Slightly Married

3

My friend Brenda materializes by my desk the moment I sit down in my office Monday morning.

Yes, my office. Not my tiny cube down the corridor, where I spent the first few years of my advertising career. My own office, not spacious but definitely less tiny than the cube, with my own window. So what if it’s just on the seventh floor and overlooks a solid brick wall across a narrow alleyway occupied by a Dumpster?

It beats cube life, as I’m sure Brenda would attest if you asked her.

I wouldn’t. Ask her about cube life these days, that is. Ever since I got promoted a few weeks ago, I’ve found myself feeling oddly guilty and undeserving. Kind of like that guy who escaped the Titanic wearing a dress.

“Well?” Brenda asks. “How was it?”

For a second, I think she’s talking about my engagement and wonder who could have possibly spilled the beans. Did Jack, that rascal, tell my co-workers we would be getting engaged on Valentine’s Day?

No, he did not, because he didn’t know himself, remember? Brenda is obviously talking about something else.

Because I seem to have developed Alzheimer’s regarding recent events other than my engagement, I say, “Huh?”

“The wedding! How was it?”

Um, should I be worried that I’m still drawing a complete blank?

“Tracey! Don’t tell me you forgot about Raphael’s wedding already?”

“Of course I didn’t forget! It was a beautiful wedding.” And it was. However, it wasn’t my wedding, and I can’t wait to tell Brenda that I’ll be having one.

But before I can thrust my ring finger at her, my supervisor, Carol, says, “Tracey? Good, you’re here.”

I look up to see her round face poking around the doorway, framed by her perfectly curled-under pageboy that I’m sure is all the rage—in, say, Lincoln, Nebraska. Or some foreign land where people dance in clogs.

Here in Manhattan, not so much. Yet despite her hairdo, Carol worked her way up to management rep here at Blaire Barnett. And I will be forever indebted to her for promoting me to account executive on McMurray-White’s All-Week-Long Deodorant and Abate Laxative accounts.

All right, so it’s not the junior copywriter position I’ve been coveting all my career, but it’s definitely a stepping stone.

“The Client thought our Abate meeting was at ten instead of two today, so they’re on their way over!” Carol informs me, obviously alarmed.

“What?” I blurt, instantly alarmed, as well.

It seems that alarm is a frequent state of mind here in Account Exec Land, where people frequently exclaim—and sometimes even shout and curse. Here in Account Exec Land, Client is always spelled with a capital C, deodorant and laxatives are life-sustaining products and the Client is always, always, always right. Even when they’re wrong. Which they often are.

So naturally, I don’t suggest to Carol that we simply call the Client and tell them the Abate meeting is at two, not ten, as one might in any other—sane—industry.

I just bellow, “Oh my God!” like someone who has just witnessed a violent explosion.

“I know! We’ve got to get our tushies up to eight and go over the presentation with the Creatives right now!” Carol shrieks like a fire warden evacuating the floor after the violent explosion.

“Oh my God!” I shout again and bolt from my seat, grabbing my presentation folder with my right hand and pretty much shoving Brenda out of the way with my left…

Which she seizes. “Oh my God!” she screams, and not because the Client is on their way to a premature laxative-planning meeting.

“Tracey! When did this happen?”

“What? What happened?” Carol demands frantically.

“What’s going on?” Adrian Smedly, the director of our account group, has come out of the woodwork. In his custom suit and tie, as impeccably stylish as, well, as Carol is not, Adrian is poised just outside my office, waiting for a reply.

“I got engaged,” I explain as dispassionately as possible, because of course Adrian is putting a damper on the whole damn thing.

Brenda, still clutching my freshly manicured ring finger, squeals and hugs me.

“Congratulations!” Carol hugs me, as well. “That’s wonderful news!”

“Thanks.” My mouth is muffled by hair: Carol’s brown mushroom do and Brenda’s teased, sprayed one.

“When did he pop the question, Tracey?” Brenda wants to know, bouncing up and down, still wearing her white commuting Reebocks with her suit and stockings.

“Valentine’s Day!”

“At Raphael’s wedding?”

“No, but right after, when we…were…” Having caught sight of Adrian’s lethal expression, I trail off into sheepish silence.

