or the department head.”
“We don’t talk to him, we don’t look at him, we don’t exist to him,” Quentin continues.
I can’t help smiling. “Is this a hazing thing? Are you exacerbating this for shock value? Because you can consider me shocked.”
Toby chuckles. “I like your attitude, Freddie, but we’re not.”
“Dead serious,” Quentin adds.
“All right, noted. I’ll stay well clear of him.” Silently, I vow never to not look at him, though. That sounds like more respect than a CEO should be awarded. He’s not royalty.
Toby turns to Quentin. “Did you see the Thanksgiving email they sent out?”
The other man snorts. “Yes. Pathetic.”
“What email?”
“Management is planning a Thanksgiving lunch for the company next month.”
“The entire company?”
“New York office,” he clarifies. “Headquarters. Anyway, apparently management itself will be the ones to serve the food, as a gesture of thanks for all of our hard work.”
Quentin snorts. “I can’t wait to see Clive Wheeler or Tristan Conway serving mashed potatoes to two hundred and fifty people.”
“That sounds like a terrible idea,” I agree, opening the email software on my computer. There’s a pre-registered email address waiting for me.
The words make me smile. My name, next to Exciteur, the company that’s cutting-edge right now. I’d fought with over ten of my old classmates from Wharton to get this spot, not to mention all the other applicants.
I play around with it for a bit, changing the pre-written sign-off phrase that gets added to the bottom of every email. Frederica Bilson, Junior Professional Trainee, Strategy Department.
Smiling, I change Frederica to Freddie. No one in this world calls me Frederica, with the exception of my grandparents, but to the best of my knowledge neither one of them works at Exciteur.
Over the coming hours, Toby shows me the ropes, and even Quentin helps out. They introduce me to the projects we’re working on and it doesn’t take me long to learn that the two of them work great together, despite their banter. Or perhaps because of it?
I’m sure I’ll find out.
Eleanor shows me around and briefs me on the first of several projects I’m to assist on. When I fall back into my office chair that afternoon, my inbox is filled to the brim with emails.
Most of them are automated and company-wide. Others are from Quentin, Toby or Eleanor, all with “Good to know” or “Information for you to read through” in the subject line.
That’s my evening reading sorted for tonight.
My gaze snags on a corporate send-out, an email titled “A Thank You to the Troops.” It’s sent from t.conway@exciteur.com, the devil CEO himself, apparently.
My smile widens as I read through the letter. It’s classic corporate fluff, probably not even something he wrote himself, thanking all employees for their hard work. Under my leadership, the company has doubled its profits. A humble brag there, Mr. Conway.
Grinning, I scan through to the last paragraph. Don’t forget to pencil in the Thanksgiving lunch next month, the company’s treat for all the hard work and long hours you’ve put in. I know you won’t want to miss it.
I see my chance to get in with Toby and Quentin’s banter. There’s nothing like a well-timed jab at upper management to become one with co-workers, the lot of you in the trenches together.
So I hit forward and write a snarky comment.
Do you think management genuinely believes everyone has marked a giant, excited X on their calendar for the Thanksgiving lunch? Perhaps he should serve a side of humility with the mash…
A few minutes later, I peer around my desk to Toby’s, but he’s focused on his work and not responding. I can wait. An hour later, Quentin rises from his desk and announces he’s going home. Eleanor soon does the same, telling me to leave.
Toby gives me a yawn. “Come on, Freddie. Everything will still be here tomorrow.”
There’s no acknowledgment of my snarky email. Ice-cold dread punches me in the stomach. “Just give me a minute, and we can walk out together.”
I open the sent folder in my email and scroll down. Perhaps it had just not delivered? No, it had…
Then I see it.
The letter hasn’t been delivered to Toby, because I hadn’t forwarded it. No, I’d accidentally hit reply. On the recipient line is an email address that hurts to look at.
5
Tristan
The bastard that invented email should be hung and quartered, I decide, staring at the shiny icons on my screen. I have a secretary who sorts through my mailbox, marking the important emails as unread for me to take a look