Holding Out for a Zero Read online

  Which, frankly, I hope I do not. Not until I’ve lost some weight.

  I leave the room once I’ve checked that it’s spotless, pick up my touch-up nail polish in case I chip again and the materials I need for Mara’s wedding-food tasting later today, and go upstairs to pack my work bag and head out.

  I check each pocket of the bag, and though I’m worried about my extra pounds I have to smile when everything is exactly where it’s supposed to be: the paperwork I finished on Saturday in its folder, my three pens clipped to their spot on the inside flap, my office ID card in the front left pocket, my wallet in the middle one, and my subway MetroCard in the right one. I don’t remember transferring those last two things from my purse when I got home yesterday, but apparently I did, and I love that I’m organized even when I don’t realize I am.

  I wish, as I stand on the crowded platform waiting for the subway, that the transit system were half as organized. As always, it seems to take forever for my train to arrive, then another forever once I reach Grand Central to wait for the 7 shuttle across to Times Square, and then several forevers to make my way down Seventh Avenue through the crowds of tourists to the office. For the first time I really do regret letting Andy dump me; it was so much easier to get to work from his place.

  While I stand at my smoothie shop watching my second-favorite breakfast smoothie being prepared since they’re out of strawberries for my favorite orange-strawberry-banana one, I pull out my phone and begin entering its ingredients into my diet app as they’re dropped into the blender. One banana, one cup pineapple, one cup spinach, one cup kale, half a cup mango, half a cup pineapple juice. I’m fast with the app, after years of practice, so I have it all entered and a total of 343 calories calculated by the time the worker, a new one as far as I can tell, pours the drink into its cup.

  “Here you go,” she says, holding it out to me.

  My eyes flick to the blender, which still holds some smoothie. An incalculable amount of smoothie. “I need all of it, please.”

  “All? But…” She looks down the shop, clearly trying to get help, but every other worker is distracted by the morning rush.

  “Yes,” I say firmly, waving my phone at her. “I tracked it all, so I need it all. In a second cup, please.”

  She frowns at me, then at the cup, then back at me. “But…”

  “It’s fine, they always do it,” I say, though they don’t. I’ve usually not worried about the extra bits, but inaccurate tracking is part of how I got to be so overweight so I will be completely accurate from now on. I should have known better than to slack off at all, but Andy and his relaxed attitude toward life were a bad influence on me. I glance behind me at the waiting line. “Besides, you’d just have to throw it out anyhow. Right?”

  She nods slowly, also looking at the crowd behind me, then her hand shoots out and she grabs a second cup.

  Out on the street, a smoothie in each hand, I have a moment of feeling guilty for harassing the new employee, but it passes quickly. I was right that she would just have to throw out the leftovers, and this way I will drink them and maybe even not need lunch later as a result.

  A win-win.

  *****

  I drink the smaller smoothie on the sidewalk a few doors down from my building, not wanting my coworkers to see me with two breakfasts and snicker to each other about my weight, then take the other one inside. A woman I don’t know stands in the lobby frantically digging through her bag, no doubt seeking her ID card for the turnstile, and I feel safe and secure as I easily pluck my card from its assigned place and stride past her.

  I have to wait a bit for an elevator, because I haven’t trusted the first one since it malfunctioned a year ago and trapped our former receptionist for an hour, but I do arrive at the fourth floor on time, where I find half my coworkers half-dressed.

  “Already?” I look around at the clothes Elle must have sent, trying to hide my horror. I can’t take part in our monthly fashion show for her at this weight. “It isn’t Friday.”

  Our advertising manager and payroll specialist pull their own dresses back on and depart each clutching a new one, and Jaimi peeks around a corner. “Yeah, but… hold on a sec.” She disappears, then reappears wearing a sleek kelly green sheath dress that fits like it was designed for her alone. The receptionist oohs at her, and she smiles with more happiness than the small compliment seems to deserve and says, “Great color, isn’t it?”

