Chapter 3 #2
Kevin Mitch Costner starts talking about something, and I do my best to listen while trying to ignore the stress itching at me now. I had a lot to do before this meeting but now . . . I’m getting rashes just thinking about it. This was not what I expected. Not what my schedule expected. Or needed.
“I’ll talk to them again,” Lydia promises after the meeting, and I nod even though I know it won’t change a thing. I don’t tell Lydia how I really feel because that’s something I don’t do. I get the work done and I have no other choice but to do so this time, too.
The rest of the day feels like a marathon. Or a triathlon. Or whatever is worse than that. By lunch, I have a full-blown headache. Like, Full. Blown. And for a minute I wish that the lady from earlier this morning had let me get run over.
I do my best to concentrate during the second meeting while I try to regroup my schedule for this summer.
Okay, I have to cancel all my other plans, including the visit from Mom.
Can I manage to function on three and a half hours of sleep per night?
I did today, so yeah, maybe? It is, after all, only for a couple of weeks.
Early in the afternoon, an email from Stan Murphy lands in my inbox, sent to everyone in the entire company.
From: stanley.murphy@
Subject: Policy reminder
Hi,
I just want to remind everyone of our policy regarding illness and work. I’d like everyone to read the attached file to remind yourselves of what applies. It’s very important we all follow these guidelines, especially when it comes to things such as stomach flu.
Best regards,
Stanley Murphy
Head of Finance
Adler Bowman
All day, Clara sends me pictures of what I believe is Pearlband Beach where she has Photoshop-added my face and body.
In one picture I’m jogging on a beach, in another I’m shopping in some small, picturesque cheese store, and in the third I’m standing next to a lighthouse.
I’m smiling and waving in all of them. If this is not a sign, I don’t know what is, she writes and for a moment I wonder if that phone call last night really happened.
Have I inherited a house? A real house? And why?
Why would Liz leave it to me? Because you were her goddaughter, Mom said last night when I asked her the same question.
Maybe she knew you needed it? Mom then said, and I frowned and told her I don’t need a house, I have New York. To that, Mom didn’t respond.
And speaking of which, I need to contact a broker. I must add it to my to-do list. That, too.
In the afternoon, my office is so hot my brain feels almost like it’s boiling.
If you dropped some lobster in it, I think it could make for a pretty good soup.
And it almost boils over when I’m interrupted for the 76,488th time, this time by one of the assistant buyers, Maria, who wants to know why I don’t think thong speedos for men will be a thing next year.
Really, Maria, do I have to explain that to you?
“But women love them,” she says when I do explain why to her.
“On themselves, yes, but we don’t want to see them on someone with a throbbing salami in them.”
Patience, June. Patience.
“Why would it be a throbbing salami in them?”
Breathe in. Breathe out.
When Maria leaves, I’m actually sweating. I can feel it running down my spine, and my forehead is all glossy. My heart is pounding in my chest and after a glance at the time, I realize I’ve forgotten to eat lunch today. I think I might have some crackers in a drawer, though.
I reply to email after email since they never seem to stop pouring in. It’s like the whole world woke up today and decided, Hey! Let’s email June Collins! Seriously though, did they?
And while I try to check off as many items as possible on my to-do list, it seems impossible for one of my legs to be still.
I drum the foot against the floor in an incessant rhythm, and I don’t even stop when there’s another knock on my door, interrupting me in the middle of a report that’s due today.
“I wanted to pop by and see how everything feels after the meeting,” Lydia says and closes the door behind her.
“It’s okay!” I say in a brisk voice.
Lydia raises an eyebrow and sits in the chair in front of my desk. “Really?” She looks between my foot and my face in open disbelief. I nod. “Okay, well, I wanted to let you know that I have a meeting scheduled tomorrow with Ed and Co. I’m not fine with the new directives.”
“Honestly, Lydia, it’s fine. If that’s what they want, then that’s what they’re going to get.”
