Psycho Bitch: A Love Story, Page 2

  You'd think I'd be past these bouts of performance anxiety by now. I've been performing in front of crowds since I was seven years old. I was a majorette when I was little and a beauty pageant winner at eight. In high school, I was a varsity cheerleader and I gave several public speeches. During my career, I've probably pitched well over a hundred proposals, but it never fails. My knees shake, my stomach roils, and I perspire. I hate it, but I've learned to ride it out.

  As I wait, I'm checking out the vibe of the office, the flow of people, the set of their shoulders, and the timbre of their conversations—all clues as to the nature of the agency—when a shift in the air to my left accompanied by the faint scent of soap announces I'm no longer alone. Standing, I face the man I've come to see, Gregory Haldane, Vice President of Communication for the largest public relations firm in D.C. In the land of spin, they are king.

  Everything about him screams stereotypical D.C. executive. His cerulean, silk tie and navy blue suit are impeccably cut. His shoes are polished to a high sheen. I'd money I could see my reflection in them. His watch is Rolex, his wedding ring platinum, and his smile is calculating. The aromas of arrogance and power seep from his pores.

  We size each other up in a split second, only he doesn't know that my image is nothing more than a façade like those old Western sets that made it seem as if you were on a shop-lined street, but in reality they were all nothing more than painted pieces of wood.

  I'm wearing a black Tahari pantsuit and a silk wrap blouse in ruby red. Black and red are my power colors; I wear them whenever I need to be on top of my game. My shoes are Cole Haan. My watch is an estate piece. Every single thing I'm wearing was bought second-hand from a consignment shop. I look expensive, an image helped by the only honest thing I'm wearing—a pair of diamond studs Adam gave me for Christmas—but the truth is that I paid a fraction of the value for my wardrobe. Nevertheless, he sees what I want him to see: a successful business owner.

  "Ms. Wolfe?"

  He makes it a question, but I'm the only person in the waiting room. Who else would I be?

  "Mr. Haldane?"

  He smiles and his teeth, while quite white, are not capped. The first authentic thing I've seen on him.

  "A pleasure," he says as he shakes my hand.

  His grip is firm and his palm is warm. He holds my hand just a tad longer than etiquette demands. The dance has begun.

  He has a corner office that has been professionally decorated. It's airy, modern, and bright with lots of wood, leather, and steel. Rather than take the power position at his desk, he surprises me by sitting at a round table situated by the wall of windows. My surprise lasts only as long as it takes me to reach into my satchel next to my feet and find his eyes leashed to my breasts when I straighten.

  I restrain my smirk. It wouldn't do to offend a payday—I mean potential client. Hell, who am I kidding? I definitely mean a payday. Let's be honest, that's all he is to me. I don't know him beyond what I see, and what I see isn't worth ruining my business over.

  Sure, he's handsome. He radiates confidence and he's clearly willing. He wears a wedding ring, but the only picture of his wife and I think a dog and not a hairy child is positioned where he never sees it. How Freudian is that?

  He shifts in his chair, arranging his long legs more comfortably, and I check out the package. He looks respectably sized. But, the real question is can he do anything with it or is he one of those men who thinks possessing a dick is enough?

  Mentally, I shrug. It's not worth it. I have to risk my business, my reputation, and my lifestyle with Adam on a “maybe” for a man who is married. And, despite what cheaters would have you believe, they never leave their wives. So, no matter how you cut it, I would get the short end of the stick. I would end up alone and destitute over a quick lay.

  Nope. Not worth it.

  With the sex question out of the way—for me at least since he's still eyeing my cleavage—I prop up my laptop and begin my pitch.

  "Mr. Haldane—"

  "Call me Greg, please," he interrupts me and I'm torn between irritation at his rudeness and snorting at the obvious tactic, but I smile and refrain from commenting.

  "Greg," I continue, "After reading your RFP,” —I could have been polite and said “Request for Proposals,”, but I always use acronyms when I talk to potential clients. It makes me seem knowledgeable and makes them slightly uncomfortable if they don’t know it. No executive wants to broadcast ignorance with a vendor— “I have to say I'm excited at the opportunity to participate in Hudson Barnes's digital transformation."

