Dating You / Hating You by Christina Lauren
chapter seven
evie
With my phone to my ear, I cross the parking garage and search for my badge in the bottom of my purse. I’m running late and this call has gone on longer than I expected, but if I can make everything work, it’ll be worth it.
“So then let’s talk seriously for a minute,” I say into the line, badge finally in hand. “I have no problem getting Tyler out to see you, but you’ve got to promise me it’s to sit in front of a director. He’s not back until November and aside from all the work stuff he’ll have scheduled, he’ll want a little reconnecting time with his wife and kid. Tell me there’s an actual meeting and I’ll get it on the books.”
I pass through the glass doors and head straight for the elevators.
“Okay,” I say into the phone, swiping my badge at the security bars in the lobby. “Take a look at your schedule. I’ll have Jess follow up this afternoon.” My assistant usually silently sits in on every call, but this morning she’s oddly MIA.
The security gate doesn’t open, and I slide my card through the reader again. Nothing lights up, nothing dings. “We’ll talk soon. Thanks, Nev.”
With my phone tucked back into my purse, I walk across the lobby to the main security post, warily eyeing the makeshift table off to the side, where two security guards stand stoically.
I lean across the broad marble counter and look at the familiar guard sitting there. “Hey, Jake, what’s with the table over there?”
Jake looks up and back over my shoulder toward the elevators. “Ms. Abbey, is your card not working?”
I hand it over, shaking my head.
His wire-frame glasses glint in the light as he glances down at something on his monitor before standing. “Your card’s been locked. I need to send you up to the second floor.”
“Locked?” And second floor? That’s the P&D lobby and the conference center. No one really works there.
“That’s all I can really say, Ms. Abbey, but you aren’t the only one. Let’s get you upstairs.” He rounds the desk, signaling to another guard that he’ll be right back.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” I say, and pull out my phone again. “Let me call Amelia, she’ll know what’s going on.”
“I believe Ms. Baker is already here,” he says, and swipes his badge before following me to the elevators and pressing the button for the second floor. “Don’t worry, I’m sure everything is going to be just fine.”
Inside the elevator, I nearly throw my phone against the wall when I realize the ringer has been on silent all morning. There are messages from Daryl and Carter, and one from Steph. A rare all-caps text from Jess sits at the top of the list: EVIE WHAT IS GOING ON?
My hands are shaking as I leave my text app without reading the rest and open my phone’s browser to check Variety, knowing that whatever happens in this town, Variety—or Twitter—usually gets wind of it first. Of course, there’s next to no reception inside the elevator and my browser app is only beginning to load as the doors open with a loud ding.
There’s the sound of a voice echoing in the sudden silence and I look down the wide hall to see an entire lobby of people turn to look at me.
A woman near the front smiles in my direction. “Please, have a seat. We were just getting started.”
The normally sparse lobby has been filled with chairs; about two-thirds of them are occupied. Mumbling a quiet apology, I tuck my phone away and speed-walk across the room to the first empty spot I see.
“Good morning again,” the woman says, her smile bright—if a little forced. Her hair is long and red and hangs in thick waves to the middle of her back. I have no idea who she is, but my first thought is that she reminds me of a news anchor. She’s perfectly groomed and looks exactly like the person you’d expect to tell you that everything is going to be all right . . . or whether you should run.
“As I’m sure most of you have gathered, it has been quite a morning,” she says. “My name is Lisa and I work in HR for the New York office of CTM.”
Wait. She works for who?
I’m about to raise my hand and ask what in the actual hell is going on when a few rows up I spot a head turned to face me with a familiar set of green eyes.
Carter.
When I saw his name in my text scroll, I optimistically assumed he was seeing if I had time for a make-out session in the car over lunch. But he’s here, in this hushed den of bewilderment? I try to put this all together, but my thoughts are like a record skipping uselessly upstairs: CTM’s HR rep in the P&D lobby.
Carter’s eyes go wide to communicate his own confusion before he turns back toward the front.
What the fuck is going on?