I think it’s safe to assume that our group director won’t be gushing over my ring or asking me where I’ve registered.

“Ladies?” is all he has to say, and Carol and I snap to it.

The three of us scurry to the elevator, where a bike messenger is waiting for a down elevator. Susan, my friend Latisha’s boss and a fellow account executive on the Abate account, is already there, on her way to the same meeting we are.

I loathe her.

All right, loathe is a strong word, especially on this joyful post-engagement day, when I am basically loving the world.

But Susan, whom Yvonne calls Miss Prim among other less charitable nicknames, is hard to love: all buttoned up in her gray suit and black pumps with tasteful makeup and no jewelry other than a gi-normous engagement ring.

We all—meaning all of us gossipy office underlings—noticed that it appeared over Christmas, but nobody wants to ask Susan about it because, frankly, she’s cold and dull and staid and nobody really cares who’s marrying her. We’re just surprised someone wants to.

I guess that goes to show you that there’s someone for everyone.

Anyway, Susan sucks up to Adrian with a big cheery hello, and offers a slightly less stellar one to Carol. Me, she ignores.

To my satisfaction, Adrian all but ignores Susan. He jabs the Up button repeatedly and glares at the messenger, obviously holding him personally responsible when a lobby-bound car is the first to stop.

As that elevator departs, Adrian turns to Carol. I fully expect him to order her to do something about the elevator situation.

He just asks, “Did John tell you they’re having a fat-trimming meeting over on the Choc-Chewy-O’s account tomorrow?”

“No. I thought they were going to let that go for now.”

She looks disappointed. Well, judging by her figure, she’s not exactly one to watch her weight.

On the contrary, I notice that Susan has absorbed this news and looks pleased.

Secretly, I am, too. I love Choc-Chewy-O’s—this great cereal that tastes like Twix bars. But at ten grams of fat per half-cup serving, I never let myself eat them. Which is a shame because my friend Julie, who’s an administrative assistant in that account group, furnishes all of us with free boxes from the Choc-Chewy-O’s supply closet.

Hey, now that it’ll be lower in fat, I can actually eat it, not just watch Jack dig in.

Ho-hum.

Still no elevator.

We wait, collectively on edge. I’m sure the three of them are thinking about the meeting. I’m thinking about Choc-Chewy-O’s, wondering if the low-fat version will be out anytime soon, because I want to lose a little more weight before the wedding, especially if we decide to go to some fabulous beach resort for our honeymoon.

Actually, I’ve already decided we should. And I mentioned it to Jack last night as we were watching a commercial for some luxury hotel in the Carribbean. You know, the kind of commercial where they show clear aqua water, sumptuous food, tropical foliage and a buff couple strolling hand in hand on the beach, contemplating their future amid steel-drum music.

“Doesn’t that look amazing?” I asked Jack, who had once mentioned something about his family’s cottage up in the Catskills being the perfect spot for a honeymoon. He needs to be reprogrammed ASAP, as far as I’m concerned.

“It looks expensive,” Jack replied maddeningly, barely looking up from the TV Guide, and I knew I’d better drop the subject before he vetoed it altogether.

“Tracey, did you remember to bring our task force notes?” Carol asks me now, interrupting the steel-drum music in my head.

“Right here.” I wave the folder in my right hand. My left, which has become so happily conspicuous these past few days, is now wedged unhappily into the pocket of my black blazer. I have no desire to flash it around in front of buzzkill Adrian and that pill Miss Prim.

“What about the pork ribs nutritional data?” Carol asks me.

“Got it.”

“Good.” She nods with approval.

Miss Prim primly stares into space.

I sneak a peek at Adrian to make sure he knows that I’m not all about my wedding. No sirree Bob, I’m entirely on board with the upcoming summer campaign for Abate laxatives.

We’re going after the barbecue crowd in a big, aggressive way. All that meat, very little fiber…well, it’s a natural target audience for our product.

Unfortunately, Adrian is too busy glaring at the closed elevator bank to appreciate my uberefficiency.

An upward-bound elevator finally arrives and the four of us stride on board, where we ride in stony silence to the eighth floor.

Well, Adrian and Susan are stony. Carol is stony by association.

Me, I’m just pondering my bridal bouquet, wondering if I should go for a circular nosegay–type arrangement, or more of a cascade.

