her blouse see-through. Her sexy Victoria’s Secret nylon bra, which had been a handy, albeit impractical choice this morning, wasn’t thick enough to contain the damage. Through the wet was the very obvious outline of nipples.
Jill frowned in disgust.
Audrey looked down at the pink hills of her skin. It wasn’t cute. It wasn’t sexy. It was white trash, and she wondered, not for the first time, whether she belonged in this nice, clean office among civilized people. She folded her arms across her chest, and remembered depressed teenage days of unbrushed hair and soiled clothes that she’d worn, again and again. What was happening to her? Alone again after all this time, was she falling apart?
“Here,” Jill said, taking off her blue cashmere suit jacket that reeked of rubbing alcohol and vitamins, and plopping it over Audrey’s shoulders.
Audrey pulled it tight around her chest, pressing the brass buttons through their holes. In that second and that second only, she loved Jill Sidenschwandt. “Thank you,” she said.
Jill lifted Audrey’s chin in her cold hands. Her bloodshot eyes were wet, either from exhaustion or weeping. “Pull yourself together and stop making me feel sorry for you. I’m not getting fired over this. Do you understand? You can do this. I believe in you. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”
Audrey nodded. “Thanks. Yes. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
Jill held on for a second longer than necessary, and Audrey couldn’t tell if the gesture was friendly or hostile. “I’m sorry if you’ve got troubles,” she said. Her tone was dismissive, like because Audrey didn’t have a family to care for, she wasn’t entitled to bad days. Her kid wasn’t dying, and she had no real responsibilities or attachments, so what was the problem?
Audrey looked at her ballet flats. The thing that had recently invaded her stomach writhed in acid bile. What the hell did Jill know about her personal troubles? Unlike every other fat cat around here, she’d never shown up to work crying, or fought on the phone with a lousy husband who couldn’t remember to buy the milk. She’d never whined about idiot kids who didn’t study hard enough, or forced people to look at professional photos of her terrier poodles (whoodles!). Crazy, yes. But Jill was out of line: she’d never bitched about it.
“You don’t need to worry about my troubles or my performance. I’ve never given you cause in either department,” she said, then picked the plans up off her desk, pushed through double oak doors, and stormed the Vesuvius boardroom.
About twenty men in suits were waiting at the long conference table. Its window gave a cityscape view of downtown Manhattan. In the distance were construction holes, the circle line, and Lady Liberty.
Jill took her seat with the rest of the nine-member Parkside Plaza team. On the opposite, windowed side of the long, Japanese teak table were Vesuvius’ founding brothers, Randolph and Mortimer Pozzolana. Flanking the Pozzolanas were the hierarchy of nondesigners, from accounting, to vice president of operations, to manager of public relations. Basically, this room represented everybody who was anybody at Vesuvius. She’d kept them waiting, and they did not look happy. Audrey gulped. For the fiftieth time this year she thought: I really ought to own a suit. I also ought to start wearing lipstick.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said.
“Audrey’s doctor’s appointment ran longer than she expected,” Jill chimed in.
Audrey nodded. “Right.”
Scritch-scratch! Scritch-scratch!
She headed for the empty seat near Jill, but Randolph Pozzolana, the friendlier, younger partner who referred to his twenty-eight-year-old wife as “my-old-lady-number-three” shook his head. “Other side. Use the podium.” His voice was matter-of-fact, but polite, like a British Navy captain who’s aware that the boat is sinking, but sees no reason to shed good manners. She realized then that he knew. Everybody knew that something was up, and somebody was going down. Jill had sold her out.
She walked the long gallows. When she got to the podium, she surveyed the rest of the team, but none offered an encouraging smile. She had the least real-work experience at Vesuvius, but Jill had made her second-in-command. Because of that, Audrey Lucas was nobody’s favorite new girl. She stood at the front of the room. Swallowed, hard. The air expanded inside her chest like a reverse burp and left her breathless. This was her first job outside a greasy spoon. Other than telling truckers and Omaha art-school crankheads to keep their mitts to themselves, she’d never given a speech or even raised her voice before.