Part 7 (1/2)

Anyway, I knew if I were going to Make More Money, I'd have to find a way to convince these ninnies to use my products. But since my audience was always more concerned with my accessories, they hadn't learned how to use them and, hence, didn't buy them.

I came up with a concept to educate them in a less formal setting. I created an after-hours seminar that not only gave a hands-on demonstration but also included an open bar, thus allowing the girls to booze it up while they learned. I figured this situation would neatly simulate their college careers.

I don't know if it was the show-and-tell or the chardonnay, but the seminar worked. Drunken PR monkeys lurched up to me after the program, wobbly on their stilettos, slurring, ”Heeeey! Call me Mondayyyy! My client can TOTALLY ussshe thiss sshhtuff! Let'ssh do businesss.h.!.+” To make a long story short, sales rose 35 percent in my product lines in two weeks. The vice president of sales was so impressed she sent me to roll out the program at our offices across the country. (Somehow Kathleen has been less enthusiastic about my success, but WHATEVER. She's just jealous.) And that's why I've spent the summer sweating my a.s.s off in the back of cabs.

”Gosh, I can't decide,” I tell Sylvie the Dior girl, while we both scrutinize her summer line of lip glosses scattered all over the counter. Ooh, I just LOVE being at the real Saks on Fifth Avenue. New York is the best! We're going to move here the minute I convince Fletch it's a good idea.

Earlier I went to the adorable epicurean shop by Lincoln Center so I could stock up on Big Daddy's favorite lime marmalade. While I was juggling my bags and hailing a cab, a group of tourists asked me for directions. They thought I was a New Yorker! The best part is I actually knew how to get them to their destination.

But right this second, I'm in a major quandary. I've been working on a project with a big-time magazine and there's a chance I'm going to be on Good Morning America. OK, technically they want to interview the magazine's editor, but that's only because the producers haven't met ME yet.46 That's why I'm having such a tough time choosing the proper lip gloss. Which one would look best on camera? The s.h.i.+mmery peach one is deliciously summery, but the iridescent petal pink one showcases my tan. I'd simply take the clear and be done with it, but it's really thick and my hair sticks to it every time I move my head. I don't want to have to pick my coif out of my mouth in front of Charlie Gibson and the rest of America.

I glance down at my watch and realize I'm twenty minutes late for my lunch date with the magazine woman. Oh, no! I hate when I lose track of time like this; it's a grievous wrong. Being late for a business meeting is practically criminal in my book. I feel awful for making such an important person wait, and I've got to wrap this up right this second. I make an executive decision.

”You know what, Sylvie? I'll take them all.”

I'm not back in the office from New York for two minutes when I get a call.

”Jen Lancaster speaking,” I answer, lunging over my striped luggage to get to my phone.

”Jen!ItsRyanandLaurelandwe'reonaconferencecallandohmyG.o.d youwon'tbelievewhathappened!!!” Ryan shrieks into the phone.

”Ryan, you're in full-on drama queen mode. What's the matter? Did the cute clerk at Barneys take you up on your lascivious offer?” I ask. OK, did we not just spend the evening drinking appletinis in the Village together last night? Why is he calling me with his panties in a bunch? What could have happened in the last twelve hours? ”Or did MAC discontinue your favorite eyeliner?”

”Noooo!” he howls. ”It's nothing like that!”

”Then slow down and say that whole sentence again, please,” I request.

Laurel breaks in, ”Jeeeen, this heah is a seeeerious cawl. Y'all, we ahh 'bout to undahgo a cohprae-muhger.” When she's upset, her accent gets superthick. Whatever's happening must be bad, because I can't understand a word she's said.

”A what?”

”A COHPRAE-MUHGER,” she repeats.

Now I'm aggravated and ready to kill both messengers. ”What the f.u.c.k are you two babbling about?” I demand.

”A merger! We're about to be merged with our biggest compet.i.tor!” Ryan cries.

”My G.o.d, you're kidding me. Are you sure?” Please, please, please let them be wrong. Because if they're right, this is AWFUL news. I feel weak in the knees.

”I wish I weren't. The story just crossed the newswires and they're already talking about it on MSNBC. It's official,” Ryan sadly confirms.