  It is. And it’s also at least a size smaller than I could wear today, probably two. “That green is different,” I say, not able to bring myself to compliment my tiny pretty protégée. “Didn’t her last email talk about a leaf green?”

  Jaimi nods. “But she decided she didn’t like it so she’s trying other greens. That’s why the stuff’s here early,” she says, turning from side to side before the full-length mirror I was surprised to see in our common area during my interview four years ago. “She wants to test them on us before she announces them next Monday. I do like this one, though.” She points at the closet by the mirror. “Go check out the rest.”

  Holding the smoothie cup in one hand I search the closet, in vain, for a size six, then take a stunning red skirt and jacket in a four that I hope I’ll be able to squeeze into to my office. By leaving the skirt zipper mostly down I manage it, then suck in my gut hard as Jaimi opens my door a crack and says, “Can I come in?”

  “Sure,” I say without releasing my stomach muscles, and she slips that perfect body into my office and closes the door behind her.

  “Nice suit! That red with your dark hair is awesome. I wish I weren’t a blonde.”

  I don’t believe that for a second, but I can’t find a comeback before she goes on with, “Have you heard?”

  I shake my head. “Just got here, you know that. Heard what?”

  She blinks. “I guess I thought they’d call you at home but— never mind. Anyhow, there’s a company-wide email from Elle saying George Slattery is retiring.”

  My turn to blink. I spoke to George the useless chief financial officer last week and he didn’t say anything about leaving early.

  “Wants to spend more time with his family, apparently, so they’re looking for his successor. You have to apply by May 8th, and by the end of the month they’ll decide who goes on to do a ‘where I see the company going’ presentation for Elle and the board sometime in June.”

  Two weeks to have my application perfect. Not a ton of time depending on what it requires, especially with my maid-of-honor duties, but doable. I take a breath to thank her for the heads-up then she clears her throat and says nervously, “I’m going to start preparing my presentation at lunch,” and the words freeze in my throat.

  “Yours?”

  She nods, and that bright happiness I saw in her earlier reappears and wipes away most of the nervousness. “I know, it’s earlier than we planned for me to get promoted—”

  “By about ten years,” I put in, shocked that she’d think she has a chance.

  “—but I just have to go for it.” She gives me a grin and an embarrassed shrug. “I might not get it, probably won’t actually, but it’s too good an opportunity to pass up.”

  Probably won’t? More like definitely won’t, because I will. Jaimi’s come a long way in the two years I’ve been mentoring her at Elle’s request, moving from the receptionist pool to financial controller, but I’m still ahead of her. True, she’s younger and prettier and thinner, but I have experience she can only dream of and I will get the promotion. Unlike her, I’ll follow my plan, and this is the perfect time for me to move up.

  A tap on my door ends our conversation, which is good because I can feel Jaimi expecting me to wish her good luck but I can’t find the words to lie like that, and that receptionist whose name I can’t remember sticks her head into my office. “Ms. Malloy? Ms. Phillips? I’m off to get coffee. Would you like anything?”

  “Skinny latte please.” Feeling the waistband of the skirt digging into me, I add, “Just a small
, okay? And make sure it’s skinny. Watch them make it. Sometimes they screw around.”

  “Got it,” she says. “Anything to eat?”

  I shake my head and point to my fruit smoothie. “I’m good.”

  She nods and turns to Jaimi.

  “First off, Andrea, I keep telling you it’s Jaimi not Ms. Phillips,” Jaimi says, smiling. “And I’d love a skinny latte too. Elle topped up that payment card, right? I’d hate for you to get dinged for it like last time.”

  Andrea grins back. “She did, but thanks.”

  They leave, and I close the door behind them and thankfully get out of my too-tight suit and back into my dress even though I’ll have to change back when Elle comes down to see us, thinking as I do that Jaimi is too nice for her own good. No need to be cruel to the staff, of course, and you can even gift them occasionally, like Elle, who makes up for barely-adequate-in-Manhattan salaries with free clothes and caffeine. But being friends is a mistake. As bitter experience has taught me, getting too close to people is never a good idea.

