Chapter 4
4
Eleanor
My phone rings under my cheek. My boss is calling—Mark Garber, the leading half of Garber and Link. This is not an unusual occurrence. Not even at 5:45 in the morning. He told me last night they didn’t need me for the sound check this morning, so I’m not due to be in Midtown for another hour and a half. Still, there is a strange undercurrent to my disorientation. For some unknown reason, I am ashamed of myself.
“Hello,” I say. It comes out strangled and quiet.
“What are you doing?” Mark asks, as alert as anyone could be at this hour.
“I’m about to get in the shower. Why?” This is not untrue, though it leaves out the empty wineglass in front of me and the lingering imprint of an iPhone on my cheek. Details Mark doesn’t need to know. We’re always all business with each other. He doesn’t ask about my home life. I don’t ask about his. I see photos of his husband on his desk and the twice-a-year posts about their vacation to somewhere tropical, and I fill in the blanks from there.
He sees pictures of my two cats and the occasional video of me clinking wineglasses with some of our clients. That’s all my life is—my cats and my work. Not in the sad way the media likes to paint ambitious women. Just a realistic one. This is who I want to be. There is nothing else I would rather be doing.
“You really don’t have any idea why I’m calling you?” he asks.
It’s unusual for him to be this meandering. One of his best attributes is his ability to cut to the heart of the matter. Mark isn’t nearly as bullshitty as most of the other people in this business. That matters a great deal to me. It’s nice to work for someone who tells it like it is. Whenever he compliments my hard work, he isn’t blowing smoke. That’s what makes the blunt edge to his current tone so strange. I recognize this voice from when other people in our office screw up. It’s never been directed at me.
“I just woke up,” I tell him.
“You sent an email to the entire production team at two in the morning to congratulate Anthony Teller on his engagement.”
Everything slots into its place. The shame. Embarrassment. Regret. Nausea. It all has a name, and that name is Kelsey, Anthony’s fiancée, whom I learned about four hours ago.
Instead of responding to Mark, I let the silence between us swell until he’s forced to continue speaking. “I wouldn’t have found it very strange, even with the time stamp, until Anthony called me a little bit ago. Hell of a way to start the day.”
My pride bucks up against his disappointment. Yes, I sent that email late at night, but I didn’t say anything inappropriate in it. It was a very kind message, all things considered.
“Was he not grateful for my well-wishes?” I ask.
“Considering you messaged his fiancée right after to let her know he’s been sleeping with you for the past year, I’d say no, he wasn’t very grateful,” Mark tells me. “I wish I could consider this none of my business, but you made it my business by sending a company email on the subject.”
“Messaging Kelsey was the right thing to do. I would want to know if I were her.”
“I’m not interested in arguing about the moral correctness of your personal actions, Eleanor,” Mark says. “I am, however, interested in what you do with company resources. And you misused them in a highly inappropriate way. Anthony is one of our biggest clients. You know I can’t—” He falters.
Mark never falters. It’s his whole thing. I’ve watched him stomach countless Broadway scandals and setbacks without so much as taking a deep breath before diving into action.
“I can’t let you keep working for us,” he finally spits out.
“What?” I say, suddenly very awake.
The take-out boxes that crashed to the ground last night are now crushed under my feet as I head toward the door, convinced that if Mark could see me, he’d change his mind. He can’t fire me. I am his most reliable employee. His words, not mine.
“Nothing has to be strange between Anthony and me.” I’m careful to sound calm, proving my ability to remain composed in a crisis. “I would never bring it up to him.”
“Eleanor,” Mark says again. His continued use of my name hits like a hammer to my ego, shattering my long-held belief that I am capable of keeping my personal mess out of my professional life.
“Remove me from the musical,” I bargain. “Put me on the Hedda Gabler revival instead. They could use me on that team.”
“ Eleanor ,” Mark says, solemn. “I don’t like this any more than you do. But Anthony is threatening to drop us if we don’t remove you. He will never work with us again. My hands are tied.”
