More Naughty Than Nice

No promotion. Not even a hint of a boyfriend or husband with whom to spend the holidays. Sitting in a crummy, noisy, smoke-filled bar a lousy week before Christmas. And if all that weren’t bad enough, there were these nasty red and green lights dangling over the table, giving her a terrible headache.

“It’s all about expectations,” her best friend Anna put in. “We expect too much from men.”

Stephanie nodded, doing her best to look wise, which wasn’t easy when she’d just slurped down three or four big ol’ cosmopolitans. They were cheery and red, and she and Anna had ordered them to feel more Christmasy. Maybe if their drinks had been carried in by a gorgeous man wearing nothing but a sprig of mistletoe. Maybe then she’d feel more festive.

Or maybe not.

“Men,” she muttered. “Who needs ’em?”

“Y’see, Steph, when Findlay called you into his office, you thought he would ask you to the Christmas party.” Anna hiccuped loudly, but it didn’t stop her lecture. “And that’s where you went wrong. Because guys like Mr. Findlay don’t ask out girls like us. We’re too boring, too dull, too nicey-nicey, too—”

“No, no. That’s not right.” Stephanie sat up straighter on her bar stool, almost falling off but catching herself just in time.

“Which part?”

“I didn’t expect Findlay to ask me to the party.” She shook her head to clear away the cosmopolitan fog. Concentrate, Stephanie. “Okay, Anna, I know you were angling for a date to the office party. But I never…”

Anna sent her a cynical look.

“Okay, so maybe, maybe I had a tiny, little, baby-size kernel of hope that Findlay would ask me,” she said, waving a hand, trying to forget the whole misty fantasy she’d spun for herself, all about gorgeous Mr. Findlay, who everyone knew was being promoted out of the cosmetics group, which meant he would no longer be her direct supervisor and therefore could ask her out with carefree abandon.

And what better time than Christmas? Mistletoe, snowflakes, picking out a tree together, eggnog by candlelight…

It just begged for a relationship. Somehow, in her heart of hearts, she had clung to this myth, this fairy tale, that the reason her boss was calling her into his office was to ask her to accompany him not just to the office party, but home next week to meet Mom and Pop Findlay for Christmas dinner. Something right out of It’s a Wonderful Life.

But the fantasy was gone. Banished. No more. Shaking her head, she finished, “I knew that was way out of the realm of possibility. What I expected—”

“Wait, wait, I know!” Her friend’s eyes widened and she actually giggled, which was not something Anna did very often. “You thought he would knock everything off his desk and then make mad, passionate love to you right then and there, on his desk.”

That sobered her up. “On his desk? Eeeeuww.”

“That’s not it, huh?”

“No way. I have a little more self-respect than that.” Stephanie tightened the holly-flecked scrunchie on her plain brown ponytail, forcing herself to return to her senses. It wasn’t hot sex she’d wanted from Mr. Findlay. No, it was love and affection and companionship, someone to look at her and think she was special and beautiful, worthy of spending his holidays with. All the things that now felt shabby and stupid. Thank goodness she’d never said any of it out loud. Then she might have to jump off a bridge. This way she just had to drown herself in cosmopolitans.

“What I expected,” she explained, “was for him to offer me the promotion to head of the cosmetics group. Because I deserve it. I know it and he knows it.”

“I know it, too,” Anna offered loyally.

Stephanie shook her head. “But, hon, if it wasn’t going to be me, it should’ve been you. You deserve it, too. I’m pretty good when it comes to having a finger on the pulse of our demographic. You, you’re even better.”

“Maybe. But you do a better presentation. Together we’re unbeatable.”

“Except for the fact that we’ve been beaten. By Missy, of all people. Missy.” Her voice filled with contempt as she went on, “At our last meeting for the Glam line, Missy actually proposed strawberry as a flavor for lip gloss. Like strawberry hasn’t been overdone to death. Like strawberry didn’t score in the low twenties with the focus group. Strawberry! It would be funny if it weren’t so sad. You’d think we were marketing to six-year-olds. When he told me he was giving her the promotion, my jaw just dropped. I told him about the strawberry fiasco. And he didn’t even care.”

“That’s the whole reason he likes her,” Anna argued. “Think about it. She’s stupid enough that she will never threaten his job.”

Stephanie shook her head. “Nope. It’s that he wants to boink her.”

“Findlay? He would never do that.”

