“I’m so sorry,” I said.
I was not sure whether I was apologizing to the room, Martin, Molly, or the entire concept of tomorrow.
“I need a minute.”
I stood.
My chair caught on the carpet and nearly tipped backward.
Nora reached for it.
“I’ve got it.”
I did not have it.
That was becoming clear.
I left the conference room while the three blues waited patiently for a decision.
Until six weeks earlier, I had been very good at my job.
Senior account director at Johnson & Calder, one of Chicago’s largest advertising agencies.
Twelve major clients.
Three junior account managers.
Two phones.
A calendar so tightly packed that lunch appeared as a recurring fifteen-minute appointment titledFOOD / POSSIBLE.
I liked the work.
Mostly.
I liked solving problems. I liked taking a room full of anxious people and convincing them that everything could be fixed with a plan, a deadline, and occasionally a revised budget.
I was calm in meetings.
Good with difficult clients.
Excellent at saying, “That’s an interesting perspective,” when what I meant was, “That idea should be buried somewhere no archaeologist will ever find it.”
I had been promoted twice in three years.
I had a corner office.
Technically, it was a corner because two glass walls met there. The view was mostly another building and a man on the twenty-second floor who ate yogurt every day at eleven-fifteen.
Still.
Success.
Molly called it my aquarium.
“You sit in a glass box and people tap on it when they want something,” she had said.
“That’s not how offices work.”
