The Assistants(48)

“Can I go back to the table now?” Emily asked.

“We’re probably going to have to do an interview,” I said. “What are you going to answer when a reporter asks how we got here?”

Emily aligned her posture and locked her jaw. “I’ll simply tell the truth. That I didn’t always know what I wanted to do, but I always knew the woman I wanted to be.” She tipped her drink toward me. “Diane von Furstenberg said that. I think she was talking about how she invented the wrap dress, but it applies here, too.”

I gave up then and let Emily return to our table. At least she had a role model whose quotes she could bootleg, which was more than I could say for myself. I shuffled my One Stars upon the distressed wooden floor and watched Emily reclaim her seat, maintaining her perfect posture. Only Emily, Ginger, Wendi, and Lily were sitting. Everyone else fluttered around them. Like moths to a bug light.

I disagreed with Emily. These girls were looking to us for something more than just money. But I wasn’t sure that we could actually give it to them. I wanted to, I really did. I wanted the Tina Fontana train to be real.

—

IT WAS the Friday morning before our launch party when Robert snuck up behind me. “I hear you’re hosting some kind of charity shindig.”

I jumped at the sound of his voice before the literal threat of his statement could set in.

“Did you?” I swiveled my chair around.

“I’m surprised you didn’t come to me,” he said.

Pause.

“We are the media, you know.” He was polite enough not to say “I am the media,” but that’s what he meant.

“Oh, it’s just a little thing,” I said. “Something I got roped into helping out with.”

“It doesn’t sound little.”

I started to sweat.

Instead of heading into his office like I’d hoped he would, Robert brought one of his brogues up on top of my drawer stand and leaned in.

“I never knew you were such an activist,” he said.

“I’m not.” I laughed nervously. “I’m really not.”

Robert stared deep into my eyes, still with his leg up. “I wish you would have come to me, Tina. Before you went ahead with all this. You’re a representation of this company, you know. And of me.”

“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.” I looked around aimlessly—at the silent screens flashing today’s news in Robert’s office, at a quartet of fresh-faced interns being trained on the coffeemaker, at Dillinger across the way trying to listen in on our conversation.

Robert leaned in closer. “If you’re unhappy here, or with your salary . . . Or if you think things are unfair . . .”

“I’m not. It’s not. It isn’t even about me.”

“But you started it,” Robert said in a tone reminiscent of a sandbox argument. He shot a forbidding glance around the office to divert anyone from staring.

It occurred to me just then—Robert’s tone. It wasn’t challenging or aggressive or even belligerent. He was making this out to be about the company’s image, or his reputation, but that wasn’t it at all. It was far simpler than that: I’d hurt his feelings.

If there was one thing I understood about Robert, it was how important it was to him that you mind your manners. Think before you speak, he’d always say. Think before you do. And if you make a mistake, be a man and own up to it. Make it right.

I didn’t think about how it would make Robert feel to hear about the launch from some website or, worse, one of his employees—but I should have. It was a matter of pride and a matter of respect.

I should have told him first.

So I adjusted my tone accordingly. “Shoot,” I said. “I really screwed up. I didn’t intend for this whole thing to become what it has, you’ve got to believe that. Other people got involved, and—”

“It’ll be fine.” Robert waved his hand dismissively. He stepped back and took his balls out of my face. “I just wish you would have come to me and talked to me about it. After all we’ve been through together.”

After all we’ve been through together. I could literally feel my heart breaking.

I stood up then, which was a massive gesture on my behalf.

“Robert.” I shocked us both by taking his hand. “What can I do to fix this? Tell me. I’ll do anything.”

“Forget it.” He tugged his hand away, embarrassed—I’d gone too far.

“But I’m sorry,” I said, and I truly was. “I’ll do everything I can, to make sure this doesn’t . . .”

What? Get any more out of hand? Who was I kidding?

“Good.” Robert’s dark eyebrows settled. And it seemed like he was about to say more when Glen Wiles arrived like a whirlwind for their daily meeting.

“Tina,” Wiles said. “I hear you’re the mastermind behind this new socialist website that’s about to launch. That true?”

“Leave her alone,” Robert said, protective in a fatherly way that made me silently swear an oath to somehow, someday, pay him back every cent. “When you have a free moment, Tina, would you fix us a cocktail?” Robert led Wiles into his office and closed the door.

In the meantime, I’d do the only thing I could do—fix him the best tequila with lime this side of Texas.