“Oh,” I say. “Yeah. She told me to bring you.”
What she actually said was:bring that rude blonde you’re friends with.
Carrie retrieves her bag from under her desk. “Give me a minute to freshen up. Then we’llgo.”
—
Carrie locks us out of her office, so Andy and I loiter around by the elevators, trading gossip while we wait. He tells me about the conspiracy theory that has riveted the product department this week: people are convinced Brad doesn’t own a computer.
“It was a joke at first but seriously, Annie, no one has ever seen him use one.”
“Do you know what,” I say, picturing all the times I’ve seen Brad hovering around the space between Ben and Connor’s desks, thumbing notes into his iPhone, “now that you mention it, I’ve never seen him with a computer either.”
“We’ve got a Slack channel going. Every time someone sees him in the wild without a computer you send NC in the chat.” At my puzzled look he adds, “No computer.”
I crack up. “That’s funny.”
“We’ve clocked up over forty sightings of BradNC.”
“Wow,” I say. “Does he really hang around that much?”
“Oh god yeah. He’s like the phantom of the product department.”
“What’s he doing?”
Andy shrugs. “Poking around, crashing meetings. Being a general pain in the ass.”
Sounds very similar to his dealings with Data Strategy, frankly.
“You know what has to happen, don’t you?” I tell him. “Someone’s going to have to break into his office and check once and for all. That’s the only way to end this.”
“If we did, I’m convinced the only thing we’d find is a phone charger and a box of protein bars. You know he has no tech background at all? He’s from McKinsey or something.”
“Really?” This surprises me. Though maybe it doesn’t. He’s exactly like another consultant I dated briefly. “How did he end up here?”
“Classic Taskio whimsy. They’re always putting people in roles they’re not qualified for.” The corners of his mouth tip up. “You, for example.”
I gasp. “Why, you little—”
“Ready?” Carrie materializes looking noticeably hotter than she did ten minutesago.
Andy, it’s clear, takes this transformation as an invitation to put the moves on her. Within seconds I’m relegated to third wheel status, his attention now wholly focused elsewhere.
—
Sam’s gallery, Le Nal, is on the Lower East Side, its name an anagram of its address on Allen Street—Anell felt too on the nose.
It’s a small, run-down space with shitty lighting and white stippled walls that Sam and her collective of fellow artists use to stage immersive art experiences. The last one caused a bit of a stir, actually; a performance artist who goes by the moniker Chewy invited all his exes, then stood at the front of the room, held out his arms, and invited them to scream.
—
We find Sam passing out glasses at a makeshift wine bar, set up directly beside the door. Her black hair has been teased high, bombshell-style, and she’s decked out in a scoop neck and pinstripe cigarette pants, a mix between Beetlejuice and a goth Brigitte Bardot.
Her lip curls when she sees Carrie and Andy locked in conversation behind me. He is not on the approved guest list.
“Oh, look. You brought a man.”
“Er—Sam, this is Andy. And you know Carrie already.”
