If you have good bandwidth:
(a) the 3 mm diamond eternity ring on your left hand is the perfect
complement to the three-carat rock on your right
(b) you can get away with not washing your mane for a day,
especially if you got your hair band from Lululemon Athletica
(along with a new hoodie and pair of yoga capris)
(c) you are part of a good band with, well, what every good band
has—lots of drugs
(d) you can send loads of photos from the cam on your mobile
without so much as a hiccup
chapter one
I hunger for a rose.
These are not the words of Geoffrey Chaucer, a lonely spinster,
or a sappy greeting card writer. I mean, I actually want to eat a rose.
It’s Wednesday afternoon, just shy of 2:30 and I am so hungry I
could eat a horse—nothing proverbial about it. However, in light
of the fact that (1) I have a scheduled meeting with our corporate
publicist in two minutes, and (2) I gobbled up the last of my granola
bar stash last Wednesday, a rose or two will have to suffice.
It’s not so bad, I convince myself, sizing up the bouquet of sweet marshmallowy white blooms sitting well within reach on my office
credenza. Roses, after all, are edible flowers. And I’m almost certain
Martha Stewart once topped a salad with rose petals instead of
croutons. Or were they pansies? Oh, who the hell can remember?
It was long before she was incarcerated. Can’t be too picky at a time
like this.
Dani will parade in here any minute raving about her
restaurant du jour with a morsel-by-morsel
account of lunch (neglecting to mention, of course, the two glasses of red wine she routinely orders despite
company policy) as my hunger pangs play out Beethoven’s Fifth.
Determined not to inadvertently orchestrate a concerto in my
empty belly, I plan an impromptu lunch. For my appetizer, I decide
on a single snowy white petal, shucked and served on the half leaf.
I’ll follow that up with an organic blossom hand salad, nice and
light without dressing. The Naked Chef couldn’t do better under
the circumstances.
I close my eyes and inhale the bouquet like an overindulged
blueblood named Frederick sizing up a fine wine. Mmm. Pomegranate meets jellybeans—how divine. I wonder if Jamie Oliver
has ever done a Naked floral cuisine show as I take a bite of my
fluffy meal. Er, maybe not. It’s horribly bitter and has an unpleasant gritty texture. Yuck.
I should have known better. I hate Fredericks. Swishing,
sniffing, and swigging their wines like they actually know what they’re
doing when everybody knows it’s not about the wine. It’s about
the pretense. Isn’t everything these days, I think, forcing down the
less-than-savoury bite.
“Knock knock,” chirps Ms. Well-Fed Publicist at my door as I
innocently rearrange the roses in the vase and force down the last
of my lunch. “Erica, have you tried the grilled fruit and greens at
the Blue Ruby?” she asks snidely, knowing full well I rarely leave my
desk at lunch.
I smile back, teeth clenched, as she takes a seat by my desk and
continues on. “The fruit is so juicy you don’t need dressing, though
I did order it on the side, just in case. At first I thought the chef just
had a knack for picking good melons. But did you know he actually
marinates the fruit in honey and sesame oil for a good two hours
before? And he removes any trace of seeds. Uh, speaking of which,
you have an apple seed in your teeth.”
Chalking up my obviously tipsy publicist’s remarks to two too
many glasses of shiraz, I check my reflection in my polished chrome
desk lamp and do a double take when I spot the decapitated ant
lodged between my two front teeth. Clearly, Dani needs glasses,
though I’m not about to suggest it. No, that would be rude, I think,
as I quickly grab a tissue to remove the poor little bugger and
envision a giant hot fudge sundae to stop myself from gagging.
“They also make a great rare seared yellow fin tuna,” she
steamrolls on, clueless to the fact I might vomit any minute.
If only I could. Truth is, it’s been seven hours since I finished
my buttered bagel at breakfast—the only real food I’ve eaten today.
So besides those petals, half an insect, and a couple of breath mints,
I have nothing to heave except air.
