s exactly what we were going for. My thick, dark hair was cut in Bettie’s trademark severe bangs, and the black satin corset strained to contain my D-cup cleavage. The garter belt, thigh-high silk stockings, long satin gloves and patent leather pumps gave it that retro pinup girl flavor, but the pièce de résistance was the leather riding crop I held above my head, dominatrix style.

My hand flies from the keyboard to my mouth. I feel my stomach lurch, and the pasta salad I ate for lunch threatens an encore. This stupid message went to everyone on the creative team—all twenty-five of us! By now it’s no doubt been forwarded to everyone else who works here.

Simon Tork, my art director, leans over my shoulder and whispers in my ear, “Honey, if I liked girls I just might fall in love.”

More titters and guffaws ripple across the office. I have to think fast. I look at the clock. Seven minutes till two. My boss Felicity, aka The Stick, always returns to her desk by two. Assuming she didn’t check her phone during lunch, there’s still the narrowest chance I can save my job.

It’s a long shot, but I have to try.

Launching myself from my desk, I ignore the laughter and catcalls all around me and pound up the stairs to IT. It’s mostly guys up there, and they all stare openly as I sprint for Gopal’s desk.

“Did you see it?” I pant without preamble.

His dark eyes meet mine, puzzled. “See what?”

“I sent an email.” I pause to catch my breath and wipe the sweat from my forehead. “I meant to send it to my friend Wanda, but I must have gotten distracted and hit Reply All instead. Oh god, she’ll fire me. She’s been looking for an excuse. Please, you’ve got to help!”

“Calm down.” His face scrunches up with concern. “You’re going to have a heart attack if you don’t—”

“I’m serious! This is an emergency. I’m doomed.”

He turns to his computer screen. In a low voice he says, “What do you need me to do?”

I look around, aware now that stealth is called for. There’s a chair near his desk and I yank it closer, lowering my own voice to match his. “Can you delete it?”

“I can’t hide it from those who have seen it.”

I look at my watch: 1:55. “Please! She’ll be here any second.”

He bites his lip, his face conflicted. I’m asking him to do something that could get him fired. It’s highly unlikely—Gopal’s too good to be expendable—but it’s possible. I know it’s selfish of me, but I figure he’s got about a 9 percent chance of losing his job over this. I, on the other hand, have at least a 99.9 percent chance of losing mine if Felicity sees that email in the next five—no, four—minutes.

I implore him with my eyes.

He sighs and spins in his swivel chair to face his screen. His fingers fly over the keyboard. He squints. He mutters to himself. I hold my breath. Finally, at 1:58 p.m., I see the beautiful glowing words on his screen: Are you sure you want to delete this message from the server?

He casts a glance over his shoulder at me. “You owe me, Sugars.”

“I know! Forever!”

He hits a couple more keys, and the screen says Message deleted.

“You’re the best!”

“Mmm-hmm,” he agrees. “I expect a steady supply of gratitude for the rest of my life.”

“You’ve got it.”

* * *

When I get back downstairs, Felicity’s just stepping out of the elevator. Her sleek, closely-cropped hair sits like a dark helmet on her head—not a single strand out of place. Her navy skirt hugs her slim hips and her cream silk blouse is immaculately pressed. Her brown eyes meet mine; the pencil-thin eyebrows pull together as she frowns. No creases appear, though. She’s in her early thirties, tops, but she gets so much Botox her face is as smooth and plastic as a Barbie doll’s.

“Ah, Ruby. You’re here. Can I have a word, please?”

My heart, which is still running laps inside my rib cage, takes a flying leap for my throat. “Sure. Right now?”

She gives me a smile so cold it freezes my blood.

I manage to mumble, “Always have time for you.”

“Great.” She marches toward her office as I trail along in her wake.

Navigating the desks of the various copywriters, graphic designers, art directors and copyeditors, several snorts of muffled laughter reach my ears. Felicity stops, nostrils flaring. She’s obviously noticed, too. She looks at Dylan, who has just managed to bite back a guffaw.

“Something funny?” Her bird-like eyes search his face.

Dylan nudges Matt, who pretends to be engrossed in a report. “No! Nothing’s funny.”

Felicity turns to me, studies me briefly, then shrugs and glances back at Dylan. “Production meeting in an hour.”

“Roger that,” Dylan replies.

As she ushers me into her office and shuts the door. I try to get my sweat glands under control. My pulse is still racing, and I can feel big wet patches of perspiration soaking through my blouse. If there’s one thing Felicity can’t stand, it’s sloppiness. If she had her way, the entire world would be as sleek, cold and modern as her office, which resembles a futuristic Swedish hospital. Sitting in her deeply uncomfortable chrome-and-leather chair, I’m terrified I’ll sweat on the flawless suede.

“I suppose you got my email?”

I squirm, then force myself to sit still. “About Colin Wright’s visit?”

“Yes.” She studies me for a long moment. Did she see my reply? Maybe she checked her phone at lunch. Please, god, no. “You feel okay?”

“Of course!” I chirp. “Why do you ask?”

“You look a little feverish.” She reaches into her drawer and hands me a Kleenex. For a second I assume she’s anticipating an outburst. Here comes the ax. But then I see she’s gesturing, almost imperceptibly, at my forehead, and I realize I’m supposed to use the tissue to mop up my sweat. Lord, can this day get any more humiliating?

“Thanks.” I dab at my forehead, then wad the Kleenex into a ball.

“So, about Colin’s visit. I just want to make sure you understand how essential it is that we present a modern, streamlined image.” Her eyes travel over my body as I try to get comfortable in the tiny space-age chair. I feel like a hippo stuffed into a hatbox.

“Oh. Right.” I glance down self-consciously. Nobody on the planet makes me feel as fat and powerless as The Stick. It’s her superpower; one glance from those hard, sparkly eyes turns me into an obese, inbred deaf-mute.

“This business is all about image.” She grins, her facial muscles straining against their Botox restraints. “I just want to show Colin how on-trend we are. That makes sense, right?”

I nod, staring at my lap.

“I’ve started taking the most invigorating Pilates class.” She says it briskly, as if changing the subject. “Amazing how much it works the core.”

Am I paranoid, or is she actually glaring at my stomach? I suck in my belly and hold my breath, torn between mortification and fury.

I’m the lump in her porridge, the wrong sized cog in her machine. Over the past couple of years she’s assembled a creative team of skinny, fit, cosmetically perfect automatons. They’re members of her cult—they worship clean lines, motionless hair, perfect skin and bland ideas. She would have fired me long ago, except I’m the best copywriter she has. My inability to fit in with her twisted little vision of corporate perfection pisses her off every time she looks at me.

“Excellent!” She stands, signaling the end to our little chat.

As I make my way back to my desk, Simon looks up. “You fired yet, sweetheart?”

“Not yet,” I breathe.

But I knock on wood, just to be safe.