What Was I Thinking? (2 page)

She came back to her seat to polite applause,
and sat down, shaky with relief at having it over. I gave her a thumbs-up and
we both turned to watch the next contender. Our parts were over, and we only
had to give the
impression
of being
interested until the presentation portion of the meeting was over.

I pinned an attentive look on my face and zoned
back out, bracing myself for the after party. In the ballroom one floor up, we
had a table-top tradeshow set up, with booths for each of the pitches. Beth and
Pete would be at their own booths, so I couldn’t even chat with them. I was
supposed to support Campbell’s dumb idea, chat cheerfully—but
dismissively—about all the other dumb ideas, all while standing in
old-fashioned shoes that pinched. That was sure to be the worst.

When we were finally set up in the ballroom, I
found out I’d been right. It
was
the
worst for a few minutes, and then a really good-looking man came over to my
booth to talk to me. That was when it all went to hell. “Your costume is
completely incorrect.”

“And you know because?” I was a little cranky.
Sue me.

“Because it’s obvious!
Anyone would realize—” He broke
off and started over, with an obvious effort at calming down and forcing
reasonableness.
“My apologies.
Allow me to introduce
myself. I am Bert Roland, a historian associated with Washington University. My
specialization is the World’s Fair and its era. Mr. Frazier hired me to consult
on the project, but he has ignored most of my suggestions. He seems completely
uninterested in historical accuracy, and has made egregious errors.”

Well, that sounded plausible.
And
he seemed to be the only other sane
person here. Never mind that he was great looking, with thick dark hair, strong
features, and the creases of good humor around his eyes and mouth.

“Welcome to my world,” I said, smiling. “I’m
Addie Hull, a chemist with a degree from Wash U. They ignore my expertise,
too.”

He almost blew it on the next comment. “
You
are a chemist? You do not look—” He
stopped himself abruptly as he saw my expression. “Again, I apologize. My
deportment is not what it might be.”

Okay, he was a little weird. Still, it was keep
talking to him or endure small talk with one of the ad guys. Weird, smart,
intermittently rude, and very good looking beat the heck out of ordinary and
actually
interested
in marketing.

“So, what’s wrong with my outfit?” I asked
,
just to keep things rolling.

“For a start, you should not be a suffragette.
They were violent and disreputable. The suffragists”—he emphasized the last
syllable—“were the smart, dedicated women who spoke up bravely for the rights
of their sex!” Okay, odd wording and awfully strong feelings about history, but
not one word about demographics or market segmentation, and I was enjoying
watching his mobile face as he expostulated.

“Also, no suffragist would dress like a Gibson
Girl. I would think that you, as a girl yourself, would know this sort of
thing!”

Okay, enough was enough.
“As
a
girl
?
Who are you, some
recluse with no idea how normal people behave? I am not a girl, I’m a woman. It
shouldn’t take a fancy degree to know that. And I don’t know things ‘as a
girl,’ I know things as a highly educated chemist!”

I slammed my cocktail glass down on the booth’s
table and walked away, dimly realizing that I had blown months of jaw-clenching
endurance with one temper tantrum in front of the whole company, but it was the
last straw.

It was bad enough working a lousy job that had
nothing to do with my education or interest, bad enough that I wasted my days
discussing promotion of a product I didn’t care about with ungrammatical,
illogical people who actually thought the goop we sold was important, but to be
insulted by some stranger because I wasn’t up on history of pinup girls!

Heads turned, people stared, but I strode out
of the hotel ballroom without a backward glance. No doubt I would be fired
first thing in the morning. I’d probably care by then. Now, I just wanted to be
alone.

No such luck. Just when I’d made it to my car,
there was a voice behind me.
A very cultured, educated one.
Him.

“Do let me apologize. I, too, am a scientist
working in an unfamiliar field. I did not mean to anger you. It is simply that
I have no facility with language outside the laboratory.”

Anger, exhaustion, and sore feet warred with
curiosity and lost, or at least tied. I unlocked the door and sat down in the
driver’s seat, swiveled outward to untie the uncomfortable boots, but I
answered him as I stooped.

“Then what are you doing outside your
laboratory? And didn’t you say you were a historian?” I spoke without heat, but
realized the words could seem offensive. I tried to soften them. “I know why
I’m not working in my own field, but how did you get into the same situation?”

“It’s a very long story. Could I perhaps tell
it to you over a meal?”

I looked at him, considering. Food would be
good, but I wasn’t going anywhere dressed like this. I wasn’t inviting a very
unpredictable stranger back to my place either. No, it just wasn’t going to
work. Logistics aside, I was too annoyed to be good company.

“Thank you, but I just want to go home alone.
Maybe another time, okay?”

A strange expression flickered across his face.
Was it shock?
Embarrassment?
In any case, it was gone
before I could be sure. “I’ll say good night, then,” he said somewhat stiffly.
He made a move of his head and shoulders that almost looked as if he had
started to bow and then stopped
himself
abruptly.

Whatever.
I needed to stop distracting
myself from my own blunder and deal with it. “Good night,” I said, and finally
freed a foot from one of those tight boots. I’d been working on the laces the
whole time we were talking. The other foot came free, too. I tossed both boots
into the passenger foot well and settled myself to drive away.

I went to close the door, but he was still
there, not quite preventing me from leaving, but standing close enough that
shutting the door would feel rude. And I had used up my rudeness quota for the
day.

“Was there something else?” I hoped I sounded
kind, but the truth was, I was about done in.

“Um, well, I was wondering…I mean, it
doesn’t…that is, I hadn’t meant this evening. Clearly, such a tardy invitation
would be inexcusable.”

