Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel (5 page)

What felt like an eternity later, the doors opened with a
bing!
and she disembarked into the reception area at Bacht-Chit PR (that was “Bat-Shit” to those who knew Brianne). From behind an enormous spaceship of a desk, adorned with a single cruel orchid, Tina the receptionist looked Marjorie up and down, taking in the day-old, rumpled attire. “Oh, no.” Her pudgy cheeks sank inward. “Madge! What happened?” she stage-whispered, gesturing her friend closer.

From one of the waiting area’s white Eames chairs, a man—in the same Brioni tie as Mac’s, his hair side parted and slicked back like Rhett Butler—followed Tina’s gaze. He crinkled his nose in offense and returned to his
New York Magazine.

Marjorie grimaced. “Is it bad?”

“Is it
bad
?” Tina repeated. “No, woman, it’s apocalyptic! I was hoping you’d been delayed for a
real
reason: maybe a sprained leg or a tiny car accident.” She emphasized the smallness of the hypothetical crash, holding the purple, bedazzled synthetic nails of her thumb and index fingers an inch apart. “Didn’t you get my calls?”

Marjorie lifted her useless phone. “It’s dead.”

“Well, girl. So are you.” Tina gestured toward the inner offices. “Might as well have at it. She’s not getting any less mad. Crazy bitch.”

Normally, Tina disdained harsh language, not for fear of Brianne’s disapproval (the woman couldn’t survive without her) but to practice the good manners she preached to her two daughters. Today’s exception did not escape Marjorie’s notice and, instead of bolstering her, it made her more nervous: The situation must be nuclear. She took a step toward Brianne’s office.

“Wait!” Tina yelped. “Your skirt is tucked into your drawers.”

Marjorie closed her eyes, decided not to review the number of people who had peeped her underwear that morning, and untucked herself.

She marched like a condemned criminal toward Brianne’s door and knocked. Herb, the intern with whom she’d joked about Snow Lite the day before, whisked it open from inside. Sunlight reflected off his greasy forehead. (Brianne had taken to calling him “Slick” behind his back, a nod to his oily skin.) Marjorie was relieved to see a friendly, albeit unattractive, face. But when she tried to make eye contact, he averted his gaze. She was too toxic to acknowledge.

The lady herself sat behind an enormous desk, head bowed over a magazine spread. A selection of beauty product samples with floral packaging were clustered in front of her beside a transparent canteen of ominous green liquid. Apparently, Brianne was on another juice cleanse; her mood would be exponentially foul from food deprivation.

Some happy client had sent a “good luck” bamboo plant, plucked from a Canal Street stall—a perfect gift for Brianne, who considered herself “spiritual” because, once in a blue moon, she paused mid-venom spew to do Downward-Facing Dog. An unused yoga mat dotted with peace signs leaned below a closed window; the air reeked of sage.

Brianne wore the usual
meaningful
jewelry: an eighteen-karat-gold breast cancer ribbon, Peace dog tags, a diamond hamsa prayer bracelet hung with charms of the Chinese character for truth and the astrological symbol for Taurus: a bull. And yet the concept of karma conveniently escaping her grasp. As was the fashion, to manifest success, she believed she need only proclaim her desires out loud.

Not long before, Brianne had attended a group meditation led by Amma, “the Hugging Saint.” (Gwyneth Paltrow was supposedly a fan.) Receiving the first genuine embrace after years of air kisses, she pronounced herself a devotee, espousing wisdom but never bothering to attend another gathering. On her desk’s corner was a framed quotation attributed to the guru: “Bliss is not to be found outside of us; it exists within us.”

Bliss was nowhere in sight.

The door banged shut. Marjorie glanced back: Herb appeared to be blocking her exit, the world’s puniest bodyguard.

“Look who decided to grace us with her presence, Heeeerb.”

“Marjorie finally showed—”

Brianne shot him a menacing look: This was her show. He pressed his lips shut. She pulled off her reading glasses, smudged with bronzer. Supposedly into “natural beauty,” she fried herself at tanning salons, then spackled her hide with crusty foundation. The aesthetic was left over from a mournful adolescence spent wandering Akron’s Summit Mall, staring longingly after popular girls with high bangs on movie dates with boys named Chip.

