Chapter 10 #2
The first woman she speaks with is unnervingly kind, and Cece gets the distinct sense that someone’s greased the skids before her arrival.
She can hear her mother extolling the virtues of connections and networking.
For once, she agrees. There are questions about her previous work experience at Ernst and Young and why she thinks she’s a good fit for the company.
Shuttled from room to room, shaking hands, firm but not too firm, confident but not cocky, Cece does her best to take it all in: gray-walled cubicles, clacking keyboards, and glowing monitors.
More than once, she’s shown tables and charts of data and asked how she’d interpret them.
What problems does she anticipate? How would she solve or minimize them?
There are a few women throughout the day, but most of the people she meets are men in their late thirties with soft hands and clean haircuts.
They are the types of men who cycle maniacally long distances on the weekend, Cece imagines, to places like Nyack and Beacon.
They are the types of men who enjoy the morning jockeying for a seat on the commuter trains.
Her second-to-last meeting is with Maddox Hickock, the head of the climate disaster department, the man who would be her supervisor if she gets the job.
Maddox occupies a corner office, and Cece’s reminded of just how high up they are.
He beckons for Cece to sit and offers her kiwi-infused water from a pitcher.
She declines, wondering if this is something he always has in his office, or if it’s merely for special occasions like this—interviewing semi disgruntled actuaries who’ve fallen on hard times.
“This is mostly ceremonial. Your credentials are impeccable. Plus, Tina and I go way back,” Maddox says, moving out from behind his standing desk. He’s wearing a pair of white laceless sneakers. “She was singing your praises.”
Cece resists the urge to confess that she’s never met Tina and that whatever Maddox has heard is merely secondhand flattery from the most unreliable of sources, her mother, but she holds it together, forcing a laugh down into her chest where flattens.
There’s an absurdity to the whole process she’s trying to ignore.
What’s with the sabotage? Cece thinks to herself. You need this job, remember?!
In the leather lounge chair, Cece crosses her legs and tries to readjust her pants without making a scene.
She’s not used to wearing suit pants, and everything feels tight and restrictive.
The backs of her heels are rubbed raw from the pumps she picked out.
How quickly those callouses have softened.
“References.” Maddox pulls back an immaculately white shirtsleeve and checks his watch. “Will they have anything bad to say?”
“I don’t think so.”
“They never do.”
A sharp pain pinches under Cece’s right breast—a rogue bra wire. She’s grown accustomed to wearing only sports bras while working at Rayburn.
Maddox continues. “I think we’re doing some really interesting work in the field. Cutting-edge stuff. Risk mitigation in the climate disaster arena is a priority for the company.”
“Because we’re living through a climate catastrophe?
” The question comes out harsher than Cece intended, and she punishes herself by pushing her tender toes into the front of her shoes.
Shut up, she thinks. The door’s been opened, you’ve got the keys, all you have to do is walk through.
This isn’t the time to get on your moral high horse.
Maddox’s waxy face hardens. “Catastrophe sounds a bit bleak. Our firm doesn’t just react. We help companies and communities build more resiliency in an unpredictable world. You’d be helping us with that process. Looking at where we could improve and what we need to safeguard against.”
While he talks, Cece’s eyes wander beyond the uncannily smudge-free glass, where she catches a glimpse of the Hudson, a shimmering streak of blue.
On the sun-dappled water, gliding triangles of white tack into the wind.
Cece wonders what it’s like out there today…
if the waves are more green than blue, if the boom groans when they come about, sails slack only for a moment and then, in an instant, billowing and full against the sky.
Maddox extends his hand. The interview is over. “Just one last question. A formality, really. Could you shed some light on your departure from EY? You were with them for quite a while.”
There’s no use lying. If Cece is under serious consideration, which she is, Maddox is going to call her former boss. She weighs her options, even though they aren’t really options at all. “I was let go,” she says. “There was a big merger. They said my position was redundant.”
“Do you actually believe that?”
Cece understands this is where she is supposed to lie, where she’s supposed to side with the company in the name of efficiency and cost cutting.
This is where she lauds her own firing, a company gal through and through.
A little lie, the whitest of lies—that’s all it takes.
