Chapter Thirty-Seven #2
The firm retreat was scheduled for January 4.
I couldn’t imagine how any of us could spare the time, but Elinor had said attendance was mandatory, and it was “up to us” to make it work.
I daydreamed about sneaking into Charlie’s room late at night.
In my daydream, the room was more rustic cabin and less corporate hotel in the middle of Montana.
Charlie was supposed to be back from Boston on the 30th.
At the rate we were going, it felt like the retreat might be the only way we would be able to spend time together.
It was finally the night of Emilie’s holiday party at Rockefeller Center. Only instead of being excited about getting to leave early, I was exhausted by the idea of socializing with strangers. I wished I could just go to bed early.
At three o’clock, I asked Elinor’s permission to run downstairs for an espresso. I needed a gallon of caffeine to stay awake and help distract Emilie from Stephen.
“Sam is making an espresso run,” Elinor announced two seconds later. “Put in your orders now. I’m feeling a late night, people.”
Everyone put in an order.
“You can handle it, right? We can’t really afford to send two people downstairs at once,” she said dryly.
I spotted a piece of parsley wedged in her front lateral and smiled. “No problem.”
I raced down to Joe’s.
“Five espressos, and can you please make one a double?”
Charlie and I always joked about keeping a flask of sambuca in a desk drawer for late-afternoon espressos. As I waited for the coffees, I imagined us holed up in our office, watching the holiday lights up Park Avenue in the dark. I missed being next to him.
The barista didn’t have tray holders small enough for espresso cups, so I balanced two to a cup holder. I knew I wouldn’t get to sleep until well after midnight unless Emilie decided to leave the party early. It felt like everyone had a say in what time I got to go to bed.
My phone buzzed as I stepped onto the escalator.
I juggled the espresso tray in one arm and pulled my phone out of my blazer.
As I saw Elinor’s name, I felt my left leg being pulled behind me and automatically jerked to free myself.
I heard a loud ripping sound as the hot espresso splashed across my light blue shirt.
“Goddammit,” I muttered, wiping my hands on my black pants. I stepped to the side as I got off the escalator and pulled out my phone to call Elinor back.
Elinor picked up on the first ring. “Where are you?”
Her voice was eerily flat.
“I’m on my way upstairs. Is everything okay?”
I heard her take a deep breath. I’d already seen her explode twice that day on some poor soul on the other end of the phone.
“Forget the coffee. Just get back up here. Now.”
My hands were shaking. I wanted to find the nearest bathroom and try to salvage my shirt, because God only knew the next time I’d make it to the dry cleaner. Instead, I chucked the coffee tray into the nearest bin and sprinted to the elevator.
“Shit,” I mumbled as I inspected the three-inch tear up the side of my $400 Theory pants. I caught a glance of myself in the elevator mirror and burst into tears.
“You do not have time for this,” I scolded myself out loud, wishing the elevator would break down so I could cry for another twenty minutes. My phone buzzed again. There was no way I could answer until I’d pulled it together.
I got off the elevator and ducked into the restroom to inspect my mascara. My shirt was soaked. I took a deep breath and screened Elinor’s third call.
I charged into the conference room looking nothing like I did when I left.
She glanced at my shirt then pointed to her monitor. “Do you know what this is?”
She had highlighted row 2,110 of the Fact Chron. It was an email from the senator’s chief of staff to the senator himself, recapping a phone call with a major Republican donor, venting that the local city council members weren’t “toeing the line.”
“I went through your outline from the chief of staff’s interview, and not only wasn’t this document pulled—it appears the outline didn’t even include a question about it.”
I blinked hard and looked again at the Fact Chron. How could I have missed that document?
“I—”
“I have no idea how far back this puts us, Samantha, but this is an unacceptable lapse. Your entire job here is to be a master of these documents. If we publish a report that has holes in it, we’re fucked.
If someone leaks this email to the press, and our report omits any mention of it because we didn’t even ask about it in a fucking interview—we lose all credibility. Because of you.”
My heart was racing. “I understand. I’ll fix it.”
She refused to look at me. “What you’ll do is go through every single document on this chronology.
Tonight. And you will compare the documents we already tagged for the interview and make sure there aren’t other key documents missing.
And then you’ll redraft the interview outline, and you will explain to the partner why he needs to spend another day billing time on someone he already interviewed. ”
I nodded. “I’ll get started right now.”
“I’m sure your girlfriend will understand.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I said, I’m sure your girlfriend will understand why you can’t make it to her holiday party tonight.”
The idea that Elinor had interpreted my request to take off for a significant other’s holiday party made the penalty sting even more. Not to mention Emilie was going to murder me.
Elinor resumed furiously typing, and I stood there for a minute trying to gather my thoughts.
I sat down in front of my laptop and silently debated whether it was worth risking a bathroom break so soon.
I couldn’t text Emilie from the conference room because Elinor had banned cell phones.
I chickened out and started typing the most apologetic email I could muster, angling my computer so the screen protector would make it impossible for Elinor to see I was on Gmail.
I tried to explain what happened and apologized for letting her down, for not even being able to call her and explain (“I might get fired if I leave this room again”), re-apologizing for having been such a terrible friend since we got to the city.
I reread before I hit send, my face burning hot.
I knew exactly how she was going to read this, and I couldn’t even blame her.
Elinor dismissed Angela at midnight. Then she sat there, presumably to punish me, until 2:30 a.m. I wondered what her personal life was like.
I knew from social media that her husband was an academic researcher at Columbia, and they didn’t have kids.
I also knew they had a full-time housekeeper Elinor called and dictated tasks to throughout the day.
I waited until I was safely in the Uber to pull out my phone.
Emilie hadn’t responded to my email, but there was a string of angry 2 a.m. texts to our group chat with Connor, accusing me of making her look even more pathetic than she thought possible.
I winced and pushed my head against the headrest.
She texted me a final message separately. Just so you know, I’m looking for jobs back in London.
I watched the dots as she continued typing.
Don’t bother responding. I’m done with your chronic narcissism.