Best Intentions by Emily Listfield Page B

brainstorming meetings with various breakaway groups within the firm. We have lined up soup kitchens in seven key media markets that have all agreed to have Rita lead celebrity cook-ins. Four prominent politicians and one ex-president are already interested in using it as a platform to discuss the homeless situation.
    â€œRita is not political,” Barry interrupts.
    â€œNo, of course not. But she is charitable. Or at least she will be when we’re done with her.” It takes so much energy to smile, to appease, to spin when sometimes all you want to do is slap your clients silly.
    Barry looks over at Rita, who nods imperceptibly.
    There is some talk of timing and possible sponsors before the meeting comes to a close. After seeing them out, I sit at my desk staring at my computer, depleted. I look up to see Petra standing in my doorway.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œCarol wants to see you.”
    â€œCan she wait a minute? I need to make a phone call.”
    â€œShe seemed pretty insistent.”
    â€œAll right.”
    When I walk into her office, Carol is seated on her couch, her thin, bare legs crossed at the ankles. A Band-Aid is peeking over the edge of her new black pump where a blister is forming on her heel. “Have a seat,” she says, smiling with an uneasiness I can’t quite place. “How did it go with Rita?”
    â€œFabulous. As long as she doesn’t spill boiling soup on a homeless mother of three, we’re good.”
    Carol nods distractedly, hardly listening. Her face seems particularly taut. Maybe too much Botox. She clears her throat. “You know how incredible I think you are,” she says.
    I look at her blankly. I have no idea where she is going with this.
    â€œI couldn’t have done this without you. Your contributions have been invaluable,” she continues.
    These are words that no employee wants to hear. Like a man who begins a relationship talk with “You know how fantastic I think you are,” there is sure to be a but that will break your heart. I race backward, looking for something I might have done wrong, an expense report error, a phone call promised but not placed.
    â€œI don’t know if you’ve noticed, but for some time now I’ve lost the thrill,” Carol continues. “Maybe it’s burnout, maybe I just need a new challenge.” She looks down, suddenly engrossed by a piece of lint on her skirt. “Lisa, I’ve sold the company to Merdale Communications.”
    â€œWhat?” Merdale is one of the largest PR firms on the East Coast, known for its large war chest and its conservative ethos. It is impossible that I have not heard anything about this. So much for thinking I’m connected. “Aren’t they based in Philadelphia?”
    â€œThey have decided to create a toehold in New York.”
    â€œThat’s what we’re going to be, a toehold?”
    Carol ignores this. “This will be great for you. People make the mistake of writing them off as provincial but they’re huge. The company will have scale. You’ll have room to grow.”
    Scale—that great clarion cry of the city, you can hear it echoing through streets, boardrooms, corporate pep rallies, in schools, media companies, banks. Scale is survival. Scale sells. Of course, it can also swallow you whole. I suddenly feel dizzy, weightless. “I thought scale was passé, right up there with synergy,” I mutter.
    â€œScale is never passé.”
    I look over at Carol but she is already someplace else. I am what she is leaving behind.
    As soon as I get back to my office, I shut the door and try to reach Sam, but there is no answer at any of his numbers.

FIVE
    T he kitchen window is stuck open two inches from the ledge, just enough to prevent the air-conditioning from having any noticeable effect and trap the odor of the vegetarian chili I am cooking—okay, reheating—inside. Sometime during the