”s.h.i.+t, what are you guys going to do?” I ask.

”Ahm goin' to mah husban's haidhuntah latah,” Laurel says.

”I'm headed straight to Monster.com to post my resume,” says Ryan as I mentally revise my own CV.

”Laurel, Ryan, thanks for calling me. I've got to go. I need to start working on a contingency plan right now. I say we hope for the best but prepare for the worst.”

”Lahkwise,” sighs Laurel.

”Take care of yourselves, guys.”

”Ditto. Bye, Laurel. Catch you on the flip side, Jen.”

My hands are shaking as I hang up the phone. I went through four mergers when I worked for the insurance company, and each resulted in ma.s.s layoffs. Fortunately I was never affected, but I won't be so lucky this time. See, our compet.i.tors are much better at what my group does because we're new to the marketplace. If we merge with them, there's no way Corp. Com. will keep my team on, no matter how much past success we've had. The bottom line is they are the established brand. And ever since the dot-com crash, it's been harder and harder to get hired anywhere in my industry. Too many good people, not enough good jobs. This is bad. This is really bad.

I've been working the phone like a telemarketer for the past few weeks trying to miracle up some interest. This is a lot tougher than last time I looked for a job. When I posted my resume in June of 2000, I got ten calls a day. Now it's like I have the plague.

However, I've managed to score an interview next Tuesday at a big investor relations firm called Birchton & Co. Birchton is one of Courtney's clients and she's been talking me up to them. Yay! Although she doesn't want me to leave the company, she knows I have an expensive apartment to support. Besides, if I get in there, Courtney will count on me to throw a lot of business her way. And since it's a consulting job, the base salary is really high, so I predict I'll be parked on my new couch in no time flat.

Why was I so worried? Everything's going to be fine.

The people at Birchton & Co. will hire me on the spot when they meet me because my interview outfit is just WAY TOO CUTE. After much deliberation, I decide to wear my stunning black-on-black Jones New York suit jacket with the matching tank dress underneath. I plan to wrap my citrus green leopard-print scarf around my neck for that added touch of pizzazz. And my piece de resistance, new Kate Spade kicks! They're trimmed with a tiny bit of citrus piping and the whole look says, ”Competent, Professional, and Worthy of a Six-Figure Salary.”

And, yes, I remembered to shave under my arms this time. Last time I wore this outfit, it was a DISASTER. First of all, it was un-seasonably hot. r.e.t.a.r.d-y Arty wrote down the wrong address and didn't realize it until we were already late and we had to RUN to the Prudential building. Between the dress, coat, each item's silk lining, panty hose, my Nancy Ganz strangulation-city slip,47 and the client's faulty air conditioner, I baked like a meat loaf. Since I skipped the shave, I couldn't even take the jacket off. I channeled the Albert Brooks scene in Broadcast News with perspiration pouring rivers off my head and onto the conference table. I tried to sop it up with my notebook, but no dice. It was humiliating and I've yet to forgive Arthur.

My interview isn't until noon, but I'm so excited I was awake at five thirty this morning. I had coffee on my roof deck and watched the sun rise over the city. As I surveyed the buildings from north to south, I thought about how much I love my skyline: the Hanc.o.c.k Center, the AT&T building, the Merchandise Mart, Aon corporate headquarters, 311 South Wacker, and the city's crown jewel, the Sears Tower. I must know someone on every floor of the Sears Tower. Every time I'm there, I b.u.mp into friends, clients, old cla.s.smates, etc. It's like Chicago's town square.

Today has been particularly bewitching. We had one of those glorious Indian summer dawns you never forget. Warm but not humid and the light was beautifully muted. Fat bees buzzed around my wave petunias, and the smell of rosemary and basil from my herb garden was intoxicating. I sipped and gazed and it was totally Zen.

I decide to brush up on financial news before my interview, so I head to my home office and switch on CNBC's Squawk Box. I love Squawk Box! Every morning I learn something useful from their colorful array of a.n.a.lysts. There's Bald Guy, Handlebar-Mustache Guy, Faboo Power Suit Gal, and Silly Accent Guy, plus a bunch of other funny, smart people who make the world of high finance interesting and accessible.

