FIVE

 

Ida

 

White dots of spittle have gathered at the corner of my boss’ mouth while he’s been tearing strips off me for being late. His vitriol would have pierced my soul any other day. Today, I’m strangely Zen. The comments about my lack of intelligence, my lack of gratitude for the chance that he took on someone like me, and the aspersions he cast about the potentially incestuous circumstances of my birth should have triggered tears at least. Any other time, grovelling would have commenced the moment I hobbled through the main door into our suite of offices. As much as I hate this job, I need it more than it needs me.

Not today, though.

Today I don’t care what Bruce has to say.

Today I don’t care that I’m probably out of a job when he runs out of cliched insults to hurl my way.

Nope, today I care about missing a phone call from a handsome stranger. My saviour. The man who I’d spent a whole twenty minutes with this morning before deciding that it was the best twenty minutes I’d had in the last decade. Felix, the apparent visitor to this city, who’d said it was not a question of if but when he’d call me on the number I’d written on his hand. A number that connects to a phone that I broke this morning in my rush to get to this office to be yelled at by a man who’s terrorised me with his random mood swings, inability to set an editorial deadline and stick to it, and constant “accidental” brushing of his dick against my ass whenever I had my back to him.

“I quit,” I say the next time Bruce pauses to catch his breath. “I’ll clean my desk out right now and be on my way.”

Hobbling in the direction of my desk before he can say another word, I ignore his spluttering and plonk my butt in my chair. The second my weight is off my ankle it stops throbbing. Without the pain clouding my judgement, I can think clearly.

First things first, I need to get out of here, and that means organising a ride home.

“Hey,” I say, perching the handset of my desk phone between my chin and shoulder. “Can you come and get me? I’ve busted my ankle and can’t walk home.”

Marta doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. I can come right away.”

“Thank you.”

“Does that mean you’ve been fired?” she asks. Breathless excitement colours her tone, sparking my own enthusiasm.

“No, it means that I quit.” Bruce stalks into my line of vision. His scowl encourages me to continue in a louder voice. “You were right. I hate this job. Bruce takes advantage of my skills and I really think I should take them elsewhere. God knows, I could do with a pay rise that’s more in line with my experience.”

My best friend giggles on the other end of the line. “He’s listening, isn’t he?”

“Yep,” I chuckle, a huge grin curving my lips.

“Well, regardless of the reasons behind your decision, I’m still proud of you,” she says. My smile grows bigger. Her approval means the world to me because, bitchy moments aside, we truly want the best for each other. “I know that my company would love to hire someone like you. I can give you a reference at any time. Just say the word and it’s yours.”

“Err, thanks, but I’m sure I’ll find another job quickly.” My understanding of Marta’s job is next to nil, but I know it’s not something I’m interested in.

From the outside, it looks like she attends exclusive parties on the arm of her friend, Gabriel. She flies all over the country at his whim and on his dime, then spends the rest of her time wallowing in our apartment with whatever piece of man meat has her attention that week. The random men are usually a discreet distraction that she drops like a hot potato the second Gabriel summons her again.

To me—and everyone else who asks—she describes herself as Gabriel’s “Social Advisor.” Personally, I think he’s more of a very benevolent sugar daddy and she’s trying to save face by pretending that their relationship is more professional than it really is.

“Print media is dying,” Marta replies. As usual, she’s oblivious to my feelings about the subject. “Plus, it’s a ridiculously competitive industry anyway. I can hook you up with flexible hours and a great income. That way you can concentrate on writing the next great American novel without selling your soul to someone like Bruce for eight-hundred words in his glorified newsletter or bartending at that seedy bar in the middle of nowhere…”

I tune her out and concentrate of emptying my desk into the big bag that I keep in my bottom drawer. This day was always hovering on the horizon, so I’d made sure that I never kept more in the office than I could carry out in my arms. Bruce had fired enough people in front of me to warrant the preparation.

Marta pauses, so I fill the silence with a vague, canned response. “Uh, huh. Sounds good.”

This sales pitch is one she gives me at least once a month and it requires nothing more than the most absent-minded replies from me. Money, and the social standing it brings, doesn’t interest me. I’m a writer, not arm candy. If I wanted to spend my life draped over a powerful man while I nodded like a Stepford wife at every inane comment he made, I could go back home and marry the man my parents have had me informally betrothed to since birth.

Which is a fate worse than death in my mind.

“Awesome!” Marta’s eager exclamation drags me back to the here and now. “I’ll ring them to set up an interview. They’ll be thrilled to meet you.”

“Marta. No.” I attempt to cut her off. “I’m not…”

She either doesn’t hear me or she chooses to ignore my protests. My money would be on the latter.