Either way, I’ll need roses. Lots of them. In red. Or maybe off-white. But not yellow, because my Sicilian grandmother says yellow roses are bad luck.

The elevator stops, dings, and we step out onto the eighth floor.

I used to think it was my imagination that the Creative Department’s offices were bigger and better than ours downstairs. I also thought Jack was just being paranoid when he claimed that the Media Department’s space two floors below—which is where he works—is dingy and small compared to the other departments.

Guess what? All true.

How do I know, you might ask?

Because my friend Latisha and I went out to Duane Reade for a tape measure one day when we were bored. We snuck around wearing our trench coats, measuring offices, taking notes, cracking ourselves up with our spy routine.

None of our underling peers—except Jack—was amused when we told them what we’d done. In addition to being amused, Jack was all, “I told you so.”

On the Creative floor, which occupies all of eight, the paint is a fresh and soothing shade of off-white. Ceilings are lofty and higher than on other floors, and most of the window offices face Lexington Avenue or the side street, where there’s a partial view of the Empire State Building.

In direct contrast: the media floor, which is all the way down on five and shares space with an architectural firm. There, the offices are painted phlegm yellow, a few square feet smaller with drop ceilings, and even some of the supervisors don’t have windows. Those who do have windows overlook views that are even more dismal than mine.

If you were going to compare the agency heirarchy to, let’s say, jeans: the Creative group would be your 7 for all mankind, the Account group would be Ralph Lauren, and Media would be Wranglers.

Wait, do they still make Wranglers?

See? That’s exactly what I mean. Media is definitely Wranglers. They exist (I’m pretty sure), and they’re functional, but nobody really notices them.

Mental note: share clever jeans/agency department analogy with Jack, who will appreciate it.

On the eighth floor, we Account people rush to the sleek and subtly lit exposed-brick and glass-walled conference room where the Creatives are waiting.

I am struck with a familiar longing to be on their side of the room. I resist the urge to sidle up to them and whisper, “I’m really one of you.”

Because technically, I’m not.

Not on the outside, anyway.

The women are collectively thin, black-clad and attractive, with sleek short haircuts, most in trendy glasses that make them look erudite and chic.

The men—most of them good-looking with longish hair—are carelessly stylish in jeans and turtlenecks with blazers. They tend to remind me of my friend Buckley, who also happens to be a freelance copywriter. They have that quick-witted, funny-sexy-smart thing going on, just like Buckley.

Jack has it, too, but in a quieter, more subtle way.

Jack. My fiancé.

Hallelujah! I actually have a fiancé!

Yet as we take our seats around the conference table, I sneak my left hand out of my pocket for a quick glimpse of my ring, just to make sure it’s really there and I didn’t imagine the whole thing.

Nope, the diamond’s there, all right—and Adrian just caught me staring lovingly at it.

Oops.

I ingeniously pretend there’s a bug crawling on my knuckle and slap at it with my right hand, saying loudly, “Ouch!”

Everyone stops talking and moving chairs to look over at me.

“Mosquito,” I explain, scratching as if I’ve just been bitten. Then I wave the air in front of my face for added authenticity. Then I remember that it’s February in a Manhattan office building.

Then I note that if I don’t stop this charade right now, I might as well keep on waving…goodbye to my brilliant advertising career.

Adrian is watching me with this expression that’s…well, I guess you’d describe it as a fascinated frown. Not in a good way.

“Tracey?” Carol interjects, looking from our boss to me. “Do you have that nutritional data for pork ribs that we’d like to add to the presentation?”

What she is really saying is, “I’m saving your ass. Now prove that it’s worth saving and show us what you’ve got.”

Good old mushroom-headed Carol.

“I have it right here,” I inform her and the rest of the group, some of whom—cough, Susan, cough—look vaguely disappointed at my efficiency. They were probably hoping to watch me slide slowly into madness. It happens all the time in this industry. I’m sure it starts with slapping at imaginary bugs, frequently on Monday mornings.

But it doesn’t happen to me.

No, I, Tracey Spadolini, account executive extraordinaire, am hell-bent on maintaining my sanity.