Dani moves on to desserts as I wipe my sweaty brow. “I really
wanted the molten chocolate lava cake. You know, the one where
the chocolate oozes out? But I couldn’t justify the hundreds of
extra calories, not to mention the twenty-minute wait time.…”
Breathe, I tell myself. Relax. Focus. I put on my Anthony Robbins
hat and give myself a pep talk: You are Erica Swift, the quintessential
modern woman. You’re only thirty-five and already the marketing director of Rockit Wireless. You came up with the idea of dressing cell phone
towers like rockets to launch Rockit Talk ’n Text smartphones (despite
opposition from the Chief Technical Officer) and made the cover of
Modern Marketer magazine. You manage a multi-million-dollar
budget and a team of nine. You can certainly stomach a little bug, right?
Inaudibly, I scream “yes”, praying ants aren’t like those parasites
people get from eating bad sushi. I’m kind of phobic about that.
“…so if you’re in the mood for something sweet but not too
heavy,” Dani finishes, “you’ve got to try the mango crème brûlée.”
“Sounds good,” I respond, not missing a beat. “So, how are our
media impressions for January? Our numbers should be up, especially with that Associated Press feature.”
Rrraawwwwl, my stomach rumbles. “It ran in every major market.”
Rraawwlawaaraaw. Beethoven’s Fifth, my ass. I’ve got friggin’
Hurricane Katrina in my belly. There’s no way Dani could not have
heard or felt the natural disaster waging its war inside me. She
doesn’t miss a thing (except ants in my teeth it turns out…).
Oh my lord. Maybe she saw the bug and was just politely
thinking on her feet like all great publicists. Jeez, this is awkward.
I don’t know whether to hide under my desk in shame or give her
a raise. That apple seed line was brilliant.
Then again, I shouldn’t expect anything less. Danielle Carou
(Dani to her close friends and me) always says and does the right
thing. You know the type: all hair, teeth, and boobs, perfectly packaged in Prada, Burberry, and Tory Burch and doing that
double-cheek kiss thing like Baroness Schraeder in The Sound of Music.
My ancestors must have been peasants because, in my humble
opinion, unless you’re an aristocrat that sort of public display of
affection is as phony as a paint-by-number Mona Lisa. That might
explain why Dani claims that her maternal grandfather, Louis (“pronounced Lou-ee like Louis Vuitton and not Lou-iss
like the St. Louis Cardinals,” or so she
says) was a duke who owned a winery in Bordeaux many moons ago.
A little far-fetched, although she does have an almost genetic
attachment to red wine. Perhaps I’m a bit naive but I’m going to give Dani and her dubious pedigree the benefit of the doubt anyway.
Whatever the truth, one thing is for sure: Dani is a female
Frederick. If she wasn’t so good at generating positive publicity for
Rockit and keeping me up to date on gourmet cuisine and company gossip, I’d have to hate her.
“Want some chips?” Dani offers. Suddenly I want to hug her.
“Don’t tell anyone but I couldn’t resist them at lunch.” Real food,
thank you, thank you, oh great and wondrous chip god.
From her black leather tote she withdraws a makeshift picnic
sack made from a knotted blue linen napkin. “They’re made of
taro root, much better than common corn tortillas,” Dani whispers as if the restaurant Gestapo has wiretapped my office.
Frankly, at this point I wouldn’t care if the chips were made of
sweet gherkins, which by the way—along with sweetbreads, venison,
and rabbit—are on my Foods to Avoid list. I just want to stuff my
face and feed Katrina before my intestines are thrown into a tailspin.
Counting what adds up to twenty-six salty brown Doritos, I
guesstimate I could fit four in my mouth at a time without looking
like too much of a pig. That makes six helpings of four chips each
for me, and two leftover singles for Dani in case she needs a little
mid-afternoon snack.
