Five minutes later…
What. Utter. Bullshit.
I click send, delivering the final draft of my April column to the Glisten editing team who, unless they are complete idiots, will see right through the false bravado of this month’s column like the sheer dress that hot young actress wore on the red carpet last year.
I swish cold water through my mouth to remove the bad taste of another dumbass article that will have the readers of Glisten wiping their tears and shoring up their defenses for facing not only the dating world but also the universe as a whole.
My work here is done.
I slither out of the office unnoticed, in desperate need of a moment to myself, not in the mood for the company of a coworker in want of an impromptu coffee break. Sometimes a girl just has to look out for herself, right?
But when I push open the heavy glass doors to the world headquarters of the conglomerate Bonded Crest, publisher of some of the top-selling magazines in the world, I stumble in my red patent-leather stilettos. Damn shoes will be the death of me. But hey, I have a reputation to uphold. A brand. A certain look.
As my boss puts it, a package.
If she only knew.
I freeze in place. There, across the lobby, is one of my coworkers. Well, by the look of the banker’s box he’s carrying, complete with half-dead fern hanging out of it, he’s now an ex-coworker.
I still don’t move, and busy New Yorkers swirl around me like I’m a rock holding up a rushing stream. Not even a couple shoulder chucks nudge me from my spot.
Holy shit. The guy carrying the clichéd box of shame is none other than Danny Merrick, Glisten’s chubby, cheerful, and renowned food writer.
Danny? On his way out? How? Why?
The man has been at Glisten for as long as the magazine has been open and is credited in large part with helping it achieve its meteoric rise in the competitive world of women’s magazines.
And now he’s leaving?
The banker’s box indicates yes.
Heads turn as he moves through the lobby, that’s how well-known he is, so I’m clearly not the only person trying to put together what the hell is going on. In fact, I want to run to him and ask what’s going on, but from the grim expression on his face and the two beefy security guards at his sides, I instead step behind a giant potted plant.
The guards hold the door open for him since his arms are full, the least they can do given the humiliation he’s sure to be feeling. He squints in the bright morning light before leaving the Bonded Crest building, probably for the last time ever.
I click back across the lobby’s polished marble floor to the elevator, my coffee break forgotten, and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glitzy mirrored walls. My narrow pencil skirt, fitted white blouse, and tight bun give me a ‘naughty librarian’ look, part of my wardrobe rotation. Yesterday, I was in red leather pants.
Hey, a girl’s got to live up to her reputation—bold, professional, fearless, and an expert in all that’s to be known about the pleasures of the flesh.
Or so everyone thinks.
While I wait for the elevator to take me to the building’s top floor, unease crawls up my spine. What went wrong for Danny? The magazine business is a fickle one—you can be riding high one day, and out on your ass the next. But even with this knowledge, seeing a seasoned professional like Danny get ousted has the hairs on the back of my head standing straight up.
The elevator door dings open and too many people push to get inside. We might be in one of the fanciest buildings in Manhattan, but that doesn’t mean it’s not crowded as hell like the rest of New York, where getting to work is an exercise in the survival of the fittest. Just because women and men wear designer shoes and carry luxury handbags doesn’t mean they won’t take you out if you push past them when they think they’re up next.
I squeeze to the back, holding my breath the whole ride, as if that will control the knot of dread threatening to push the morning’s Cheerios out of my stomach and onto the back of the man standing too close in front of me.
When we reach the twentieth floor, I finally exhale and run as fast as my stilettos allow to my work BFF and company gossip connoisseur Cami, a tiny redhead whose personality makes up for the challenges she faces in the height department.
“Cami,” I hiss.
Her gaze snaps up from her keyboard to me, flits from side to side to assess any dangerous ears in the vicinity, and reads my expression in a split section. “I know,” she whispers. “Danny’s gone.”
Hearing the words out loud multiplies my queasiness. I guess I was hoping the man I saw in the lobby was a Danny-lookalike. Or maybe the real Danny’s off to a mid-morning dentist appointment where he’s bringing all his desk crap and the security guards offer to open the door since his arms are full?
