“One—chances are the photo in the Enquirer was set up by someone’s publicist or a publicist attached to her reality show. You need to learn how to tell the difference. Two—someone put that on your desk to hurt and embarrass you. To see if they could make you cry. It was a test of your strength, and you failed. Louise advised you not to cry because a woman’s tears are often used as proof that women are weak, too delicate for this work. The same applies to running and hiding.”
My shoulders sag. It’s all I can do not to hang my head.
“Do you think Rich Hanson instigated this?” Jazmine asks in a tone that sounds as if it’s meant to be casual but isn’t.
“No. He said he came to talk to you. I just . . . He offered me a Kleenex, and I left because I didn’t want to take a chance on crying in front of him.”
Jazmine’s sigh is long and jagged. “Bottom line, Erin, that photo is nothing compared to the things you’ll have to put up with if you intend to succeed in this business. You will encounter lots of oversize egos and tons of jealousy. Ulterior motives and agendas will abound. You will need a backbone and a poker face. No matter what happens, you’ll have to keep your head up and walk tall. This is not a business for sissies.”
I roll the newsprint into a ball and drop it in the trash. “I’m not a sissy.”
Jazmine looks down, her eyes taking me in. I’d give anything to tower over people like she does.
“All right, then. Let’s go. There’s work to be done.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say as firmly and positively as I can. If I didn’t think she’d take it the wrong way, I’d salute.
“You do know that you don’t have to be tall to walk tall,” she says.
“Technically, yes. I get the concept. But people do judge by appearance. Small is weak, blond is frivolous.” I straighten with resolve. “Which just means I’ve got to show them they’re wrong.”
“Exactly,” Jazmine says as we move toward the bathroom door. “You can’t be such an open book. It makes people think they’re free to rip out your pages or try to break your spine.”
We stop at the door. One of her dark eyebrows arches up in silent question.
I take a deep breath and nod.
She pushes open the door. Together, we stride out into the corridor. Or rather I stride out and she pulls back so that we move together.
“I really should have told you not to eat that PayDay bar Louise left in her desk. Someone gave it to her as a joke years ago. I’m surprised they didn’t have to carry you out on a stretcher.” She pitches her voice just loud enough for the people we pass to hear.
A text dings in on my phone. “Perfect timing on that book analogy,” I say with an overlarge smile. “Your cookies have arrived. Although my mother’s book club brings cookies and treats they bake themselves.”
“So do some of the members in mine,” Jazmine replies with an even wider smile. “Unfortunately, baking isn’t one of my talents. And I’d rather bring something people will actually eat and enjoy and that won’t make them sick.”
“Yes.” This time my grin is real. “I’ve heard that stomach pumping can suck a whole lot of pleasure out of an evening.”
Jazmine laughs. “It’s not at all conducive to an in-depth book discussion.”
We’re still smiling and chatting when we reach my desk. I have a crick in my neck from looking up at her, but I’m truly grateful that she got me out of the bathroom without embarrassing me any more than I’d already embarrassed myself. All I want to do right now is go home and crawl into bed. Maybe binge-watch a couple episodes of Insecure.
“You know what?” Jazmine says. “I think you should come to book club with me.”
“Hmmm?”
“I’d like you to come to book club.”
“Oh. Wow. That’s really nice of you. I’d love to, um, do that sometime. My mother really loves her book club.” And all the older women who are in it.
I pause and sneak a casual peek around. Only a few desks are still occupied. No one is close enough to hear what we’re saying.
“And thanks again for . . . well, for not firing me.” I nod and smile, only it feels a little bit like a boxer’s bob and weave.
“Right.” Jazmine flashes a bright smile. “Do you want to follow me there? Or should I just share the address? Between the Covers is on your way home.”
I wonder briefly why she’s still performing when there’s hardly anyone left to perform for. Then I realize she’s not.
“Book club always cheers me up,” she continues. “Plus, nobody there will know anything about what you’ve been through unless you choose to tell them. It’s a great group. Sometimes my friend Angela’s oldest daughter, Lyllie, comes when she’s home from college.”
I am caught flat-footed. And speechless.
“And there’ll be wine and some truly killer cookies.”
“You could just give me a cookie or two to take home with me.”
Her look stops this line of defense and has me searching for another. “I mean, I haven’t even read the book.”
“That, fortunately, is not a requirement,” she says smoothly. “I think you should come. It’ll give you something to do besides trying to figure out who put that clipping on your desk.”
I look up and meet Jazmine’s eyes.
This woman gave me a job when no one, including Louise, thought she should. And she has just rescued me from a bathroom stall. There is only one acceptable response to her invitation.
“Sure. That would be great. I’ve already got the address in my phone, but I’d be glad to follow you.”
Judith
I ignore the doorbell, and whoever’s leaning on it, for as long as I can. When I finally yank it open, Meena is standing there. Her arms are filled with the mail that I haven’t bothered to go outside to retrieve. Her expression is a mixture of fear and irritation.
“Why haven’t you returned my calls? I’ve been trying to reach you all week. I’ve been worried about you.”
“Sorry.” I step back to let her enter. “I just . . . I haven’t been able to make myself talk to anyone but the kids.” I don’t mention how seldom they’ve called or how stilted those conversations have been. Mostly because I’m afraid they’ll somehow sense my guilt. Or ask questions that I will never be able to answer. “I don’t have the strength for any more awkward condolence calls.” My eyes tear up. “And if I ever see another casserole, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”