I woke up the next Sunday morning with my body feeling hotter than California. Literally, I had a fever six degrees higher than the normal body temperature.
Dan had already left for work before I woke. I was back to being all alone in my house with nothing to do but take Billy for her daily walk and then spend the rest of my Sunday in bed watching poorly executed Netflix movies.
Saturday had given me a shocker with my name in the tabloid headlines. Sunday had given me a fever and no energy to do anything else other than catch up on shows and my beauty sleep. Then came Monday, which- according to the American system- was the first working day of the week. I liked Mondays. Everyone hated it and it still managed to do its thing. Very inspiring.
I was seated in my cubicle, starting up my clunky MacBook, ready to tackle whatever the day had in store for me with a newfound vengeance. Logging into my work inbox, I was pleasantly surprised to see a manageable number of unread emails waiting to be addressed. No wonder I loved Mondays so much. People were too miserable working to fret over their aesthetic troubles.
Dear Miss Manic,
Reading your column and blog are some of my favorite things to do. Your bits of advice are always so useful and your beauty hacks never ever fail!
Yesterday, I was by the beach working on my tan when I fell asleep. My little brother thought it would be a good idea to pull a prank on me and it turned out horribly wrong. While I was sound asleep, he took off my hat and covered my face with his Speedos instead. I woke up to find tan lines on my face resembling an underwear's outline. Please help me out of this mess. I'm on the verge of breaking down.
-Tanned & Distressed
Fixes like these were usual although this one, in particular, was an extra amount of weird. Most readers of the magazine #GetTrending were avid followers of my weekly column called 'Manic Makeovers' in which I helped most of the female audience out of the simplest or the weirdest fashion problems.
"Raspberry juice for the only morning person I know."
I looked up from my laptop to smile at Rodney's weary face. "Bless your heart," I said, taking the glass from his hand. "What would I ever do without you, Rod?"
"Exactly what you are doing with me, Monica. Nothing at all."
"Did you have your coffee yet?"
"I'm on my third cup."
"Go away before you set my workplace on fire."
"No promises, beautiful," he replied, leaning on my desk and slurping on his coffee. "But last night was totally worth it."
I hummed in response as I thought hard of a solution to Miss Tanned & Distressed's novel problem.
"So how was your weekend?"
"Glorious. Spent most of the time in bed; sick to the bone."
"Aw, you poor thing," he cooed, jutting out his bottom lip. "You could've called me. I mean, you were already hot with that temperature. I'd just help get things a little heavy and we'd be pretty set for the day." He winked suggestively. "If you know what I mean."
"And that is exactly why you've never crossed the residential parking lot. I cannot trust your intentions to be as sanitary as Dan's."
"Dan comes to you with pure intentions? Despite you being, well, you?"
I shrugged. "What can I say? He's a man with a lot of self-control." And a lot of self-preservation.
Before he could respond, Rod's face contorted with pain. "Fuck, I'm never drinking again."
With that statement- which would hold no value by the end of the day- he stumbled towards the washroom. Rodney, you see, was a guy who took his honey blonde, super soft hair more seriously than he took death threats. Even though he was straight, he was as gay as a straight person could ever be. I'm talking gay as in the stereotypical homosexual who judged you by your shoes and walked with a certain sway of their non-existent hips. Still, that didn't stop him from sticking a picture of Megan Fox in his wallet.
"Hey, Knightley." Tanya, the perpetually exhausted floor manager, peered over my cubicle wall. Her pretty brown eyes studied my little workspace, probably judging the direction in which my pen stand was facing.
"Tanya," I greeted, shooting her a quick smile before I got back to typing. "How have you been?"
"I've been great, thanks. How about you?"
"Yeah, me too."
Her fingers drummed a rhythm against the plastic divider. "So, I read the news this morning."
"That's nice. It's a good habit."
"Yeah, well, I read it every day."
"Even better."
She cleared her throat. "I read the news about you and Edward Moseby."
My hands stopped typing. I should've seen her question coming from a mile away. Monica Knightley's salacious behavior was going to be the trending gossip for weeks to come. Scandal was the oxygen that kept my colleagues up and functioning.
"It was on the front page of most of the tabloids. If you hadn't read about it, I would suggest you ditch whichever newspaper you're subscribed to and refer to Buzzfeed instead."