  *****

  Elle arrives about an hour later, and when I hear her low but commanding voice in our common area I cram myself back into the red suit then walk out to see her because I know I have to.

  Her sharp green eyes take me in with one quick scan then she says, “Valerie, doesn’t Jaimi look nice?”

  Jaimi, almost vibrating with excitement, says, “Aw, thank you. It’s the dress.”

  “Nonsense.” Elle tweaks the dress’s hem then catches the side seams at the waist and pulls it tighter. “If anything, it’s making you look bad. Should be more fitted. And I don’t think this green is quite right. But you’re making it work somehow.” She fiddles with the dress some more, then says, “You’re aware of the CFO job opening, right?”

  I take a breath to answer, but realize just before I speak that she’s actually talking to Jaimi so fortunately do not humiliate myself.

  “I am,” Jaimi says, almost in a whisper. Then she clears her throat and adds, “I’ve applied already, and I’ll be starting to work on my presentation today.”

  “Excellent. I look forward to reviewing your application.”

  She does? Why would she? She asked me just a few weeks ago how Jaimi was doing and I said she had a long way to go to be a great controller, so why would Elle think she’d be ready to be CFO?

  “Thank you.” Jaimi does whisper this time, then she gives a squeak of surprise as Elle tightens the dress even more so it matches how her own dress clings to her tiny figure. Though Elle is in her fifties she’s in spectacular shape.

  “Yes,” Elle says, studying Jaimi’s waist. “That’s what I want. Sleek and clean and a close fit. I’ll adjust it. Thank you, Jaimi. You’re the perfect Elle Warhol woman.”

  Jaimi mumbles something, clearly overwhelmed, and Elle goes on to check how the new clothes fit everyone else. I listen to her criticisms, while the fruit smoothie and latte turn unpleasant somersaults in my grossly oversized belly, until she comes to me.

  “Hmm,” she says, like a doctor seeing something horrific on an x-ray. “Hmm. That’s not right, is it?”

  I pull in my stomach harder, though it makes me feel even more sick, but she’s actually looking at my arms. “The sleeves are… well, are they too skinny or are you…”

  She doesn’t finish, but she doesn’t have to. “I think I’d be more comfortable in a six,” I have to say, though it hurts.

  “Comfortable,” she echoes. “Why not buy a muumuu and give up entirely?”

  I can’t look at the others. They’re either amused by my embarrassment, which would be awful to see, or feeling sorry for me, which would be worse. I don’t take well to sympathy.

  “I’ll fix it,” I say softly, looking up into her cold eyes and wishing I’d worn higher heels so I wouldn’t feel like a child begging for forgiveness. “When we try on clothes for you next month I will be a four again. A four at worst.”

  “I hope so,” she says, equally softly. “I’d hate to have doubts about your commitment to your job.”

  Chapter Three

  I don’t eat anything for lunch, of course. The smoothie did fill me up fairly well but even if it hadn’t I still wouldn’t be able to put food into my mouth knowing how each calorie puts my job more at risk.

  Instead, I spend my ‘break’ on my application for the CFO job. It’s pretty simple so I’m able to do it all in one go and send it off. Unlike Jaimi, though, I am not going to start my presentation yet. Once Elle lets me know I’ve moved on to the next stage I’ll give it my full attention, but doing it now before I’m sure it’s needed is just tempting fate and I have no interest in doing that. Fate and I have historically not gotten along.

  Application complete and submitted, I get back to work but am soon interrupted by a tentative knock on my office door.

  “Yes?” I call, annoyed both because of the interruption and because reviewing last month’s financial statements, which George has only gotten around to sending to me today even though this month is now almost over, makes me crazy since I’d have handled the whole thing so much better if I were CFO.

  My door opens a crack. “Valerie?”

  “Yes?” I say again, somehow biting back the ‘who else would it be?’ I so want to say.

