The Night I Got Lucky by Laura Caldwell Page A

Caesar, don’t you?”
    “Um…yes, I do.” Had I ever told Roslyn that? I couldn’t ever remember discussing my favorite books or movies with Roslyn, much less salads.
    I moved to the sideboard and picked up a Caesar. A second later, Lydia Frankwel swept into the conference room, fil ing the place with the scent of Chanel No. 5. She was a very wel -
    preserved woman somewhere in the age range of fifty to seventy. Twenty years ago, she’d started the firm with Bradley Harper. Rumor had it that she and Mr. Harper had been having an affair while at their previous firm, an affair that continued when they started Harper Frankwel . Mr. Harper died eight years ago, right before I’d joined the firm, leaving Ms. Frankwel at the helm. I’d always found her a bit flighty. Not that she wasn’t business savvy, but she seemed more of a figurehead, a yes-man who schmoozed clients around the country while Jack, and now Roslyn, ran the real show.
    “Roslyn. Bil y,” Lydia said. I watched her, ready for a Congratulations on your promotion! but nothing came.
    Roslyn murmured a greeting. I paused a moment, debating the use of first names versus my usual “Ms. Frankwel .” I must have paused too long, because both she and Roslyn looked at me strangely.
    “Afternoon, Lydia,” I blurted out. I held my breath.
    Roslyn looked back at her file. Lydia gave me a serene smile that barely lifted the corners of her heavily BOTOX-enhanced eyes, then headed for the remaining salad. I sighed internal y as I took a seat.
    “Al right,” Roslyn said when Lydia was seated as wel . “Let’s discuss Teaken Furniture.”
    “Mmm, good,” Lydia said. I was unclear whether she meant the salad on which she was now munching or the Teaken Furniture account. It was an account we’d had forever, and one I’d inherited from Evan. They were an old-school Chicago furniture business who’d been running the same advertisements for years. There was real y nothing new about their products, and therefore very little that we could get decent PR on, but the owner was friends with Lydia and so we worked with them year after year, begging magazines to write about their Frank Lloyd Wright look-alike chairs and their design team.
    Roslyn launched into a discussion of the Teaken budget for the next six months. Lydia asked a question or two. I tried to do the same, but I found myself with little to contribute. It wasn’t just that I was new to budgets and these types of meetings. I was, quite simply, bored.
    This surprised me. I’d always spied on Evan in such meetings, walking by the open door at frequent intervals, trying to eavesdrop. It seemed so glamorous—meeting with the owner, coming up with the budget for some large account—but now I could barely keep my eyes open.
    “Okay, that’s done, isn’t it?” Roslyn said at last. “Lydia, anything you need?”
    “Hmm?” Lydia said. She was fiddling with a paper napkin. “Oh. Wel , I should mention that I’m going to be in New York again for most of the next month. If there’s anything you have to discuss with me—personnel issues or such—we should do it now.” She made it sound as if she were going to the Antarctic instead of the Ritz-Carlton in Manhattan.
    Roslyn frowned at her for a second, then gave a slight shrug. “Wel , there is Carolyn.”
    Lydia lifted her eyebrows, or at least it seemed she was trying. “Who?”
    “Our receptionist,” Roslyn said, as if talking to a five-year-old. “She’s been here for two years and keeps asking for a raise. Frankly, I think she deserves it.”
    “Fine,” Lydia said. “Anything from you, Bil y?”
    I was about to say no. I’d been a VP for al of five hours, so what personnel or other issues could I possibly have? But then I thought of one. Alexa. I saw her smug face. I heard her voice say, Oh, I’m not suggesting that you handle this on your own…God, no. I heard her condescending laugh over and over.
    So I said her name. “Alexa Vil