Her eyes held the same judgmental look, only this time it had amplified about ten times. "This isn't funny, Knightley. Do you have any idea how your actions have affected our readership?"
"What does an absurd rumor have anything to do with my column's readership?" I asked in confusion. "I am the one being called a cheating gold digger, not the magazine."
"Time for a reality check, honey. Guess who you work for?" Tanya pushed a lock of dark hair behind her ear. "You know that you represent the relatable side of #GetTrending- the lovechild of Mary Poppins and Fix-It Felix who has the solution to every kind of sticky situation one could fall in."
"Why, thank you. It's a gift--"
"Ever since news of your sleazy little "adventure" wreaked havoc on Friday night, downvotes on Miss Manic's blog posts have increased by twelve percent. There's a steep surge in hate comments and someone even started a Boycott Miss Manic thread on Reddit."
Is that why my inbox was so quiet this morning?
Clearly, infidelity only looked good to people when the Kardashians and their best friends did it. Fashion and lifestyle columnists will get downvoted and abandoned at the slightest misunderstanding. What a two-faced generation we lived in.
Tanya looked down at me with a sigh. The disappointment in her eyes had reduced to sympathy and tired affection. "You're not the only one who loves Daniel Shaw, you know. There are always going to be three people in your relationship- you, the Daniel Shaw, and half of the female American population."
"Pretty sure that's more than three people."
"The least you can do right now is catching my drift."
She was shoved to the side with an 'oof' as Rod invaded my workspace, breathing heavily and dabbing at his neck with a napkin.
"Threw up too much?" I asked. Focusing on Rod's borderline alcoholism seemed like the easier option than thinking about the damage I had caused to my professional image in the span of two days. Distractions had helped me through the weekend, after all.
He clicked his tongue. "Didn't throw up at all, just fixed my hair and came back."
"This is the fifth time you've come to work hungover. One more time and I will ban your daily dose of caffeine," I warned.
"Fine. I'll drink during the day then."
"I pity your liver."
"YOLO, right?"
Tanya cleared her throat, making both of us glance at her. "Kumar," Rodney spoke first, "I was about to come and return your ass to you."
She frowned in confusion. "My ass?"
"Yeah, I found it sitting in Monica's business again."
Tanya glared daggers at Rodney. "Don't push your luck, Parrish. You may not be employed to see the end of it."
See what I meant by threats? Rod got blackmailed like this every day but not all of them were as easy-going as Tanya's. She may be the floor manager and directly answerable to Cruella but that didn't faze Rodney. Despite only being a trainee at one of the most competitive publishing houses in all of New York, Rod's greatest fear still managed to be running out of hair mousse during the apocalypse.
"Anyway, that's not why I'm here."
"That's strange," Rod muttered. Plucking a cherry from my fruit bowl and popping it into his mouth. "If it wasn't to pick up on some juicy gossip, why did you come here?"
Tanya's jaw tightened. "Boss called. She's waiting for the two of you up there."
Up where? Up in Hell playing Russian roulette with Satan? Oh, how I wish that was the case but sadly, by 'up there' Tanya was talking about Cruella's office on the twentieth floor. I am willing to bet half of my closet that she kept her office all the way on the top floor just to feed her I'm-above-you-all complex and feel better about herself.
An upsetting feeling of dread crept into my gut. I really had done it this time. All those instances when I worked solely on impulse were beginning to catch up with me. When will I learn to think before I act? I took a sip of the juice to wet my parched throat. "Did she say what for?"
"It's pretty obvious, isn't it? Oh, she also mentioned an initial draft of the upcoming issue."
Her words hung in the air as my world fell to a pin drop silence.
Monthly Makeover...early draft...forty-eight hours...
I turned to stare at Rodney who was looking paler than the new MAC lipstick that came out last week. "Monica," he said, voice cracking. "You prepared a draft, right?"
I gulped, shaking my head and watched the remaining color drain from his face. Apart from writing a weekly column, I was also required to design and execute a monthly assignment. It could be anything but because Cruella was a perfection-seeking cyborg, she always wanted it to be something unconventional. Last month, Rodney and I had put together a list of summer outfits for all those who shopped on a budget. We were pretty satisfied with it and the readers were too but of course, my boss wasn't. These projects were featured under the 'Monthly Makeover' section although its contents were never really related to actual makeovers.