My goal someday is to be the foremost expert in my field and have big-time cutie David Faber interview me. But since I'm cool and totally a show insider from watching religiously, I'll call him by his nickname, the Brain. (Hey, maybe I could become one of their regular industry a.n.a.lysts and they'd come up with a clever moniker for me! The Wall Street Diva, perhaps?) From the CNBC studio, it appears to be a glorious morning in New York, too. Mark Haines, the show's straight man, delivers his broadcast flawlessly, his soothing tones comforting me while I read my e-mail. r.e.t.a.r.d-y Arty has an asinine question about product features, and instead of looking them up on the shared drive, where I keep them for just such an occasion, he wants ME to find the information. Yeah, pal. I'll get right on it. What else? A couple of the Texan AEs want me to join them for lunch meetings next week. Let's see...YES to lunch at NoMi, and an adamant I DON'T THINK SO to lunch at Chili's. Ick...who takes a client to Chili's? Ryan's e-mail wishes me big, screaming bunches of luck today-oh, isn't he sweet? One of the stupid PR girls needs- Wait a minute. What just happened?

It's been a week and I've barely eaten or slept. All I can do is watch the horrifying images again and again on my television. Even when I close my eyes, I see buildings crumbling and streets filled with debris. I'm devastated. I can't stop thinking about the victims. How many other girls put on their new shoes that morning, excited to go to work in the World Trade Center on such a beautiful fall day? How many moms and dads placed hand-packed lunches they would never eat in Pentagon refrigerators? How many of my favorite Squawk Box a.n.a.lysts didn't make it out of their tower offices in time? How many children boarded planes bound for Disneyland, not knowing they'd never see Mickey's parade?

Like most Americans, I'm back at work,48 but I'm a total zombie. I can't concentrate. Today's my first day in the office, and each time I hear a noise, I'm sure it's a plane headed for my window. I took a Xanax and I'm still shaking like a Chihuahua.

I am NOT here by choice. Kathleen's upset with our recent level of activity, so she called everyone in for a phone blitz. Yes, because NOTHING SIGNIFICANT happened last week on 9/11, and our meeting numbers fell because we were all goofing off. I am beyond outraged. People aren't even buried yet, and we're supposed to smile and dial, begging for business while pretending everything is just super! And maybe this initiative would have been more effective a month ago when we were busy doing her homework?

That woman is the devil.

It's been two weeks and life feels a tad more normal. Planes are flying again, prime-time television started broadcasting its fall season, and this morning I kind of yelled at a homeless guy for touching my skirt. People are beginning to b.i.t.c.h about how long it takes to get through the building's increased security. However, I didn't complain when armed guards spent five minutes examining the under-side of my SUV for bombs. Do whatever it takes, guys. I finally went on a sales call, and it was actually fine. Of course, we spent the first fifteen minutes discussing how trite we felt talking about business, so that made it easier.49 I'm at my desk going over '02 business projections when my phone rings. I jump at the sound because my nerves are still on edge. The number on caller ID is unidentifiable. Ugh, these are never happy calls. They're either angry clients or clueless technicians, and I don't care to deal with either right now. I hesitate before retrieving the handset.

”Jen Lancaster speaking.”

”Jen, how are you?” a voice lightly tinged with a Southern accent asks.

”I'm doing well, thanks.” The voice is familiar but I can't place it.

”Listen, Jen, it's John O'Donnell, and I need to talk to you about something important.”

Hmm...John O'Donnell is the vice president of the whole Southern sales region. Being part of the Midwest, I'm in no way under his chain of command, so I have no clue why he's calling me and sounding so cagey.

”Sure, what's up?” I ask cautiously.

”Jen, we had to make a very difficult decision today. There's no easy way to say this, so I'm going to tell you flat out: We've eliminated Laurel's position.”

You dirty rat f.u.c.ks!! Laurel rocked, and you all know it! It's all I can do not to tell him off. But somehow, I manage to stay professional. Through gritted teeth, I say, ”I'm really sorry to hear that. Laurel was an integral part of our group and I'll miss her. But I appreciate your telling me this yourself.” No, really, why are you telling me this? Does this mean I'm fired, too, you fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d?