Before I can reach for the chips, she hands me her latest public
relations status report, forcing me to suspend my hunger and scan
through the eight pages nicely bound in a red Rockit folder. “Not
only did that smartphone etiquette wire story run in the majors,
smaller dailies picked it up, too. And almost everyone wrapped
their story around a photo of a Rockit. Not bad, n’est-ce pas?” Dani
says, scooping a large handful of chips.
Wait a—didn’t she just come from lunch? What happened to
the grilled fruit salad and bloody mango custard?
“Magazines, radio, TV. Tout le monde. It generated over 300
clips in total and that doesn’t even include pickup online.” She
beams and bites into a chip.
That was downright rude. She heard my stomach roar. The
building wobbled, for crying out loud. Why else would she have
pulled out the chips? They’re for me. For ME!
“If you turn to Appendix A, you’ll see our year-on-year coverage is up 15 percent from last January.”
“Nice job, Dani.” Now move away from my chips or I will call the
chef at the Blue Ruby and snitch. “Now we’ve just got to develop an
equally compelling story for the new product launch in June and
we’re laughing.” I smile and nonchalantly drag the napkin with the
remaining chips directly in front of me to avoid any ambiguity as
to ownership. “That is, if we’re still on schedule.”
I rethink my portion strategy and decide that eating fourteen
chips individually will keep me chewing longer and will, as a result,
seem more filling. I gobble down my first chip, then another and
another, etcetera, etcetera, licking the excess salt off my fingers.
They must use sea salt. These are excellent. Dani was right.
I catch her stare and remove my fist from my mouth. “Uh, I’ll
check with Teddy.”
I inhale the last of my chips, pick up the phone using my dry
hand, and speed dial the extension of Teddy Francesco, Rockit
product manager extraordinaire and more times than not, my saviour. Voice mail.
Screw that. I hang up and send him an instant
message from my computer. He’ll get it no matter where he is.
launch still on 4 june?
yep
get some face time?
yep
4 today?
yep
I sense a pattern. He must be in the thick of a meeting, texting
me while reviewing the production schedule with our off site
engineering team again. Teddy’s not one to waste words, especially
when he’s thumb typing on his Rockit. And I’m sure that of the
dozen messages he’s received in the last two minutes, mine are the
only ones he’s answered. After all, we go way back.
I interviewed him four years ago when I managed the direct
and interactive marketing department at Go-Go Mobile and needed
a tech-savvy assistant because, although I could sell stilettos to a
nun, I also thought that bandwidth referred to wedding rings and
not cell phone data plans. Not exactly something to brag about
when you work in the wireless biz.
I lucked out with Teddy. His résumé said geek all over it.
Valedictorian at one of the country’s best technical colleges, he ran the
computer lab on campus to pay his way through school and was a
card-carrying Trekkie. Could he be more perfect for the job? As it
turns out, yes.
At the start of his interview, I tried to print a computer aptitude
test from HR but nothing happened. I clicked on Print again. Still
nothing. I decided to waste time while I figured out what was
wrong and get to know Teddy at the same time, so I made small
talk about Star Trek.
Teddy declared Spock to be the king of characters because not
only did his logic always prevail, but he arched his left eyebrow at
the end of nearly every episode. How could I argue? In way over
my head, I nodded and tried to hold my own as a transient Trekkie.
I mentioned that I admired the Starfleet commander for his fearlessness and steadfast search for justice. I couldn’t possibly tell this
serious propeller-head the truth: that my love for young, dreamy
Captain Kirk was really only based on how hot he looked in his
skintight polyester suit.
Anyhow, I must have clicked Print a dozen times to no avail. I
had no clue what was wrong with my printer. I had also exhausted my
limited knowledge of Star Trek trivia. Seeing no solution but to run
to HR for a hard-copy quiz, I was about to excuse myself, but Teddy
wouldn’t let go of our obviously deeply stimulating conversation.
“I think it was one of the most creative shows ever written.
Did you see the one where Scottie had to replace the dilithium
crystal to get the warp drives to work?”
Dee-the-hell-what? Oh lord. Why me?