I slump in my seat, staring at the back of his head before I look around at the rows of chairs in front of and behind me, searching for more faces I recognize. Donald from Accounting; Rose, who works with me in Features; and a handful of others. I see a mass of dark curls rising high above the other heads—thank all that is holy: Jess is here. Finally, I see Daryl in the back row.
She throws her hands up as if to say finally, and it’s clear from her expression that she doesn’t know what’s going on, either. She points to her phone just as the sound of footsteps draws both of our attention back to the front.
Lisa hands a stack of files to a man now standing beside her. “You’re all either wondering what in the world is going on, or maybe you’ve heard already, but CTM and Price & Dickle have merged.”
She’s saying something else but it takes my brain a few seconds to process the words in order. When it does, the sound in my head is a little like tires screeching to a halt.
CTM has merged with Price & Dickle.
We are one agency.
We are one agency with a huge amount of overlap.
My stomach seems to have dissolved away, leaving a hollow space beneath my ribs.
I look to Daryl, who seems to be reaching the same conclusion I have, and then around the room. A few heads nod, but not many. Most faces have gone ashen.
“And if you hadn’t heard,” she continues, making eye contact with a few of us, “don’t worry. It was only announced about half an hour ago.”
Half an hour ago.
I think about all the strangeness in the office over the past few weeks, knowing that this type of thing doesn’t just happen overnight. Those few people at the top, in the know, can strategize, position themselves. The big question is how long they had to prepare. The bigger question is who they are. Who knew?
I think I might be sick.
“To be completely frank, we aren’t sure what the merge looks like quite yet,” Lisa says. “Some of the dust needs to settle before we know what shape we’ll take and how the new structure will work. But as the news will likely break widely soon, we wanted to gather you here to communicate information all together.”
A few people shift in their seats. A guy next to me is scrolling through his Twitter feed, presumably looking for information.
“As many of you know,” Lisa continues, “both P&D and CTM have corporate offices in New York as well as LA. P&D is the acquiring company and will be bringing staff from both offices here to consolidate, as well as transferring some local staff to New York.” My jaw drops open when she says this, and I barely hear what comes next. “These are details you’ll discuss with your direct managers in your department. But the bottom line—and the good news—is that if you’re in this room, it’s very likely that you still have a job at one office or the other.”
. . . very likely that you still have a job at one office or the other.
I mean . . . that’s something at least. Right?
Most of the room has slumped somewhat in relief. I glance over at Carter. From what I can tell from the back, he’s just sitting there, unmoving.
“Sorry, can you clarify?” he asks in a garbled whisper. He has to clear his throat before adding, “Some of us will be transferred to New York and some will remain here? And when will this be decided?”
At this Lisa turns to him and smiles like he’s asked something as benign as whether the vending machines in the staff lounge will be stocked with Coke or Pepsi. “Who stays—and who is transferred—is being left up to your individual departments.”
The way she says it, with an almost journalistic indifference, doesn’t help the panic hijacking my motor system. I slip my fingers between my knees to keep them from shaking where anyone can see. It feels like a rug has just been pulled out from beneath me.
A murmur of voices—verging on angry—begins to build within the room.
“Honestly, I would love to be able to tell you all more,” Lisa says above the fray, “but as you can see, we’re still getting details on this ourselves.”
In my peripheral vision, I can see Carter’s shoulders curl in, his head bow. He looks like I feel: like he wants to drop his head between his legs and look for something to throw up in.
I lock eyes with Daryl and wonder if we’re both thinking the same thing: We work for the acquiring company. We have some sort of advantage here, right?
Tonight I am going to stress-eat a box of cookies like the world has never seen.
• • •
We’re dismissed shortly after, given a stack of papers, and told where to report for more information. It’s likely everyone in this room had a packed schedule filled with actual work—I know I did—but that’s all been changed into a schedule of determining whether we get to continue doing that actual work. Now we all wait while the people in charge try to figure out what the hell is going on.
Carter is already speaking privately with Lisa; I move straight to Daryl.
“Where’s Amelia?” she says, and I realize—that’s right. I haven’t seen her.
