4. Evie Wilder
Chapter four
Evie Wilder
My heart picks up speed in my chest as I look at the message from my boss for the fifteenth time.
Leona Claude: Evie, please be at my office Monday at 9 AM.
That’s all. No meeting agenda, or any further explanation. She sent it yesterday evening shortly after I got home from seeing Drew and Maverick. I spent the whole night wondering what she could want to talk about. I’m not a stranger to Leona’s impromptu meetings, but she usually gives some sort of context.
The morning breeze lifts the hair off the back of my neck, making me shiver. Up ahead the crosswalk signal flashes, so I put away my phone and push Beckham across the street. My office building is just two blocks away, a factor I loved when I moved into this new apartment after I broke things off with Ezra. It lessened the sting of the rent, though not by much .
If I didn’t have such a great job as a photographer for the magazine, I wouldn’t be living anywhere near where I am now. I scraped together what was left of my meager savings that Ezra had practically drained and used it as a deposit. I used to not worry about money at all. Now I live paycheck to paycheck, budgeting down to the penny to make sure I can afford to live here. I don’t have it near as bad as others though, so I’m grateful.
I almost trip over my own feet when I spot a tall flannel-clad figure a few feet ahead. Is that him? I shake my head when the man turns, revealing that it’s not Maverick. I need to get him out of my head. Yesterday was a mess, and it would be best if I didn’t see him or Drew again for a long time. Which is why when I woke up this morning, it didn’t make sense that I was sad to wake up to no missed messages or calls. It was also foolish of me to ask security if anyone came to see me. Lou would have called if they did, and I wouldn’t have let them up anyway.
I look down at Beckham through the sunshade window. He’s awake, simply staring up at the world. I smile at him and wiggle my fingers over the opening. Pain shoots through me when I recall the way Drew looked when I told him Beckham’s full name. It was everything I had hoped for, only I imagined telling him under different circumstances.
I straighten my spine and push down my emotions as the building that houses Cleo Magazine comes into view. One day, I’ll be able to talk to them again. Once I’ve proved them wrong. I know what they must think of me. That I’m a wild child who went too far and got hurt. That I’m broken and I need them to save me. But I don’t need their help. I don’t need anyone .
I press my back against the door and pull the stroller in. The scent of perfume and the sound of high heels on tile overwhelm my senses. Men and women in beautiful clothes float past me, corporate smiles stretched across their faces. I twist my lips to match, fighting the out-of-place feeling that’s haunted me since I left Ezra months ago. I belong here. I’m not an imposter, I’m just as successful if not more so than those around me.
I press the elevator button and study my reflection in the doors. The wide-leg black trousers I’m wearing hide my postpartum belly fairly well, and the champagne-colored silk top doesn’t cling to me too tightly. It used to be more flowy, but that’s changed since giving birth. I still manage to look put-together though.
As the elevator rises, I turn all my attention to Beckham. His sweet little face helps calm my nerves some, while also motivating me to be the best I can be for him. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep from being a failure in his eyes when he gets older.
Cleo Magazine calls the top level of the Etienne Building home. It’s a buzzing hive of people as soon as you step onto the floor. Editors, photographers, writers, and interns alike practically sprint around the place. I almost hit someone when I push the stroller out of the elevator. My apology is given to the air around me, because the person has already rushed off in the other direction. I swear someone could drop dead in the middle of this floor and everyone would simply step over them.
After a few close calls, I make it to Leona’s illustrious office that overlooks SoHo. It’s glossy, modern, and the epitome of fashion, perfect for the editor-in-chief of a renowned magazine.
“Good morning Leona,” I say upon entrance. She looks up from the stack of papers on her desk .
“Evie, you made it. Good. Come in and shut the door behind you.”
I take a deep breath and follow her directions. Then I sit down in the chair across from her, pulling the stroller up beside me. When I look up, I catch Leona eying it with pursed lips. I know it’s not professional to bring a baby into a meeting, but I didn’t have much of a choice. She’s been supportive so far–as supportive as someone as high-strung as Leona can be. But maybe she expected me to have found a sitter or daycare by now.
