Emily's Reasons Why Not Read online

  To lie or not to lie?

  “I did it. I am so sorry. But I didn’t think … it’s a positive story for the company. A puff piece. David really needed some good press for a change.”

  “My dear, there are things you don’t know, one of which is that he is FUCKING using you. Why don’t you see that? This is an absolute nightmare.” She finishes by throwing the Hollywood Reporter in my face and storming out of my office. Using me for what?

  Reason #7: If your friends, mentors, and co-workers think your boyfriend has ulterior motives, he probably does.

  As Avery left my office, I sank in my chair of delusion and thought to myself … it’s no problem if I get fired. Soon enough I will be with the man I love and we will tell everyone how happy we are, be a power couple, start our own company, live at the beach, sip Starbucks on a Sunday while watching our beautiful children swing graciously on Santa Monica beach while Sam chases seagulls in the background. My life will soon be complete.

  I am on the slippery slope of metal health and denial.

  David stands in the doorway of my office. “I’m sorry, Em, I’ll talk to Avery and she’ll calm down. I’ll tell her I trusted you to do the story and that I asked you to do it confidentially. It’ll blow over.”

  I lift my head off my desk and look at my perfect power man. “Dinner?” I ask. “I’ll bring pizza and we can have a carpet picnic.”

  “Can’t, gotta work. Maybe this weekend,” David says. Can’t? Gotta work? Since when has working become more important than romantic interludes with me? Can’t we work together? Or perhaps his work with me is done. I feel him pulling away. Not that I know for sure. I try to stay calm, but I know something is amiss. Perhaps it is the way he looked at me, or rather, looked past me. The way the eye contact tries to convince me, but is empty. Maybe it’s the tone of his voice. Or maybe I just instinctively know. I know. I always freakin’ know. Yet I am still trying to believe everything is going to be super-duper.

  Josh is coming over for dinner. Pizza with Josh substituting for the man of my dreams. See the pattern beginning?

  “Why is David behaving so strangely? I called him three times today and he didn’t call me back. Why isn’t he returning my calls?” I question Josh, who is paying the pizza guy at my apartment. “He’s pulling away. I can feel it.”

  “Em, there’s something I need to tell you.” Josh takes a slice of pizza out of the box.

  “Please let it be that you’re straight and you want to save me from this dating hell.”

  “I am leaving the company to work for MGM as the new vice president of features.”

  Great! It’s not David that’s leaving me. It’s Josh. He’s leaving me in the office without a buffer, confidant. I was once a well-liked, well-respected up-and-comer. My boss called me a up-and-comer. I had supporters. Now my only supporter is about to go to MGM.

  “NO! Absolutely not. You can’t leave me alone in the office.”

  “Congratulations might be nice. This is a great career move for me. Plus, you very well could be fired by next week and this way I can give you a job.”

  I should be happy for him. I shouldn’t make it all about me. But I need him. And this is all about me. The slope is getting slipperier.

  “You know I love you, Josh, and I am happy that you got a big, bloated job, but my life is falling apart here. Can you help me for one second?”

  “Have a drink and a slice, Kitten. It’s all going to be fine.”

  Josh hands me a slice and a glass of wine.

  After two bottles of wine, Josh tucks me into bed and lies next to me. “Will you stay over? ‘Cause I am having the shittiest day.”

  Josh lies down and puts my head on his shoulder. “Oh, how did it go from blissful, perfect dances, perfect forearms, perfect power plan to ‘putter, putter’?”

  “Maybe I am overreacting.”

  “Sure, Kitten, anything you say,” Josh says, petting my head until I fall asleep.

  Tuesday through Friday I do not see David. I stand looking at myself in the mirror of my office. He is NOT dumping me. Relax. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. David is not dumping me.

  I call Grace from the office … get her machine.

  I leave a message that goes something like, “David and I were supposed to have dinner twice this week and he canceled. I am going to die. Slowly, but definitely die. Call me. Hurry. It’s getting ugly.”

  Two weeks with no David. Three calls, ALL returning my calls, on my home machine, when he knows I am at work. One canceled lunch. Feeling fucked.

