The Night I Got Lucky. Laura Caldwell

Chris said. “I’ve got to go to court this morning.” He lifted himself up and glanced over me to my alarm clock. “But I’ve got time.”

      This made me flip around. The angry red lights of my clock said 9:04 a.m. And that damned frog—somehow it was turned around and facing me again. No matter, I was late. Really late.

      “Shit, Chris,” I said, leaping out of bed. “I’ve got to go.”

      He groaned. “Another ten minutes.”

      “No!” I laughed. “You’ve got to be in court, and you know how Roslyn is about me being on time.” I’d been reprimanded more than once about my inability to get in before nine.

      I tore open the closet doors and rifled through my pants. I threw on a pair of wide-legged chocolate-brown trousers, trusty old favorites. I grabbed an ivory silk blouse and buttoned it up as fast as possible. I added a chunky silver necklace and grabbed my makeup bag and my purse.

      “Okay,” I said to Chris, who was still lazing in bed, “I’m out of here.”

      “Give me a kiss.”

      I halted my frantic scrambling. “Of course.” I leaned over the bed. Chris sat up and stroked my face with his hand. Then slowly, slowly, he kissed me.

      “What’s gotten into you this morning?” I asked.

      He laughed. “I don’t know. Something good.”

      I had to agree.

      “Sorry,” I muttered to anyone who might be listening as I hustled out of the elevator and down the beige-carpeted hall to my beige-walled cube. A look at my watch told me it was 9:39. Not good.

      “Hi there, Billy,” the receptionist said as I sped past her.

      “Hi, Carolyn.”

      “Billy, I have messages for you!” she yelled after me.

      That stopped me. Carolyn took messages for no one but the VPs and the higher-ups. The rest of us had to make do with voice mail. The only reason Carolyn might have a message for me is if Roslyn wanted to talk to me. Roslyn, who no doubt wanted to kick my ass, or my career, for being late again.

      I took a few tentative steps toward her and held out my hand. There were three slips, which couldn’t be good. Possibly the owner also wanted to fire me.

      “There you go,” Carolyn said. “Have a nice day.”

      Was she mocking me?

      I flipped through the messages as I retreated from her desk. Two were from clients. It was curious that she’d taken those. Maybe there was some kind of emergency. The last one was from Roslyn.

      Please see me, was all it said.

      I felt something quake inside me. Not at all good.

      But what really made my stomach rattle was the sight of my cubicle. It was empty. Completely empty.

      The photo of me with my mom and my sisters was gone. Odette’s cookbook, my haphazard stacks of press releases, a stage bill from a musical Chris and I saw during our first year together—all gone. I cleared my throat. I tried to think of a logical reason why this might be happening. Had I missed a memo about a move? I looked around. No, the other cubicles were still full of people and their possessions. There could be no other reason other than the obvious one—I’d been fired.

      I considered simply going home. Roslyn had made her message pretty clear. Why should I now sit in her office so she could run down the list of reasons that Harper Frankwell was letting me go? But the more I stood there, gazing at the empty beige walls, the more incensed I became.

      I marched up the hallway toward her office. I was clomping my feet so hard my toes began to cry for mercy in my stylishly pointed shoes; I almost welcomed the pain.

      “Hey, Billy,” Alexa said, passing me, wearing another black cashmere top. Obviously she hadn’t heard the news of my firing yet, because she walked by quickly, not even bothering to gloat.

      I didn’t say anything in return. I kept my focus on Roslyn’s office at the end of the hall. Then something distracted me.

      I stopped and turned slightly to my left toward one of the VP offices—one of the better ones—which had been empty for a few months. I stepped closer and peered inside. Obviously someone had been promoted; the place was occupied now. Two broad windows faced Michigan Avenue, so it was warm and white with the morning sun. There was a pine credenza, left behind by the previous occupant, one with fleurs-de-lis and scrolls carved deep in its sides.

      And atop the credenza sat the photo of my mom and sisters, right next to Odette’s cookbook.

      I opened and closed my eyes a few times, still trying to focus on the credenza. Was this some kind of freak joke? I glanced at the desk and saw my Northwestern Wildcats cup filled with my pens. There was my orange notebook, the square leather box where I kept my CDs, the yellow mug I bought years ago at Old Town Art Fair.

      Startled, I stepped back outside the office. And there, on the wall next to the door, was a gold nameplate that read Billy Rendall, Vice President.

      “Oh, my…” I said, my breath coming fast. It had happened! That was why Roslyn wanted to see me—she’d finally given me the job!

      “Billy.” It was Roslyn’s voice. I turned to see her head sticking out of her office. “Can I see you?”

      “Absolutely!” I trotted down the hall, beaming at everyone I passed. This was the validation I’d been waiting for—the official proclamation of my worth. And how sweet of Roslyn to move all my things!

      When I reached her office, she was seated and signing letters, her assistant standing near her desk. I beamed some more, ready to hear rounds of congratulations. But Roslyn barely looked up.

      “Billy,” she said, sounding distracted. “Are you free for lunch with Lydia?”

      “Lydia Frankwell?” I had never been invited to break bread with the firm’s owner.

      “Of course.”

      “Any special occasion?” Aha, I thought, they were going to officially announce my vice presidency at lunch. Again, such a thoughtful gesture!

      “No, no. We just need to go over a few things, mostly the budget for the Teaken Furniture account. We’ll have salads brought to the conference room.”

      “Oh…okay.” Should I raise the fact that I’d seemingly been promoted overnight?

      Roslyn’s assistant gave me a benign, fleeting smile that seemed to say, Morning. Nothing new here.

      “Lydia is flying in from Manhattan, so we’ll do a late lunch,” Roslyn said. “I’ll see you at 1:30, all right? I’ve got to get these letters out. You know how it is.”

      “Sure, okay.”

      My walk down the hallway was slower this time. I expected someone to jump out of the shadows at any minute and yell, “Surprise! Congrats!” but everyone was going about their work as if this were any other day. As if I had always been a vice president.

      The leather chair behind my new desk was the color of red wine. I sank into it, but it was too low, too cushy. I spent ten minutes trying to adjust the damn thing, but even when I’d raised it, I felt like a little kid in a big La-Z-Boy. It was too deep, my feet barely touched the floor. I found a Chicago Yellow Pages, the shape and weight of an anvil, and put that under my feet. I took my camel sweater off the hook behind the door and balled it up behind my back. Now what?

      I turned on my computer. Everything looked the same there. I clicked on my e-mail account, scanning a note from an old college friend who was coming to town. There was also an e-mail from Odette suggesting new ideas for how to promote her book. I made notes on a pad of paper, reading Odette’s e-mail slowly. The last line said, If you don’t have time to call, don’t worry, just have your assistant, Lizbeth, give me