were the Malinas,” Gola added. “She was happy to lock herself in his office for a quickie. He even took her out of the country for a few shoots and shows.”
“She thought she was going to be the next Mrs. Russo,” Ruth added.
“Poor little gold-digging dumbass,” Gola scoffed.
“Anyway, we don’t know for sure. But rumor has it that Paul finally grabbed the wrong girl. And all hell broke loose,” Ruth continued.
“What happened?” I pressed.
“We came in one day, and there was no more Paul. No official announcement. Just Dominic with an assistant clearing out his father’s office. Side note: Another rumor has it he found three boxes of condoms and a bottle of lube in the desk.”
“He got all new furniture because ew,” Gola chimed in.
“A week later, HR rolled out a shiny new harassment and fraternization policy, which pretty much confirmed the rumors.”
“Paul immediately got a job with Indulgence,” Ruth said, naming another fashion magazine. “All of the executives here have non-competes, so who knows how he pulled that off.”
“What about the women?” I asked.
They both shrugged. “We’re not really sure what went down. There was an exodus of almost a dozen people. Again, it was super hush-hush. A handful are still here, including Malina,” Gola said. “None of them ever answered any direct questions.”
“I heard from an acquaintance of a friend of a friend that there was some kind of settlement involving iron-clad NDAs,” Ruth explained.
“Wow.” I didn’t know what else to say. No wonder the vibe was so off here. It didn’t sound like a solution, it sounded like a cover-up.
“But things are better now,” Ruth insisted. “The sexual harassment policy wasn’t drafted in the 1950s. And a fraternization policy kind of sort of adds more protection.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Basically relationships can’t exist between executives and underlings,” Gola said.
“That’s not exactly what it says,” Ruth disagreed.
“It’s the spirit of the rules. They’re trying to prevent relationships with lopsided power dynamics. But it kind of comes across as ‘we fucked up, and now we’re holding the rest of you responsible,’” Gola sighed.
“She’s touchy because she’s in love with a junior VP in fashion,” Ruth teased.
“Used to be. And I’d say it was more lust,” Gola corrected her.
“He is really, really cute,” Ruth mused. “But not cute enough for either of us to lose our jobs over.”
I picked up my fork and cut my last bite of chicken in half, hoping to make it last. I was beginning to get a few ideas about where Dalessandra had gone wrong.
“So, how come you’re poor?” Ruth asked cheerfully.
“It’s a long, long story,” I sighed.
I felt an arctic breeze skim down my spine and looked up.
Two tables down, Charming was glaring at me while pulling up a chair next to the Linus guy I’d met in Dalessandra’s office this morning. I returned his withering stare with a phony smile and a finger-wiggling wave.
“Girl, you are the bravest person I have ever met,” Gola whispered without moving her lips.
“Your vagina must be made out of steel,” Ruth guessed.
“Aren’t they all?” My phone timer buzzed, and I sighed. “Okay, ladies. Back to work.”
I was a planner by nature. Things got lost or went undone if there wasn’t a plan in place. Commitment to me meant doing what I said I was going to do.
I just happened to have to commit to a lot of things. So I planned. Ruthlessly. There were dozens of daily alerts scheduled in my phone.
Plan out week.
Choreograph dance class.
Leave for dance class.
Teach dance class.
Buy more ramen.
Leave for bar shift.
Start bar shift.
End bar shift.
Catch train home.
Send design invoices.
Make payment on astronomical debt.
Go the fuck to bed.
Wake the fuck up.
Do it all over again…
If I didn’t schedule every single task, it might fall off my plate and get kicked under some piece of metaphorical furniture only to be remembered months later in the middle of the night. And if someone was counting on me, I needed to deliver.
“Let’s get drinks after work tonight,” Ruth suggested. “I feel like we have so much more gossip to impart.”
I grinned, standing. “I can’t. There’s that whole I’m poor thing, and I’m working tonight.”
“You have a second job?” Gola asked.
“I have four second jobs.”
“Girl, you need a vacation.”
And a mango margarita.
10
Dominic
I hated these kinds of meetings.
This whole face-to-face brainstorming thing was bullshit. How the hell was I supposed to know what designer should dress our models for a fall office fashion shoot? Or what makeup products were at the center of a social media maelstrom?
Photo shoots