“I don’t know.” I search the room again. Amelia has worked in HR longer than either Daryl or I have been here. They wouldn’t let her go. Would they? “Wait,” I say, remembering. “On my way in, Jake said she was already here.”
“I’m texting her.” Daryl’s fingers fly over her phone. “She wouldn’t just not tell us—” She pauses and I see exactly where her train of thought is going.
“If she knew, she wouldn’t have been able to tell us,” I say, and Daryl’s shoulders sag.
“What a mess.” She toys with the elastic at the end of her braid, eyes scanning the room. “I’ll be right back. Eric’s over there and I am going to see if he knows anything. I doubt it, but his uncle is the damn boss, after all.”
She moves to leave and then stops, turning back to whisper, “Unless this means Brad is out?”
“Oh my God. Is that . . .” I look around us before leaning in. “Is that even possible?” I am unable to hide the tiny spark of hope that creeps into my voice.
“I mean, why not? I wouldn’t have guessed any of this in a million years. I’d say all bets are off. Back in a sec.”
As soon as she’s gone, Carter pulls me aside. My pulse accelerates again.
“What the hell is happening?” His hand lingers around my upper arm, grip tight, and for a couple of psychotic seconds, this entire thing seems oddly comical.
“No idea,” I say. “I’d been on a call all morning and then couldn’t get into the elevators. As you saw from my less-than-subtle entrance, I just got here. My friend Amelia works in HR and we’re trying to see if she knows anything, but . . . I doubt she’d be able to say.”
“This is nuts. Merging means downsizing.”
“I know.” I feel fairly secure in my position here at P&D, but in this moment, even with all the wins in my résumé, the opening score to Field Day blares like a trumpet in the back of my mind.
The air conditioning in the lobby seems to be set to ultra-mega-freezing and I shiver, crossing my arms over my chest, trying to stay warm.
“I’d give you my jacket if we weren’t suddenly in the weirdest dating-coworker situation in the history of time,” he says—and God, I hadn’t even considered that.
Our phones vibrate at the same moment.
“Well, look at that. I have an email from Price & Dickle,” he says.
“Same.”
“Is it too early for a drink?”
• • •
With a new keycard in hand, I head upstairs to my office, only to be greeted by an eerie silence.
Gone is the cacophony of printers and voices answering phones. Instead, calls are left to voicemail, because what would the people answering them say anyway?
We’ve all been told to come back tomorrow for the transition—the CTM folks who weren’t laid off were denied all access to their files and computers—but those of us from P&D with offices in the building came upstairs. What the hell else would we do?
Despite Carter’s very sound instincts, it really is way too early to start drinking. Not that anybody seems to be doing any actual work: Turns out, P&D employees are locked out of our computers, too. Everyone is gathered in clumps at different desks, talking in hushed whispers and looking around, on edge.
And who can blame them? Questions hang like thought bubbles suspended above heads, and the people who should be around to answer them are nowhere in sight. Who has a job today? Who will still have one tomorrow?
I think back on some of the larger acquisitions I’ve read about over the years. The worst kind of merge is one where it happens quickly, before management can hammer out all the details and create a clear plan for combining departments and dealing with overlap. But here, I’ve been noticing oddities for a couple of weeks, which I hope means that it’s been in the works for a while and there’s a plan in place.
I look around, and there are a lot of long faces in the common areas. Most agencies are bottom-heavy, with tons of support staff, because so much of what gets done involves phone calls, emails, shuffling papers, and coordinating schedules. This new, combined agency is going to be doubly bottom-heavy, and the staff out here—barely out of their starving student days—knows it. I suppose they were all meant to go home for the day, but being here lends some sense of control, some hope they can influence decisions. Besides, who wants to be the one caught away from their desk when those kinds of decisions are being made?
I head down the hall without speaking to anyone, torn between banging on Brad’s door to get answers and crawling under my desk. Lucky for him, he’s nowhere to be found: his office is dark, desk empty.
In the blissful silence of my own office, I decide to keep the lights off, collapsing into my chair for the first time today. A part of me wonders if I can manage to hide here until it’s time to go home, maybe even come in tomorrow to find this has all been one giant practical joke.
