Then
Ruby arrived in New York with a face like a pie, eyes swollen to slits from crying. She was in her dream city, moving into her dream apartment with her best friend and about to start her dream job, and she was resolutely miserable.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t exactly her dream apartment. It was a fifth-floor walk-up in Sunset Park, a neighborhood of auto-parts stores and bodegas (but not the nice bodegas they had in Park Slope or Cobble Hill). It was more off-brand dairy products and forty-ounces than organic kettle corn and choose-your-own craft six-pack. But it was cheap, and it was close to the subway and, on a hot summer’s night, the smell of flautas and chicharrón wafting up from the kitchen of the little Mexican grandmother’s apartment below was enough to make a grown woman weep. Well, an almost-grown woman at least.
Her father had driven her down from Beechfield, Ruby convulsing with sobs and him occasionally reaching across to give her an awkward pat on the back. She’d left Ethan standing in her driveway, staring after the car like a kicked puppy. He’d given her a mix CD when they kissed goodbye, and she had listened to it for the entire ride, eventually playing ‘Yesterday’ on repeat and keening all the way through the Battery Tunnel.
Jess opened the door and pulled her into a hug while Ruby’s father silently unloaded the car. He didn’t make a comment on the shitty neighborhood, or the fact the front door swung slightly off its hinges, or the endless flights of stairs he’d had to trudge up and down when bringing in mattress covers and shower caddies and favorite university hoodies, and box after heavy box of books she’d brought with her, most of which she’d already read and the rest of which she never would.
That evening, after her father had shoved the folded cardboard boxes into the back of his SUV – ‘There’s good money in them!’ – and given her a hug so tight she could feel him holding his breath so he didn’t cry, he climbed back into the car and drove off into the sunset, and Jess and Ruby got down to the business of getting incredibly, howlingly drunk.
Jess let her talk about Ethan for hours, listened as she told her that she’d never been so in love, that he was the one for ever, that being away from him would be unbearable, but that they’d make it work because they were made for each other, they were destiny, and silently poured more Ernest and Gallo rosé into the chipped Garfield mug Ruby had owned since fifth grade, and then finally, finally, right after she’d finished another crying jag, she sat her friend up, dusted her off, and told her to get a grip.
‘I mean, I know you’re heartbroken and I can totally see that you and Ethan love each other, and I’m sure you’re going to do the whole long distance thing and it’ll be fine, but this is New York! We are in fucking New York City! So tonight I’m allowing you to wallow in self-pity, but tomorrow, you and I are going to take this fucking town by storm, okay?’
‘Tomorrow,’ Ruby muttered, nodding weakly. And then, sitting bolt upright and wiping a dribble of rosé off her chin, ‘Tomorrow! Shit, I start work tomorrow!’
‘Fuck, yeah, you do,’ Jess said, pouring more wine into the mug and swigging the rest from the bottle. ‘And you are going to kill it.’
But the job, well . . . it wasn’t exactly a dream, either.
Ruby emerged from the subway, blinking into the morning sunlight, and proceeded to head west, which was the exact opposite direction from the offices of Diamond Age Advertising. She realized her mistake half a block in, but was too embarrassed to turn around in case she was scoffed at by a crowd of seasoned New Yorkers who preyed on the weakness of newcomers, so she made a long, hasty loop down 59th, onto 5th Ave, and east on 58th before arriving, red-faced and sweating, in front of the wide, glass-fronted entranceway into her first ever adult job. She took a deep breath and pushed through the revolving doors into the marble foyer, ready to meet her future.
She took the elevator to the twenty-sixth floor and was greeted in reception by a stern-faced young woman, dwarfed by an enormous Plexiglas desk. Her tiny body was swathed in sample-saled Theory, and her face was slicked flawlessly in Mac. She did not smile. She barely acknowledged Ruby other than to roll her eyes slightly when she said her name and nod imperceptibly towards a lurid pink sofa shaped like a woman’s pouting mouth. Ruby perched on the lower lip – hovered is a more accurate description considering her anxiety levels – and waited to be fetched.