"That's alright." He laughed in a measly attempt to lighten the mood. "She gave us forty-eight hours; there's still some time left."
The rising panic in my chest came to a momentary halt. Did I mention Rodney was dumber than all the lamp posts in New York combined? "She called you Saturday morning," I said. Tonya watched us with sadistic pleasure. "How many hours make a day, Rod?"
He zoned out, staring into space for a whole minute. "Twenty four, I believe."
"How many days has it been since Saturday?"
"Two."
"And how many hours does that make?"
He zoned out again. His lips moved in discreet calculation. "What, around thirty-four?"
I pinched the bridge of my nose while Tanya scoffed. "Wrong. It makes forty-eight hours. With Monday already in full swing, we're seven hours past the deadline."
That seemed to be a lot of figures for Rodney's brain to process. I patiently counted until ten before his eyes widened upon realization. "Oh, my God!" he gasped, "Have you prepared anything Monica? Something? Anything at all?"
"I was bedridden with the flu, remember? Did you prepare anything?"
"I'm still a trainee here, FYI."
"As a trainee, you're supposed to at least remind me. Where's the initiative, huh?"
"Listen, I only came here for the paycheque and the PR packages."
I turned away from his entitled expression. Panic rose in my chest like a nasty acid reflux. "Too bad we're in this together. Should the need arise, I'm going to make sure Cruella digs a grave big enough for the both of us."
~ ~ ~
I stood with my back towards the city, my hands resting on the metal handlebar as we made our way up to the twentieth floor. Rodney's face was scrunched in deep thought as he paced about the glass-walled elevator. "We have a few minutes until we reach her office. Let's brainstorm something right now and own it."
With the potential threat to our jobs, and possibly our lives, anything seemed like a better idea than going up to De Vil empty-handed.
"How about a series of makeup hacks?"
"Too cliché." I waved it away. "Maybe types of shoes and the perfect way to pair them?"
"We did it five months ago."
"You remember. She probably doesn't."
He stared at me, deadpan. "Correct me if I'm wrong but didn't she thrash you for something last month?"
I looked away, focusing on the early morning Manhattan traffic and how the cars looked like little toys rolling up and down the streets. "She did."
"What was it for?" He tapped his chin in deep thought. "Do remind me. I seem to have completely forgotten."
"She didn't like last month's initial draft."
"Oh, why not?"
"We'd already done it before."
"How long before, exactly?"
I clenched my jaw, turning to glare at Rodney's smug face. "A year ago."
He resumed pacing about the tiny space, satisfied that his point had been conveyed.
"How about we write an issue over Marilyn Monroe's classic style?" I asked, a glimmer of hope shining from behind Rodney's head. "As far as I remember, we haven't done that one yet."
He mulled over it for a while. Thinking it through like the safety of America's population rested on his shoulders. "Not bad. We could give it a shot."
As if on cue, the elevator doors slid open. The last time my heart had raced this fast was when I was late to the first day of sale at Zara, fearing that the faux mink fur vests had already been sold out. Thankfully, they hadn't. I wasn't sure if I'd get so lucky today, though.
We warily stepped out of the elevator. Unlike our workplaces downstairs, the twentieth floor was as immaculately designed as her Cruella's dressing. Natural light, flooding in from the ceiling-to-floor windows that spanned to either end of the floor, bathed the surroundings in an ethereal sunny glow. Sophisticated tan leather couches lined one side of the lobby and were paired with low mahogany tables. Delicate crystal vases propped with fresh daisies sat atop each table, bringing the room together by reinforcing the warm tones and elegant design. Even the secretary's hair was rich brown like her gleaming skin. She asked us to wait while 'Mrs. Bordeaux' finished her meeting.
While we squirmed on the plush sofas, our palms sweaty and nerves jittering, I couldn't help but shift under the secretary's foul stare. She was giving me the 'Manhattan Once over'- the act of judging a person's social standing by scanning his/her choice in clothes- something that was extremely common here, in Manhattan.
Another member of the Boycott Miss Manic movement.
Rodney got to his feet, wiped his glistening forehead with his napkin and began reading the archived articles that were framed along the length of the opposite wall. He stopped at one, studying the last frame longer than the rest. When he called my name, his voice was barely above a hoarse whisper. Apprehensively, I walked to his side and studied the frame that had succeeded in shutting up Rodney Parrish.