In fact, the PR bigwig tortured Marjorie as proxy for her Ohio high school’s prom queen, Krista Midvale. Brianne had been an obese teenager. She had not been tormented, but she still resented the kids who thrived as she sat at home on her couch, watching reruns of
Remington Steele.
At graduation, she swore success-based revenge. Unfortunately, Krista aspired only to have a loyal husband, two or three nice kids, and a part-time real estate career—all of which she had quickly achieved. At the one reunion Brianne dared attend, clutching an Hermès bag as a shield, Krista flashed the former fat girl (whom she barely recognized) a pageant smile, wishing her all the best.
Bitch.

“Brianne, I’m so sorry I’m late,” began Marjorie. “I was out last night at Mac O’Shea’s new place, DIRT. I thought maybe he’d let us throw some events there…”

Brianne shook her head sharply. “Nope.”

“So, there was this plumbing issue and…”

Brianne wasn’t listening. She clicked an icon on her computer, and the printer sputtered to life, sucking a virgin sheet of paper into its jaws.

“Um.” Marjorie said. “Um. Um.”

Brianne signaled to Herb, who scurried to extract the page. She took it from him, then held it out to Marjorie, before dropping it “accidentally” to the floor.

“Oops, oops, oops,”
Brianne cackled.

Full of self-loathing, Marjorie bent down, picked up the document, and skimmed it. As she read, horror set in.

“It’s all set to send out as a mass e-mail,” said Brianne. “But the printed letterhead added something special for the presentation to
you.
”

The letter read:

Dear Colleagues,

It is with great regret that I am writing to inform you of a rift within our Bacht-Chit Public Relations & Events family.

Many of you have had occasion to work over the last seven years with an employee of mine named Marjorie Plum. I’m afraid there is no positive way to express this:

Effective June 14, I was forced to terminate Ms. Plum’s employment, as a result of unsettling and erratic behavior, the exact nature of which I am not at liberty to divulge. Suffice it to say that our support and thoughts go out to her family during this trying time, and to Marjorie, as she seeks the lifetime of treatment she clearly requires.

I want to take this opportunity to apologize for any unseemly or unprofessional interactions you may have had with Ms. Plum. I took her under my wing originally as a special mentee and felt it was important to give her several chances to right herself before closing our doors to her. I suppose I may have shown poor judgment in that empathic act.

Most important, should Ms. Plum try to contact you, for your own good, I strongly urge you to ignore her calls and e-mails. Do not engage or reply. She is unpredictable, and I would never want to feel responsible for any negative or even dangerous occurrences.

If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to be in touch.

Yours in Peace, Love & Harmony,

Brianne
Brianne Bacht-Chit, Founder & CEO

“I particularly like the part about your family,” said the demon behind the desk. “Good touch, if I do say so.”

Marjorie was stunned. “I don’t understand.”

“Then you’re even dumber than you look.”

“Why would you do this?”

“Well, you’re fired, if that isn’t obvious.” Brianne smoothed her overprocessed mop. “I could have let security escort you out; the prospect is amusing. But I can’t risk you badmouthing me. Unfathomably, people seem to
like
you. It’s probably a pity thing … Where was I?”

“She’s fired!” yelped Herb.

“Right. You’re a waste of oxygen, Madge. You may now leave. And if you say one nasty thing about me, I’ll send this out.”

Panic and rage coursed through Marjorie. “You can’t do this.”

“Actually, I can. You gave me ‘cause’ yesterday. BTW, kudos for taking absurdly long bathroom trips, so that Herb could hop on your computer and resend that e-mail to Snow Lite’s CEO from your account. What do you
do
in there?”

Marjorie
knew
she hadn’t e-mailed the client. But her gut instincts had been undermined long before.

Her face pulsed with adrenalin and shock. “You’re questioning my sanity? You’re the one who’s lost your mind! You can’t just make things up. It’s called ‘libel.’”