Get a grip, girl.
As if on cue, Cami and I glance in the direction of the coveted offices on our floor ringing the exterior of the Bonded Crest building, the ones with the views that indicate a user’s status in the organization. The office where Danny works—or worked—has views of Manhattan as far as the eye can see. He camped out there for years, and was cool enough to let the rest of us crowd in for a look whenever anything interesting was going on in the city, even if it was just a crazy summer thunderstorm.
And now? Bare but for a few loose papers, empty picture hanging hooks, and a lonely desk and chair.
“What the fuck, Cam?”
Cami is okay being known as the company gossip, in fact, she relishes the role. I, on the other hand, pretend I am above such shit.
Which, of course, I am not.
Everyone needs a Cami in their lives.
“Martha Stewart,” she simply says.
“What?” I whisper.
She looks around. This must be serious if even Cami’s being careful.
She leans closer, so I do too. “He wasn’t developing new recipes for his column. He was stealing them from the Martha Stewart magazine.”
My hand flies to my mouth in time to stifle a gasp that for sure would have given us away.
Danny? Martha Stewart? “But he always derided her. Said she was nothing but a hack. A pretty face backed by corporate money.”
Cami’s eyes widen as she slowly nods. “Exactly. That’s why everyone’s so freaked. Hey, wanna go for coffee?” she asks, perking right back up as if we weren’t discussing the downfall of a legend.
Mumbling ‘no’ over my shoulder, I’m already heading back to my own cube on the other side of the office, eager to sink into my fancy Herman Miller office chair, the one extravagance afforded us lowly cubicle dwellers. I lean back, close my eyes, and steady my breath the way they teach in yoga. Hopefully, no one swings by for a chat before I recover from the bombshell news of the day. The formidable publication Glisten is built on carefully created fantasies, offering our readers the aspirational life they crave. But for reality to crash land as publicly as it has today is a chilling reminder of… my own precarious position, if I’m to be honest.
And it’s about goddamn time I am honest about it.
Here I sit, Ava Sterling, ‘sexpert’ and resident femme fatale, immersed in Glisten’s world of glossy pages and designer fragrances, offering advice and insights on a world I am only vaguely familiar with.
Exactly what am I getting at? I mean, hell, I’m not a freaking virgin, but the fact of the matter is, I am a sex columnist who has never, not even once, experienced the ultimate outcome of the very act that makes the world go around.
My slow breaths and efforts to drive away a panic attack are doing nothing. Fear intensifies around me like a boa constrictor. I have to do something.
I cannot afford to be vulnerable. I’ve got too much at stake—a carefully curated resume of expertise that could crumble at a moment’s notice, were the news of my secret to get out. Glisten—hell, this whole world—is a shark tank, and any sign of weakness could reduce me to prey. I might laugh about my predicament with my trusted Cami, but on the inside, I am nearly always a ball of terror, waiting for the shoe of revelation to drop.
One last glance in the direction of Danny’s office serves as a haunting reminder of the high stakes game of glossy journalism, these coveted jobs that might not pay well but are full of the sort of perks only a certain level of Manhattan society gets to see.
I have no intention of being the next to pack my shit and head out the door in the equivalent of the corporate walk of shame, clichéd banker box and all. No, before anything like that happens, I am going to make some changes to my life as I continue to weave my sex and relationship column with words. I won’t be like Danny. I won’t be a fraud. I place my fingers on my keyboard, as if they might begin to move like marionette puppets, to answer email, while I deal with the shock of Danny’s ouster.
Here I am, smugly having just submitted my latest completed column where I assure my readers they are fabulous women regardless of the douchebags they might end up dating, and I am right back to a diminished ball of insecurity and fear. Exactly what I lectured my readers they are not.
So many secrets, so little time.
And while I may have a secret, that does not mean I won’t come up with a plan. What choice do I have, really?
I, queen of sex tips, am a fraud, a hack, a poseur, and a fake-ass storyteller. And I desperately need to make some changes.
