The Other Black Girl(87)
Nella tried to keep her face as impartial as possible, even though his lackadaisical tone about something as career-making as this irked her. Nothing needed to be that unpredictable. Richard had the power to pick her or Hazel; it was that simple.
Richard pushed himself back from the table with a self-satisfied sense of finality. “Well—I have to run into another meeting,” he said, standing, “but I hope this time has been useful to you. I wanted to let you know everything that’s been happening behind the scenes, one-on-one.”
Nella clenched her fists in her lap as she watched Richard stride toward the door, willing him to move faster. He needed to be gone, now, so she could fume in peace. His hand was on the doorknob when he paused and turned to address her once more. “Oh. And one last thing, Nella. I still remember when you told me about how you wanted to be the next Kendra Rae all those moons ago—and I think that you’re well on your way.”
She swallowed. “You do?”
“I can’t help but think of her when I see how hard you’ve been working,” said Richard. “How attentive you’ve been to detail. And I’ll say that…” He shook his head thoughtfully, closing his eyes. “I had a chat with Vera the other day about giving you a promotion in the next few weeks or so.”
“You did?” Nella asked, unable to conceal her astonishment. Between Richard’s putting Hazel on an equal pedestal to her, and her last few weeks at Wagner, she hadn’t felt like anyone thought she’d been doing a good job at all, despite how much of her social life she’d given up, and despite how quickly she answered the phone (an impressive 90 percent mid-first-ring rate). She’d even quietly fixed a few catastrophic production issues, then prevented the knowledge of their existence from ever reaching Vera at all. She felt—if she could be so proud—like the unsung hero of publishing at the moment.
But these measures hardly compared with her surrendering a typed-up apology to Colin Franklin. Such an act had taken an extreme amount of willpower, since it still didn’t feel necessary to Nella—but she’d done it. Simply because Vera had asked her to.
Except Vera had barely batted an eye at the extension of an olive branch. It wasn’t like Nella expected to get points for putting her tail between her legs—no Yay! You’ve put your pride aside to make this project more bearable for everyone, except for you—but she had expected some kind of proverbial pat on the back; at the very least, a thank-you. Instead, Vera had said, “Great,” then handed her yet another four-hundred-page manuscript to read in under forty-eight hours.
After months of giving everything to this job, she still felt as though she were doomed, stuck in assistant purgatory forever, like Donald. She could see her future spreading out right there in front of her—blotchy and precarious and filled with While You Were Out slips—and she hated how little control she felt like she had over any of it.
But now, here was Richard, smiling that dazzling smile, telling her he thought that yes, she was deserving of a promotion. And also deserving—possibly—of working with Jesse. If not directly, then at least meeting him.
She was still searching for something to say when Richard spoke again.
“You know, we see a great deal of amazing things in your future, Nella. We value you as part of the team, too, and it would be a shame for you to leave us just because we have one bad apple.”
Nella frowned, confused. “What? Leave?”
“I mean—I’m not saying we want you to leave,” said Richard, quickly. “I was just saying that getting letters—notes like those—might make you want to. That’s all.”
“Oh… but I’m not—”
“Just promise you’ll let me know if you get any other threatening letters. Alright?”
“Um…” Nella squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. “Alright.”
“And please—if you do get more, don’t throw them out. Give them to me instead. And if she—sorry, this person contacts you in any other way—email, text, what have you—we might be able to use them in our investigation.” Richard chuckled to himself. “?‘Investigation.’ Listen to me. Mr. Murder, She Wrote over here. But you know what I mean. Right?”
“Sure. I know what you mean.” Nella stood up, too.
“Good.” Richard strode over to her and gave her hand a shake. “We’ll be in touch soon about all that promotion business; we just need to get all our ducks in a row before we go forward with the official title change.”
Nella brightened, even as Richard’s cold, damp hand squeezed the life out of her own. “Sounds great.”
“Nice chatting with you, as always, Nella. And do remember: this whole conversation—Jesse, the letters, the promotion—”
“Between us.”
Richard bowed. “Until next time.”
Nella was still nodding even after she’d been left alone with her thoughts. She caught herself mid-bob, mildly embarrassed and majorly in pain as she pawed a few times at the cramp that now stretched beyond her neck and down to her right shoulder blade. Then she pulled out her phone to Google “Wagner Books.” Thankfully, no op-eds about her employer came up, only a few social media posts about books that had been published recently.
Nella exhaled slowly, the wave of relief washing over her like a ray of sunshine. But such light, she knew, could be fleeting—so she set a Google alert for her name right then and there. Just in case.