Uh huh.
Serious
Asperger’s?
Extreme isolation?
Brought up by
Victorians? This guy really did have some problems with social life.

He took a deep breath and plunged on. “I was
actually hoping perhaps I could offer you lunch at my laboratory. My daily
could prepare a tasty repast, and we could discuss our work.”

That actually sounded kind of nice. Low
pressure, and just for smart people. I must have looked encouraging, because he
finished in a rush.

“Would Thursday be too soon? Say about one pm?”

“Sounds fine.”

It was only Monday now. Why on earth did we
need that kind of lead-time for lunch?

He was stammering again. “Um, uh…” I was going
to die of old age waiting for this guy to leave. On the other hand, I’d blown
up at him in public, and he was being friendly, which I did not deserve. I
could be patient. At last he blurted out,
“May-I-have-your-address-to-pick-you-up?” He seemed relieved to have it out,
and seemed to have gone pink with the effort, though it was hard to tell in the
dimness of the parking lot. I couldn’t help smiling.

“I’ll drive myself. Here’s my business card.
You can email the directions, and I’ll take it from there.”

“Ah!
Very well.
Good
night then.” He accepted my card, and, like a true gentleman, closed my car
door and stepped back. On opposite sides of my closed window, I think we each
gave a sigh of relief. He gave a slight bow, and I drove off with a wave.

And then I was alone with my thoughts. What
fun. By the time I had made it across St. Louis to my shabby apartment, I had
checked off the major life categories.

Love/marriage/boyfriend—nil.
Got dumped three months ago and
didn’t see anyone on the horizon.

Prospects for having
children—nil.
See above.

Friends—a few lunch buddies like Beth and Pete,
but my close friends were out of reach. Cassie had just gotten back from her
honeymoon to settle into the suburbs of Kansas City, Kelly was on safari with a
sexy new toy boy, and Nikki was demoted to enemy. See “got dumped,” above.

Family—nice, but far away and
inclined to ask too many questions about prospects for marriage, family, and
career.

Which brought us to—drum roll
please—career.
Hate my job, and now probably about to lose it.
Money, getting by, but only just.
And losing my job was
going to put a cap on that.

Home—dump of apartment.
Not enough maintenance from my
landlord, and not enough time, energy, or skill from me to make up for his
lack. I went in anyway.

Once inside, I couldn’t settle down. I was too
upset and too wired to go to bed. I logged into email. Maybe Cassie or Kelly
had sent a new batch of pictures from their new lives.

No such luck. Spam, spam, bill notice, hi from
Mom, spam, article link from Dad…and a meeting invitation from Campbell
Frazier. He wanted to see me in the morning at the Einstein Bagels near the
office.
At eight.
Great.

* * * *

At eight-ten on the dot, the door opened and
Campbell strode in to fire me. The only suspense was waiting for him to spit it
out. I don’t know why I was so tense. Here I sat, my gut twisting just because
he was ten minutes late. But logically, the worst thing he could do to me was fire
me. People survive that and I would too, even if I couldn’t see how right now.

And he was definitely going to fire me. Lose
your temper—loudly—in a full ballroom at the corporate planning meeting, and
the plan is that you’re out of there.

No surprise that I blew
up,
and no surprise at all to get Frazier’s email. Also no surprise, I’d been awake
all night with regrets and fears and mental budgets and crazy plans for making
the rent.

But
why
was
I so strung out that I had coffee cooling in front of me? I
hate
coffee, and I haven’t ordered it
since I quit trying to look sophisticated at eighteen. Why
was
I
so rattled that I had ordered it, as if, instead of simply being
conventional wording for “present yourself to be chewed out and then fired” the
email had been a subliminal command?

Frazier had his coffee now, and was approaching
with a smile.
Corporate creep.
As he sat down, I
noticed that the smile was real, and he was relaxed. He was outright friendly
when he said hello.

I couldn’t stand it. It was too late to worry
about business etiquette anyway. I blurted out, “So you’re firing me. Is there
anything we need to discuss?”

He smiled wider. “You think I’d let you off so
easy? Firing is too good for you. You proved you’re perfect for the next phase
of the project.”

I was too dumbfounded to speak, so after a
moment, he went on. “What’s even more perfect is that you’re in no position to
complain to management.” He smiled again. “Your coffee’s cold. Why don’t I get
you some more, and then we can settle down to some serious planning.”

“Uh.
I’ll go up myself, thanks.” I
didn’t want him to refill my coffee. I wanted a Diet Coke.
A
big one.
And going through the line again beat sitting and fidgeting
some more. I had to get a grip. To think only five minutes ago, getting fired
was the worst thing I could imagine! Now I was mentally spinning through one
nightmare assignment after another, trying to brace myself for the worst
Frazier could come up with. Oh, my poor
guts
.

Chapter Two

Bert and Earning

Campbell’s presentation had won out over all
the rest. I spared a thought for Beth. I hoped she wasn’t too discouraged. In
fact, the executive committee had been so excited about his
history-of-supporting-independent-women pitch that they’d announced the decision
before the party had even wound down.
TAPI
would be restructuring their entire marketing approach to fit with that, and I,
lucky, lucky me, would be an integral part of it.

As it turned out, my assignment was to promote
the new miracle face cream at department stores and boutiques all over the
Bi-State Area.
Possibly all over the Midwest.
And…it
got worse. I would
not
be meeting
with store management to plan promotions—I would basically be a perfume girl,
standing in the cosmetics department and annoying shoppers. A perfume girl
dressed as a Gibson Girl.
And acting out little skits about
being a fierce suffragette.
With Pete Ogilvy as my
costar.