“Come work for me,” he said. “I need a right hand.”
“But I want to write,” she told him.
“I loved the honesty of what you wrote. That’s why I’m going to be equally honest with you. Do you know what happens to women creatives here?” he asked her. “Until you’re thirty-five, you’ll spend your time slaving away on shitty assignments and fending off men who want to fuck you.”
“And after thirty-five?” Harriett asked, thinking she might be able to stick it out.
“There are no women over thirty-five in the creative department,” he said. “Come with me. You’ll work on all the best business and see your ideas come to life. I’ll even throw in a good title and a raise.” He cupped a hand around his mouth and glanced theatrically in both directions. “And you won’t need to worry about me trying to fuck you.”
The next six years were the best of Harriett’s career. Together, she and Nelson made a formidable team. He did the schmoozing. Harriett did most of the thinking. Because she brought in the business, she knew every account in the agency. When an idea popped into her head, she would give it to a creative team who could make something out of it. She had a talent for convincing them they’d come up with it first. That was how she met Chase. He was one of two copywriters assigned to a pitch she was leading. The other guy was a prick, so Harriett slipped Chase an idea she’d been working on. She inserted it into a conversation, repeating it twice to make sure he caught hold of it. After that, Chase always talked through his work with her. When they were alone, he called her his good luck charm.
Harriett did well in advertising. At forty-eight, she was still employed, with a mid-six-figure salary. People whispered that she’d be the next president of the agency, though she never encouraged such idle chatter. Chase, though, was a phenomenon, racking up awards and pulling in millions each year. Harriett couldn’t quite pinpoint when he’d stopped thanking her in his acceptance speeches. Most likely around the same time he began an affair.
When Chase left her, Harriett had had every right to be furious, and she was. But she also felt oddly restored. She took three weeks off as an experiment. In twenty-five years, she’d never taken such a long vacation. She spent the time in her garden, ignoring the emails that continued to accumulate in her inbox. For the first time in ages, she shared none of herself. Only when her magic began to return did she realize just how much she’d given away.
It was almost six when Harriett was called into Max’s office. When she arrived, he gave her a hug.
“How are you, my dear?” he asked. “How was vacation? You’re looking tanned and rested.”
Harriett knew his game. Pretend nothing’s happened and shoot the shit for ten minutes until tempers cooled. She’d fallen for it so many times.
Two years earlier, she’d accepted Max’s job offer, hoping to replicate the work relationship she’d once had with Nelson. What Max lacked in talent, he more than made up for in charisma. Max was the kind of man who made other guys feel like they belonged to an exclusive club. Harriett wasn’t invited, of course, but that was fine with her. While Max and the clients fluffed each other’s egos, she could get good work done. When she’d arrived at the agency, it was hemorrhaging accounts. The two of them together had saved it. But Max still believed he was running a one-man show.
“What’s up, Max? I want to get home, and I know you didn’t call me in here to discuss my tan.”
“Chris came to see me earlier. He says you don’t like the Pura-Tea work.”
“It sounds like you’re asking for my honest opinion. Is that what you really want?”
“Of course,” he insisted.
“I saw four executions. Three left no impression. The fourth was one of the most offensively sexist spots I’ve ever seen. And I once pitched a beer brand from Brazil.”