Jody Gehrman - Bombshell

More titters and guffaws ripple across the office. I have to think fast. I look at the clock. Seven minutes till two. My boss Felicity, aka The Stick, always returns to her desk by two. Assuming she didn’t check her phone during lunch, there’s still the narrowest chance I can save my job.

It’s a long shot, but I have to try.

Launching myself from my desk, I ignore the laughter and catcalls all around me and pound up the stairs to IT. It’s mostly guys up there, and they all stare openly as I sprint for Gopal’s desk.

“Did you see it?” I pant without preamble.

His dark eyes meet mine, puzzled. “See what?”

“I sent an email.” I pause to catch my breath and wipe the sweat from my forehead. “I meant to send it to my friend Wanda, but I must have gotten distracted and hit Reply All instead. Oh god, she’ll fire me. She’s been looking for an excuse. Please, you’ve got to help!”

“Calm down.” His face scrunches up with concern. “You’re going to have a heart attack if you don’t—”

“I’m serious! This is an emergency. I’m doomed.”

He turns to his computer screen. In a low voice he says, “What do you need me to do?”

I look around, aware now that stealth is called for. There’s a chair near his desk and I yank it closer, lowering my own voice to match his. “Can you delete it?”

“I can’t hide it from those who have seen it.”

I look at my watch: 1:55. “Please! She’ll be here any second.”

He bites his lip, his face conflicted. I’m asking him to do something that could get him fired. It’s highly unlikely—Gopal’s too good to be expendable—but it’s possible. I know it’s selfish of me, but I figure he’s got about a 9 percent chance of losing his job over this. I, on the other hand, have at least a 99.9 percent chance of losing mine if Felicity sees that email in the next five—no, four—minutes.

I implore him with my eyes.

He sighs and spins in his swivel chair to face his screen. His fingers fly over the keyboard. He squints. He mutters to himself. I hold my breath. Finally, at 1:58 p.m., I see the beautiful glowing words on his screen: Are you sure you want to delete this message from the server?

He casts a glance over his shoulder at me. “You owe me, Sugars.”

“I know! Forever!”

He hits a couple more keys, and the screen says Message deleted.

“You’re the best!”

“Mmm-hmm,” he agrees. “I expect a steady supply of gratitude for the rest of my life.”

“You’ve got it.”

* * *

When I get back downstairs, Felicity’s just stepping out of the elevator. Her sleek, closely-cropped hair sits like a dark helmet on her head—not a single strand out of place. Her navy skirt hugs her slim hips and her cream silk blouse is immaculately pressed. Her brown eyes meet mine; the pencil-thin eyebrows pull together as she frowns. No creases appear, though. She’s in her early thirties, tops, but she gets so much Botox her face is as smooth and plastic as a Barbie doll’s.

“Ah, Ruby. You’re here. Can I have a word, please?”

My heart, which is still running laps inside my rib cage, takes a flying leap for my throat. “Sure. Right now?”

She gives me a smile so cold it freezes my blood.

I manage to mumble, “Always have time for you.”

“Great.” She marches toward her office as I trail along in her wake.

Navigating the desks of the various copywriters, graphic designers, art directors and copyeditors, several snorts of muffled laughter reach my ears. Felicity stops, nostrils flaring. She’s obviously noticed, too. She looks at Dylan, who has just managed to bite back a guffaw.

“Something funny?” Her bird-like eyes search his face.

Dylan nudges Matt, who pretends to be engrossed in a report. “No! Nothing’s funny.”

Felicity turns to me, studies me briefly, then shrugs and glances back at Dylan. “Production meeting in an hour.”

“Roger that,” Dylan replies.

As she ushers me into her office and shuts the door. I try to get my sweat glands under control. My pulse is still racing, and I can feel big wet patches of perspiration soaking through my blouse. If there’s one thing Felicity can’t stand, it’s sloppiness. If she had her way, the entire world would be as sleek, cold and modern as her office, which resembles a futuristic Swedish hospital. Sitting in her deeply uncomfortable chrome-and-leather chair, I’m terrified I’ll sweat on the flawless suede.

“I suppose you got my email?”

I squirm, then force myself to sit still. “About Colin Wright’s visit?”

“Yes.” She studies me for a long moment. Did she see my reply? Maybe she checked her phone at lunch. Please, god, no. “You feel okay?”

“Of course!” I chirp. “Why do you ask?”

“You look a little feverish.” She reaches into her drawer and hands me a Kleenex. For a second I assume she’s anticipating an outburst. Here comes the ax. But then I see she’s gesturing, almost imperceptibly, at my forehead, and I realize I’m supposed to use the tissue to mop up my sweat. Lord, can this day get any more humiliating?

“Thanks.” I dab at my forehead, then wad the Kleenex into a ball.

“So, about Colin’s visit. I just want to make sure you understand how essential it is that we present a modern, streamlined image.” Her eyes travel over my body as I try to get comfortable in the tiny space-age chair. I feel like a hippo stuffed into a hatbox.

“Oh. Right.” I glance down self-consciously. Nobody on the planet makes me feel as fat and powerless as The Stick. It’s her superpower; one glance from those hard, sparkly eyes turns me into an obese, inbred deaf-mute.

“This business is all about image.” She grins, her facial muscles straining against their Botox restraints. “I just want to show Colin how on-trend we are. That makes sense, right?”

I nod, staring at my lap.

“I’ve started taking the most invigorating Pilates class.” She says it briskly, as if changing the subject. “Amazing how much it works the core.”

Am I paranoid, or is she actually glaring at my stomach? I suck in my belly and hold my breath, torn between mortification and fury.

I’m the lump in her porridge, the wrong sized cog in her machine. Over the past couple of years she’s assembled a creative team of skinny, fit, cosmetically perfect automatons. They’re members of her cult—they worship clean lines, motionless hair, perfect skin and bland ideas. She would have fired me long ago, except I’m the best copywriter she has. My inability to fit in with her twisted little vision of corporate perfection pisses her off every time she looks at me.

“Excellent!” She stands, signaling the end to our little chat.

As I make my way back to my desk, Simon looks up. “You fired yet, sweetheart?”

“Not yet,” I breathe.

But I knock on wood, just to be safe.

Chapter Two

Happy Hour

Wanda studies me over the rim of her martini glass. “So you dodged The Stick’s wrath. So what? She’s destroying your self-esteem. You know that, right?”

“Can you please not snatch my last shred of dignity?” I’m slurring my words and licking sauce from my fingers, so my dignity is out the window anyway. We’re lounging in a booth at Jo-Jo’s, our favorite happy-hour spot. It’s right near my work, which comes in handy on days like today, when it’s all I can do to stagger across the street and collapse into Jo-Jo’s shadowy depths. Between us sits a platter piled high with chicken bones. Wanda took one look at my face and insisted on a double order. She firmly believes any sorrow can be borne if you have enough gin and extra-spicy buffalo chicken wings.