  The door opens enough that my fellow controller Pilar can peer in. “Are you busy?”

  My whole body tightens as fury explodes through me. I hate when people ask me that. I am always busy. I am defined by being busy. “I am, actually,” I manage to say through the sudden rage. “Is it important?”

  “I’ll come back later,” she says, starting to pull the door shut.

  “I’ll be busy then too. Might as well tell me now.”

  She reappears. “I was just… do you know when I’ll get the March financials for my review?”

  George insists that two controllers review everything, which aggravates me because I do not make mistakes and therefore don’t need to have my review checked. I check everything three times myself, and in four years nobody has caught an error I’ve missed. “I just got them today, so tomorrow.”

  She licks her lips. “But George wants them back tomorrow.”

  “Then you’ll have to work fast, I guess. Not that it matters. You know I won’t miss anything. The second review is pointless.”

  “But George—”

  “George is retiring,” I say, “and besides—” I cut myself off before I say that I’ll be replacing him. I do think I’m going to get it, but I never jinx myself. I clear my throat. “Besides, I’ll be done faster if you let me work now. So, if there isn’t anything else…”

  She shakes her head and starts to withdraw, then raises her chin and says, “Are you applying? For George’s job?”

  My job. “Already have.”

  She pauses. I let my eyes drift down to the statements, since we’re done here, but they flick back to her when she says, “Me too. May the best woman win, huh?”

  “She will,” I say, making myself smile.

  Pilar leaves, but I hear her mutter something that sounds like, “Bitch,” as she goes.

  I could not possibly care less.

  I’ve been called a bitch ever since I got my first real job eighteen years ago, and I’ve long stopped worrying about people who can’t cope with my drive and determination. Not my problem.

  What is my problem, unfortunately, is the phone call I need to make. I don’t want to do it so I keep reviewing the statements, but my phone’s calendar eventually signals that it’s time so I sigh, set the papers aside, and hit the speed dial button.

  “What’s up?”

  My sister’s breezy tone, as always, sets me on edge. She drifts like dandelion fluff through life, leaving me to handle everything, and I hate it. Aren’t firstborns supposed to be the responsible ones, not us middle children?

  Am I still the middle child, or did my status change on that day nearly twenty years ago when I messed up putting away a packet of balloons and
our little brother Anthony choked to death?

  I try to force that thought, the question I’ve never considered before, away and I do it well enough that I can get out, “It’s Valerie.”

  “Yeah, so call display told me,” she says, laughter in her voice. “And so I say again, what’s up?”

  I can’t answer her. Thoughts of Anthony are still overwhelming me. Anthony, and the day he died. The images flash through my mind like the most horrible slideshow ever.

  Mom instructing Gloria and me to decorate the living and dining rooms with red balloons and blue streamers while she puts the finishing touches on Anthony’s third birthday cake and Dad sets up the obstacle course in the back yard for the party.

  Me whining about how Gloria should do the decorating alone so I’d have more time for lunch with my first-ever boyfriend before the party at two.

  Gloria refusing, as any big sister would, but racing through the decorating with me while also chatting on the phone making post-party plans, then following me out of the room to get herself a drink.

  Me again, up in my bedroom brushing my Rachel-from-’Friends’ hair after pulling on the little slip dress my boyfriend loves, my hand freezing when I hear Gloria scream in terror, then scream a second time in pain.

  My mom and I arriving in the living room at almost the same time to find Gloria, blood streaming down her cheek, pulling herself from the wreckage of the glass curio cabinet she’d fallen into and gasping, “Anthony!”

  Anthony, the half-empty packet of balloons I’d been using on the carpet beside him, clutching his throat and gasping too as he—

  “Valerie?”

  The one thing I can never, never, see in those images is me putting that packet of balloons away properly. I meant to put it on the fireplace mantel, I did, but I was rushing because my mind was off with my boyfriend and the kisses I knew he’d give me. I was careless, I left the balloons in Anthony’s reach, and my baby brother—