Why am I lying to her? Stupid good girl complex.
I keep thrumming my foot, and Lydia scrutinizes me closely. We’ve been working together for almost five years, and I know that she reads me pretty well by now. “Hm,” she says flatly.
In the corner of my eye, I see the notifications about new emails coming in. I really must continue with my work, otherwise it’ll be crackers for dinner as well. My brain burns behind my skull, and I try to hide my impatience when I smile. “I promise you, Ly—”
I’m interrupted by a new knock on my door, followed by our division’s coordinator, Nicole, peeking in. And I know before she even opens her mouth that it’s bad news. I shift in my chair. Nicole looks nervous at the sight of Lydia.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt you . . .”
I smile reassuringly. “It’s okay. What is it, Nicole?”
She looks between us a few times before taking a deep breath. “There’s been a bit of a problem with your flight to Paris.”
I stiffen, feeling an ominous shiver travel along my back. “What kind of problem?”
Nicole suddenly looks hesitant, like she regrets coming here in the first place. “Um, the kind where your flight has been cancelled . . .”
I stare at her. “What?”
“Yeah . . . I’m sorry.”
I struggle with finding the words. “How . . . ? Why . . . ? What?”
“The email didn’t say much. Just due to unforeseen circumstances something something, they must cancel the flight.”
It’s like someone has pulled the plug to my brain. It’s still boiling, but it’s also ringing in it. Adler Bowman must be at Paris Haute Couture Fashion Week. It’s the fashion world’s most prestigious event. It’s a must. It’s a . . .
Lydia looks alarmed, and I know I must fix this. Now. “I’m calling them immediately,” I say and pick up my phone.
I’m put in line and while I wait, I can hear my own blood rushing in my ears. This can’t be happening. It can’t.
Well, it can, tells me the unenthusiastic and slow customer service agent.
“But can you please help me fix this?” I beg.
“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do,” she says in a slow voice. Wait, is she filing her nails? I take a lungful of air.
“Well, surely there must be something you can do? I need to go to Paris on that exact date. My company has paid expensive money for me to go—you can’t just cancel it without solving anything else.”
“We can. Says so in the terms.” She is definitely filing her nails. My breathing is shallow now.
“But as I said, I need to go to Paris.”
“And as I said, I can’t do anything about it. Sorry.”
The blood is flooding through my ears. It’s almost deafening. And my foot is thumping like freaking Thumper’s in Bambi right now. I take another deep breath, like, really deep. I can do this. We can fix this.
“It’s okay, June. Let’s check with another airline,” Lydia says, and I answer by raising a reassuring hand in her direction. I got this. I always do.
“Okay, I hear you, but can you at least try? This is really really really important for me and my job.”
The customer service agent sighs. She sighs. S i g h s! “Can you try to listen? I really really really can’t help you.”
And that’s when I lose it. And when I say lose it, I mean really really really lose it.
“YOU LISTEN TO ME YOU FREAKING SLOTH! I NEED TO GO TO PARIS, AND I DON’T FUCKING CARE HOW YOU SOLVE IT—BUT YOU WILL, EVEN IF IT MEANS YOU WLL HAVE TO FLY ME THERE YOURSELF!
YOU HEAR ME?! YOU SOLVE THIS NOW, OR I WILL COME OVER TO YOUR STUPID OFFICE AND I WILL TEAR OFF YOUR NAILS SO YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO FILE THEM EVER AGAIN! !!”
The rest is like watching a movie, and definitely not one about me.
With a guttural scream, the actress throws her phone across the room, forcing Lydia to quickly duck her head.
The phone hits the wall with a hard clunk before the actress gets up from her chair and starts running after it.
When she reaches it, she uses the sharpest edge of her heel to chop it so thoroughly Gordon Ramsay would’ve been proud had it been an onion, all while she screams, at the top of her lungs: “Solve it, sloth, solve it or I will hit you with a throbbing salami!”
And then it all goes black. For both the actress and me.