Reply All

By Caroline Frank

1. Email Etiquette is a Real Thing

EMAIL ETIQUETTE IS A REAL THING

I t takes about half a second for me to realize that I’ve messed up. Big time.

And isn’t it always the case when you accidentally “reply all?” Practically as soon as you hit that send button, you know—you just know —that you’ve broken the first rule of email etiquette: never reply all in a professional email, unless expressly told to do so, unless the email chain demands every member of the trail to be a participant in the conversation. And certainly, absolutely, and resolutely, you should never reply all to an email as a new junior hire with the sentence “OMG GIIIIRLLLL! How cool!!!” and nothing else.

“Shit shit shit fuck fuck fuck,” I mutter under my breath, searching frantically for the fateful “recall email” option in Outlook, the one that could potentially save me from ending my career before it even begins.

Getting fired now certainly isn't an option for me—especially not after the years it took to find some stability. It’s been three months since I started this job as an associate production manager, and I can now say it’s the longest I’ve had a job without having something or someone in my life make it go wrong. Not just that, but it’s also that this role I somehow managed to get by the grace of god or some higher power (probably karma—it was high time the universe threw me a bone) is actually the dream job I never even dared hope for. For the first time in my life, I'm doing something I want to do. For the first time in my life, I’m not living for anyone but myself.

Which is why, with shaking hands, I quickly find the recall option and double-click it with the speed of light, praying to the fashion gods that the silly response didn’t get sent out to the twenty-something people on the email trail—the clients, my company’s VP, our design team, and, more importantly, Lena Bouras, my boss.

I look over my shoulder into Lena's office, watching as she reads something on her computer screen while talking on the phone, furiously waving her hands in the air. Knowing my luck, she's already discussing my mishap with HR, telling them what I did, and asking them to prepare my paperwork to fire me.

Lena lives by a rule of perfection. The entire company ethos does, in fact. Which is why I'm certain I'm a goner if anyone finds out what I did.

Email etiquette is a real thing in corporate America. Perfect perfection, even more so in the fashion industry.

But when 10 minutes pass and no one’s stopped by to pull me away into an office to have a “special talk,” I call my friend Molly in design, my old friend from high school and the person who helped me get this job. The person I actually meant to email.

“Molly Chan, ready-to-wear junior designer,” my friend answers with utmost confidence.

I would never be able to answer the phone as easily. I probably would've stuttered through hello. Mumbled my name. Maybe even forgotten it altogether. Sure, Bridgett Quinn is an easy name to remember, but with me, anything is possible.

“Hey,” I squeak, my voice smaller than a mouse’s.

“Bee? Why are you calling me? I’m only on the other end of the floor.”

“I’m trying to keep a low profile,” I whisper into my headset, looking over my shoulder to make sure no one is listening.

Molly takes a beat before asking “What’s wrong?”

“Um. So. I made a mistake,” I tell her, twirling my long red hair around my finger.

A heavy silence comes from the other end of the line because Molly is well aware of Lena’s reputation. And my history with job retention, for that matter.

“Jesus, Bee, already?” she whispers. “I thought you said you weren’t going to mess this one up. That you loved this job.”

“I do. So much.” And it's true. More than I ever expected to. Finding out how the production process in fashion works might not seem fascinating to most, but it's become everything to me. Learning the tricks of the literal trade; understanding how things are made; how materials are chosen and why. There is so much that goes into it, so many people involved from beginning to end, and it’s my department’s job to make sure it flows. It also helps that the company I work for, Sartoria they hold themselves accountable and regularly make sure all their manufacturers are complying under their own stringent set of ethical norms—or at least that’s what their website and employee introductory packet said.

It’s a dream company, which is precisely why I groan, running my fingers through my now-messy hair—because I don’t want to mess this up.

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t mean to. I was just so excited that…” I sigh deeply. “Lena added me to the email trail you’re also on—the one with the Stevenson project?—which, finally , because she hasn’t let me in on any external comms since I started working here three month ago—and when I saw the details and sketches of the designs you sent over, the ones we’re proposing for them… I thought I was replying just to you , but?—”

“Oh my god, please tell me you didn’t ‘reply all’ on that email trail.”

My silence is confirmation enough for Molly.

“Bridget. Dude .”

“I know. And to add insult to injury, I may have used exclamation marks. Four of them. And definitely threw an OMG in there, I’m sure.”

I can practically hear Molly facepalm from the other side of the phone. “Lena has fired people for less.”

