Chapter 3 #6
The restaurant is decorated to look like a French bistro and is almost at capacity with a well-dressed lunch break crowd.
Heather fits in here, with her tailored clothes and perfect red nails, but she looks nervous and a little puffy, like she hasn’t slept well in days.
Once they’re seated, Susan asks, “So how are you? Why did you leave me?”
“Oh, you know,” Heather says, brushing the questions off again. “Actually, let’s order, and then catch up.”
They both order salads. Susan gets a latte; she’s so tired from her night out with Eliza that it almost feels like she’s dreaming. “Can you throw an extra espresso shot in that? Or two?”
When the waiter leaves, Heather says, “Okay, so, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just tell you: I think it’s time to take down Ben.”
Susan chokes on her water. “Excuse me?”
Heather’s left eye is twitching. “So here’s what happened. At that party the other night? He pushed me against the wall and licked my fucking neck.”
Susan’s heart stops. “He what?”
“Yeah. I thought I’d aged out of being at risk for a Ben assault but as it turns out I’m still fair game.”
“And then what happened?”
“I told him I was going to make a complaint, and he told me not to bother, because I no longer work for him.”
“Oh my god” is all Susan can muster, though she doesn’t know why she’s shocked. It doesn’t take that big of a leap to picture this.
“So, as you might know, it’s illegal to fire someone who wants to report you for sexual harassment. It’s retaliation. He’s done it to other women. You know how he speaks to you. I think if we can all come together, we really have a shot at this.”
“A shot at what exactly?”
“Taking it to the press,” Heather says.
Their food comes, but Susan can’t eat. Around them, in the natural light spilling in from huge windows, people are eating burgers, chicken salads, eggs and toast; some are even drinking white wine.
It’s a lively vibe for a lunch hour, the kind of place she’d enjoy if she wasn’t having such a stressful conversation.
“You know I love you and support you completely. But taking it to the press is honestly terrifying. What if nothing changes? I mean, everyone besides us just acts like this is all normal. He could just fire me, too, and then what would we have accomplished?”
Susan is often a victim of Ben’s verbal abuse, but she also feels complicit; she’s never really told him to stop. Plus, without Ben, there’s no Rider, and Rider is her whole personality. She can’t imagine a way to hold him accountable that doesn’t upend her life.
“Oh, god, they’ve broken you,” Heather says. “It’s not normal or casual, Susan. How often does Ben ask about your sex life?”
“You know the answer,” Susan says, looking down at the blue cheese on her arugula salad. “Often.”
“He’s not supposed to do that,” Heather says. “And he wasn’t supposed to do it to me, either.”
“I know, I know.” She can smell her own nervous sweat.
“Look,” Heather says. “If he fires you, you can come work with me. I’m probably taking a job at an agency. Agency life is much better, anyway. I bet I could double your salary.”
Susan fidgets with her lower lip, which is still a little swollen from so much kissing.
She has never considered working at a creative agency.
She likes the clout of the music industry, the free concerts and the VIP lists and the early access to music and the casual friendships with bands she loves.
She doesn’t really mind the low pay; she’s so used to living paycheck to paycheck that she hasn’t bothered to want anything else.
“How come you’re not asking Drew for help? He knows what Ben does just as well as I do.”
“Obviously because he’s not the target of it,” Heather says, her rising voice revealing how little patience she has left for Susan’s hemming and hawing. “He’s just a bystander who, frankly, should speak out without being asked.”
Susan has always had a soft spot for Drew, with his good taste in indie rock and his golden retriever enthusiasm, but she knows Heather is right.
Drew, as a man, is someone Ben actually listens to.
He hasn’t used this power for good. Instead, he’s steadily climbed the corporate ladder, never making waves.
“Okay. Walk me through it. How would we take him down?” Susan asks.
“There’s a reporter at The Cut who wants to do a story,” Heather says. “As I’m sure you can imagine, he’s had this reputation for years, but no one’s really said anything publicly. Times are changing, though. You can’t get away with being a sexist pig anymore.”
“So you want me to talk to the reporter.”
Heather nods. “I already talked to her, but she says she needs more stories to make it a full piece.”
Susan isn’t proud of her hesitation—she wishes she could just join Heather’s cause and not think twice—but it’s more complicated than that. “He made me a manager this year,” she says, ashamed of how meek she sounds.
Heather shakes her head, her jet-black hair bouncing. A piece of it briefly sticks to her berry-colored lip gloss. “You realize it shouldn’t have taken him this long to give you that job, right? You’re the one who established Rider’s social media presence in the first place.”
