doors opened directly into the sprawling modern space of Pendleton, Avery and Feral. Walls of both clear and frosted glass, depending on the need for privacy, vied for time with shiny stainless steel reflecting ghost forms with each passing shape.
Marithé, our receptionist, was making that art school nostalgia thing happen, but a closer look revealed a tongue split at the end; she could strike venom with the best of them—I should know, I hired her. Her hair was bobbed, cruel and black. She wore cat-eye glasses, librarian low, and a Zac Posen frock. The effect: Sadistic Prude, Chic.
“Good morning, Ms. Feral,” she purred.
“Good morning, Marithé,” I responded. “Anything for me?” I watched her harsh eyes scan me in trademarked jugement de Marithé , her lips pursed, like a Pomeranian’s asshole. If anyone would pick up the difference in me, it was this woman. And, if she knew something, she was not letting on.
She handed over a large white envelope.
“The website CV, for your final edit.” She plucked up the stack and straightened, patting the edges with her fingertips to achieve some level of perfection of which only she was aware. “Messages arranged in order of importance.” She passed the pink slips across the desk. “And, a woman named Wendy called to confirm your attendance at a seminar. It’s at 1:00 P.M. She said she’d sent you the brochure as requested. I didn’t see it on your calendar.” Marithé fingered through a stack of papers and withdrew a black envelope printed in white, addressed to me. “This is it. Couriered this morning.”
Wendy, what are you up to?
There was no telling what the “seminar” was about, if there was one. I suspected inside the envelope, I would find a note about going on a “manhunt,” or a “fun run.” Thank God, Marithé hadn’t opened it, although her take on “manhunt” would be much more benign, or would it ? I headed down the glass halls toward my office, slapping the stack of papers into my hand like a riding crop.
“Amanda, Amanda!” A familiar voice called from behind me. No . I turned to find Prissy Koch scuttling up the hall like a roach.
An assessment, from the ground up: white nurse clogs, wool socks, knee-length pleated skirt, argyle sweater set, fake pearls. Jesus Christ, like a fashion magazine had never been printed. Prissy Koch must enter a store 43 and suffer immediate hysterical blindness. Her face was a shade lighter than her arms, and accented with a pink blush that could only have been created by smudging an Easter Peep across those giant apple cheeks. Her bangs stood at attention over a short forehead, like a shellacked line of defense, protecting the damaged ranks behind.
My hand settled on my hip, the loose papers whacking in time with my irritability. “Yes, Prissy?”
“I need your credit card receipts for end-of-month,” she said, just like that, like end of the month were one word. And, that single word spilled out of her ugly mouth like slosh from a urinal. The woman made me sick.
Can you tell we have history?
Six months prior, Prissy Koch marched into Jeremy Pendleton’s office like a Salem witch hunter and announced that I was embezzling funds. She slapped down a file of her “research,” and marched back out. Jeremy and I went over Prissy’s printed paranoia and found that her sticking point was my clothing allowance. Statement after statement, yellow highlighter pointed to various store purchases (Nordstrom, Barney’s, Betsey Johnson). My mother would call her an ignoramus or a buttinsky, but I prefer the classics; Prissy Koch was a c-u-n-t, cunt. Jeremy wrote her up, the following day, for insubordination. That gave me some time to spread the word, through the back door.
To Claire in the mailroom: “I’m worried that Jeremy’s gunning for Prissy.” With that, my work was done. The gossip spread like influenza at a daycare center. The rest of that day Prissy hid in her office like Anne
Marithé, our receptionist, was making that art school nostalgia thing happen, but a closer look revealed a tongue split at the end; she could strike venom with the best of them—I should know, I hired her. Her hair was bobbed, cruel and black. She wore cat-eye glasses, librarian low, and a Zac Posen frock. The effect: Sadistic Prude, Chic.
“Good morning, Ms. Feral,” she purred.
“Good morning, Marithé,” I responded. “Anything for me?” I watched her harsh eyes scan me in trademarked jugement de Marithé , her lips pursed, like a Pomeranian’s asshole. If anyone would pick up the difference in me, it was this woman. And, if she knew something, she was not letting on.
She handed over a large white envelope.
“The website CV, for your final edit.” She plucked up the stack and straightened, patting the edges with her fingertips to achieve some level of perfection of which only she was aware. “Messages arranged in order of importance.” She passed the pink slips across the desk. “And, a woman named Wendy called to confirm your attendance at a seminar. It’s at 1:00 P.M. She said she’d sent you the brochure as requested. I didn’t see it on your calendar.” Marithé fingered through a stack of papers and withdrew a black envelope printed in white, addressed to me. “This is it. Couriered this morning.”
Wendy, what are you up to?
There was no telling what the “seminar” was about, if there was one. I suspected inside the envelope, I would find a note about going on a “manhunt,” or a “fun run.” Thank God, Marithé hadn’t opened it, although her take on “manhunt” would be much more benign, or would it ? I headed down the glass halls toward my office, slapping the stack of papers into my hand like a riding crop.
“Amanda, Amanda!” A familiar voice called from behind me. No . I turned to find Prissy Koch scuttling up the hall like a roach.
An assessment, from the ground up: white nurse clogs, wool socks, knee-length pleated skirt, argyle sweater set, fake pearls. Jesus Christ, like a fashion magazine had never been printed. Prissy Koch must enter a store 43 and suffer immediate hysterical blindness. Her face was a shade lighter than her arms, and accented with a pink blush that could only have been created by smudging an Easter Peep across those giant apple cheeks. Her bangs stood at attention over a short forehead, like a shellacked line of defense, protecting the damaged ranks behind.
My hand settled on my hip, the loose papers whacking in time with my irritability. “Yes, Prissy?”
“I need your credit card receipts for end-of-month,” she said, just like that, like end of the month were one word. And, that single word spilled out of her ugly mouth like slosh from a urinal. The woman made me sick.
Can you tell we have history?
Six months prior, Prissy Koch marched into Jeremy Pendleton’s office like a Salem witch hunter and announced that I was embezzling funds. She slapped down a file of her “research,” and marched back out. Jeremy and I went over Prissy’s printed paranoia and found that her sticking point was my clothing allowance. Statement after statement, yellow highlighter pointed to various store purchases (Nordstrom, Barney’s, Betsey Johnson). My mother would call her an ignoramus or a buttinsky, but I prefer the classics; Prissy Koch was a c-u-n-t, cunt. Jeremy wrote her up, the following day, for insubordination. That gave me some time to spread the word, through the back door.
To Claire in the mailroom: “I’m worried that Jeremy’s gunning for Prissy.” With that, my work was done. The gossip spread like influenza at a daycare center. The rest of that day Prissy hid in her office like Anne
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