I try to swallow the knot in my throat, to clear it, but nothing seems to help.

“I tried to recall the email. Can you see if luck was on my side today? If I was able to get it just in time before it went out to everyone?”

Molly exhales over the phone. I can hear her clicking viciously on her computer, then typing away. After a few eternal seconds of silence, Molly exhales again—this time, it’s a clear sign of relief. “I don’t have anything from you from today. I think you got it just in time.”

“Oh, thank god.” I sag in my chair, closing my eyes. “I can’t believe I did that.”

“Don’t worry. You’re safe.”

For now .

Something about this job makes me feel like it’s constantly on the line. Maybe because, even though I’m twenty-nine and have been working since I was fifteen, it’s the first job I actually enjoy? It’s either that or the life-or-death attitude people in this office seem to live by when it comes to this job. It’s so bad, I’ve sometimes heard people remind each other that “we’re not saving lives—it’s just clothes” when things go south and the higher ups come down hard on them.

“You told me you’d try this time, Bee,” Molly tells me. Her voice is soft, but laced with concern all the same—concern for herself. She’s the one who put herself on the line to get me the job, after all.

“And I promise I meant it. Mean it. Present tense,” I say, doing my best to reassure her. Though, if I’m being honest, I resent her comment. It's not like I mean for these things to go wrong in my life; they just happen. Life just seems to always have other plans for me and things end up imploding in the most vicious of ways. “I was just so genuinely excited. The design you sent the team was wild, and I wanted to show my support. Plus, like, you never told me how cool this job would be. I guess I was really pumped.”

She laughs softly. “You literally have probably the most boring job in the world of fashion. Maybe the second most boring after pricing.”

I gasp, bringing a hand to my chest. “Are you serious? I work in production for the private label side of our company. That means that I get to have a hand in every step of the garment making process. My team talks to the customer about what they're looking for, then we talk to you guys in design, then coordinate with the factories and pricing, and it's aaaall like a dance. An intricate, beautiful dance,” I say, my voice taking on a dreamy tone. “And because it's private label, no one knows we did it—they just think the client did. It's like being in on a dirty little secret. So when you walk into a random store and see the product there, you know you had a hand in its creation, but no one else does. What’s not to love?”

“You’re insane and delusional,” she says, but I can hear the smile in her voice.

I grin and nod, even if she can’t see me. “Oh, I am fully aware of my delusion. I am aware that I have truly zero say or influence in anything at this point in time and that I am a twenty-nine- year-old woman doing the job of a recent college grad. But I mean that by working as Lena’s assistant, I have exposure to all of this and… it’s been nothing short of amazing. So, I know I’ve already thanked you for helping me get this job. But I feel the need to thank you again for helping me find something I love .”

“Wow, Bee. That’s... That’s amazing. I’m so proud of you.”

I bite my lower lip to keep from smiling, admiring the to-do list in front of me full of important tasks (at least they seem that way to me), a computer screen filled with boring-looking spreadsheets that are actually full of fascinating information once you understand what they mean, and an inbox full of emails regarding collections people don’t know about that won’t hit the stores for at least another year. But I know. I know what these brands are planning. And it’s like I told Molly: it feels like being in on a dirty, delicious secret.

“I’m sorry there weren’t any roles I could recommend you for earlier. But I’m so glad it worked out in the end because you sound so happy. I know it’s been tough with everything that’s happened—especially in the last couple of years—but?—”

“Oh my god,” I cut her off, my stomach dropping when, in the middle of my screen, at the top of my inbox, there’s a reply to my original, mortifying email—from someone on the client’s team.

Shit .

“What? What happened now?” Molly asks, but her voice is distant, as if trying to break through a layer of thick fog.

Not wanting to stir the pot again after listening to my best friend wax poetic on how much I’ve changed for the better, I tell her, “Nothing, nothing. I… I had a burrito for lunch and it’s hitting me now. I have to use the restroom.”

“Oh, no. Remember to use the bathroom on the fifth floor. It’s cleaner and no one ever uses it.”

I nod, wanting to get her off the phone as fast as possible. “Yes, yes. I have to go.”

“Good luck! And next time, just message me through Teams.”

I slam the phone down hard, making several of my coworkers turn to look at me.

“Sorry,” I mouth.

A cold sweat breaks over my back as my mouse hovers over the message, hesitating to open it. Right now, it’s Schrodinger’s email. So long as I don’t check what’s inside, I am both fired and not fired at the same time. So maybe, I decide, it’s best to just leave it at that. Leave it alone until I get called by Lena to have my ass—and pink slip—handed to me.