“Maybe,” Susan says. “I know he’s awful. But I also feel like my entire career is thanks to him.”
Heather looks disappointed. “Your entire career is thanks to you and your hard work. Your talent.”
“I hear you,” Susan says. “But still. Shouldn’t I make a formal complaint before going to the press?”
Heather says, “You could make your complaint and see where it goes.”
“And if it explodes in my face?”
“Then you know where to find me.”
In the Uber ride back to the office, Susan calls Katie.
“Should I blow up Ben’s life?” she says.
“Probably,” Katie says. Susan can hear the sound of Katie’s heels on the sidewalk. “That man sucks.”
“I know,” Susan says. “But I’m afraid I’ll lose my job.”
The Uber is stuck in traffic at Delancey waiting to get on the Williamsburg Bridge. Susan looks out the window at all the people walking by. They will probably cross the bridge on foot faster than her in this car, which is not actually motivation for her to get out. She watches them pass.
“Who fucking cares,” says Katie. “You’ll get a new job. It’s about time you do that anyway, no?”
“I guess,” she says, though it’s unfathomable.
Katie doesn’t understand Susan’s relationship to remaining employed. If Katie lost her job, her parents would just help her out until she found a new one. If Susan can’t make money, she’s shit out of luck, as her mother would say.
“I can tell you don’t think I understand,” Katie says, reading her mind.
“But I do. It’s hard out here in corporate America.
I know things are wild and weird over in indie music, but finance bros are something else.
The one thing I’ve learned is if you don’t say something, it’ll just get worse. Nip that shit in the bud, girl.”
“How come you never complain to me about it?”
“I don’t have time.” Katie laughs.
After they hang up, Susan calls Jonny.
“Two things,” she says. “One, I went on a date, and I think she’s the one. Two, Ben fired Heather and she wants me to help take him down in the press. Which do you want first?”
Finally, they’re on the bridge. She looks out over the water at Manhattan, a view that always makes her feel like she belongs.
Jonny laughs, and then, in an uncanny impression of Susan’s voice, says, “Hi, Jonny, how are you? How’s work, how’s your family?”
“Sorry, sorry!” She groans. “I’m the worst. How are you?”
“I’m kidding,” he says. “I love when you call to tell me things. Tell me everything about both.”
She does, sparing no detail.
“This is a huge day,” he says. “I really feel like you are stepping into your power as a boss-ass, gay-ass bitch.”
“Me, too,” she says.
“And don’t be afraid of calling Ben out. There are a thousand people who will join in. Me included.”
“Okay,” she says, at last accepting that no matter how complicated it might be for her professionally, she’ll help Heather. She has to.
When she gets off the phone, she takes a photo of the skyline and the sparkling blue river. Some things never get old.
On Friday morning, Susan is running late to pick up Eliza for the drive upstate to Katie’s wedding.
It’s her own fault for sleeping in, but the truth is she couldn’t have gotten out of bed any earlier if she’d tried.
The past few days have burned her out, and she’s feeling a little manic; between the intensity of her date with Eliza and then the overwhelming and terrifying ask from Heather and then spending all week covering for Heather at work, she’s not sure which end is up.
When she finally gets to Jackson Heights, she’s so stressed about the time that she’s worried she might start to cry.
It’s past noon, which means they’re going to get cursed by the dreaded Friday afternoon weekend traffic; everybody fleeing the city for greener—or, in this case, snowier—pastures.
But then Eliza appears, looking perfectly road trip ready in black sweatpants and a cropped puffer jacket, two coffees in hand, and Susan forgets to be upset.
Instead, all she can think about is when they can get back in bed.
“Hi.” Eliza smiles, sliding into the passenger seat. “Wow, this fucking car. It really takes me back.”
“Welcome to 2005,” Susan says.
Eliza leans over and kisses her on the mouth.
“Okay, well, not literally 2005.” Susan laughs, goofy with the ridiculous joy of all this, of Eliza here with her. “If only.”
“If I’d kissed you then, I probably wouldn’t be kissing you now,” Eliza points out, buckling her seat belt and putting on the same enormous round sunglasses she was wearing in her Tinder photo.
“I never thought of it like that,” Susan says. She rests her hand on Eliza’s thigh as she merges back into traffic. “You look like a ’90s grunge goddess, with your shaved head and those sunglasses,” Susan observes, glancing at her. “Like Sinéad O’Connor.”