Free Citizen Girl by Emma McLaughlin Page B

effort to rise.
    ‘So you’ve met the Guyser,’ Rex says as he squeezes my fingers, digging my rings into the bones. ‘My number-one shark at The Bank. I’m proud as hell to set him loose on My Company – going to take this place to the next level, aren’t you?’
    ‘Keep you out of the salvage yard, Rex.’
    Taking my cue, ‘Well, I’m here to help you do just that.’
    Rex winks at me.
    ‘Great, Girl.’ Guy nods down into crossed arms. ‘I’m very excited about this. Very excited.’ That’s it – no Dante circles? No Cyrillic typing tests?
    ‘Me, too. So when should I expect —’
    ‘Yeah, I’ll give you a call when I get everything lined up.’ Guy sits back down at his computer.
    ‘Great! Do you have a sense of your time frame?’
    ‘This is top priority,’ he says, already immersed in the screen.
    ‘Damn straight,’ Rex mutters, rereading the fax.
    I give official confirmation one last try, ‘So, I’m …?’
    ‘Just head back past the desks. Elevators are outside reception. Oh, wait! Don’t forget this.’ He grabs a tee shirt from an open box and tosses it underhand to me. ‘Gotta fly the banner!’
    ‘Okay, then, well, very nice to meet you, Rex. Thank you both for your consideration.’ I motion goodbye with the white cotton, effectively waving myself out with a five-inch Vagisil logo.
    Lightheaded, I recross the giant room, past the remaining employees humming away at their tasks – tapping keyboards, working phones, flying banners. Holy. Shit. Run it – run it! Someone like me !! Relief begins to ricochet through my body and I’m dizzy with what to do first. Call home, cry, buy something. I slide my coat out of the closet and tug my scarf off the hanger, but it’s stuck. I tug harder, effectively tightening the noose. Ms. Magazine, rebranding … Wait – I snag a nail, ripping a long pink thread out of the knit – face of what exactly? I jerk the hanger down, ripping more threads.
    ‘I have a seven o’clock with Guy.’ Alarmed, I dart my eyes at a striking brunette leaning against the receptionist’s counter to pull off her calf-skin gloves one finger at a time. She drops them into her quilted suede purse as I tug the scarf free. ‘It’s Seline.’
    ‘Your last name?’ The receptionist calls after her as she turns to sit down.
    ‘Saybrook.’ She slides a thick sheet of paper out of an elegant leather résumé case, but fumbles, sending it floating to my feet. I bend down, noticing Ms. Magazine lightly penciled on a Post-it, which nearly obscures the more alarming ‘Stanford’ and ‘Columbia MBA’. No! This women’s-information-initiative thing, this rebrandingnew-direction thing, this Vagisil-gear-flying-the-flag thing has got my name written aaaalll over it.
    She clears her throat and I pass the résumé back. ‘Here for the job?’ she asks.
    ‘I just had an interview.’
    ‘Well, good luck.’ Okay, I don’t need it, Miss MBA. I’m ‘the face’.
    Downstairs I cross the street to take a last longing look up at the hulking building, and Guy’s silhouette comes into view at the window. I replay the interview. No, definitely, I definitely have it. He loved me. I’m in.
    A red light pulses in my periphery, a crimson hammer and sickle projected onto the sidewalk up the block. Bella Russe, a dinner befitting my triumph. Past town carsdepositing their sunglass-toting, baseball-cap-wearing, don’t-notice-me-notice-me guests, a doorman bundled in a Helmut-Lang-Cossack ensemble ushers me in. Moving out of the path of a weaving Hilton sister, I shimmy through the packed bar area in search of the hostess. ‘Welcome,’ she smiles graciously. ‘IMG has the private room. Rene will take you.’ She gestures to her colleague.
    ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have a reservation.’
    ‘Oh.’ Her energy drops. ‘Reservations only, we’re booked.’
    ‘That’s okay. Then, I’ll just take something to go.’ I lean in to be heard over the ambient music.
    ‘We don’t