Finally, after twenty excruciating minutes of sweating gently into the upholstery, a mop-haired man bounded into reception and shouted her name. It was Martin, the HR person – sorry, ‘Head of People Movement’ – who had interviewed her back in May. He was wearing a Stone Roses T-shirt, pulled too tight across his rounded stomach, and a pair of stonewashed black jeans that managed to be both too small and too large for him at the same time. There was a nervous, frenetic energy surrounding him, and when he smiled, revealing a row of smallish teeth capped by largish gums, he reminded Ruby of a jittery colt. She avoided making any sudden movements that might startle him as she followed him through the office.
‘Here are our account managers, Tara and Melanie,’ he said, pointing towards two interchangeably lacquered and bronzed blonde women. They both gave Ruby weak smiles before turning back to their laptops. He pointed across the room to an empty section of office bisected by a ping-pong table. ‘That’s the creative department, but it’s still a little early for them – they were here until three a.m. last night, so they probably won’t be in until ten.’ She swallowed heavily at the thought of someone other than a bartender working until three o’clock in the morning. ‘Here we’ve got our strategy guru, Simon’ – a man wearing a cardigan and a knitted tie looked up from his Moleskine notebook and gave her a small wave – ‘and down there we’ve got production.’ She glanced over to see three people, two men and a woman, all albino-pale, huddled around a Mac Pro and whispering in harried tones.
There were two frosted-glass cubes settled in opposite corners of the otherwise open-plan space. She pointed to them and asked Martin if they were meeting rooms.
‘No way,’ he said, giving her a withering look. ‘We don’t believe in meeting rooms at Diamond Age Advertising. Transparency is one of our core beliefs. We’re all about transparency here, right, guys?’ No one bothered to look up. ‘Anyway, those offices belong to the two big guys – the MD, Paul Gold, and –’
‘Why didn’t he just call it Golden Age Advertising?’ she interrupted before she could stop herself.
Martin looked at her quizzically. ‘I don’t think we’re connecting here – what do you mean?’
‘You know,’ she said, hating herself as the words left her mouth. ‘Paul Gold, Golden Age . . .’
‘Right, right!’ Martin said, but she could tell it wasn’t. ‘It was a creative choice, actually. Because diamonds are worth more than gold, and we believe in clarity of thought . . .’ he dwindled off.
‘Of course! I get it! That makes total sense. Sorry, I was just being stupid.’
‘Hey, there are no bad ideas here,’ he said. He gave her an earnest, imploring look. ‘But you should know that Paul is a true visionary.’
‘I’m sure.’ They blinked at each other for a few seconds. ‘And the other office?’ she asked. The subject of Paul seemed like a minefield and she was eager to move on.
‘That belongs to our Head of Creative, Jefferson Peters.’
‘Did somebody say my name?’ Ruby turned to see a tall, tanned man with an easy smile striding towards her. He was wearing a light-blue button-down and worn-in jeans, the frayed hems of which crowned a pair of old Converse, and his hair was raked back from his forehead, revealing a pair of blue eyes lightly lined at the edges. ‘What lies are you telling this poor, innocent young woman about me?’ He was addressing Martin, but his eyes never left Ruby’s.
‘This is Ruby Atlas, our new office junior,’ Martin said, presenting her like she was the prize pig at a county fair.
‘Nice to meet you, Mr Peters,’ she said, offering him a clammy hand. ‘I read about your win at Cannes last year. Congratulations – it’s an honor to work with you.’
‘Flattery will get you everywhere,’ he said, taking her hand in his and holding it for a fraction of a beat too long. ‘And call me Jefferson – Mr Peters is my father, and he’s dead.’
‘I – I’m sorry,’ she said, stuttering over her words.
‘Don’t be, he was an asshole. Which is why I don’t want you calling me by his name. Now, I’m sure Martin here will take excellent care of you’ – Martin beamed at this – ‘but if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask, okay? This place can be a little rough at first, but my door is always open.’
‘Thanks,’ she mumbled, ‘but I’m sure it’ll be okay. I’m not afraid of hard work.’
‘I bet you’re not,’ he said, in a slightly ambiguous tone. Something about him made her nervous on a deep, almost cellular level. ‘Well, it’s nice to meet you, Ruby, and I’m sure I’ll be hearing great things about you. But right now, I’d better get to work.’ And with that, he slid past them into his office, leaving her and Martin quaking with adoration in his wake. The door clicked shut behind him.
‘Right!’ Martin said, still pinked with pleasure. ‘Let’s get you indoctrinated!’
