Chapter 5 Dark Side of the Moon
Dark Side of the Moon
Morgan opened her banking app. The balance was healthy—but for how long?
The mortgage payments on her town house—her luxury town house with the high-end appliances and finishes—would whittle her savings down soon enough.
When she’d purchased it, it had been what she could afford, what she deserved—a glorious refuge at the end of a twelve-hour day.
Now, though… She ran a hand over the granite counter, then lifted her coffee and went to stare out of the picture windows to the mountains.
Early snow dusted the Front Range, and the peaks shone crystalline white.
It’d be gone by midmorning. Normally, at this time of year, she’d be buying a season ticket so that she was ready to go when the snow was good.
Breckenridge or Copper Mountain usually, but last year, she’d decided to try Vail.
She’d been doing well; she could afford it.
This year, though, she wouldn’t be skiing. Not if she wanted to keep paying her mortgage beyond the next few months.
Since she’d been fired, she’d changed her status on LinkedIn, reached out to some of her contacts at other companies. But nothing so far. The coffee churned in her stomach. Surely, soon, someone would look past her firing.
Her cell phone rang, and she snatched it up. “Morgan Favola.”
“Morgan, hi. This is Jerry Grogan from Blackstar returning your call. New number, I see.”
“Yes, I’m no longer with Mattingley Financial.”
“You finally moved on, huh? You were there a long time. I heard they promoted Javid to partner. Guess you decided to cut your losses and find somewhere that might value you more.”
Javid is partner now? She snorted softly. Good luck with that. Javid had started at Mattingley after her and still came to her most weeks for advice. Or he had until she’d been fired. Morgan squirmed. Even two weeks later, it was still the most humiliating event of her life.
“Yes, it was time to move on.” She refocused on Jerry. “I’m taking a few weeks’ break while I review my options.”
“Right,” Jerry said. Silence hung on the line.
She’d seen Blackstar’s job ad. A senior position, similar to what she’d held at Mattingley. Jerry and she had a good working relationship, and in the past, he’d intimated that if she ever wanted to move on, Blackstar would be interested in hiring her.
She waited, her fingers clenching harder on the phone with every beat of silence. Nothing. She cleared her throat. “I see Blackstar are hiring. Before I put my application in, I thought I’d give you a call, see how it is there. You’ve always spoken highly of the firm.”
“Yes,” Jerry said, his voice flat. “It’s fine. Good place to be.”
“Can you give me any scoop on the role that’s advertised?”
“Not sure it’s a fit for you, Morgan. It’s more junior than it implies in the ad.” He cleared his throat. “We must—”
“I’m more interested in finding a firm that’s a good fit for me, culturewise.” Her pulse hammered in her throat. She knew a brush-off when she heard one. “And ethically. You’ve always talked well of Blackstar in that regard.”
“It would be a step back for you.”
“A step back, maybe, with a view to some strides forward.” Her voice had taken on a clipped, defensive tone, and she winced. Not the image she was trying to project.
“I think they might have someone in mind for the role,” Jerry said. Beeps sounded on the line. “Morgan, I have to take this call.” Was that relief in his voice? “We must do lunch soon.”
“Absolutely. I’ll give you a—”
He’d clicked off.
Morgan set the phone on the coffee table and dropped onto the white leather couch.
Shit, shit, shit. Jerry was the third person she’d called whose discomfort had echoed down the line.
It seemed word was out about her firing.
Of course it would be. Hadn’t she been marched out in front of the entire office—senior partners down to the newest intern?
The financial world was cutthroat. No one would hold back on spreading gossip, especially if, with a highflier out of contention, it put them in a better position.
Briefly, she thought about calling Savannah in HR and asking what sort of reference she’d be given, whether it would reflect her seven years of excellent performance, her steady rise through the ranks.
Or whether Savannah would give Morgan’s dates of employment in a monotone and a curt “no” to the question about whether they’d rehire her.
Morgan closed her eyes. It would be the latter; she’d bet the house on that.
And she didn’t need any more downers in her life.
It was hard enough remaining upbeat and positive—qualities she’d need if she was to persuade anyone in the financial world to give her a chance.
She reopened the banking app, stared at the figure.
What could she do to make her savings last longer?
What was the advice given to Gen-Z wanting to buy a house?
Less avocado on toast, no takeout coffee.
That advice had always struck her as condescending.
As if saving twenty or thirty bucks a week would miraculously let them qualify for a home loan.
Selling her car wasn’t an option. She needed reliable wheels if—when—she found a new position. She could sell some of her own investment portfolio—built up carefully with a view to the long term. But something had to give. Six months. That was how long such shit normally stuck.
She didn’t have enough money to live on for six months, though, not if she wanted to keep up appearances. Keep the town house. She could live off her savings for three, maybe four, months. After that, well… Her mind stuttered. After that, she would have a job. She would have to.
For a millisecond, she thought about calling her parents, but that thought evaporated as fast as it had landed.
Even if they had the money to give her, she wouldn’t ask.
She was the one who often sent them money, not the other way around.
She couldn’t tell them she’d been fired.
“Morgan’s doing so well in her career,” her mom liked to boast. “She’s a senior advisor. She’ll be partner one day.”
Let her mom keep that pride in her.
Should she get a job where her Mattingley references wouldn’t be checked?
Nanny, server, telephone sales. Work at Walmart?
But what if anyone from her old life saw her there?
Imagined shame and embarrassment flooded her.
People were professional snobs when it came down to it.
“And what do you do?” She’d heard the question a hundred times at corporate events, at dinner parties, on her infrequent dates arranged through a dating site for professionals.
“Taking a break” was a euphemism for unemployed, a tacit admission of failure. At least it was in her world.
And what if the likes of Jerry came into a diner where she was the server? What if she had to seat him at a table, hand him a laminated menu, chant the specials of the day, and pour his coffee?
No. That was fine, honest work, and she’d worked her way through college that way. But to do that now would be career suicide and would destroy her veneer of the highly sought-after professional.
What she could do was rent out a room in her town house.
Take a roommate for six months. There were two bedrooms, both with en suites.
A decent-sized kitchen and large living area.
And she could specify the type of roommate she wanted, which she couldn’t do on the short-term accommodation and vacation rental sites.
Her coffee was empty. Morgan went to the kitchen and turned the coffee maker back on.
A professional woman like herself. Mid-thirties, older, even.
Someone out at work during the day and who would retire to her room in the evening.
A nonsmoker, of course. No pets. Not someone who loved to cook elaborate meals and then not clean the kitchen properly.
Not someone who’d invite friends around at all hours.
Or play country music. Or shout on the phone.
Or drive a muscle car or large truck that wouldn’t fit in her two-car garage.
Just someone neat and clean with few friends who was seldom home.
She went online and browsed roommate sites, added a few things to her mental list. No couples—it would be hard enough having one extra person in her space—and definitely no kids.
A social drinker was fine. Not a marijuana smoker, but she figured someone who used edibles would be okay if it wasn’t excessive.
Morgan broke off a row of dark chocolate from her stash in the kitchen, then sat at her laptop to create an account and draft an ad.