Not likely. Through my interior windows I see Daryl’s blond head as she weaves her way through the tables toward me, with Amelia—thank God—right behind.
“Hiding out? Good thinking,” Daryl says, peeking through the crack in the door before closing it behind them. She groans, dropping onto my small office sofa with one leg curled underneath her. “Eric was a bust. He doesn’t know anything, either. His greatest curiosity was whether the vending machine was still plugged in so he could get some chili cheese Fritos. Spoiler alert: he could.”
Amelia moves to sit at her side, closing her eyes as she settles back against the cushions. She looks exhausted.
“You doing okay?” I ask her.
Wincing, she admits, “I wish I had more to tell you guys. A few of us got phone calls at around ten last night, saying we needed to get in as early as possible this morning. I got in at five. I didn’t tell you guys because blah blah confidentiality.”
Kicking her shoes off, she stretches her legs out in front of her. “Anyway, I don’t know a whole lot more than you. Apparently P&D has been looking at CTM for some time but the partners didn’t want to sell. They must’ve changed their minds. I assume it was kept hush-hush because of what happened at Fairmount, when the top agents got wind and everyone jumped ship before the deal could be finalized.” She lifts her chin to me. “Maybe you were onto something after all, Nancy Drew.”
“So, if we’re here we still have jobs?” I ask, my head spinning. “Do they have any of that figured out yet?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sure they do, but I haven’t seen the department org charts yet. Tomorrow is when all the details are supposed to drop.”
Ugh, this is a nightmare.
“Here’s the Variety article,” Daryl says, looking up from her iPad and tilting it so we can all see.
In a surprising move Monday morning, top talent agency Price & Dickle, along with private equity backer William Trainer Group, acquired the competing agency Creative Talent and Media. The new company will retain the P&D name, and according to CEO Jared Helmsworth will be a full-service agency. In his statement, Helmsworth said, “With offices in New York, Los Angeles and London, this partnership will provide our clients access to the smartest and most creative minds in the business, with more opportunities to strike deals in digital content, TV, film, books, sports, licensing and speaking engagements.” The acquisition price remains undisclosed. It is likely that in the coming days, the restructured agency will be forced to lay off hundreds of supporting staff, as well as agents, but when Variety reached out to a company spokesman for comment, we were told, “Any speculation at this time would be premature.” More to come.
We sit back and marinate in our uneasy silence.
“I mean, it’s not like there was really any new information in there,” Daryl says finally. “So why do I feel worse?”
Amelia closes her eyes. “This is exactly why my mother told me to marry rich.”
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about. You practically run your department.” Turning to Daryl, I ask, “How long do you have left on your contract?”
“A year and a half.” She gives a real smile for the first time in an hour. “Let them buy me out, I could use some time off. What about you?”
Every agency does things a little differently, but at P&D we’re salaried with a bonus structure, and contracted for a certain number of years. This could not have come at a worse time. “Five months,” I say.
A lead ball of dread settles in my stomach.
I can tell that my friends never quite perfected their game faces because their expressions make my nausea roll more intensely. I would be very easy—and very inexpensive—to lay off.
Amelia quickly recovers. “Evie, you don’t have anything to worry about. It’s not the best timing, but you’ll be fine. You kick ass here.”
“But Brad?” I remind them. “He’d be overjoyed to have a reason to toss another vagina overboard.”
“At least, a vagina he doesn’t get to play in,” Daryl interjects.
I laugh, but it fades into a wary groan. “Or maybe he’ll just lord this over my head for the next five months and not renew my contract.” I slip farther into my chair. “Oh! Not to mention the whole Carter thing.” I rub my hand over my face. “I finally meet a guy I like—a guy who’s straight and doesn’t live with his mom—and he was downstairs, in that meeting.”
“What?” Daryl’s eyes go wide.
I nod. “He was at CTM, remember? And it looks like he made the first cut. He works with us now.”
Amelia is staring at me in amused shock, but Daryl quickly recovers. “Okay, first of all, let’s all breathe. Breeeeeathe. Second, the Carter thing will work itself out. Let’s see—”
Daryl stops, and I know exactly what she was going to say: Let’s see if you even have a job tomorrow to worry about.
