Authors: Leah Marie Brown
Nicola doesn’t answer. I wait several seconds.
“Hello?”
Squinting, I look at my Blackberry. The screen is black. I jab the power button, but the screen stays black. My battery is dead.
I grab my phone, blind man shuffle back to my bedroom, plug it in, and fall back into bed, pulling the covers over my head.
When I finally drag myself out of bed and take a shower, the sun is low in the sky and my aching hair aches a little less. I dry off, slather my skin with
Panier des Sens
, an organic olive oil-based body butter I order from Provence, and slip on a robe.
I have cleaned up the evidence of my Pinot pity party and am arranging a handful of multigrain crackers and some apple slices on a plate when my Blackberry begins chirping. I carry the plate back into my bedroom, deposit it on my nightstand, and curl up on my bed.
That’s when I suddenly remember Nicola’s phone call.
Merde! Merde!
I grab my Blackberry from the nightstand. I have thirty-four new text messages and—wait a minute, that can’t be right—ninety-seven new emails. I hope there hasn’t been some kind of emergency at the store.
Text from Nicola Salupo:
I need you to return the keys to the store, your laptop, and Blackberry as soon as possible.
Wait, what? There’s only one reason Nicola would be asking for my keys, laptop, and Blackberry. She’s dismissing me. No. No. That’s ridiculous. She can’t dismiss me because I wore cheap perfume to a staff meeting.
Text to Nicola Salupo:
Over a spritz of perfume? You must be joking?
Text from Nicola Salupo:
A spritz of perfume? YOU must be joking.
I am so confused. Is Nicola dismissing me or not?
Text to Nicola Salupo:
Are you dismissing me?
I hold my breath and wait for Nicola’s response. I don’t have to hold my breath for long. Nicola’s one word text hits my phone with terrifying speed.
Text from Nicola Salupo:
Oui
.
Salope
. She’s really going to fire me for some minor corporate violation? That’s ridiculous, even for her. If she thinks I am going to lie down and let her walk all over me in her hideous freakishly large pumps, she’s as bat shit crazy as she looks.
I start jabbing the screen and have nearly finished composing a strongly worded text when my Blackberry chirps again.
Text from Nicola Salupo:
Check your email for a termination letter and details from HR about your benefits package, severance pay, et al.
Molten acid is churning inside my stomach and bubbling up my throat.
La Vache!
This isn’t happening. This is
not
happening. I am not being dismissed from L’Heure.
I open my email box and begin scrolling through my new messages. The first fifty or so are from fashion bloggers and style reporters. This doesn’t surprise me. My inbox has been jammed with interview requests from local media outlets, fashion magazines, and bloggers ever since we announced the date of the grand opening. I keep scrolling until I come to an email from Nicola Salupo.
I think I might be sick. The subject line reads: Employment Contract Termination. I try to inhale, but choke on the acid burbling up my throat.
Stéphanie Moreau
2200 Sacramento Avenue, 1906
San Francisco, CA 94109
Dear Ms. Moreau:
This letter is to formally announce that your position with Aurèle L’Heure, a division of the LVMH Group, has been terminated, effective immediately.
You are being terminated, per company policy, for exposing L’HEURE to public censure and embarrassment through the distribution of an unauthorized press release (See attached). After lengthy consultations about your performance with LVMH Group’s Human Resources and Legal Departments, it was determined that termination was the only option.
Your final pay will be direct-deposited to your checking account of record. You will receive any accrued vacation time in the form of a check within fourteen days of your termination. Please contact me to arrange the return of your company cell phone, laptop, and passkeys. HR will be sending you a package regarding severance eligibility and health insurance costs, if you would like to continue your coverage. Otherwise, all benefits will be terminated thirty days after your termination date.
If you have any questions about this letter of termination, call Human Resources at ext. 9424.
Best regards,
Nicola Salupo
Unauthorized press release? The last press release I distributed was about the store’s unique architecture and unrivaled square footage of retail space. There wasn’t a single word that could have opened L’Heure to censure and ridicule. The Botox must have migrated from Nicola’s forehead to her brain. What other explanation could there be for her mentally retarded behavior?
