The fact of the matter is the print magazine industry is dying. Some of our brands have pivoted successfully into the digital space, but other editors in chief are dragging their feet.
And our CEO is letting them.
“You think Dougie Dawson is damaging LC?” I ask her.
Tracy’s mouth presses into a firm, displeased line. “Yes. We need change, and we needed it yesterday. I don’t know why our CEO isn’t fixing anything, but I seem to be the only person concerned.”
“Well, that’s…” I hesitate, biting my lip. “That’s a violation of his fiduciary duty.”
As the words leave my mouth, I brace myself to get smote for blasphemy, but Tracy doesn’t backpedal or tell me I crossed a line.
She says, “It would be helpful to me … and it would be in the best interest of the company … if I could learn the root cause of the hatred between our CEO and chairman.”
What Tracy isn’t saying comes across loud and clear.
Get Alex to tell you the truth.
I don’t fully understand why she’s divulging all this to me, why she’s asking me specifically to do this, and not for the first time, I try to get inside Tracy’s head.
I work with Alex Harrison closely.
I’m around his age.
She thinks if I really try, I can get him to spill.
Maybe. Maybe I could. But the word “yes” can’t get past my lips because the image of him, shoulders hunched while he got berated by Robert, is telling me to be careful with him. Alex is fragile right now. Maybe digging for and then relaying information about his dubious father is an even more dubious thing to do.
I’ve never liked underhandedness. It makes my skin itch, my muscles feel tight, and when it comes to Alex, that uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my gut is doubled, tripled. So badly, I wish I could say to Tracy, Why can’t you just ask him yourself?
“Please help me, Casey,” Tracy says. Heart’s on your sleeve, I warn myself. She’s reading my hesitation. “You know me, and I know you. This isn’t about petty gossip. It’s important.”
“Okay,” I breathe in the next instant. “I’ll try.”
Maybe I would have deliberated longer if I trusted Tracy less, or thought more highly of Robert and Dougie, or wasn’t dying to know the truth myself. But once, Tracy helped me, and now she’s calling it in. I owe her.
She nods, satisfied with my answer. She opens her mouth to say something else, but Benny comes into the break room right then, humming the Hamilton soundtrack under his breath. Tracy breaks eye contact with me and steps away.
“You can have the last slice of banana bread,” she tells me, and then walks out the door.
The sound of Benny opening the fridge interrupts my train of thought. “What was that about?” he asks. “She had her boss lady expression on. You in trouble, Maitland?”
“Erm.” I grasp for a fib. I’ve always been a great secret keeper, but lying is something that makes my neck clammy and my heart race. I open my mouth to make up something mind-numbingly boring, but as if Benny can sense it, he talks first.
“Actually, in the interest of my mental health, I’ve decided not to care.”
My middle finger sticks up as Benny throws me a wicked grin from behind the refrigerator door. All I can see is an annoyingly well-moisturized face and shoulders blanketed in a sky-blue pashmina.
“Your loss,” I hedge. “It was juicy.”
Benny rolls his eyes, playing into my reverse psychology like a horse led to water. “Casey.” He shakes his head as he grabs his Guava Goddess kombucha from the fridge. “If I’ve learned anything from you about finance, it’s that it’s never, ever juicy.”
I roll my eyes back for good measure, grab the banana bread out of the toaster, and stomp out of the break room. Benny follows me all the way back to my desk.
“Casey,” Fari whines as I drop into my chair. “I’m sick of reconciliations.”
“Why are you doing reconciliations? Pawn that shit off on Accounting.”
Her nose wrinkles. “I can’t just pawn shit off. I’m a freshman!”
I laugh, uncapping a highlighter, and think to myself, This is it. If I had to boil down why I like working in finance, I’d do it by explaining month-end.
It’s a little bit of a con we’re running here: convincing people of the incredibly high stakes and very intense difference between 7 percent and 8.5 percent ROI. But at the same time, that 1.5 percent really does matter, and if you can find it, if you can make it happen, it sometimes feels bigger than anything else you’ve ever accomplished. Because it could mean a project green light, or maybe a new hire, somebody getting a bonus that helps them finally afford their dream vacation. I’ve always loved the idea that numbers I analyze might help somebody’s dreams come true, and I’ve always hoped I’m not simply lining the CEO’s pocket.
“Right.” I nod to Fari. “I forgot we haze with reconciliations. Carry on.”
Benny sits on the edge of my desk and smirks. “As a junior in adulthood, I demand you each bring me a fanciful, luxurious coffee on Monday. I’ll rank whose choice is better, and the loser has to answer the phone the next time the COO’s ex-wife calls.”
I eye Benny suspiciously. “Why are you in such a good mood?” He’s one of those people who are only allowed to approach you, not the other way around. When he comes to see me and Fari, it’s either in a state of flurried commotion or because he’s in the mood to fuck around.
“It’s month-end,” Benny answers, examining his multicolored fingernails. “During month-end, everyone else gets so stressed out, they block their calendars all day. No executive babies to corral, since they’re holed up in their offices, figuring out how to blame each other for missing last month’s targets.”
“I’m so glad our misery can be your pleasure,” I intone.
“Pipe it down with the attitude, chica.” He taps my forehead, scolding me like a toddler. “I heard about your playdate with Alex yesterday. It sounds like Fari’s the one doing the legwork around here. You better get to it. Double-time now.”
“Go away, Benny. I have a playdate with the income statement.”
He laughs, face pointed at the ceiling. “I love it when I’m happy and you’re not.”
I scowl as he walks away. Fari snorts from her cube.
The next three hours are spent reviewing expense line items until my eyes bleed. After that, I double-check the reconciliations Fari wasn’t sure about and then make Don’s hedge numbers pretty.
“If we make the numbers pretty,” he tells me, “we might get bonuses.”
It’s incentive enough to take my time making his summary shine.
At some point in the midafternoon, Miriam texts, Today my Co-Star app told me yes to karaoke and no to hibernation. Therefore, I need you drunk, loose lipped, and ready for a duet when I get off my shift at midnight.
I reply, let’s run it back.
Around six thirty, Fari taps out. I high-five her as she leaves. Don is gone fifteen minutes later, muttering something very on-brand about an elementary school music program. I’m not long behind—I want to make it to the Ralph Lauren sample sale in SoHo before the Oaxacan reservation with Brijesh tonight that I just got a calendar reminder for—but right after Don vanishes, I get an unexpected message.