  I'd learned over the years that the easiest way to snag a client was to actually talk very little about yourself. They honestly don't care about your education, credentials, or experience. Sure, that stuff is important, but in a presentation it's a big "so what?" Everybody has degrees and certifications. That stuff nets the lowest return. What I do is get them to figuratively "try on" my services.

  Have you ever wondered why salespeople are climbing over each other for you to try on a diamond ring or sapphire necklace the moment you enter the store? It's because it has been psychologically proven that if you can get a customer to try on the merchandise, they won't want to give it back. It's the same reason every car dealer wants you to test drive their cars.

  I apply the same principles in my sales pitches. I use lots of visuals and tailored mockups of proposed ideas. And, unlike my competition, I ask detailed questions ahead of time. I don't care that every respondent gets access to the same answers. They can't do what I do. That's why I named my company Big Bad Wolf, though my card says BBW. I chose that name because, just like the proverbial lupine in The Three Little Pigs, I blow my competition away.

  By the end of my thirty minutes, “Call-Me-Greg-please,” is all but salivating for the status I can deliver him. I can see the wheels turning in his head. If I deliver on the promises I've made, he'll look like a hero and I've made sure he knows it.

  Deliberately, I leave my screen on the chart of what Hudson Barnes’s audience reach would look like if they adopt my plan. Spin doctors eat that stuff up. After a deliberate check of my watch to project your-time-is-important, I say, "Any questions, Mr. —, I mean, Greg?"

  He rubs his chin for several seconds and gives me a speculative look.

  "No, Ms. Wolfe—"

  "Charlotte, please." My turn to play the game.

  He smiles, "Charlotte. You were quite thorough."

  I grin and begin packing up my laptop before pulling out the packet I prepared ahead of time. I never give them out first because I want all eyes on me, not my handouts.

  "My card is inside," I say as I slide it across the table.

  He rests a large tanned hand on the folder and says, "I'll be sure to hang onto it."

  "Do you have a time frame in mind for the final decision? Is there anyone else who must be consulted?"

  The last bit was pointed. These executive types enjoy flaunting their power. Subtly suggesting they don’t have final authority usually makes them leap to a decision in order to prove they do.

  "I do have one more meeting today," he checks his watch. "Right now, as a matter of fact." He stands and follows me to the door of his office where he shakes my hand. "Thank you for coming, Charlotte. I'll be making my decision" there is a deliberate emphasis on the word my, "by the end of the week."

  He's still holding my hand until I gently disengage, being rude now would be like insulting the chef preparing your food: you're practically begging them to spit in it.

  "I look forward to hearing from you then."

  He barks a laugh, that statement bordered on arrogance and we both know it, but I feel it in my gut. This gig is mine. He's still grinning as I show myself out.

  Back in the lobby, there is a young guy, mid-thirties in a crumpled, off-the-rack suit with a pristine Macbook in his lap. Everything about him screams computer geek. His skills could rival, even exceed mine, but he doesn't know anything about packaging or h
e'd never have shown up wearing that suit.

  What most people fail to learn is that a successful pitch isn't mere screens of information. You have to embody what you're selling every step of the way. My pitch was as much my clothes, my vocabulary, and the fact that I met every deadline early, as well as showing my expertise through probing, relevant questions. I give the full package. The people I pitch to don't always recognize the intangibles, but they feel them.

  My game is deep, Grasshopper. This poor guy has no chance.

  When I step back out onto the street, I'm already planning which books I'm going to load on my Kindle.

  * * *

  Blog Post: Shitting Where You Eat

  Life Inside the Echo Chamber

  I did it, dear reader! I landed the biggest account of my freelance career and am now sporting a brand new Kindle Paperwhite.

  The Paperwhite you say? I know, I know, why didn't I get the Fire? Truthfully, I am a reading purist. I love the feel and texture of a book and I don't want distractions. The closest I can come to that in an eReader is the Paperwhite. I've already loaded fifteen books and am on book three!