“I’m not so worried about that.” Brianne cracked her neck, side to side. “You’re a shoddy employee. Now you’ve shown up in yesterday’s dreary clothes, hours late, reeking of alcohol, so it’s plausible that you have a drinking problem—only a hop, skip, and a jump to a psychotic break.” She grabbed her green juice, captured its straw in her mouth, and sucked, eyes smiling above the dredge. The liquid had tinged her tongue black.

Brianne nodded to Herb, who crossed the room and reopened the door.

“Leave, please. Thanks.” She returned to her magazine.

Fury rose in Marjorie’s chest. “Drink up, Brianne. You’ll still look like a giant rotting pumpkin. I hope you choke to death on your LOVE pendant.” She turned and stalked out of the room.

“Did everyone hear that? Herb, please take note. The crazy girl
threatened
me.” Brianne shouted, “Madge, darling! Just FYI. This is me hitting Send.”

Marjorie didn’t stop at her desk. She walked back down the hallway, past a wide-eyed Tina at reception, down the elevator, past security and out onto the street, then she threw up in a garbage can atop three empty Starbucks cups. Only then did she realize that her skirt was still caught in her underwear.

5

An hour and two minutes later, more by instinct than design, Marjorie found herself riding the elevator up to her parents’ apartment, thanking the doorman gods that she didn’t recognize the guy on duty. He had put aside the
New York Post
sports section and greeted her with formality.

Her parents had bought their place decades before, when middle-class families could afford Manhattan living. Longtime members of the building’s staff were like distant uncles, offering wisdom and kindness as Marjorie grew up—helping her stash uncool wool hats pre- and postschool and warning her when yellow “alert” forms arrived from school reporting her misconduct.

The day she got accepted to NYU, her father had shared the good news with their favorite doorman, Tommy, who dubbed her “Smarty Pants Plum.” She couldn’t have faced him today. The smell of the lobby alone—a familiar combination of Mr. Clean, honeysuckle, and Hungarian food—threatened to undo her.

At the front door, Marjorie pulled out her keys and let herself in. No one was home. Her parents wouldn’t be surprised to see her anyway; they all had plans for dinner together that evening. She was exhausted, having walked from Midtown, the subway tunnels seeming too close to the depths of despair.

She pulled an extra phone charger from a junk drawer in the pantry, then walked down the hall to her childhood bedroom and plugged it in. She stood at center, taking in her surroundings. A million years had passed since she painted one wall red and thumbtacked up pictures of Jared Leto in
My So-Called Life
and Scott Speedman in
Felicity.
Where was she when everyone else was getting a life?

Marjorie crossed to a gray speckled bookshelf, filled with children’s staples like
Encyclopedia Brown
and Judy Blume’s
Forever,
classics like
Pride and Prejudice
and
Little Women,
comics from
Archie
to
The Adventures of
Tintin.
The shelf’s disorganized twin bookended the bed. On the bottom was a defunct record player, and records from Marjorie’s early childhood—not cool enough to be dubbed “vinyl” by baseball-capped DJs—leaned against the side:
Free to Be … You and Me, Really Rosie,
Hans Christian Andersen.

Behind that teetered a tower of small rectangular books. Marjorie felt a pang. When she was seven years old, her father bought her a black-and-white flip book of Charlie Chaplin duck-walking down the street, nearly beheaded by a passing lady in an enormous feathered hat. Despite the simple story, Marjorie had been taken by the still images launched into motion. She started collecting flip books, even making her own. She pulled out an original now: a roughly drawn flower growing from a seed.
Flip. Flip. Flip.

Random objects and loose papers cluttered the shelf above. (No one ever accused Marjorie Plum of neatness.) Lime green brocade peaked out. Curious, Marjorie plucked the item from beneath the layers and turned it over in her hands:
That’s right!
She and her fourth-grade classmates had written their own books. For the cover, she had chosen a material fit for a nineteenth-century English manor’s drapery. “Oh, my God,” she said, laughing.