“I’m working on getting a nanny for Beckham,” I reassure her. “It’s hard to find the perfect one.” Especially when you aren’t really looking…
She steeples her manicured fingers beneath her chin. Her blue eyes watch me from behind the thin glasses she’s wearing.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” she begins in a monotone voice. My stomach knots within me.
“Oh?” I squeak out.
“Yes. It’s not an easy decision, because you’ve given so much to the magazine.” She pauses long enough for the blood to drain from my face. No. “We’re going to have to let you go, Evie.”
I wring my hands as I work to form words. I manage just one, “Why?”
She sighs. “You must know your performance has been far from excellent as of late.”
“I know I haven’t fully returned to work since after my maternity leave, but it’s only been two weeks. Just give me a little time and I’ll be back, I promise.”
Her sleek bob swishes as she shakes her head. “This has been going on long before you went on maternity leave. ”
I comb over the past few months. I’ve given nothing less than everything I’ve got to this company. So much so that I went into early labor because of the level of stress I was putting myself through. And even then, I felt bad for giving birth before my scheduled due date so I attempted to work from the hospital. It was only when the nurses told me how bad my blood pressure was that I stopped.
“Can you be specific? Maybe there’s a misunderstanding,” I say.
Her eyes narrow in a way that lets me know her patience has worn thin. It doesn’t take much for that to happen with Leona.
“I can assure you there is no misunderstanding. Please collect your things from your desk then go by HR on your way out. Aubree will give you your severance package.”
I blink at her. She turns her attention back to the work on her desk. That’s it? I gave my blood, sweat, and tears to this place. My hands shake–an anxiety symptom that I picked up while pregnant–as I push on the armrests to stand.
I’m about to turn away when I spot a familiar headshot in the portfolio she’s flipping through. Ezra Williams. His faux-smirk and dead gaze stare up at me.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper. She glances up, guilt flashes in her eyes like gold at the bottom of a riverbed. It disappears just as fast as it came.
“I don’t know what you’re speaking of.”
“You’re firing me, because he refuses to work with me.” It’s actually more like I refuse to work with him after all that he did, but either way it’s not something I should be fired over. There are other photographers. The industry is big, we shouldn’t ever run into each other .
“I told you why you're being let go. Now, please leave before I’m forced to get security involved.”
I’m tempted to force her hand. To call her bluff. Having a photographer drug out of here wouldn’t look good on her. But I can’t embarrass Beckham. This whole situation is embarrassing enough.
Anger courses through me like a raging river. She’s listening to Ezra’s opinion over mine simply because he has better connections. He probably told her I broke up with him and stole his son away. When in reality he cheated on me for months and signed the papers giving up custody of Beckham without even blinking.
“I hope tonight when you’re trying to fall asleep that you think of this moment.” I rip back the sunshade over Beckham. Her features harden and she glances at him, then me. “That you know you chose to trade out a hardworking mother who’s given you everything for a man who discarded his family and would sell his soul just to get ahead. I hope when you close your eyes, all you see is Beckham.” I gesture to my son, blinking away angry tears. “I wonder if the guilt you'll have to live with is worth the one article you needed Ezra’s photo for.”
I grab the stroller and push it out without another word. I’m sure everything I said will mean nothing to her, but I couldn’t leave with my tail between my legs. If anything, maybe my words will prevent her from hurting the poor photographer who replaces me.
The weight of everyone’s eyes feels like cinderblocks on my shoulders. But I hold my head high as I walk to my desk. I won’t shed a tear in front of them. They won’t get the satisfaction of seeing me break down. Even if I have to hold my breath to keep it all in. I’d rather my lungs burn than give them anything more to gossip about .
It doesn’t take long to clean out my desk. As a photographer, I spend…well spent most of my time at shoots so there’s not much to my cubicle. Aubree lets me know I’ll receive one month of severance pay when I stop by her desk. One month. I have one month to find a new job in a cut-throat industry, or else I’ll lose my apartment.
My hands hurt from gripping the stroller so hard by the time I walk out of the Etienne Building. I didn’t want anyone to see them shaking. I suck in deep breaths of the smokey city air as I speed down the sidewalk trying to get home before I break down. It’s no use though. The tears start as soon as I round the first corner. My chest heaves, but I keep walking. All I can do is think the same question over and over again.
What am I going to do?