  Yes, I know … what's my title got to do with eReader? Nothing. You are correct, dear reader, but bear with me, I'm getting to that.

  If you've been reading this blog, then you know that the Kindle was my planned reward for landing the aforementioned gig. But, it's not the Kindle that's relevant. It's what went on during my pitch meeting that inspired this post. In other words, office sex.

  Oh, get your mind out of the gutter! I didn't screw anybody, but I'm wondering about people who do. Those libertines who engage in office affairs or screw clients whether to land a deal or not.

  Personally, I don't see the point of it. It happens often enough, but to me that's like shitting where you eat; it’s unnecessary and bad for your health.

  So, how does this relate back to my meeting? The VIP I was pitching to was putting out all the signals. I have no doubt I could have easily ended up good and screwed (pun intended) if I'd been willing, but it seemed so stupid to me.

  In this particular case, I may have guaranteed I'd get the job, but I would have lost all credibility, so that's counterproductive. And, let's face it, anyone willing to cheat on their spouse can't be trusted—they've already proven to be liars by the act alone—so there really isn't a guarantee that I'd have gotten the job. Long story short, I could have wasted my time screwing this guy for nothing.

  Not. Worth. It.

  Even more so, I don't understand people who engage in office romances even when it isn't adulterous. I've had a few offers, but always said no. I mean, what if the relationship soured? Then one of you has to get a new job. That, or deal with the awkwardness. Or, heaven help you, if you sleep with your boss, then you're totally screwed when that doesn't work out. In my experience, there are too many men out there I can screw who I don't work with, so why risk my livelihood.

  Nope. I'll pass. What say you, readers?

  3. An Imitation of Life

  "CHARLOTTE! DID YOU HEAR A single word I just said?"

  The force of Adam's inquiry startled me. In truth, I was trying to watch The Walking Dead and was much more interested in what Rick intended to do about the current threat than Adam's latest rant about his day.

  "Yes, I heard you," I wasn't lying. I'd heard him, but I wasn't paying attention. "Carl might retire, leaving the vice president spot open."

  Next to me, Adam went still. I pulled my eyes away from the television and looked over to where he sat. He was sprawled across the couch in the slouchy, lazy way he liked. His jean-clad legs extended out, and his feet were propped up on our coffee table.

  He was shirtless as he usually was when home. When we'd first moved in together, he stayed naked the majority of the time. Eventually, I convinced him to at least begin wearing pants around the house. He'd argued that after being cooped up in a suit all day, he wanted maximum comfort, which, for him, meant naked. I'd said I didn't want to sit on anything that his naked ass had recently vacated, which was only partially true. I mean, who wants someone's naked backside all over a $3,000 suede couch? That's just nasty.

  But, the real reason—and one I'd never shared with Adam—was his nakedness made me uncomfortable. I was constantly confronted by his penis which made me antsy. To make matters worse, he seemed to get offended that the mere act of being naked in front of me didn't cause me to dissolve in a puddle of desire. “Naked” seemed to equal “horny” for him, and I couldn't take it.

  So, I whined and he caved. I was much happier for it.

  Looking at him now, it was apparent that I'd missed something important. His face had taken on the pinched look a person gets when they've tasted something sour and his body was rigid.

  Yup, I had definitely missed something.

  Reaching for the remote, I turned off the television so I wouldn't be tempted to keep watching all the while mentally praising DVR technology. If this had been live television, I'd be royally pissed off. As it was, I would just have to watch it after he moved past whatever tribulation couldn't wait until my show ended.

  I don't get people sometimes. When I'm watching television, that's what I'm doing. That means out of all the things I could choose to do, I've opted to watch television. By virtue of that, it should be apparent that I don't want to talk. Nor do I want to listen to other people talk. I want to watch my show! Uninterrupted! If you must speak to me, save it for the ads or freaking wait until the show ends. How hard is that?

  Adam always talks to me when I'm reading or watching television. On top of that, if I don't stop what I'm doing and give him my undivided attention, he sulks like a baby.

