Slightly Married. Wendy Markham

Day!”

      “At Raphael’s wedding?”

      “No, but right after, when we…were…” Having caught sight of Adrian’s lethal expression, I trail off into sheepish silence.

      I think it’s safe to assume that our group director won’t be gushing over my ring or asking me where I’ve registered.

      “Ladies?” is all he has to say, and Carol and I snap to it.

      The three of us scurry to the elevator, where a bike messenger is waiting for a down elevator. Susan, my friend Latisha’s boss and a fellow account executive on the Abate account, is already there, on her way to the same meeting we are.

      I loathe her.

      All right, loathe is a strong word, especially on this joyful post-engagement day, when I am basically loving the world.

      But Susan, whom Yvonne calls Miss Prim among other less charitable nicknames, is hard to love: all buttoned up in her gray suit and black pumps with tasteful makeup and no jewelry other than a gi-normous engagement ring.

      We all—meaning all of us gossipy office underlings—noticed that it appeared over Christmas, but nobody wants to ask Susan about it because, frankly, she’s cold and dull and staid and nobody really cares who’s marrying her. We’re just surprised someone wants to.

      I guess that goes to show you that there’s someone for everyone.

      Anyway, Susan sucks up to Adrian with a big cheery hello, and offers a slightly less stellar one to Carol. Me, she ignores.

      To my satisfaction, Adrian all but ignores Susan. He jabs the Up button repeatedly and glares at the messenger, obviously holding him personally responsible when a lobby-bound car is the first to stop.

      As that elevator departs, Adrian turns to Carol. I fully expect him to order her to do something about the elevator situation.

      He just asks, “Did John tell you they’re having a fat-trimming meeting over on the Choc-Chewy-O’s account tomorrow?”

      “No. I thought they were going to let that go for now.”

      She looks disappointed. Well, judging by her figure, she’s not exactly one to watch her weight.

      On the contrary, I notice that Susan has absorbed this news and looks pleased.

      Secretly, I am, too. I love Choc-Chewy-O’s—this great cereal that tastes like Twix bars. But at ten grams of fat per half-cup serving, I never let myself eat them. Which is a shame because my friend Julie, who’s an administrative assistant in that account group, furnishes all of us with free boxes from the Choc-Chewy-O’s supply closet.

      Hey, now that it’ll be lower in fat, I can actually eat it, not just watch Jack dig in.

      Ho-hum.

      Still no elevator.

      We wait, collectively on edge. I’m sure the three of them are thinking about the meeting. I’m thinking about Choc-Chewy-O’s, wondering if the low-fat version will be out anytime soon, because I want to lose a little more weight before the wedding, especially if we decide to go to some fabulous beach resort for our honeymoon.

      Actually, I’ve already decided we should. And I mentioned it to Jack last night as we were watching a commercial for some luxury hotel in the Carribbean. You know, the kind of commercial where they show clear aqua water, sumptuous food, tropical foliage and a buff couple strolling hand in hand on the beach, contemplating their future amid steel-drum music.

      “Doesn’t that look amazing?” I asked Jack, who had once mentioned something about his family’s cottage up in the Catskills being the perfect spot for a honeymoon. He needs to be reprogrammed ASAP, as far as I’m concerned.

      “It looks expensive,” Jack replied maddeningly, barely looking up from the TV Guide, and I knew I’d better drop the subject before he vetoed it altogether.

      “Tracey, did you remember to bring our task force notes?” Carol asks me now, interrupting the steel-drum music in my head.

      “Right here.” I wave the folder in my right hand. My left, which has become so happily conspicuous these past few days, is now wedged unhappily into the pocket of my black blazer. I have no desire to flash it around in front of buzzkill Adrian and that pill Miss Prim.

      “What about the pork ribs nutritional data?” Carol asks me.

      “Got it.”

      “Good.” She nods with approval.

      Miss Prim primly stares into space.

      I sneak a peek at Adrian to make sure he knows that I’m not all about my wedding. No sirree Bob, I’m entirely on board with the upcoming summer campaign for Abate laxatives.

      We’re going after the barbecue crowd in a big, aggressive way. All that meat, very little fiber…well, it’s a natural target audience for our product.

      Unfortunately, Adrian is too busy glaring at the closed elevator bank to appreciate my uberefficiency.

      An upward-bound elevator finally arrives and the four of us stride on board, where we ride in stony silence to the eighth floor.

      Well, Adrian and Susan are stony. Carol is stony by association.

      Me, I’m just pondering my bridal bouquet, wondering if I should go for a circular nosegay–type arrangement, or more of a cascade.

      Either way, I’ll need roses. Lots of them. In red. Or maybe off-white. But not yellow, because my Sicilian grandmother says yellow roses are bad luck.

      The elevator stops, dings, and we step out onto the eighth floor.

      I used to think it was my imagination that the Creative Department’s offices were bigger and better than ours downstairs. I also thought Jack was just being paranoid when he claimed that the Media Department’s space two floors below—which is where he works—is dingy and small compared to the other departments.

      Guess what? All true.

      How do I know, you might ask?

      Because my friend Latisha and I went out to Duane Reade for a tape measure one day when we were bored. We snuck around wearing our trench coats, measuring offices, taking notes, cracking ourselves up with our spy routine.

      None of our underling peers—except Jack—was amused when we told them what we’d done. In addition to being amused, Jack was all, “I told you so.”

      On the Creative floor, which occupies all of eight, the paint is a fresh and soothing shade of off-white. Ceilings are lofty and higher than on other floors, and most of the window offices face Lexington Avenue or the side street, where there’s a partial view of the Empire State Building.

      In direct contrast: the media floor, which is all the way down on five and shares space with an architectural firm. There, the offices are painted phlegm yellow, a few square feet smaller with drop ceilings, and even some of the supervisors don’t have windows. Those who do have windows overlook views that are even more dismal than mine.

      If you were going to compare the agency heirarchy to, let’s say, jeans: the Creative group would be your 7 for all mankind, the Account group would be Ralph Lauren, and Media would be Wranglers.

      Wait, do they still make Wranglers?

      See? That’s exactly what I mean. Media is definitely Wranglers. They exist (I’m pretty sure), and they’re functional, but nobody really notices them.

      Mental note: share clever jeans/agency department analogy with Jack, who will appreciate it.

      On the eighth floor, we Account people rush to the sleek and subtly lit exposed-brick and glass-walled conference room where the Creatives are waiting.

      I am struck with a familiar longing to be on their side of the room. I resist the urge to sidle up to them and whisper, “I’m really one of you.”