  Friday-morning meeting. Ten o’clock A.M. Take my normal seat to the right of David, who sits at the head of the table. Play footsie with him. Run my shoe up his pant leg—he kicks me in the shin.

  “OW!” Everyone at the conference table looks at me.

  On the brighter side, I am not fired, yet, and I hired a nice new assistant from Ohio who now has become my only ally in the office. I had to do something with Josh gone. Thus, I am paying to have a new confidant. She listens to the gossip and reports back to me. She’s loyal, young, and eager.

  I am a mentor. A bad, dysfunctional one, but nevertheless, a mentor.

  My protégée, JJ, short for Jenny Jacobson, is on the go. She has befriended the other assistants in the office and gotten into the hip pocket of David’s assistant only to discover …

  “He has another girlfriend,” JJ says, kind of cringing like a dog about to be hit.

  At what point did he start sleeping with another woman? Uggggghhhhhh! Why does the thought of him kissing another woman make me want to hurl myself out of the building? I should want to hurl HIM out of the building.

  I throw my head down onto my desk …“Am I unattractive?” I ask. “Really, am I?”

  “No, no, you’re very pretty,” she says, trying to make me feel better. “Really.”

  “There’s no real hope for the normal ones in L.A. JJ, I think it would be smart if you went back to Ohio now. Before you start to round up to thirty. Who is she?” I ask. “Just the facts. Be gentle.”

  I lay with my head on my desk, like a beaten dog, repeating into my headset what I had learned to Reilly.

  “A one-hundred-and-five-pound, five-foot-nine—actress—with beautiful brown hair to the middle of her back. A daytime working soap opera goddess.” I try not to shout into the phone.

  “No-talent slut,” Reilly says. “She’s not even on prime time.”

  “I hate her. I hate him. What am I going to do?”

  “Nothing. You’re going to do nothing. Just finish your day with dignity.”

  I plot my strategy in the stall of the ladies’ room on the third floor. I will remain calm and professional. I will play hard to get and not return any of David’s calls. If and when he reaches out I will no longer be available to “help” him. I will grow into a powerful, self-reliant executive who is too busy to be bothered by a no-good, scummy boyfriend with a new girlfriend. Damn good strategy. As I sit plotting, I find myself privy to a nasty conversation between the anorexic casting director, Iris, and the VP of marketing, Julie, about some bimbo.

  “She’s sleeping her way to the top,” skinny casting VP Iris says.

  Poor girl, I think to myself, pulling my legs up so they can’t see me.

  “She’s only in her job because she gives great blow jobs,” marketing VP Julie adds.

  If I could only find this girl and warn her. There is no sleeping your way to the top, only the bottom. Someone in the stall next to me flushes, and I wish I could go down with the water.

  Then as they are leaving, the marketing chick mumbles, “It’s too bad, because I think Emily could have had a great career here.”

  Reason #8: People will talk about how well you perform in bed versus how well you perform your job.

  Tears, hot, salty tears, burst from my eyes and pour down my cheeks.

  Reason #9: Crying at work is unacceptable.

  But I can’t help it. Overwhelmed. Alone. Tossed aside. My work disc
ounted. My love unrequited. What am I going to do? I call for major backup … my mother, Bitsy, short for Elizabeth.

  Two hours later I feel slightly better. Moms are great for reinforcement. My mom is particularly good at reminding me that I am perfect and the rest of the world is fucked, that men predominantely let you down, as my father did to her, yet someday I will meet my prince. She is also taking me to St. Croix for Valentine’s Day. Great, only ten months away.

  With the girls drinking at Fowz’ … again. “All I know is that half the day I mope around, the other half I want to kill David, the rest I just fantasize that he is going to show up at my door and beg for forgiveness. Then I will forgive him, after torturing him. Really torturing him. It’s official; I have hit the bottom of the slope.”

  Reilly nods understanding. “When you start fantasizing about what you’ll say or do when they come crawling back, you’ve hit bottom.”

  Grace adds, “He’s never coming back.”