“It wouldn’t have had nearly the same effect if, say, Scottie had
said ‘The Enterprise needs more go-go juice’ or ‘The printer needs
more toner.’”
Why that little… My eyes met his, expecting an arrogant know-
it-all stare. But all I saw from behind those bronze wire-rimmed
glasses was a twenty-six-year-old propeller-head talking in code.
Teddy left a couple minutes later without taking the quiz. He didn’t
need to. I hired him on the spot and was never out of toner again.
We clicked right away. The more I got to know Teddy the more
he reminded me of a big kid, namely my little brother, Jack. They
were roughly the same age and had the same innate kindness.
Physically, they could not have looked more different. Jack has fair
skin and green eyes like me. Not Teddy. Except for his Old Navy
wardrobe, he’s Italian through and through, with olive skin and
hazelnut eyes, usually hidden by his glasses and overgrown, curly,
dark brown hair. Like I said, he’s a big kid.
In no time, we established a relationship that complemented
each of our strengths. I gave him advice on clothing and dating
and he penned the technical aspects in my marketing briefs—
telling me as much as I needed to know without putting me to
sleep. It was a genius plan and no one was the wiser.
Naturally, a year later, when Brett Lawrence, the thirty-year-old
dot-com hotshot who bought Rockit Wireless, began wooing me to
run his marketing division, I made sure Teddy received an offer he
couldn’t refuse. Now he’s my numero uno, most trusted business
confidante and friend. Plus, every Monday, he’s my resident lasagna
pusher (his mom has the best recipe this side of Sicily). If only today
was Monday. I wouldn’t have tooth-butchered one of Mother
Nature’s innocent creatures.
“Assuming no sudden production delays,” I tell Dani, confident
that my stomach tremors have subsided, “we’ve got about five months
to coordinate the June launch. After my meeting with Teddy, I’ll
have what I need to finalize my marketing brief.” (Translation: All
the tech stuff spelled out in plain English.) “I’ll email it to you tomorrow so we can regroup on Monday. In the morning. First
thing. So our brains are fresh,” I say, telling a little white lie. Under
no uncertain terms will I subject myself to another one of Dani’s
post-lunch restaurant reviews—even if I’ve just returned from an
all-you-can-eat buffet and she has the judges from Zagat in tow.
“I’d like to start brainstorming today if possible, Erica. Without getting too technical, what can you can tell me about the new
generation of smartphones?”
Like everyone else, Dani assumes I’m a she-geek so I oblige her
request. “In a nutshell, we’re giving it more memory and more
bandwidth... Oh wait, too geeky, I mean it will be able to work on
the next generation data networks and will have more room to
store files, photos, and video,” I explain in a matter-of-fact tone as
Dani types onto her Rockit.
“No, I mean, are we still targeting thirty-plus businessmen and
women wearing Hugo Boss and Armani?”
As little as I know about tech, Dani knows less. Yet she never
seems to be fazed or intimidated by it. In fact, whenever we announce
a new product, I’m amazed by the intensity of Dani’s interest. It’s
not as if we work at Burberry and are announcing a new plaid.
I’ve always wondered why she’s not working at some fashionista brand. She would be a natural at plugging the Prada phone.
Why are you here? I think, half shaking, half nodding my
head at Dani. “Yes, we will definitely be targeting our existing
professional customers and trying to get them to upgrade to the
new phone.”
“Got it,” Dani says, tucking her phone into her bag. “See you
Monday. Ciao for now.”
“Bright and early. We’ll work up a good appetite for lunch,” I
reply, but she’s gone. Every trace of her, except for the stolen blue
napkin and a few taro root chip crumbs, is gone.
A few hours later, Teddy darts in with a plate of lasagna. “It’s not
Monday. Is it?” Could my lack of sustenance be bringing on delusions?