This job takes up most of my waking hours. After a full day in the office, I either work a show or go see a show. Then I attend an after party. Then I go out with key team members or clients. Then I come home to draft emails for the following morning. It fills my hours with purpose. I need that purpose.
“If you have any questions about money, I can put you in contact with finances when office hours begin,” he says. “I just wanted you to hear this from me. I hope you understand, Eleanor.”
“I do.” Look at me, still composed. Never letting anyone see me struggle. A professional right up to the bitter end. When I died as a squirrel, I bet I did it smiling.
“Thank you for everything you’ve done for our company,” Mark continues. “I don’t take it for granted. While these circumstances aren’t ideal, I hope you take this time to go off and do something nice for yourself. You deserve it.” His voice gets quiet. “And please don’t be a stranger.”
I end the call with a laugh that morphs into a sob. I’ve always been a stranger to him. That’s the whole point. We only know each other professionally, where I have never been less than excellent, except for last night. One moment in the course of many, one choice—the right one, at that—and it’s changed my entire life for the worse.
“You’re okay, Eleanor,” I tell myself, rocking back and forth to stop my tears. “You’re okay.”
It would be great to have a hug. Or anyone other than me to rely on right now. But there is no one who can hold me through this but myself. And so I will. Someway, somehow, I will get through this. Just like I’ve gotten through every other terrible, unexpected devastation life has thrown my way.
What “nice thing” could I do for myself here? There are reminders of my job everywhere I turn. If it’s not our show ads on the walls of subway stations or sitting atop taxis, it’s the actors walking the streets. Crew members taking the same train as me. Producers stopping into all the restaurants I frequent. If I’m not Eleanor Chapman the perpetually overworked press agent from Garber and Link, who am I?
A thirty-four-year-old orphan with two cats, living in a huge, messy apartment funded by the gigantic sum of money I got from my parents’ tragic death. What a fucking person to be. The best thing I could do for myself would be to get the hell out of New York as fast as possible.
At first it sounds ridiculous. The kind of thing you say just to say it, presenting the most implausible scenario as a salt-in-the-wound insult. I roll my eyes at myself in the middle of my sobs.
The longer I cry, the more the idea lingers.
Syrup, my impossibly sweet long-haired tabby cat, traces figure eights between my legs, confused by my continued show of emotions.
“I know,” I say to him, reaching down to scratch his head. My tears drip onto his brown fur. “You’re here.”
Salt, my slinky white domestic short-haired prima donna, lifts her head up from her window perch, otherwise unmoved by my waterworks. “You’re here too,” I assure her. “I didn’t forget.”
My apartment is littered with take-out boxes. Packages delivered but unopened. Stacks of books I’ve told myself I’ll someday read when I take that theoretical vacation I’ve never bothered to actually go on. The piles of laundry I swear I’ll get to when I have a true day off.
It’s such a big space that it feels wrong to get rid of any of it. My cats love the boxes and the clutter, and I love my cats. More than that, I love the company. This place has so much more room than I could ever need, and the boxes fill up corners that would otherwise sit empty.
It’s a lot like me. Without my work to clutter up my brain space, an unending fog of dread starts to settle over me, clouding my judgment. That’s when I do ridiculous, impulsive things, like go to a psychic who proceeds to tell me about my past-life squirrel death. Proof that I should not be allowed any idle time.
Scrolling through my phone, I pick my favorite picture of Syrup and Salt. It’s the one where they’re cuddled together so tightly they look like a cinnamon bun. I open up my social media and prepare to upload my annual post.
Anyone know of an interesting vacation spot? I type for the caption. Anywhere other than NYC is good. Looking for somewhere I can go ASAP. I just need someone to watch my cats while I’m gone. Paid opportunity.
One thing is for sure—there won’t be reminders of Broadway on a beach in Jamaica or in the rolling hills of the Irish countryside. Anywhere, really.
Anywhere but here.