Everyone Worth Knowing (7 page)

such long periods of time that you can adequately be providing

our clients, like Mrs. Kaufman, with the kind of attention we pride

ourselves on here at UBS. Just a little something to think about for

next time, okay?"

"I'm really sorry. I was just picking up lunch."

"I know that, Bette. But I don't have to remind you that company

policy says employees shouldn't be taking time out to pick it

up. I have a whole drawer full of delivery menus if you'd care to

look at them."

I remained silent.

"Oh, and Bette? I'm sure Penelope's supervisor needs her just

as much as I need you, so let's try to keep those powwows to a

minimum, okay?" He flashed me the most patronizing smile imaginable,

revealing thirty-seven years' worth of splotchy, stained

teeth, and I thought I'd vomit if he didn't stop immediately. Ever

since watching
Girls Just Want to Have Fun
for the first time when

I was twelve, I've never been able to get Lynne Stone's rumination

out of my mind. She's escorting Janey home after Janey skips choir

practice to rehearse with Jeff (and of course gets caught by the

evil, rotating-closet-owning bitch, Natalie), and she says, "Whenever

I'm in a room with a guy, no matter who it is—a date, my

dentist, anybody—I think, 'If we were the last two people on earth,

would I puke if he kissed me?'" Well, thanks to Lynne, I can't help

wondering it, either; the unfortunate outcome, though, is that I envisioned

myself kissing Aaron and felt ill.

"Okay? How does that sound?" He shifted nervously from foot to

foot and I wondered how this anxious, socially inept man had managed

to climb at least three levels above me in the corporate hierarchy.

I'd watched clients physically recoil when he went to shake

their hands, and yet he glided up the ladder like it was lubricated in

the very oil he used to slick back his few remaining strands of hair.

All I wanted was for him to disappear, but I made a crucial

miscalculation. Rather than just agreeing and going back to my

lunch, I said, "Are you unhappy with my performance, Aaron? I try

really hard, but you always seem displeased."

"I wouldn't say I'm
unhappy
with your performance, Bette. I

think you're doing, well, um, just fine around here. But we all seek

to self-improve now, don't we? As Winston Churchill once said—"

"Just fine? That's like describing someone as 'interesting' or saying

a date was 'nice.' I work eighty-hour weeks, Aaron. I give my

entire life to UBS." It was useless to try to highlight my dedication

in an hours-worked formula since Aaron beat me by at least fifteen

hours every single week, but it was true: I worked damn hard

when I wasn't shopping online, talking to Will on the phone, or

sneaking out to meet Penelope for lunch.

"Bette, don't be so sensitive. With a little more willingness to

learn and perhaps a bit more attention paid to your clients, I think

you've got the potential to get promoted. Just keep the powwows

to a minimum and really throw your heart into your work and the

results will be immeasurable."

I watched the spittle form on his thin lips as he mouthed his favorite

phrase, and something inside me snapped. There was no

angel on one shoulder or devil on the other, no mental list of pros

and cons or quick scans of potential consequences, ramifications,

or backup plans. No solid thoughts of any sort whatsoever—just an

all-pervasive sense of calm and determination, coupled with a

deep understanding that I simply could not tolerate one additional

second of the present situation.

"All right, Aaron. No more powwows for me—ever. I quit."

He looked confused for a minute before he realized I was completely

serious. "You what?"

"Please consider this my two weeks' notice," I said with a confidence

that was beginning to waver slightly.

Appearing to consider this for a minute, he wiped his sweaty

brow and furrowed it a few times. "That won't be necessary," he

said quietly.

It was my turn to be confused. "I appreciate it, Aaron, but I

really do have to leave."

"I meant that the two weeks won't be necessary. We shouldn't

have much trouble finding someone, Bette. There are loads of

qualified people out there who actually want to work here, if you

can imagine that. Please discuss the details of your departure with

HR and have your things packed by the end of the day. And good

luck with whatever you'll be doing next." He forced a tight smile

and walked away, seeming self-assured for the first time in the five

years I'd worked for him.

Thoughts swirled in my head, coming too fast and from too

many directions for me to actually process them. Aaron had balls—

who knew! I'd just quit my job. Quit it. With no forethought or

planning. Must tell Penelope. Penelope engaged. How would I get

all my stuff home? Could I still charge a car to the company? Could

I collect unemployment? Would I still come to midtown just for the

kebabs? Should I burn all my skirt suits in a ceremonial living-room

bonfire? Millington will be so happy to hit the dog run in the middle

of the day! Middle of the day. I would get to watch
The Price Is

Right
all the time if I wanted. Why hadn't I thought of this before?