The spread was recent- published only six months ago. It was an issue of Monthly Makeover I didn't recognize which was strange since I'd been working at #GetTrending for over a year now. The title was--
MARILYN MONROE: A STUDY ON MAKING TIMELESS STATEMENTS WITH CLASS
I checked the date on the issue. It was from around the same time I was styling Dan for his debut shoot. Unbelievable. I had worked two grueling years in this office and the only article to reach Cruella's infamous Hall of Fame was the one I hadn't written. Thank you for the morale boost, Mrs. Bordeaux.
"Marilyn Monroe's been done," Rod whispered, glassy-eyed.
My shoulders ached as the weight of impending doom began to settle on my conscience. This is my fault. If only I hadn't fallen so sick. "We should tell her the truth."
Rodney sucked in a sharp breath. "Are you out of your--"
The door to Cruella's office swung open, making our heads snap in its direction. A group of sharply dressed men exited, smiling tightly as they passed. Due to obvious reasons, neither Rodney nor I were able to return their stoic gesture.
"She's waiting," the secretary supplied after the men had long departed and we were still glued to our places.
"Don't tell her the truth, Monica," Rodney said as we made our way to Cruella's office. "I am not Jesus. I will not die for your sins!"
He had a point but it was already too late. We were now standing in the middle of a sleek, spacious room with stylized with inky black interior. It was illuminated by a spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline.
The person to whom this room belonged to was talking animatedly on the phone. Not a strand of fine white hair was out of place in her pixie cut. She pointed one wrinkly manicured finger and gestured for us to wait. She set her phone gently on her desk and folded her arms. I struggled to meet her gripping grey eyes.
"Monica, Rodney. Never on time, are you?"
The courage I had carefully built crumbled to bits around me.
"Out of all the employees in this building, you both are the most consistent."
The way she said those words, could I risk the luxury of taking them as a compliment?
"Not once have you ever failed to disappoint me."
Compliments and my boss? Pffsh...only when pigs fly.
"Rodney, do you mind waiting outside for a minute." It wasn't a question but an unyielding command.
Baby blues widening to the size of saucers, Rod swallowed. He looked at me, wordlessly apologizing for something he couldn't even be blamed for. The concern in his eyes was for me. Even in the face of long term unemployment, I was touched by his misplaced sympathy.
Cruella watched my partner exit the room. Her pursed lips were a bright red line. "Is the T.I.U event report ready? Or were you too busy throwing yourself on unsuspecting men?"
"It's ready," I said evenly because the report was the one thing I hadn't forgotten to complete. "I have it on my computer. I'd be glad to have you--"
"That won't be necessary." She cut me off. "You have brought the name of our magazine back in the news with another one of your scandals."
I ground my teeth together, stopping myself from bursting out in frustration. "The incident is being portrayed thoroughly out of context--"
"Upholding the column's image should be your top priority at all times." She put on a pair of tortoiseshell glasses and studied something on her iPad. "I hate repeating myself, Monica."
When it came to Cruella, I was as defiant as an abandoned lollipop is to the invading ants and flies. "I deeply regret it, Mrs. Bourdeaux. If you let me--"
Cruella sighed at the screen. "Your readership is a bigger mess than usual. The hate on our social media would be enough to give Napolean an existential crisis. Thank your lucky stars that no sponsors have pulled out yet."
I was at a loss of words. Tanya must've begged the patrons for their cooperation. From being a self-sufficient, popular columnist I was now reduced to a liable employee surviving on the goodness of my seniors.
Taking her spectacles off and pressing a button on the landline, Cruella asked her secretary to summon Rodney.
"Ma'am?" Rod's flustered face appeared in the doorway.
"Did you inform Monica about the advance report I had asked for?"
Rod's knees wobbled as he stepped into the room. "Yes, ma'am."
I could feel her eyeing me with her patent look- an accusing mixture of disappointment and inconvenience. "Consider the next Monthly Makeover your last chance at redeeming yourself. Failure to do so will not only cost you your job but also every reference call I might receive from then on. Make sure you sign your warning letter on your way out."
The room had suddenly grown very cold. Even with the editor-in-chief willing to give me a final chance, it seemed like a crumbly bone being thrown at a hopelessly abandoned and lonely dog a.k.a me. Her cold, expectant stare and the endless azure sky behind her only deepened that crippling sense of desolation. Something warm touched my elbow.