I open the second attachment, titled Mission Statement, and begin reading. The words are only slightly familiar, so I keep reading, and then I remember, in a mortifying, blinding flash. The wine. Father True Allight’s article about finding joy. My email about giving L’Heure a purpose beyond profit. But wait! I saved that email as a draft, didn’t I? So how did Nicola get a copy?
I click back into my email box and open my sent folder. The last email sent was at 1:16 this morning and carried the subject line: A New Reason to Adore L’Heure. The room tilts so precariously, I have to concentrate to keep from falling off the bed.
I open the email and am horrified to discover I blasted it to every store manager in North America, as well as my press contacts at
Women’s Wear Daily
,
Marie Claire
,
Vogue
,
InStyle,
San Francisco Magazine
, and dozens of newspapers.
Putain!
My phone chirps, alerting me to a new text message. It’s from my assistant. Former assistant.
Text from Curtis Bower:
I read your Mission Statement this morning. Ohmygod! It was brill. Insane, but absolutely brilliant.
Text to Curtis Bower:
Thanks. Unfortunately, Nicola didn’t think it was that brill. She fired me.
Text from Curtis Bower:
I know. She is losing her f***ing mind. She called us all into the office this morning for “damage control duty.”
Text from Curtis Bower:
Check Twitter. You’re already a hashtag.
Text to Curtis Bower:
What do you mean I am a hashtag?
Text from Curtis Bower:
Read this: http://bling-bling.com/moreau
I click on the link and wait for my browser to open the page. It directs me to the latest article posted on the popular fashion blog, Bling.
A Moment of Silence, s’il vous plait
By Candace Shannon
Gather round, fellow Fashionistas, and let us bow our heads in a moment of silence for one of our fallen comrades. Stéphanie Moreau, once a bright and shiny star in the L’Heure firmament, committed #CareerSuicide early this morning when she distributed a press release ridiculing LVMH Global’s…
I stop reading and stare at the artwork embedded within the article. It’s an animated .gif of a fashionably dressed girl with a rope around her neck jumping off the L’Heure sign. Jump. Dangle. Jump. Dangle. The awful cartoon image just keeps looping. Jump. Dangle.
Ohmygod. Please don’t let this be as bad as the Dolce and Gabbana scandal. Please.
The Dolce and Gabbana scandal happened when Domenico Dolce and Stefano Gabbana made public statements against in vitro fertilization. They said infants born as a result of in vitro fertilization were “synthetic children.” The backlash was immediate and brutal. Sir Elton John took to Twitter to criticize the designers for their insensitive comment. Numerous celebrities returned their Dolce and Gabbana frocks, the designer’s stock dropped, and #BoycottDolceAndGabbana became one of the most popular hashtags on Twitter for weeks.
Text to Curtis Bower:
Be honest. How bad is this?
Text from Curtis Bower:
Bad. Like, Daniel Radcliffe rapping on Jimmy Fallon bad.
I’ve never heard the Harry Potter kid rap, but commonsense tells me it can’t be good.
Text to Curtis Bower:
Worse than the car crash ad boycott?
A few years ago, a small band of consumers called for a boycott of Christian Dior products over a magazine advertisement featuring a model clutching a Dior bag to her chest, her limbs contorted in unnatural angles, her eyes rolled back in her head, motor oil streaking her face. The advertisement was supposed to depict a woman resting after having fixed her car, but some consumers thought it looked like a police photo of an accident scene.
Text from Curtis Bower:
For you, maybe. Nicola is spinning it to look like you’re a disgruntled employee who abused her authority to push her own personal political agenda. She said the closest you will get to working in the fashion industry is selling Dickies at Walmart. GTG, but good luck.
Of course Nicola is spinning it to make me look like a lunatic. I wouldn’t be surprised if she tipped off the Bling blogger. She probably even suggested the headline and the brutal career suicide hashtag.
Salope!