She thinks back to the day not so long ago, sitting across from those men, those boys, knowing smirks brushed across their smarmy faces.
A fib, only a fib, then it’s yours. She can practically hear the final-lap bell, ringing brightly, lungs on fire, the end in sight. “No,” she says, “not really.”
“Why then?” Maddox says, like he’s sharing a secret.
Cece’s gaze drifts to the window again. What exactly is she doing here? Why is she sucking in her stomach and smiling until her cheeks hurt? “Probably because I’m too qualified, and I’m a woman.”
Maddox produces a pained smile and drops his gaze, like he’s embarrassed for Cece.
He traces the inoffensive pattern on the carpet with the toe of his shoe.
Cece can feel him wanting to reply, a rebuttal, or maybe just a dismissive laugh, but he only shows his white teeth and says, “Well, that’s certainly an explanation.
” Then he ushers Cece out of the office like a nurse who’s just discovered their patient has a highly infectious disease, congenial but speedily and firm.
“If you have any other questions,” he says, handing her a card, “don’t hesitate to reach out. Patricia in HR is your next stop.”
Patricia is a woman with voluptuous hair and thick glasses who runs through the company’s benefits packages, and even though Cece has effectively ruined her chance of an official offer and is starving—Joe’s Pizza is only a few blocks away—she forces herself to pay attention.
In addition to a substantial pay raise, roughly five times what she might earn at Rayburn, there are countless other benefits she won’t be receiving, thanks to her momentary lapse: There’s a 401(k) with more-than-generous employer matching, top-of-the-line healthcare benefits, life insurance, funds for adoption or surrogacy programs, and a seemingly endless list of other perks (discounted SoulCycle memberships, free Citi Bike access, and an open invitation to a multitude of social events hosted by the company).
“Impressive,” Cece says, sliding the bulky folder into her Longchamp bag. She’s already regretting the act of sabotage—shortsighted and impulsive.
“I think you’ll find that we’re more than competitive when you stack us up against our peers.”
“How about oyster farms?”
“Come again?”
“A bad joke,” Cece says before thanking the woman for her time.
A few hours later, while Cece waits to board the train home, she can’t help but notice the dinginess of her subterranean surroundings.
Fluorescent light bangs off the gum-stained concrete, grim-faced commuters prepare for the long trip home to the far-flung suburbs of Fairfield, Wilton, and Milford.
Cece feels foolish—the optimism and promise of the morning evaporated, ground to fine dust. Was it hubris?
Naivety? She’d left all this—the office job, the city, with its perpetual motion—for a reason.
What had made her think she could return?
Desperation, she supposes. Money, certainly.
But there must be another way, she thinks, a better way.
From the overgrown azalea bush next to the shed—profanities.
It’s dusk, and Cece’s carrying her heels, suit jacket folded under an arm, finger lifting the fence latch.
For a moment, she thinks she’s mistaken, and she waits, ears trained.
In the direction of the pool house, Bernard’s impatient yap.
Bathed in purple twilight, the bush shakes, as if someone’s trying to uproot it.
“Lorraine?”
“Cece? Goddammit…Is that you? I’m stuck.”
Upon closer examination, Cece spots one of Lorraine’s Crocs sticking out from the underbrush; farther afield, a ladder lies in the tall grass. Moving quickly, Cece works to part the branches, revealing a sideways Lorraine smooshed between the shed wall and the bush.
Cece reaches for what she thinks is a hand. “Are you hurt?”
“Fine, fine. Just got my leg caught under me.”
A canvas drop cloth is twisted around Lorraine, and Cece works hard to pull it free. After a final tug, Lorraine stands before her, paint chips in her hair, a pair of safety goggles dangling from around her neck. “What happened?”
“I’ve been meaning to repaint that shed for three summers. I finally had some time today, but that damn ladder gave out on me,” Lorraine says. She touches her ankle gingerly and winces. It already appears double its normal size.
“How long have you been stuck there?”
“Oh,” Lorraine says, cocking her head to one side and shaking out her hair. “A few hours or so.”
“Jesus, you could have died. You can’t be doing stuff like that. You should just hire someone. What if I hadn’t come home?”
Lorraine waves away Cece’s concern. “But you did. What’s with the getup?”