The fog lifted as a voice whispered. "Come on. She wants us to sit."
Blinking back the haze in my mind, I did as I was told. This was not the time for indulging in self-pity or wallowing in regret. It was time to give Cruella exactly what she worshipped- results. Rodney sat in the black leather chair facing mine while Cruella's desk lay by our side. I willed my breathing to slow down. Focus.
"Well, then, where is it?"
"It's ready," I said while at the same time Rodney said- "I am so sorry."
Silence.
Rodney had decided to go with my idea while I had decided to go with his. Miscommunication was the last thing we needed right now. He started before I could jump in. "I mean, I left the hard copy of the document at home. I'm so sorry, ma'am, this is highly unprofessional on my part." He looked genuinely apologetic. I wondered if there really was a hard copy sitting in his house.
"I do not expect professionalism from either of you," Cruella muttered, "As highly unacceptable as your actions are, Rodney, I am curious about what you both have planned for the coming month's assignment."
A boulder dropped into the pit of my stomach. While I wondered how Rodney would carry on with his claim, I noticed that the center of attention wasn't him anymore. It was me.
Well, boss, that makes three of us because we don't have the slightest idea of what we're talking about. We are simply digging ourselves a deep, deep, grave.
I felt like a deer caught in the headlights. Both sets of eyes- boss' expectant while Rod's pleading- peered at me. If I told her that there existed no such report, Rodney would permanently lose hope in humanity. Not to mention, I would lose every chance of pursuing a career in fashion.
Come on, Monica! The first thing that pops in your head- just say it!
"Well," I began, buying myself time by licking my lips and straightening my back. "As all our previous works have mostly been based on series, hacks or convenient fashion, I was thinking of..." What was I thinking of? "Something different."
Wow, Monica. Something different. As if that wasn't obvious enough. Cruella did not look amused. Rodney was on the verge of hyperventilating.
"What I mean is," I started again. My creativity nowhere in sight when I needed it. "Since Manic Makeovers has come such a long way and has been our most-read section for so long--"
"I am aging at the sound of your tediousness, darling."
"A real makeover," I blurted, "Since it's also a reference to the column name, I was thinking of documenting an... actual makeover."
That seemed to have caught her attention because now her cold eyes shone with unexpected interest. Her head bobbed in a slow nod. "A real makeover will involve a candidate. A badly dressed candidate, to be precise. I assume you have already picked someone who perfectly fits the criteria."
"Of course." Not.
"Oh, the suspense."
My mind shifted into overdrive. Who was in desperate need of a makeover? To my absolute shock, I didn't have to think twice.
"BO--Edward," I said, my brain had lost control over my tongue. I caught Rodney let out a strangled breath. "Edward Moseby. You see, I met him at the university during the event. While I helped him improve his dire appearance, I was unfortunately mistaken to be indulging in something more...promiscuous. I am certain that changing his style would benefit both him and the magazine."
This was good. By involving BOC I might even be able to repair the damage I inflicted on the readership. Maybe even get that Reddit thread shut down.
Cruella stared at me for a long, nerve-wracking moment. I fought the urge to shrink, or maybe it was the urge to lower myself and lay in a fetal position on the carpeted floor. "Very well." Momentary relief made my knees go weak. "But keep in mind the Mosebys and I maintain a very close and respectful relationship. Even the smallest complaint of unrefined behavior will mean immediate termination for both of you."
Abort mission, I repeat, abort mission!
If I was shocked by Cruella's last statement, I was completely gobsmacked when Rod cleared his throat and said, "You will get no such complaints, Mrs. Bourdeaux. You have our word."
"I expect full details on what you've planned and the client's signed contract agreement on my table by Wednesday morning."
"It's happening as we speak." Rod smiled convincingly.
After being dismissed with a flick of her wrist, we were now back in the spacious elevator. I stood there, recollecting every haunting moment that had taken place in that office. The situation, in all its dreadful glory, crashed on to me with tremendous force. Deadlines, threats, false assurances, and the potentially premature death of a lifelong dream began to stack themselves like cinderblocks in my windpipe. I rested a trembling hand on the metal handrail for support. The sound of my heart pounding drowned out Rod's voice as I struggled to hear what he was saying. Failing to breathe and collapsing to the floor, it didn't take me long to realize that I was suffocating.
________________________________________________________