I go back to my internet browser and click on the #CareerSuicide link in the Bling article. It directs me to the Twitter feed listing all of the tweets containing #CareerSuicide. There are dozens of tweets by headhunters on how to avoid making career-killer mistakes and just as many about a London-based heavy metal band named Career Suicide, but only one tweet referencing me directly, posted by a Bling blogger.
The picture of Vivian standing in the stream in Scotland flashes on my screen and Lana begins singing “Blue Jeans” again.
I am seriously starting to hate that song.
“
Bonjour
, Vivian.”
“What’s up with the Bling piece?
“How do you know about that?”
Vivian is half a world away, living in a small village in the South of France, but the news of my humiliating professional defeat has already made it to her.
Incroyable
.
“Google Alerts,” she says. “I set up a Google Alert to notify me of any news about your store. Is it true? Did you write that mission statement?”
“Yes.”
“That’s awesome!”
“Awesome? Awesome? Nicola sent me a termination letter this morning. I’ve been fired…from L’Heure!” My hand trembles. I switch to speakerphone. “It is not awesome.”
“It’s awesome, because you’ve realized your purpose is greater than just selling handbags, because you demonstrated compassion and caring.”
“You make it sound like I am unfeeling.”
A long, painful silence stretches between us. Finally, Vivian breaks the silence by asking me what prompted my midnight mission statement. I tell her about feeling blue and scrolling through my contacts to find a two a.m. friend.
“I am your two a.m. friend.”
“Besides you.”
“And?” she whispers.
“And I didn’t find one.”
“Shut up.”
“I am serious.” My voice wavers. “You’re my only real friend, Vivian. Since coming to America, I’ve channeled most of my energy into my career. Having a healthy, active social life takes a lot of work.”
“When have you ever been afraid of hard work?” She mimics a buzzer sound. “Wrong answer. Try again.”
“I don’t know.” I sigh. “I am not like you, Vivian. I don’t care what people think about me. I don’t need to make everyone my BFF.”
“And that’s why you don’t have any two a.m. friends.” She waits several seconds before speaking again. “Look, Fanny, you know I love you more than my flat iron.”
“Thanks.”
Vivian hates her naturally wavy red hair and keeps a portable flat iron in her purse the way most women keep lipstick. You know the game where you name three things you would grab if you were in a house fire? Well, Vivian would definitely grab her flat iron.
“It’s just…” she begins again. “You have all of these big, impenetrable walls around you. I am talking medieval castle walls. Some people might interpret that as aloof or snooty.”
“That’s not…”
I am about to protest when I remember our trip to Scotland last year. By the time we finished our stay at the sheep farm, Vivian had made a dozen new friends. Not me. I hadn’t even bothered to learn the other guest’s names.
“It sounds to me like you had an aha moment?” Her voice is low, her tone gentle. “You should go with it.”
“A what?”
“An aha moment. Haven’t you ever heard of the Eureka Effect?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“An aha moment is that moment when you suddenly understand a previously incomprehensible concept.”
“An epiphany?”
“Exactly.”
“I would rather be like some ignorant Neanderthal squatting in a dark cave, too stupid to rub two sticks together to start a fire.” I wipe a stray tear from my cheek. “Aha moments hurt.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Her voice rises with excitement. “You
were
that caveman, last year when we were in Scotland, remember? You felt sad and angry and hollow, and you didn’t know why. You’re out of the dark now, Chaka.”
“Who is Chaka?”
“A cave boy on an old Saturday morning television—” She sighs. “It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that you’ve stepped out of the darkness and into the light.”
I stifle a groan. Vivian’s new-agey pep talks are way too upbeat, too positive for my natural negative state.
“Great! I am basking in the light, a spiritually-enlightened cave girl. So what do I do now?”
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know.” The truth of that admission hits me like a speeding Mercedes. “Nicola seems to think I am going to end up selling Dickies at Walmart.”
“Fuck Nicola,” Vivian shouts. “She is not the master of your fate. You are. What do you want to do?”
Fresh tears fill my eyes, and the molten acid begins churning in my stomach again. For the first time in my life, I don’t know what to do. Not knowing fills me panic.