I whip out my manila folder and open it briskly, scanning the top document. “Pork ribs…pork ribs…pork ribs…”

…are available at Shorewood Country Club with a smoked hickory or honey-mango barbecue sauce for the cocktail hour, not the main course, at an added $5 per head.

Oops.

I stare at the reception catering menu I printed off the Internet last night, then slowly lift my head to find a roomful of expectant faces.

“Wrong folder,” I say in a small voice, pushing back my chair. “I’ll just run back down and get the right one.”

Then I bolt for the elevator, clutching the folder whose tab is labeled Wedding and decorated with lopsided red-Sharpie-drawn hearts.

It’s a little anticlimactic to walk into Tequila Murray’s that night just as two-for-one margarita happy hour is ending, where Yvonne, Brenda and Latisha are waiting to toast my engagement.

The four of us have been working at Blaire Barnett together for a few years now. Well, actually, Yvonne—who is well past retirement age—has been there a few decades, working as Adrian’s secretary. Before that—well before that, I’m sure—she was a Rockette. She still has a dancer’s lithe body and has been known to demonstrate a few kickline moves when pressed…and smashed.

I slide into the fourth chair at our regular table before hanging my bag over the back. The chair would tip over without me in it to counterbalance the weight in the black leather tote. It’s jammed with stuff—some of it work related, but most of it wedding related. Modern Bride alone is like lugging a brick doorstop around on your shoulder.

“I’m so glad you guys didn’t leave,” I tell the three of them.

“No, you’re so lucky we didn’t leave.” Brenda checks her watch. “I’ve got fifteen minutes, tops, to hang out, and Paulie said the baby is already sound asleep. I missed his bedtime nursing for the second night in a row—last night was my cousin’s baby shower and I didn’t get home till eleven. Poor little Jordan’s going to wonder where his mommy is.”

“I hate to say it,” I tell her, “but Carol and Adrian are still at the office now, making a gazillion changes to the campaign, and we have to present it again on Thursday…You’re probably all going to be working late all week.”

“Paulie might as well grow a tit,” is Yvonne’s predictably dry take on the situation before she downs the last swallow in her martini glass. She doesn’t go for “girlie drinks” like margaritas and cosmopolitan.

“Well, Susan knows I’ve got to leave early tomorrow for Keera’s teacher conference,” Latisha says firmly. She’s fiercely devoted to Keera, the now-teenage daughter she raised as a single mother before she met and married her husband, Derek. They have a child together, too, a boy Latisha the New York Yankees fanatic named after her favorite player, Bernie Williams.

Latisha has her hands full these days. Poor Keera was just diagnosed with dyslexia. Latisha has been absorbed with trying to get the right services for her while constantly doing battle with Bernie, who is a terrible two now.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I wouldn’t count on Susan letting you go early,” I tell her reluctantly. “Adrian’s on the warpath and everyone’s going to be going nuts. It’s going to be all hands on deck until the Client approves this thing.”

Is it my imagination, or is there suddenly tension in the air?

I can’t help but suddenly find myself all too aware that I’m now privy to information that isn’t readily available to the three of them, with their administrative jobs and joint cubicles down the hall.

They must be aware of it, too. But trust me, when I was promoted last month, nobody was more thrilled for me than they were.

Well, maybe Jack was—since he not only loves me but gets to reap the salary benefits.

But these three were the ones who encouraged me to ask for a promotion, and they were the ones who took me to Tequila Murray’s to celebrate the moment it came through.

Just as they insisted on taking me out tonight after Brenda shared the big news about me and Jack. I haven’t seen the others yet, thanks to the ongoing Client meeting from hell, and it was a little disappointing that I didn’t get to tell them in person. I didn’t even have time to ask Brenda to save the news for me to share—let alone time to revel in her thrilled reaction.

But I was touched when I returned to my office at last to find a bunch of congratulatory e-mails from the girls and orders to meet them here for happy hour.

“Well, anyway, I’m really sorry I’m so late,” I say apologetically, reaching for a broken-off tortilla chip from the nearly empty basket on the table and dredging it through what’s left of the salsa. “If I’d have known I was going to be stuck there this late, I would have said we should celebrate another night.”

“It’s okay…Here, we ordered you your raspberry margarita.” Brenda hands it over. “Actually we ordered one when we first got here, but we had to drink that. This is your freebie second. It’s a little melted.”