The rest of the day was a blur of meetings, Excel spreadsheets, diary bookings and taxi organization. Every time someone approached her desk with yet another task – usually Tara or Melanie, though she found it impossible to distinguish between the two – she would sit upright and alert, like a gopher peering up out of its hole. Every question seemed steeped in potential disaster and, she quickly realized, usually was. She booked a taxi for a client pick-up from the wrong airport. She served Earl Grey rather than mint tea to Paul. She accidentally deleted an important meeting from the internal calendar, sending the account team (Tara and Melanie again, who weren’t even bothering with the pretence of politeness at this point) into a paroxysm of rage. After years of quietly shining at everything she did – class treasurer, captain of the soccer team, full-ride scholarship to a good university, universally praised and petted by various teachers and coaches and professors and guidance counsellors throughout her twenty-two years on the planet – Ruby was suddenly, decidedly, deemed lacking. And the more she screwed up, the more inclined she was to screw up again, until, by the end of the day, she was a giant, jangling ball of nerves.
She was still at her desk at 10 p.m. that night. She could see that she had eight – eight! – missed calls from Ethan, and she knew he was probably worried about her, but she was in too deep to think about calling him back, and was also convinced that she’d burst into tears at the sound of his voice. Her desk was covered in a light dusting of Post-it notes, each written to remind her of something she’d learned throughout the day or, more likely, something she had yet to learn but needed to urgently. The office was largely empty at this point, most of her co-workers having taken advantage of what was apparently a relatively quiet day to go to a late Pilates class (Tara and Melanie) or the Kurosawa film that was screening in the Bowery (the strategy team) or to do lines of coke off a mistress’s taut abdomen (Paul, she would come to learn). Ruby lingered behind, playing a desperate game of Jenga with the internal office diary, and wondering if she needed to write a formal letter of resignation after only a day of work, or if she could just quietly evaporate.
‘Rough day?’ She looked up to see Jefferson perched neatly on the side of her desk. She hadn’t heard him leave his office and she started slightly at the sight of him. ‘Sorry to scare you,’ he said. ‘You looked pretty intense there. Everything okay?’
‘Oh, yeah, fine!’ she said brightly, swallowing the ping-pong ball of suppressed tears that had lodged itself in her throat.
‘You sure about that? Because you don’t look so fine.’ He smiled in a concerned, paternal way that made the lines at the edges of his eyes crinkle, and she felt the ping-pong ball swell to a grapefruit.
‘It’s just a lot to get my head around,’ she squeaked.
‘I know, this place can be pretty nuts, and we don’t exactly hand-hold around here, but I’m sure you’re doing a great job. Hell, the fact that you’re still here at the end of your first day is a pretty good sign. A lot of kids just disappear at lunch and never come back.’
She thought of the mournful taco she’d shoved down her throat while eyeing up the entrance to the nearest subway station a few hours earlier. ‘Seriously? That’s so irresponsible.’
‘Well, not everyone’s got what it takes. But it looks like you do.’
His eyes did that crinkly thing again, and even managed to twinkle, and she felt her heart soar a little. ‘Thanks,’ she said quietly, suppressing a grin.
‘Any time.’ He started to walk away, and then turned back towards her, as though a thought had just occurred to him. ‘Hey, want to get a drink? I know a place that makes a killer Manhattan. Just the thing to take the edge off your first day.’
She wavered. Surely going for a drink with the boss was inappropriate, right? Or was it exactly the sort of thing that made someone a success? Ruby tried to imagine what Murphy Brown might do in her position, but her brain stalled. The image of the eight missed phone calls from Ethan bobbed into view and she shook her head. ‘I’d better not,’ she said, gesturing at her detritus-strewn desk.
‘Nose to the grindstone,’ he said, nodding approvingly. ‘I like it. Don’t stay too late – the guards lock the doors at midnight and you don’t want to have to sleep over on your first night – people will talk.’
‘Will do!’ she said. ‘Have a good night!’ At this point, she just wanted him to leave her to her impending nervous breakdown in peace.
‘See you tomorrow for more fun and games,’ he said, giving her a salute as he walked out of the door. She heard it click quietly behind him, and pulled out her phone: 10:23 p.m. and another two missed calls from Ethan. She shoved it in her desk drawer: he’d have to wait.