“I just wanted to make sure you had a safe trip. I have to go now, to prepare for the hearing tomorrow. Be ready to move when the time comes,” Peter said with so much certainty.
Olivia saw him out.
When she came back in, Tom offered to take her home but she declined.
Ten minutes after, Olivia drove home, bothered very much about the future of her career.
The Miami Daily was on the topmost floor of a six-story building in the busiest part of Fulham Street, downtown. Fulham Street wasn’t anything like Wall Street, but it had the wide lanes, traffic lights, and the civility that made the city bearable.
Olivia did three years in New York City before getting transferred out here on merited promotion. It had been a breath of fresh air. She had been in the International News section of the New York Times. It had been fun, but it cost her two loves and almost one of her kidneys. Caffeine isn’t as good as the health promoters would want the public to believe.
Parked for a moment on the street, she reasoned that if she went upstairs without fear she could accomplish two things: get her dignity back and her desk.
A tall order, she thought. Simple but mathematically impossible given the circumstances of her ejection.
She had been found drunk in the same elevator she would now take. She had puked all over herself and fouled that whole sixth floor with her mess. Embarrassed beyond description, Rob Cohen had almost fired her.
She was too good to lose, he said. So he placed her on compulsory furlough.
But now Olivia was onto something big, she could feel it in every fiber of her being. She wanted to tell Cohen about it. She needed her desk back.
After making sure that her face was alright in the rearview mirror, she stepped into the street. She had decided against dark shades. There was no need to make the department suspicious of another spell.
Up in the elevator she went, out into the hall she came.
The murmur of the hub hit her. It was an emotional moment. She missed the energy here. The adrenaline of being able to do to the public what only a journalist can: make them feel whatever emotions they could.
Furtive glances in the cubicles from co-workers. She walked straight towards Rob Cohen’s office. The door was open as usual. Cohen’s face was on his computer.
He was a handsome man. Almost bald, but attractive. Baby-faced, he never aged. He had greyed around his ears, though.
He raised his face and saw Olivia coming. He smiled.
Olivia walked into the spacious office.
“Shut the door, please,” he ordered.
Olivia did. “Good morning.”
Cohen pushed his computer out of the way; a steaming cup of coffee appeared in its place.
“Good morning, Olivia.” He stood up to look at her. He nodded. “Have a seat.”
Olivia sat. Her temples pulsated with nervousness. Outwardly she was calm. She equaled Rob Cohen’s stare.
“How have you been, Olivia, how’re you holding up?”
“You never even called, Rob,” she snapped.
Rob Cohen frowned. He spread his hands. “I sent you an email, and I got no reply, Olivia. Look Olivia, I know — we know — you have been through so much. Enough to make anyone else cave in, but not you. You are strong, you are fierce, and you are the best I know in this line of work. But corporate was hounding me in account of your, you know—”
“Drinking habits,” Olivia supplied.
He leaned forward. “I couldn’t bear to watch you do what you were doing to yourself, Olivia—”
“So you let me go.”
“—what happened to John wasn’t your fault but you took it hard. Too hard.”
Olivia glared at Cohen.
“Now you blame me for letting you go,” he added.
“I needed help, Rob. I needed someone to help me get through that time. My job was important to me—”
Rob Cohen opened a drawer near him and brought out a newspaper. He tossed it across the table at her.
“What is this?”
She picked it up.
“Page six,” Cohen whispered.
She found the page. It was mostly paid announcements, an obituary, and somewhere below there was a small column. It was titled:
“Ace Journalist Took a Plunge After Lover’s Death.”
The column began with the words, “Renowned journalist-turned-alcoholic may have her recent behavior blamed on the death of her lover in a failed drug bust…”
All the fight left Olivia. A new hole opened up inside her and she felt her heart fall through it. Weak and disgusted with the paper first, then herself second, she folded it slowly and put it on the table.
“I stopped it from going on the stands, it was close. Marybeth Norton wrote it, she failed to run it by me before sending it down to print. She claimed it was a small column. You know Marybeth, she got into Gossip shortly before the bust?”
Olivia nodded. She remembered the fast-talking girl, big assed and pretty, with a closed mind and very open legs. Olivia had heard that even Cohen had been between those long legs. No wonder she could run a column without letting her boss know of it.
“Where is she now?” Olivia asked.
Cohen pointed at the glass. Olivia turned and saw Marybeth, bustling about, giving orders. She wore a dark plaid suit and skirt. The skirt was short. Olivia imagined, all the better so she could easily lift it up for Cohen’s dick.
“Okay,” Olivia said. “Thanks, Rob.”
“You’re welcome.”
“When can I come back, Rob?”
“I'll have to consult with them in corporate. I’ll let you know what’s up.”
Olivia said, “Please do, thank you.”
And she walked out of the building.
There was nothing Peter Williams could have done about Ted Cooper’s presence. If a body can be wished away into nothingness, Peter would do it as he walked towards the conference room of the facility.
First, Ted Cooper had singlehandedly moved the meeting venue from the spacious conference room up top to the smaller ones in the basement. The conference room in the basement was for students, and for all things non-academic.
Second, the man had taken the presentation that Peter had hurriedly put together the previous day and distorted the contents.
Peter Williams almost did not get his wish to have a meeting.
Ted Cooper was making Peter know what he thought of his request before even attending the meeting. It was Ted’s style.
Peter took the stairs. Ted could be in the elevator this moment. Better to avoid the asshole before the asshole holed you. Such random meaningless thoughts on a day such as this.
He was sweating when he opened the conference room door.
The lighting down here was poor and the air was dank. Three faculty heavies were seated already. Dean of the faculty, Barry Dutch, sat at the head of the table, his face glued to the screen of his cellphone.
There was Silva Goodall at the table too, a relative of the Kennedys. He looked bored already, his tie loosened, his face shiny with sweat. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. That’s a bad sign, thought Peter. Beside him was Craig Bozeman. The only black guy on the team of influencers. Craig was talking on his phone and smiling, and at the same time looking like he’d rather be in bed with whoever was on the other side of the phone.
Ted Cooper was missing.
Peter was not sure if he should be relieved or not.
“Hey, Peter,” Barry said
Peter pulled out a seat and filled it.
“Where’s Ted?” he asked the room.
Craig kept on talking on the phone. The rest looked at each other. Barry volunteered, “He should be here any minute. Said he’d be late.”