“Let’s see how everything plays out,” she finishes instead. “And third? We don’t even know whether Brad still works here. Nobody knows where he is. Kylie is MIA, too. If he’s not here, your agency record—minus a few tiny bumps along the way—stands on its own. Don’t count yourself out yet. I have a good feeling about this.”
God. Please let her be right.
• • •
I can only assume Carter likewise polished off a bottle of wine by himself last night and that’s why I didn’t hear from him.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
Suffice it to say, I am not the best version of Evie on Tuesday morning. My mom, who reads Variety and Deadline religiously, called about seven thousand times yesterday. I finally answer her call when I’m picking up my morning coffee at Verve, after maybe two hours of restless sleep.
“Evie, baby,” she says. “I’m on my way over.”
“Mom, no. I’m not home right now.”
“I’ll meet you. Tell me where.”
I sigh, sitting down at a small table in the corner. I don’t even need to ask what she’s thinking to know exactly how her mind works. “I don’t want you to come do my hair.”
My mom has done hair in this town for almost thirty-five years, her crowning achievement being the episodes of Dynasty in 1984 for which she was personally responsible for Joan Collins’s wigs. According to my mom, there is no problem a good blowout can’t solve.
“It will make you feel better,” she says, and I can hear the familiar theme song to Good Morning America playing in the background. To my mom, nothing fixes a bad day faster than fresh hair, a scalp massage, and the confidence of stiff hairspray. “I could give you a little trim? Your hair’s gotten so long and you know it has a tendency to look a little raggedy at the ends.”
“It’s going to be fine. I don’t need a haircut. Cut Dad’s hair. I love you. I’ve got to get in to work.”
Even if I have no idea what that work might entail . . .
My phone rings again as I walk out of Verve, coffee in hand. I have to look twice for confirmation when I see the name illuminated on the screen.
Carter.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” he says, and if I’m not mistaken, he, too, is mildly hungover and in desperate need of caffeine. “How are you?”
I want to laugh at his tone. It sounds a little like I feel: calm layered over a hurricane. “I’m good. A little . . . tired.”
“Tell me about it,” he says, voice rough. “I wanted to give you a heads-up that I’ll be at P&D this morning. I guess everything’s already been moved over, the computers, the files. Apparently, they did it all in the middle of the night after informing us of the merge, and informing the first cut of the . . . cuts.”
“Wow, that sounds . . . harsh.”
“Anyway,” he says, “I just wanted to let you know. I realize this is weird, to say the least.”
My heart gives a little jolt in my chest. Carter is such a nice guy. It makes all of this even more twisty.
“Well, at least I’ll get to see you today, then,” I tell him. “How’s everyone handling it on your end? Steph said the crew at Alterman went into panic mode thinking they’d get sucked into this.”
“I talked to Michael Christopher last night and joked that I might need to move into his guest room if my position gets cut,” he says, and I want to reach through the phone and hug him. P&D is pretty small, and notoriously cutthroat. “You hear anything on your end?”
“Not really. There was a company-wide email last night, but it was basically a rehash of what we already knew.”
He sighs. “That’s what I figured.”
“What about you? You doing okay?”
“I’ve been better.” He lets out a tight laugh. “I mean, I’m assuming I still have a job? Unlike my assistant. Which is why she wasn’t at the meeting yesterday.”
“Oh my God, Carter. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” he says. “Honestly, Becca was amazing. I’d be lost without her on a normal day. I have no idea how I’ll navigate through all this.”
I feel a little sick for him, knowing how I’d feel if I lost Jess, especially right now.
“On a brighter note,” he adds, “looks like I’ll finally be meeting the illustrious Brad Kingman.”
A metaphorical trapdoor has just opened under my feet. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Brad Kingman.”
“He heads up my department—Features, not TV-Literary.”
“I know,” Carter says, and I can hear the shrug in his voice. “But that’s what it said when they told me where to go this morning. My meeting is with Brad.”
