“Yes. Advertising is not your field. You don’t like marketing, and I don’t know when there’ll be another editorial position available.”
“Why are you firing me?” I ask, still in disbelief.
“Motivation is an important aspect of your job, and you wouldn’t be able to bring your best effort to the table after today.”
“Is it just me, or are all the other applicants being fired as well?
“Some other senior advertisers are being let go. Of course, I can’t disclose their names,” she says without batting an eyelid. “As I said, motivation is key—”
“Meaning you can no longer dangle the carrot of an editor position in our faces to have us slave for you day after day. What’s next? Are you hiring college grads to string them along instead?”
“Your replacement does not concern you.”
“Oh gosh, that’s exactly what you’re doing!” I nearly shriek. “Are you trying to run for worst employer of the year?” The words leave my mouth before I can swallow them back.
“No, Blair, we run a business. I thought you were sensible enough to know that. And honestly, I expected you to behave like a professional. If anything, this behavior just wiped away any regrets we might have had about not promoting you. Really, Blair. There’s no need to make a scene.”
Those last words slap me harder than if she’d actually hit me. Making petty scenes goes against my creed, against my list of dos and don’ts. The list that’s helped to keep me focused on my life goals and out of trouble since I was a teenager. I carry it wherever I go; it’s the secret to my success. Until now, anyway. With Emilia’s words still ringing in my ears, I picture the number one item on the list: never make a scene.
That thought is enough to bring me back from blind rage to controlled fury. Emilia’s right, I don’t need to humiliate myself any further. I’m going to leave in a dignified way and my head held high.
I school my expression into one of neutrality as Emilia slides a brown envelope over her stupidly white desk and taps it. “In here you’ll find all the info about our offer. Please review it. I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have.”
I take the manila envelope without opening it.
“I’m sure you did the best you could,” I say. No point in trying to negotiate a better deal. When you get the ax, Évoque Magazine gives you what they deem fair and not a cent more. “Is that all?”
“Yes. It’s understandable if you want to leave before everyone else gets in. A security officer will escort you back to your desk to collect your belongings and will take your security pass on the way out.”
Security, seriously? Are they afraid I’ll steal a Birkin on my way out?
“Very well. Goodbye, Emilia,” I say in the most civil tone I can muster.
Outside the office, a guard is already waiting for me. With a deep breath, I prepare myself for the most humiliating fifteen minutes of my life.
***
“You didn’t get the promotion.” Gerard’s mouth hangs open. “I really wanted you to get it.”
Oh? When did he start caring so much about my career? Being a corporate lawyer, he always seems so focused on his job. But the concern in his eyes is genuine and so sweet.
“Me, too, honey.” I take his hand across the restaurant table. “But I don’t want to ruin our night brooding over my lost job.” I spent the entire day crying, curled in a ball on my couch, and only the prospect of tonight kept me sane.
Gerard looks aghast. “I thought this would be the best day to tell you… that you’d be happy…”
He’s worried my job’s demise is going to ruin his proposal. “You can tell me anything,” I reassure him. “It doesn’t matter what happened at work. We can talk about whatever it is you wanted to discuss.” Or you could just give me the diamond ring and be done with it. “I won’t be sad, I promise.”
Gerard frowns. “I’m afraid you will be.”
“Be what?”
“Sad.”
“Sad?” He has it all wrong. Wedding planning is exactly the kind of distraction I need from the pile of CVs I’ll have to send to find a new job. Right, let’s focus on the half of my life still going according to plan. “Why would I be sad?”
“Blair.” Gerard sighs. “I think we should take a break.”
“A break?”
The talking parrot is making a comeback.
“Yeah, we should see other people.”
“Other people?”
“Yes, I’m not sure we’re compatible.”
I blink. “After three years?”
He nods. “Yes, you’ll agree w—”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Who is she?”
“S-she? There’s no one else,” Gerard stutters defensively.
“Is it Laura?”
After endless arguments about my “unwarranted” jealousy for his secretary, I’m not going to pull any punches.
Gerard shakes his head frantically. “No.”
Still, he dares to deny it.
“You’re lying,” I hiss. “How long have you been screwing her?”
“It’s not like that.” His entire face turns red. “We’re…”
“What? In love?” I scoff. “An affair with your secretary—seriously? You’re such a cliché.”
“Blair, lower your voice. People are staring.”
I sweep the room with my eyes and, indeed, more than a couple of heads have turned our way.
“Am I embarrassing you, Gerard? Is that why you brought me to this nice restaurant to talk, so we’d be in a public space?”
“Blair, we can discuss our problems like the two civil adults we are. There’s no need to make a scene.”
No. Need. To. Make. A. Scene.
My head begins spinning, filled with a whirlwind of memories. Mom admonishing me whenever I threw a tantrum: “Blair, a well-educated young woman should always behave properly. We don’t make public scenes. That’s not what we do.”
I remember the speech my ballet instructor gave me when I didn’t get the lead role in The Swan Lake: “Blair, real ballerinas take setbacks with their heads held high. They don’t make scenes.”
Emilia this morning. Gerard now.
The vortex stops on a clear image of the list’s number one item: never make a