  Drunk, laying on the hardwood floor next to Sam at home. Dial David. Hang up. Dial again. No answer.

  At work I e-mail David, just a simple “Hello,” and get nothing back. One month of brief smiles in the hallway and all the while I drown myself in martinis with the girls. I am, however, maintaining the appearance of dignity and self-respect so as not to show that I am dying inside.

  Grace is leaving to go out of town with some guy named Mark, who apparently went to college with us, but I don’t remember him. Reilly is going on a business trip tomorrow. Josh is superbusy discovering the world of his new job.

  I am left with Sam … alone, Friday night, without my protective wall of love and friendship. I pour myself a glass of wine and am reduced to another Friday night of bad TV. Take a deep breath, in, out, in, out, and the phone rings … probably Grace making sure that I haven’t started the drive-bys on David’s house.

  HOLY SHIT. It’s DAVID! He called. He wants to meet.

  See, it’s all going to be okay. Just like in every movie, they come back. I have faith. He just needed to work his way through a bimbo to come back to the one he is supposed to be power-coupled with. It was one last fling. One last tryst. Right?

  I have a sick feeling in my stomach.

  I have totally mixed emotions. Here is my chance to tell him that he doesn’t deserve a woman like me. Tell him to piss off. Tell him … to “come on over”? How did that come out of my mouth? Have I gone off the deep end? Why am I letting him come over? Why can’t I say …

  “GO FUCK YOURSELF!”

  Why do I have no self-preservation when it comes to men?

  Bath, shave, hydrating mask, finger- and toenail polish touchup, slather makeup, perfume, blow-dry, mist with Evian, squeeze into 501s and a tight white sweater—with apron—as to appear to be cooking. Wine, dinner, candles, fireplace—all going.

  I open the door and we stand there gazing, he holds me in his arms, then he pushes me away.

  “We have to talk,” he growls, only now it’s not sexy anymore.

  Sitting in my office the next morning, all I can see is David from the night before telling me he was marrying the soap star.

  Phrases like “This is the hardest decision I ever had to make and you’ll always have a special place in my heart” play on a looped tape in my brain.

  BULLSHIT …

  I open the Hollywood Reporter, take the lid off my Starbucks and begin reading. There on page one is a picture of my ex-power prince, David, shaking hands with the CEO of our competitor … the headline reads:

  DAVID JENKINS THROWS IN WARNER TOWEL TO JOIN THE MICKEY MOUSE CLUB

  This has to be a mistake!

  At the moment I think I am going to throw up, JJ comes in my office. “Avery wants to see you.” She puts her head down and walks out.

  I immediately call Josh. He’ll know how to deal with Avery.

  “You never really realize how much someone is shielding you until they’re gone,” Josh echoes out of my speakerphone. “The mere fact that you were dating—associated with—someone of power meant you were … well … protected.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “You’re fucked. No longer an endangered species and it’s hunting season in the PR department. But don’t worry, Kitten, you’ve got a job here.”

  “I have to go. Anything I should or shouldn’t say?”

  “My advice would be to throw yourself on her mercy. Good luck.”

  As I walk through the hallway toward Avery’s office, assistants look up at me as I pass their desks. One woman actually peers out her doorway.

  I walk past David’s office, which is dark and locked up. He is nowhere to be found, Josh was right. I am totally fucked.

  “Fired?”

  Reason #10: You get fired.

  Did Avery just say fired?

  “You can’t fire me for this! That’s reverse sexual harassment. I’ll sue,” I respond. My boss produces a five hundredpage corporate handbook on policy and procedure and sets it on her desk with a THUMP.

  I took Josh’s advice and begged and pleaded. My boss, a woman, an angry executive … my mentor, Avery, gave me a second chance. Maybe it is just a woman thing to grant second chances. I went back to my office with my tail between my legs because it was the only option I had for my future.

  Dr. D. hands me a Kleenex. Hmm, I don’t remember when it was that I started crying. I blow my nose.

  “Why didn’t you just quit and take the job with Josh?”