I walk away from my desk, do a lap around the office—partly as a last goodbye, partly to be reminded of what I’d lose if I truly messed this up. After raiding the free snack area in the office kitchen (I would lose all access to free chips and granola bars—unlimited Diet Cokes, too!), I realize that if I’m not getting let go for a dumb email, then I certainly will for shirking my responsibilities. Reluctantly, I stomp back to my desk to face the inevitable.

With a deep breath, I bring my screen back to life and immediately click the email reply open.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Your Reply All

For the second time that day, I slump in my office chair from relief. The sender, unlike me, did not click “reply all.”

Wincing, I brace myself for its contents, not sure what to expect. Maybe a curt “Please refrain from emailing stupid things to the entirety of the twenty people on this list.” Or even maybe a “I have contacted your superior for this extreme lack of professionalism.” Honestly, I wouldn’t even be surprised to read something like “Consider yourself fired.” The world of fashion is much more ruthless than you’d expect. Though I will say that, though it is occasionally toxic, most of the time I’ve found the hard work and competitiveness motivating—exhilarating, even. It’s simultaneously been grossly misrepresented and accurately depicted in the world of entertainment.

In the time it takes me to eat three small bags of salt and vinegar kettle chips and down two Diet Cokes, I imagine a whole slew of possible replies. I do not, however, imagine the words in front of my screen.

In simple Times New Roman (and who the hell uses Times New Roman in their emails anymore, anyway? Calibri—sure. It’s the default. But TNR? How old is this person?) are the words:

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Your Reply All

It really is cool.

But please be mindful of your email etiquette. Wouldn’t want you getting in trouble over it. ;)

Best,

- W

Irritation flares all over my suddenly heated skin. How dare they—But really, how dare they email me that? How dare this person stick their (presumably) big nose in my business? Sure, I made a mistake. But it’s not the end of the goddamn world. And yes, I love my new job. And yes, it’s given me a new sense of purpose that I’ve never felt before in my entire life. But I’ve also never felt more stressed. Never felt more anxious. Truthfully, it’s the first time I’ve felt like I really have something to lose. There’s no way I’m going to let some loser from the other company—who can’t even sign with their company signature, by the way (another big corporate email etiquette no-no)—tell me how to do my job.

Rage coursing through my veins, fear driving my actions, I click on the reply button—with a bit too much force.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Your Reply All

W (or whoever you are, because you neglected to add your company signature) -

FYI, it wasn’t my intention to reply to everyone. OBVIOUSLY. That email was intended solely for my friend’s eyes. She was the one who sent the updated designs, and my intention was to reply only to her. I tried to recall the email and was mostly successful, but I guess you slipped through the cracks. Apologies for the inconvenience.

Bridget Quinn

Assistant to Lena Bouros

Sartoria [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: Your Reply All

Dear Ms. Quinn,

I’m sorry to have offended you. It wasn’t my intention. I simply wanted to point out that perhaps your “reply all” might not have been a good idea—especially given you work for one of the most demanding women in the industry. It’s the first time I’ve seen your name on these emails, so I thought you might be new. I wouldn’t have wanted for you to get in trouble just as you’re starting out.

PS. The name’s Will. Please don’t call me W. It makes me cringe.

Of course W is a dude. Typical.

I resent the fact that he just assumed I’m new. Correctly, but still.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Your Reply All

Dear Will , Thanks for looking out for me, but I don’t need it.

(Also, if you didn’t want me calling you W then why did you sign your initial email with it?)

Sincerely,

Bridget Quinn

Assistant to Lena Bouros

Sartoria Co.

(212) 555-1234 ext 321

In seconds, I receive another reply:

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Reply All

Are you, though?

No salutation. Not even a signature. And he didn’t even answer my question. He thinks he can lecture me on email etiquette and professionalism, but not follow the same rules?

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Reply All

Will -

Am I what?

Best,

Bridget Quinn

Assistant to Lena Bouros

Sartoria Co.

(212) 555-1234 ext 321

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Reply All

New.

I consider my reply. I could just lie. Say I have over five years of experience under my belt. That this isn’t my first rodeo—I’m a new VP of something. Anything. I could do all of that, and mislead him to save face. But then I realize my title is in my signature and groan.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Reply All

Obviously.

Best,

Bridget Quinn

Assistant to Lena Bouros

Sartoria Co.

(212) 555-1234 ext 321

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Reply All