By request

A repost...

The Network

I perched on the edge of a gilt chair as I sipped my tea and prayed I wouldn’t dump it all over my faux-Chanel suit. I was not prepared for the luxury of Augusta Elton’s office; with its tasteful antiques and exquisite art, I could hardly believe I was in a generic suburban office park. I was impressed, certainly, but at the same time I could not help but think that the luxury of the office was meant to throw a visitor off-balance. Negotiating the thick carpets was like walking on sand in high heels. Ten years in corporate life should have given me enough self-confidence to handle the situation, but in that office I was again a rookie straight out of b-school, the ink still wet on my M.B.A.

My companions seemed to suffer no such compunctions. Lucy Steele, who had been in my orientation class, smoothed the skirt of her suit, which was not faux-Chanel but the real thing. I had long ago stopped wondering how she could afford designer clothes on a middle management salary. Lucy used men like a spider used her victims, sucking out the juices and discarding the empty shells.

Mary Crawford, Ms. Elton’s most prominent protégée, had the honor of pouring the tea. Mary was soignée as always, her dark hair gathered into a knot at the base of her neck and her suit simultaneously businesslike and feminine. Her ladylike appearance belied an avaricious personality. She stole glory and boyfriends with equal avidity, always with a smile that put every man in her thrall even while she cut his legs out from under him.

Mary passed me a plate of cucumber sandwiches and said, “Isabella, is this your first tea?”

Since she asked just as I was taking a bite of my sandwich–Mary made an art form out of putting one at a disadvantage–I nodded.

“Augusta holds these teas for the women in management,” Mary explained to me with the air of addressing a dimwitted toddler. “We take every opportunity to network.”

“Indeed,” said Augusta. “I consider it my duty to pass on the lessons I’ve learned during my career. I pride myself that I have not yet hit the glass ceiling.”

If half the rumors were true of the dirty tricks she had played, “pride” was a strange word to use, but I was not going to say so aloud.

“I asked you all here,” continued Augusta, “because I believe I shall shortly be promoted to vice president. I have proven myself to the Board. They can make no other decision.” Rumor had it that a vice president had quit the previous week amidst rumors of scandal, and it was said that Augusta had engineered it. “That will leave an opening in senior management,” she continued, “and I have decided that one of you will fill that position. I will base my decision on the principles that have guided my own career: strong management skills and a ladylike demeanor.” She smiled at Mary, who blushed. It was pretty clear where Augusta’s decision would be. Mary was a carbon copy of Augusta from perfectly groomed head to Italian-shod feet, absolutely ruthless and resolutely chic.

There was a discreet knock on the door, and Augusta’s assistant entered the room with an elaborately wrapped box. “This just arrived, with a note from Mr. Elliot,” she whispered.

Mr. Elliot was the CEO, so naturally the box received immediate attention. Augusta read the note to herself, then aloud. “‘Something for your tea party, ladies; please enjoy.’ What a perfectly charming man!” She pulled off the glittering ribbon and opened the box. Nestled on gold material were four perfect fortune cookies.

Augusta took one of the cookies, cracked it, and pulled out the fortune. She frowned and said, “I declare, this is the oddest fortune I’ve ever seen. ‘What goes around comes around.’”

If that were true, then Augusta Elton was due for a truly monumental fall from grace.

“How strange of William to send me such a thing,” said Augusta, her hands working anxiously at her collar.

Mary cracked her cookie, read her fortune, and turned pale.

“What does it say?” asked Lucy urgently.

Mary whispered, “As you sow, so shall you reap.”

Augusta gasped. “That’s perfectly horrible,” she hissed. Mary sat quietly trembling.

Lucy read her fortune, and burst into tears.

“Read it,” said Augusta. “Read it, damn you!”

Lucy shook her head, and Mary snatched the fortune out of her hands. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” Lucy covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

I looked at my cookie, still nestled in its golden nest. The three women turned to stare at me as I reached for it.

—————–

A few minutes after four o’clock, an e-mail went out to everyone in the company: Augusta Elton and Mary Crawford had resigned to “pursue other opportunities.” Lucy Steele was seen in the parking lot carrying a box and accompanied by an imposing security guard.

——————

Jane swallowed the last of her Cosmopolitan and waved to the bartender for another. “You made that up,” she accused me.

“My right hand to God. It was the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen; those cold-blooded women freaking out over a fortune cookie.”

“So what did yours say?”

“‘To the victor go the spoils.’”

Jane stared at me for a long moment; then she grinned and held up her glass for a toast. “Congratulations, Ms. Vice President!”

I clinked my glass against hers and sipped, accepting her congratulations as my due. Those custom fortune cookies had been expensive, but they were the best investment I’d ever made.

Thee End.

P.S. Someday I will start blogging again. :-)