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May 2018
Carpe diem, Eliza,” Harold droned. “This really is an opportunity for you.”
Eliza folded her hands in front of her stiff posture. Her nails, carefully manicured, were painted bone white. She’d dressed to impress for what she’d thought would be the announcing of her (well-deserved) promotion. Eliza smoothed down her custom-cut pantsuit, then touched her hair, which she’d had done in an elegant blowout especially for the occasion.
“Eliza?” Harold pressed. “Say something, doll. I know this is a shock, but I need you to tell me you understand. Please don’t stand there in silence.”
“Very well, then.” Eliza cleared her throat, smiled sweetly at her boss. “Fuck you, Harold.”
“Come on now. Don’t do me like this. You and I have been friends for ages.”
“You know as well as I do that I deserve that promotion.”
“We’re cutting costs. The publishing industry isn’t what it used to be. You’ve seen the changes coming. We have to survive.”
“The publishing industry is thriving,” Eliza said through gritted teeth. “You still have your job, don’t you?”
“Doll—”
“Don’t try to sweet-talk me, Harold.” Eliza’s entire body shook, but she took a deep breath and moved her hands behind her back to cover the tremble. “You could have saved my job if you wanted, but you didn’t. At least have the balls to be honest.”
“Now, Eliza—”
She was already gone. Eliza had turned on her shiny new heels and stomped down the hall. She didn’t bother to clear out her office. Her assistant could do that for her later and ship her any personal items left behind.
Eliza frowned at the thought. She wasn’t big on personal items. That was for the other 98 percent of women who bought books like Marguerite Hill’s Take Charge. Books that Eliza helped shepherd into the world, books she helped shove down consumers’ throats with their messages of Happy, happy, happy! and You can do this!
It was all bullshit. Bullshit on a silver platter that she expertly placed on airport bookshelves so that working moms and jet-setting women could select a feel-good read to display proudly on their tray tables during flight. She sold a promise.
A promise, Eliza thought as she pounded her finger against the elevator button, that will always end up crushed beneath the feet of someone bigger, bolder, richer, stronger. All these women would ever gain from buying self-help crap were fragments of hope.
Eliza hopped into her convertible, a luxurious white thing that the bonus from her last promotion had bought her, before pulling out of the parking lot and easing onto the streets of Beverly Hills. Flicking down her mirror, she swiped on an extra smudge of blood-red lipstick to fortify her defiance.
Let them fire me, she raged internally. They don’t know what they’re missing. To hell with Harold, to hell with her assistant, to hell with them all.
She would show them. Not in the rah-rah-rah ways of Marguerite’s book but in the ways of Eliza Tate. Let the battle begin, and let it be raw, bloody, and brutal.
She smiled at herself in the rearview mirror, her lips bleeding bright, and settled a pair of oversize sunglasses over her eyes.
Yes, she thought. This is only the beginning.
_______________________________
Eliza noted the absence of her husband’s vehicle when she arrived home. She wasn’t surprised to find she’d arrived first, seeing as he taught acting classes at his studio several nights a week.
The Tate house was located in a rich development not a mile north of Beverly Hills. Eliza could have easily walked to her office, but that would have defeated the purpose of her expensive car. She glanced over her shoulder but couldn’t see the road through a tall fence that blocked most of the tourists from peeping into the sweeping, open windows that lined the front of their home.
Once inside, Eliza kicked off a pair of gorgeous shoes that Roman had given her to celebrate something or other. She basked in peaceful silence for a long moment before climbing the stairs to her bedroom. She changed out of her pantsuit and hung it carefully, like a thin piece of tissue paper, to preserve for another day.
After changing into a set of yoga pants and a tank top she’d picked up at T.J. Maxx, she headed back downstairs. Grabbing a bucket, mop, and gloves, Eliza armed herself for a whole new battle as she set to work scrubbing the floor of her shiny, mostly stainless-steel kitchen.
It was fascinating, even to Eliza, how quickly she could shed one layer of herself and slip into another. Work Eliza and Home Eliza were two very different people, and she kept both personas on tap, ready to dispense either when necessary.
In the professional environment, Eliza naturally excelled. She’d always been good at work, work, work. Rules, rules, rules. Things that made sense. She’d grown up as the straight-A, extra-credit-obsessed, quietly serious student. Those skills had helped her develop into a no-nonsense, capable employee all bosses loved. Eliza thrived on friendly competition and fat, twinkly gold stars.
When evenings rolled around, Eliza would slink home and, like a chameleon, peel off her first skin and sink into her second. She admired those individuals who could be themselves all the time, regardless of their audience. Genuine people—that’s what they were called. That wasn’t possible for Eliza, not if she wanted to survive.
“Honey!” The front door opened in sync with Roman’s greeting, startling Eliza from her spot on the floor. He came around the corner, his face changing to an expression of surprise. “Did Andrea forget her cleaning day again?”
