Julie Kistler - More Naughty Than Nice

“Maybe. But you do a better presentation. Together we’re unbeatable.”

“Except for the fact that we’ve been beaten. By Missy, of all people. Missy.” Her voice filled with contempt as she went on, “At our last meeting for the Glam line, Missy actually proposed strawberry as a flavor for lip gloss. Like strawberry hasn’t been overdone to death. Like strawberry didn’t score in the low twenties with the focus group. Strawberry! It would be funny if it weren’t so sad. You’d think we were marketing to six-year-olds. When he told me he was giving her the promotion, my jaw just dropped. I told him about the strawberry fiasco. And he didn’t even care.”

“That’s the whole reason he likes her,” Anna argued. “Think about it. She’s stupid enough that she will never threaten his job.”

Stephanie shook her head. “Nope. It’s that he wants to boink her.”

“Findlay? He would never do that.”

“Blond, boobs, boinkability. The whole package,” she said gloomily. “It’s so unfair.”

“I still don’t think he would do that,” Anna persisted.

“Oh, I don’t think he would, either. But he wants to. As long as he wants her but doesn’t have her, he’ll keep her around.” Staring into space, she kept a firm grip as she sloshed her wide martini glass back and forth. “See, that’s our problem, Anna. No one wants to boink us. What’s wrong with them, anyway? We’re perfectly boinkable.”

“Perfectly,” Anna agreed.

“Men are such dolts.”

“Totally. Dolt-o-rama.”

“And I just don’t get why a man like Mr. Findlay, who actually has a brain, would be thinking with his…” She trailed off. It was the curse of being a nice girl. She didn’t use words like that in public, even under the influence of alcohol. Missy did, of course. Missy. It was just pathetic. “I still can’t believe he gave her my promotion. Do you know what he said to me? He said, ‘If you want promotions, you need goals, Stephanie. A five-year plan. Marriage—that’s your five-year plan, isn’t it? Ha ha.’ It’s insulting.”

“But you’re as into your career as anyone. Why would he say that?”

She shrugged. “Because I don’t push myself forward, waving my hand, going, me, me, me! I don’t demand promotions or raises or perks or…anything.” Exasperated, she added, “We’re the same, Anna, you and me. We’re not flashy. We’re more in the background. And what’s wrong with being in the background? What’s wrong with being support staff instead of stars?”

“You’re expendable,” Anna said flatly. “Not only do you not get promoted, you get fired.”

“Oh, Anna, I’m so sorry!” Stephanie said quickly. She couldn’t believe she’d been rattling on about her stupid nonpromotion when Anna had it a lot worse. “What they did is so unfair. Goons like Missy make bad choices, the company bleeds accounts right and left, and you get laid off. It makes me want to quit, too.”

“It’s depressing. Especially at Christmas. I don’t mind leaving so much—it’s always bothered me that I didn’t feel really respected, you know? But still…a job’s a job.”

Stephanie leaned closer, trying to exude sympathy. “You’ll find something else in the New Year. You’re too good!”

“I don’t care about getting laid off. I’d have to leave, anyway, after what happened today. It was so humiliating.” Anna exhaled a long breath. “I made a fool of myself over Fred in Accounting.”

“Well, I know you made him a turkey for Thanksgiving, but what’s wrong with that?”

But Anna wasn’t listening. Staring into the depths of her drink, she muttered, “It was after they sent out the layoff e-mails. I was cleaning out my desk, and Fred stopped by. And suddenly I’m thinking, well, okay, I got laid off, but I wasn’t that crazy about working here, anyway, and this could brighten things up. Balance things out, you know? So I’m sitting there, grinning up at him like a goon, with my chubby little fingers crossed. Is he going to ask me? Is he going to ask me? Oh, goodie. He’s opening with the Christmas party. That must mean he’s going to ask me!”

Stephanie leaned in. “So what did he say?”

“He asked me whether I knew any cute girls I could fix him up with at the last minute because he was desperate to have a date for tonight,” Anna said darkly. “Like he never thought, for one second, he could ask me. I made him a turkey for Thanksgiving. With trimmings! And yet even when he’s dying for a date, I’m not good enough. Like what am I, turkey-girl of the Western Hemisphere?”

“Of course not,” Stephanie shot back. “You’re adorable. And wonderful. And much too good for that jerk.”

“Jerk is right. He probably ran right down the hall and asked Missy.”

“Missy,” Stephanie said with a sneer. She was starting to feel outraged all over again. “It’s a joke. We are so much more in tune with the Glam demographic. I mean, you and I, Anna, we know where the 18-to-25-year-old woman eats and drinks, her favorite colors, what CDs and videos she buys, who she wants her hair cut like and what celeb she wants to sleep with and why.”

“We’ve got our demographic cold,” Anna said sadly. “And nobody cares.”

“I care. I care about our demographic. I care about all those poor 18-to-25-year-olds who are going to be pushed into buying the wrong cosmetics because stupid Missy is in charge.” Resolute, Stephanie raised her glass. “I promise you this, Anna. I will not let my demographic down. I will do what I can to combat the Missies of this world, so that the 18-to-25-year-olds coming up will not be forced to wear strawberry lip gloss in the pursuit of the Glam lifestyle.”

“You go, girl!” Anna stopped. “But how are you going to do that?”

Stephanie thought for a long moment, but nothing came to her. Finally, she set her cocktail glass back down on the table. “I don’t know yet.”

Narrowing her eyes, Anna chewed on the end of a maraschino cherry stem. “There has to be some way we can use what we know. We’ve worked so hard.”

“Exactly. And I know we can think of something. We’re smart, we’re committed and we have a lot to say.” Warming to her topic, Stephanie declared, “The women of the twenty-first century need to know what we have to tell them.”

“Like how to turn the tables.” Her friend smiled gleefully. “Like, what are you thinking, girls? You do not need to get hooked up with some loser and let him bring you down.”

“Exactly,” Stephanie said firmly. “Like you should never sit around waiting for a man to call. Better yet, you should sleep with whoever you want and then not take his calls or return his messages. Better the dumper then the dumpee, you know?”

“This is good, Steph!”

“The women of tomorrow should do what they want, when they want. Forget marriage. Forget all those nasty bonds that only benefit the men.” Marriage—that’s your five-year plan, isn’t it, Stephanie? Mr. Findlay’s mocking words played back in her mind, spurring her on. “We’ll come right out and say, hey, bucko, I want to sleep with you, but you can darn well do your own laundry and pick out your own ties and, and—”

“And make your own Thanksgiving turkey!”

“And trimmings! We should never share our money, our closets or our bathrooms—”

“Oooh. Bathrooms. Excellent one,” Anna chimed in. “No fighting over seats up, seats down, which way the toilet paper roll goes, any of that.”

“Because we don’t need them or any of their baggage!”

Anna’s volume rose as she came in with, “You are so right! Not in my bathroom! Not with your baggage! But lots of sex. Everywhere, anywhere, all the time! Sex!”

Stephanie suddenly noticed all the attention they were getting in the crowded bar. Anna went on, blithely indifferent, bouncing on her barstool and slamming a fist into the air, as her voice grew increasingly louder.