“Blond, boobs, boinkability. The whole package,” she said gloomily. “It’s so unfair.”

“I still don’t think he would do that,” Anna persisted.

“Oh, I don’t think he would, either. But he wants to. As long as he wants her but doesn’t have her, he’ll keep her around.” Staring into space, she kept a firm grip as she sloshed her wide martini glass back and forth. “See, that’s our problem, Anna. No one wants to boink us. What’s wrong with them, anyway? We’re perfectly boinkable.”

“Perfectly,” Anna agreed.

“Men are such dolts.”

“Totally. Dolt-o-rama.”

“And I just don’t get why a man like Mr. Findlay, who actually has a brain, would be thinking with his…” She trailed off. It was the curse of being a nice girl. She didn’t use words like that in public, even under the influence of alcohol. Missy did, of course. Missy. It was just pathetic. “I still can’t believe he gave her my promotion. Do you know what he said to me? He said, ‘If you want promotions, you need goals, Stephanie. A five-year plan. Marriage—that’s your five-year plan, isn’t it? Ha ha.’ It’s insulting.”

“But you’re as into your career as anyone. Why would he say that?”

She shrugged. “Because I don’t push myself forward, waving my hand, going, me, me, me! I don’t demand promotions or raises or perks or…anything.” Exasperated, she added, “We’re the same, Anna, you and me. We’re not flashy. We’re more in the background. And what’s wrong with being in the background? What’s wrong with being support staff instead of stars?”

“You’re expendable,” Anna said flatly. “Not only do you not get promoted, you get fired.”

“Oh, Anna, I’m so sorry!” Stephanie said quickly. She couldn’t believe she’d been rattling on about her stupid nonpromotion when Anna had it a lot worse. “What they did is so unfair. Goons like Missy make bad choices, the company bleeds accounts right and left, and you get laid off. It makes me want to quit, too.”

“It’s depressing. Especially at Christmas. I don’t mind leaving so much—it’s always bothered me that I didn’t feel really respected, you know? But still…a job’s a job.”

Stephanie leaned closer, trying to exude sympathy. “You’ll find something else in the New Year. You’re too good!”

“I don’t care about getting laid off. I’d have to leave, anyway, after what happened today. It was so humiliating.” Anna exhaled a long breath. “I made a fool of myself over Fred in Accounting.”

“Well, I know you made him a turkey for Thanksgiving, but what’s wrong with that?”

But Anna wasn’t listening. Staring into the depths of her drink, she muttered, “It was after they sent out the layoff e-mails. I was cleaning out my desk, and Fred stopped by. And suddenly I’m thinking, well, okay, I got laid off, but I wasn’t that crazy about working here, anyway, and this could brighten things up. Balance things out, you know? So I’m sitting there, grinning up at him like a goon, with my chubby little fingers crossed. Is he going to ask me? Is he going to ask me? Oh, goodie. He’s opening with the Christmas party. That must mean he’s going to ask me!”

Stephanie leaned in. “So what did he say?”

“He asked me whether I knew any cute girls I could fix him up with at the last minute because he was desperate to have a date for tonight,” Anna said darkly. “Like he never thought, for one second, he could ask me. I made him a turkey for Thanksgiving. With trimmings! And yet even when he’s dying for a date, I’m not good enough. Like what am I, turkey-girl of the Western Hemisphere?”

“Of course not,” Stephanie shot back. “You’re adorable. And wonderful. And much too good for that jerk.”

“Jerk is right. He probably ran right down the hall and asked Missy.”

“Missy,” Stephanie said with a sneer. She was starting to feel outraged all over again. “It’s a joke. We are so much more in tune with the Glam demographic. I mean, you and I, Anna, we know where the 18-to-25-year-old woman eats and drinks, her favorite colors, what CDs and videos she buys, who she wants her hair cut like and what celeb she wants to sleep with and why.”

“We’ve got our demographic cold,” Anna said sadly. “And nobody cares.”

“I care. I care about our demographic. I care about all those poor 18-to-25-year-olds who are going to be pushed into buying the wrong cosmetics because stupid Missy is in charge.” Resolute, Stephanie raised her glass. “I promise you this, Anna. I will not let my demographic down. I will do what I can to combat the Missies of this world, so that the 18-to-25-year-olds coming up will not be forced to wear strawberry lip gloss in the pursuit of the Glam lifestyle.”

“You go, girl!” Anna stopped. “But how are you going to do that?”