“I broke into my reserves at home after you emailed me what
happened,” Teddy says. “I always have extra in the freezer for emergencies. Like when I go to customer dinners and they only serve
Peking duck.” I’ve never had duck but all I can think of are feathers
and paddling feet. Better add it to my food avoidance list. “To be
honest, this is my first bug-on-an-empty-stomach emergency.”
“Very funny. Hand over the lasagna or this could get messy.
I’m starving!”
Teddy’s mother’s lasagna is the Sistine Chapel of pasta. It’s a masterpiece. A towering three-inch skyscraper al dente, reinforced with
homemade chunky tomato sauce and four cheeses. The Louvre
should at least serve it in its restaurant—it’s that impressive. However,
I haven’t the strength or willpower to gawk at noodles—no matter
how artistic—at a time like this. No, this afternoon I am a Hoover.
“So how’s your little piece of Italy?” he asks as I scrape the last
of the melted mozzarella from the plate.
“Going straight to my butt, but it’s worth it. Thanks.”
“So you wanted to talk earlier? About the launch I’m assuming,”
Teddy says. For the next hour, he updates me on Rockit’s new
smartphones, with specifics on everything from minor engineering
changes and service plan restructuring to the availability of product
evaluation units and dealer training. I brief him on scheduled meetings on dealer incentives, consumer promotions, advertising,
and, of course, PR.
“How is the duchess, by the way?”
“She’s our same quick-thinking, double-kissing Dani, only
now she’s added chip-hogging to her list of endearing qualities.
She’s a great publicist but she’s no Beth.”
Beth Gordon is my accountant and, in my opinion, Teddy’s
ideal woman. She’s brilliant (got me a $5000 tax refund last year),
super sweet and a card-carrying Trekkie (wouldn’t you know she
hosted a Halloween party last year wearing Spock ears!). I set them
up on a blind date three months ago and aside from the fact that
it turns out Beth is lactose intolerant and will never be able to enjoy
Mrs. Francesco’s lasagna, things seem to be as spicy as her sauce.
They’re going to make great godparents when I decide to activate
my ovaries and have baby Riley someday (girl or boy, it doesn’t
matter. The name is foolproof!).
“We broke up.”
Mental note: Keep eyes open for new
godmother / girlfriend.
“Sorry, Teddy. I had no idea.”
“Forget it. It ended last month. She’s moved on to a dentist.”
“Maybe he can fix her beaver teeth, the wench.”
“Love your loyalty—” he smiles “—but I dumped her. No
sparks.”
“You seemed so happy.”
“Didn’t wanna hurt your feelings. You put so much into our
relationship. By the way, thanks for those tickets to Dr. Phil. Beth
learned a lot.”
Right. As if it helped.
Mental note: Deduct $200 from next tax return bill.
“Cheer up,” Teddy says, reading me like a book. “Drinks are
on me.”
“I could go for a marketing brieftini—light on the geek, heavy
on the vodka.”
“Done.”
I glance out my third-floor window at the evening gloom as I
pack my bag, wondering where the superficial glow of the winter
sun went. It seems like only minutes ago that it was light out. It’s
a shame it’s dark already. This is the first time in weeks I’ve skipped
out of the office before 7 p.m.
As Teddy and I walk down the corridor I confess that I feel a
bit guilty leaving at six even though, with
the exception of the cleaning staff, we seem
to be the last to leave. It’s ironic. As a
technology marketer, I promote the freedom and flexibility of being
able to work wherever you want, yet the instant someone offers to
buy me a chocolate martini and co-write my marketing brief I suffer from an acute case of office separation anxiety.
“You need to get out more. Stop and smell the ros— I mean,
daisies. Maybe go out for lunch with Dani sometime,” Teddy
prescribes.
“I get out,” I say sheepishly.
“Like today?”
“Well, as a matter of fact…” I stop myself. “You’re right.”
As a matter of fact, he is wrong. Dead wrong. I did get out
today and had something even Dani would envy. Grilled fruit and
greens is nothing compared to having sex every Wednesday for
lunch. But I can’t tell Teddy that. There are some things even he
doesn’t need to know.
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