When it comes to the “guess the melted candy that looks like shit in these diapers” portion of the afternoon, Lena and I graciously bail. There are enough twenty-three-year-olds in the room staring at Rebecca, equally jealous and thankful it’s not them, that we could sneak away nearly unnoticed. Rebecca was getting the attention she needed from a group of women basking in the fact that they were, for a nine-month period, hotter than her.

Lena follows me out of the conference room, past the row of empty desks, each displaying the small orange pumpkins gifted to us by Brittany and Ashleigh, and into my office in the back. She sits down on the couch as I plop into my chair behind the desk.

“So, I’ve been wondering,” she begins, “what is the weather in Vermont like this time of year?”

“Who fucking cares. That’s what tents and heat lamps are for.” I jerk the mouse on my Brit & Ash Agency mousepad until my computer awakens with a bright light. Did I mention a professional photo of our fearless leaders posing in front of the “You Better Work Bitch” sign is suggested as everyone’s computer background?

I pull a Post-it off the right corner of my computer screen and type its letters into the password box. They make us change our password every sixty days like we work for the goddamn CIA, not a PR firm that proffers for designers. After four separate occasions where I had to call Australian Chad in IT because I got locked out, I finally decided to keep it there, out in the open, where everyone, including me, could find it.

“What are you doing tonight?” I ask, expectant. “Want to come to a thing with me?”

“Depends on what kind of thing,” Lena responds.

“Drinks with the Vows writer?”

She bumps to the edge of the couch, her bony knees the only part of her legs still touching. “Oh shit, you got it?”

“They called yesterday,” I say with a shrug, as if it didn’t matter either way. “They’re sending a writer and photographer up to Vermont, so now I have to make sure there’s room for them somewhere.”

“Please.” She leans back, reaching her right hand in front of her to admire her perfectly polished nude nails. “I’m sure you’ve had a room booked for them since you sent in the application.”

She knows me well.

“Le Coucou at seven thirty?”

She nods. She’d show up anywhere I told her to.

“You have everything you need to handle the Wright pitch next week?” I ask.

“For their project in Sonoma? Yeah, Prude and Stash out there have it all under control.”