  "What is it?" I barely managed to keep the irritation out of my voice.

  "Never mind," he snaps. "Clearly fictional zombies are more important than listening to me."

  Here we go. I sighed and said, "Adam, maybe I'm missing something, but you've known for months that Carl was retiring."

  "Clearly, you weren't listening at all because that's the least of what I said."

  Instead of arguing the semantics, because I really had tuned him out, I turned to face him more fully, "I'm listening. What's so important?"

  Rather than answer, he stalked into the kitchen to grab a bottle of Guinness from the refrigerator. He rifled through the drawer next to the stove, and I waited for the inevitable question, my aggravation rising with each breath.

  "Where is the fucking bottle opener?" he hollered.

  I gritted my teeth at the unnecessary outburst both because the damn bottle opener was right in front of his face if he bothered to look and because our condo has an open design, making hollering unnecessary. The living room and kitchen are really one space divided by a large island that also serves as our dining area, so it wasn't like he was actually in a different room, he was being pissy.

  I gritted out, "It's on the refrigerator door, like I told you."

  He slammed the drawer shut and yanked the bottle opener off the fridge. I'd bought a magnetic one since it made sense to me to keep the bottle opener where you keep the bottles, but this fact seemed not to have sunk into his brain.

  Guinness in hand, he threw himself back on the couch and took several gulps before looking at me. His dark eyes were almost black. His eye brows were drawn tight in a scowl. The full lips I'd always envied were a thin slash. More and more, he behaved like this and I really didn't understand why.

  "Talk to me," I said reaching for his hand, which he pulled away.

  "I don't know why I bother," he said between gulps of the stout. "I get more interaction from the wall."

  "That's a shitty thing to say," I felt my insides go taut. Whatever sympathy I might have felt evaporated as soon as the insult landed. I was in the middle of my favorite show, what the hell did he expect?

  "It's true," he said before gulping more Guinness.

  I had to make sure he only drank the one. He was a horny drunk, and I definitely didn't feel lik
e being bothered after this. Taking a deep breath, I turned on the charm.

  "I'm sorry, baby. I didn't realize Carl's leaving meant so much to you. I thought you wanted a shot at VP."

  I sure as hell wanted him to get the job. It came with a hefty raise, and I was already planning what we could do with it. Our lease was up in two months, and I wanted to upgrade if he got the promotion. I had visions of a home office where I could work rather than at our kitchen island.

  "I thought I did too."

  My chest clenched. His voice had shifted into that soft, melodramatic tone that always preceded some vast emotional revelation where I ended up having to shore up his ego. I so wasn't in the mood for this.

  "What do you mean?" I asked because anything else would be too overtly insensitive.

  "Char, you know I had other dreams. I mean, I get that I make a lot of money. And, tons of people would kill for this to be their biggest problem, but I feel like my soul is dying. Like, I'm letting life hijack my dreams."

  He was talking about the fact that he had always wanted to be a veterinarian. Adam loved animals. We didn't have any because our building had a strict no pet policy. Thank goodness. He had tried vet school but quickly found out he didn't have the stomach for it, so he went back to school for communications and had been a rising star at his public relations firm ever since.

  Adam kept lamenting his good fortune, though, which really got on my nerves. Eventually, just to get him to give it a rest, I'd suggested he do some volunteer work at the Animal Rescue League. To my surprise, he took my advice and now spends a few nights a week and Sundays at the shelter. He had quit complaining and I had thought the subject was closed, but here it was. Again.

  "Adam—" I interjected.

  "No, hear me out," he held up a hand and had that earnest puppy-dog look he gets when he's excited. Sometimes, I can almost imagine his tongue hanging out and him panting and pawing at me. It was another thing I found truly irritating, but at least he'd put the beer down.

  Adam launched into a monologue about how the rescue league needed a marketing director and it was a full-time, paid position and how they'd offered it to him without even posting it because some of his other ideas had already been so successful. I was only half tuned in. My mind was already made up on this. There was no way a non-profit was going to match his salary, and I had no intention of letting this happen. I wanted my office.