  “I had to face the people who stereotyped me and change their point of view that I was the corporate hooker or I’d have no chance. I would be forever whispered about as the woman who slept with David Jenkins. The town’s too small. It could be at a party, convention, or in a boardroom, but that is how all of my peers would have remembered me.”

  “Smart. You didn’t run away. See, there’s hope for you yet.”

  Los Angeles is known for many things, but one of its more famous qualities is the ability to change your image. Whether it is a face-lift, new boobs, or your reputation, if you want it bad enough, you will get it in L.A. I needed major corporate image surgery.

  “I spent the next year wearing flat shoes and pantsuits to the office, but kept working. No Gucci stilettos, no sexy Melrose Place suits, no late lunches. When David got brought up, I admitted my mistake versus screaming at the top of my lungs that I had been duped by the biggest asshole alive. Self-deprecation, humor, and hard work got me through.

  “Avery is the one who told me to invest in pantsuits and flats. Thank God for female mentors. Who knows, maybe Avery, like me, had made this mistake and she knew how to survive it. I wasn’t alone. I can’t be the only one who ever slept with the boss and had the ugly office affair.”

  “I assure you, you’re not. But time’s up. I want you to do this again for the next man who didn’t work out. Okay?”

  I nod.

  Blowing my nose in the bathroom of Dr. D.’s office, I study my face in the mirror. Closer, closer. Pat some powder on my red nose, take a deep breath. David hadn’t killed me. David hadn’t kept me down. I am still here. I smile to myself. Still the same Em, hoping for love, knowing it’s coming. I turn and wad up my tissue and shoot it from the three-point range of the sink, and it lands in the garbage. I hold my hands in the air …“ahhhhhh!”

  Reason #10: You get fired.

  Reason #9: Crying at work is unacceptable.

  Reason #8: People will talk about how well you perform in bed versus how well you perform your job.

  Reason #7: If your friends, mentors, and co-workers think your boyfriend has ulterior motives, he probably does.

  Reason #6: If what you’re doing for your boyfriend can get you fired, stop doing him.

  Reason #5: If you have to hide your relationship, it isn’t worth hiding.

  Reason #4: If helping your boyfriend makes you lie to your friends, boss, and mentor, don’t help him.

  Reason #3: That which is considered scandal in a relationship is bad, really, real
ly, bad.

  Reason #2: If there are kitschy little sayings about the guy you’re dating, there is probably a universal reason why it is a bad idea.

  Reason #1: If your boss is bigger than life in your company, that doesn’t necessarily mean he is bigger than life in real life.

  Chapter three

  Leave It in St. Croix

  The Mustang pulls into a spot on Barrington and I run into the Starbucks on the corner of San Vicente for a quick, triple-venti, nonfat, no-foam, three-Sweet’n-Low-latte, stopping for a moment to listen to a boyish troubadour with a guitar praising the notion of sleeping the day away. How decadent, what a wonderful idea. I think for a split second about how opposite that is from my life right now as I shotgun and brace for the boost of energy. The latte goes down hot and fast, like I wish my new boyfriend would, and in moments I am …

  In Dr. D.’s waiting room.

  The door opens and he’s right there with that soothing voice, wrapping me up in his Xanax tone. His voice should be a prescription drug. I’m eager to know, “Do you think it’s weird that Stan, after three dates, doesn’t want to get naked? Doesn’t even try?”

  “Weird is not a behavior adjective I like to use.”

  “Well, we need to talk about it,” I say

  “Where’s his list? Have you even thought or tried to write one for Stan?”

  I interrupt, “He wore trunks to the beach, which was cool, but when he took them off he was wearing a little tiny Speedo. Granted, he did swim in the ocean for a while, but he was wearing a … banana hammock. I think that will bother me after a while. But I am not sure if it qualifies as a reason, it’s kinda like the waxed brows.”

  I change the subject. “Here’s my list for St. Croix guy.”

  I hand it over and slump back on the couch. It feels nice to relax, if even for a moment. My life has been a little hectic lately. My work has become my reason for being.

  I can remember a time when work was the furthest thing from my mind.