“Once, I’ve made the call, I’ll get my driver to bring me downtown, so we can help you empty your office. Oh, Ida, I’m so happy you’re doing this. You won’t regret it, I promise.”

“Don’t,” I splutter. “I didn’t mean to agree to an interview.”

It’s too late. The phone I hold in my hand is dead. Not that it would matter. Once Marta thinks she has the okay for one of her hair-brained schemes, nothing will get in her way.

As I place the phone back in its cradle, another urgent problem hits me. I quickly search for the number I need on my computer. Picking the handset back up, I dial the number and wait for someone to answer.

“Hi,” I say when the call connects. “I’ve broken my cell phone and need to organise a replacement as soon as possible. How quickly can you send me a new device?”

The salespersons response brings a faint smile to my face.

“Using your priority program will get me a new phone by this afternoon? Wonderful. How much will that cost?”

This answer isn’t quite as pleasing, but it’s necessary so I agree.

“Great. Can you please have it couriered to the address on my account. I’ll be there all afternoon, waiting for the delivery.”

After I’ve ended the call, I sweep the rest of the items on my desk into my oversized bag. With my handbag on one side and my canvas bag on the other, I do my best to hobble to the exit. I might be down to one low-paying job and have accidentally agreed to an interview at Marta’s workplace, but the biggest worry clouding my mind right now is that Felix will ring before my new phone arrives.

As worries go, it should be bottom of my list, but the knot in my stomach begs to differ and the squiggly feeling in my chest refuses to listen to me when I tell it to chill out.

I’m using both hands to awkwardly pull open the main door when Bruce catches up with me. He leans against the door with his full weight. I let go of the handle and glare at him.

“What are you doing?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Bruce snaps back at me. He’s so close that every time he breathes my fringe is blown off my forehead. “You were late this morning, yet think it’s appropriate to head out to lunch already? Your lack of professionalism is mindboggling. Why I bother to keep you on escapes me.”

The audacity of the man almost renders me speechless. I shift away from him awkwardly until there is enough distance between us that I’m no longer forced to hold my breath to escape the noxious fumes coming from his mouth. If having bad breath was a competition, Bruce’s would be of an award-winning quality.

Dragging in a lungful of clean air, I run my gaze over his face to gauge whether he’s serious about what he just said. I find nothing but self-righteousness in his expression.

“I quit, Bruce.” He presses his lips together in a tight line, apparently unimpressed by what I’m saying. “Effective immediately.”

“Your resignation isn’t accepted.”

The matter-of-fact way he delivers his disagreement sets off my temper. My body feels like it’s vibrating with anger when, aching ankle forgotten, I step into his personal space and snarl at him. “It isn’t up for negotiation. I quit. You can either let me go without acting like a giant dickhead, or I can take my grievances to the head office. I have a journal full of stories featuring your wandering cock and our barely-legal interns. I’m sure your dad would appreciate having his named dragged through the mud with articles that outline you rather specific tastes?”

He steps back from the door and pulls it open, so I can leave.

“You’re making a mistake. If you step through that door, you’ll never work in print media again. I’ll see to it personally.”

Without pausing, I limp over the threshold. My exit isn’t as graceful as I would have liked, but it still sends the same message. Just in case, he doesn’t get it, I state it verbally, loud and clear.

“Fuck you, Bruce. I’m doing what I should have done a year ago.”

I was hoping for fireworks or some kind of outburst that the people walking through the corridor would see. I wanted to embarrass him and his family name on my way out. Unfortunately, the reaction I wanted isn’t the one I get. Bruce slams the door shut in my face without another word and I’m left standing alone in the hallway. The knowledge that I just burnt my bridges in this city sits like a rock in my gut. Bruce’s paper wasn’t exactly top-shelf stuff, but it was a decent stepping stone into employment with the newspapers that matter since his father owns most of them. Their last name opens doors in print media, and I’ve now pissed off the prodigal son to the point of no return.

“Brilliant strategy,” I mutter angrily to myself. “This is what happens when you let your temper get the best of you.”

As the daughter of a supposed saint, my bad temper has been the bane of my life. Being a Montoya in Georgia meant that my every move was measured against my mother and my little sister—and I was frequently found lacking when compared to their easy grace and perfect manners. My escape to New York was supposed to be a new start, instead I’m two years into my new life and still repeating the same mistakes.

Angry shame heats my face. I drop my gaze to the tattered grey, linoleum floor and shuffle my way to the elevator. With my arms burning from carrying my two bags, I lean back against the wall of the lift and try to get my thoughts straight.

Is Marta right? Living my life my way hasn’t worked so far.

Maybe it’s time to start doing things differently?

Starting with the interview she’s organised for me.