I stared at the screen a while longer, until the gravity of what

had just happened settled in, and then I headed straight to the restroom

to freak out in the relative privacy of a stall. There was laidback

and there was plain fucking stupid, and this was quickly

beginning to resemble the latter. I breathed a few times and tried

uttering—coolly and casually—my new mantra, but
whatever
came

out sounding like a choked cry as I wondered what the hell I'd

done.

4

"Christ, Bette, it's not like you maimed someone. You quit your

job. Congratulations! Welcome to the wonderful world of adult irresponsibility.

Things don't always go according to plan, you know?"

Simon was trying his best to soothe me while we waited for Will to

get home because he couldn't tell that I was already completely relaxed.

The last time I'd felt this zen, I thought, might have been the

ashram retreat. "It's just kind of eerie, not having any idea what to

do next." It was that same involuntary calm-cum-paralysis.

Though I knew I should be more panicked, the last month had

actually been pretty great. I'd intended to tell everyone about quitting,

but when it came time to actually make the calls, I was overtaken

by an all-consuming combination of ennui, laziness, and

inertia. It's not like I couldn't tell people I quit—it was just a matter

of dialing and announcing—but the effort of explaining my reasons

for leaving (none) and discussing my game plan (nonexistent)

seemed utterly overwhelming each time I picked up the phone. So

instead, in what I'm sure was some sort of psychologically distressed/

avoidance/denial state, I slept until one every day, spent

most of the afternoon alternately watching TV and walking Millington,

shopped for things I didn't need in an obvious effort to fill the

voids in my life, and made a conscious decision to start smoking

again in earnest so I'd have something to do once
Conan
was over.

It sounds comprehensively depressing, but it had been my best

month in recent memory and might have gone on indefinitely had

Will not called my work number and spoken to my replacement.

Interestingly, I had lost ten pounds without trying. I hadn't ex-

ercised at all save for the treks to hunt and gather my food, but I

felt better than ever, or certainly better than I had working sixteenhour

days. I'd been thin all through college but had packed on the

pounds quite efficiently as soon as I'd started work, having no time

to exercise, choosing instead to down a particularly disgusting

daily diet of kebabs, doughnuts, vending-machine candy bars, and

coffee so sugar-heavy my teeth felt permanently coated. My parents

and friends had politely ignored my weight gain, but I knew I

looked terrible. Annually I'd declare my New Year's resolution of

more dedicated gym-going; it usually lasted a solid four days before

I'd kick my alarm clock and claim the extra hour for sleep.

Only Will repeatedly reminded me that I looked like hell. "But,

darling, don't you remember how scouts would stop you on the

street and ask you to model? That's not happening anymore, is it?"

Or "Bette, honey, you had that no-makeup, fresh-faced, all-natural

girl thing working so well a few years ago—why don't you spend a

little time trying to revisit that?" I heard him and knew he was

right—when the button on the single pair of Sevens I owned nestled

so far into my fleshy stomach that it was sometimes difficult to

locate, it was hard to deny the extra poundage. That unemployment

made me thinner was telling. My skin was clearer, my eyes

brighter, and for the first time in five years the weight had melted

off my hips and thighs but stayed squarely put in my chest—surely

a sign from God that I wasn't supposed to work. But of course I

wasn't supposed to enjoy being shiftless and lazy, so I was trying

to demonstrate the appropriate combination of chagrin, regret, and

distress. Simon was buying it.

"I think a cocktail is exactly what's in order right now. What

can I make you to drink, Bette?"

Little did he know that I'd taken to drinking alone. Not in that

desperate, solitary, "I must drink to deal, and if I happen to have

no company, well then, so be it" sort of way, but in the liberated

"I'm an adult and if I'd like a glass of wine or a sip of champagne

or four shots of vodka straight up" way, well then, why the hell

not? 1 pretended to consider his offer before saying, "How about a

martini?"

Uncle Will swooped in at that moment and, as he usually did,

charged the air with an energy that was immediate and intense.

"Ab fab!" he announced, stealing the phrase from his sneaked sessions

of BBC-watching, which he relentlessly denied. "Simon,

make our little banker-no-longer an extra-dry martini with Grey

Goose and three olives. I'll have my usual. Darling! I'm so proud of

you!"

"Really?" He hadn't sounded too thrilled when he'd left me a

message earlier that day, ordering me to be at the apartment that

night for drinks. ("Bette, darling, your little game is up. I just spoke

to the terrified little mouse who now claims to occupy your cubicle,

which makes me wonder what, exactly, you're doing at this

moment. Highlights, I'm hoping? Perhaps you've taken a lover. I'll

expect you tonight at six on the dot so you may provide us with all

the gory details. Plan on accompanying us to a little dinner party

afterward at Elaine's."
Click.)

"Darling, of course I am! You finally left that dreadful bank.

You are an absolutely intoxicating creature, so fascinating, so fabulous,