The Gilded Slippery Slope

The first time I saw her, she was wearing my name tag.

It was pinned crooked to a blazer the color of dried blood, and she was laughing at something the regional manager said. Her head thrown back. Her teeth white and straight. The laugh itself was a sound I’d never make in a professional setting, too loud, too honest, too much like a bark.

I stood in the doorway of the conference room with my tote bag cutting into my shoulder. I had the wrong blouse on. A high-necked thing with a bow at the collar, something my mother-in-law gave me for Christmas. It felt tight, like it was holding my throat in place.

“You must be Sarah.”

She turned. The name tag caught the fluorescent light. SARAH, it said. My name. My badge. My job.

“I’m Maggie.” She said it like it was a punchline. “I’ve been covering for you. Come sit.”

I sat. The chair was too low. I felt like a child at an adult table. Maggie didn’t sit. She stood at the front of the room, clicking through slides on the projector, talking about something called pipeline velocity and something else called conversion metrics. I wrote nothing down. I didn’t know what to write.

My husband, David, had printed the directions to this office three times. He’d highlighted the exits. He’d packed my lunch. A turkey sandwich with the crusts cut off, because that was how I liked it. He’d kissed my forehead at the door and said, “You’ll do great, babe. Just be yourself.”

Being myself had gotten me a job as a receptionist for four years. Then a promotion to assistant. Then another promotion because I was reliable, because I showed up early, because I never said no. This job, regional account manager, was the biggest thing that had ever happened to me. It meant a company car. It meant a hotel budget. It meant leaving our apartment in the suburbs three nights a week.

David didn’t like that part. He said he’d manage.

“You’re replacing me,” Maggie said, after the meeting. We were alone in the room. The projector hummed. She’d kicked off her heels and was standing barefoot on the carpet, stretching her calves. “I’m moving to the Denver office. Promotion.”

“Congratulations,” I said.

She laughed. That same bark. “Don’t congratulate me yet. Denver is a shithole. But it’s a shithole with a bigger title.” She looked at me. Really looked. Her eyes moved from my bow to my flats to my plain gold wedding band. “You’re married.”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Three years.”

“Happy?”

The question hit me in the chest. I didn’t know how to answer it. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it felt like a test. “Yes,” I said. “Very.”

She smiled. It wasn’t warm. “Good for you. That’s rare.” She bent down to pick up her heels. “I’ll train you this week. Then you’re on your own. You’ll be fine. Just don’t let them eat you alive.”

She walked out. Her bare feet made no sound on the carpet.

---

The first night, she took me to dinner with a client.

His name was Marcus. He was fifty-something, with a gold watch and a wedding ring that left a pale stripe on his finger when he took it off halfway through the meal. He ordered a bottle of wine I couldn’t pronounce. Maggie drank most of it. I sipped water.

“You don’t drink?” Marcus asked.

“I do,” I said. “Just not tonight.”

Maggie’s eyes flicked to me. She knew I was lying. She didn’t say anything.

Marcus talked about his wife. Then he talked about his boat. Then he talked about a deal he’d closed in Atlanta that involved a handshake in a parking garage at midnight. He said it like it was a story he’d told a hundred times. Maggie laughed in the right places. She touched his wrist once, lightly, when he made a joke about their competitor.

I watched her hand. The nails were short, unpainted. She wore no rings.

Back at the hotel, she stood in the hallway outside our adjoining rooms. The lights were dim. She had her key card in her teeth and her bag slung over one shoulder.

“You did fine tonight,” she said.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly. That’s fine.” She pulled the key from her mouth. “But tomorrow, you’re going to have to do something. Marcus is a talker. He doesn’t need you to be interesting. He needs you to be interested. You can do that.”

“I can do that.”

“Good.” She unlocked her door. “Get some sleep. We leave at six.”

I went into my room. It smelled like bleach and something floral. The bed was too soft. I called David.

“How was it?” he asked. His voice was small, like he was already in bed.

“Fine. I had dinner with a client.”

“A client? Already?”

“Maggie says it’s about relationships.”

There was a pause. “Who’s Maggie?”

“The woman I’m replacing.”

“Oh.” Another pause. “Is she nice?”

I thought about the laugh. The bare feet. The way she’d looked at my ring. “I don’t know yet.”

“Well, just be careful. You don’t know these people.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I hung up. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at my phone. The screen was dark. I could see my reflection in it. The bow at my collar. The tightness around my mouth. I looked like someone waiting for permission.

---

The second night, Maggie took me to a bar.

Not a client dinner. Just us. She said we needed to debrief. The bar was in the basement of a building I’d never noticed. It had red lights and a jukebox playing something with a bass line I could feel in my teeth.

She ordered two whiskeys. Neat.

“I don’t drink whiskey,” I said.

“You do tonight.”

I drank it. It burned. It tasted like wood and smoke and something rotten. I coughed. Maggie didn’t laugh.

“You’re going to have to loosen up,” she said. “These clients can smell fear. They can smell tightness. They’ll eat you alive if you let them.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“You’re terrified. It’s okay. Everyone is at first.” She sipped her whiskey. “But you can’t stay that way. You have to find a version of yourself that can walk into a room and take what she wants.”

I stared at the glass. The amber liquid caught the red light.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I want to do a good job.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know the answer. I’d spent so long wanting what I was supposed to want. A good husband. A nice apartment. A stable job. A future that looked like a photograph from a catalog.

I’d never let myself want anything else.

Maggie finished her whiskey. She signaled for another. Then she looked at me, and her eyes were hard and soft at the same time.

“I was you,” she said. “Five years ago. Same bow. Same ring. Same fear.” She leaned forward. “And then I learned something. The world doesn’t reward good girls. It rewards the ones who take what they want.”

She pushed the second whiskey toward me.

I drank it.

It burned less this time.