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logical reason why this might be happening. Had I missed a memo about a move? I looked around. No, the other cubicles were stil ful of people and their possessions. There could be no other reason other than the obvious one—I’d been fired.
    I considered simply going home. Roslyn had made her message pretty clear. Why should I now sit in her office so she could run down the list of reasons that Harper Frankwel was letting me go? But the more I stood there, gazing at the empty beige wal s, the more incensed I became.
    I marched up the hal way toward her office. I was clomping my feet so hard my toes began to cry for mercy in my stylishly pointed shoes; I almost welcomed the pain.
    “Hey, Bil y,” Alexa said, passing me, wearing another black cashmere top. Obviously she hadn’t heard the news of my firing yet, because she walked by quickly, not even bothering to gloat.
    I didn’t say anything in return. I kept my focus on Roslyn’s office at the end of the hal . Then something distracted me.
    I stopped and turned slightly to my left toward one of the VP offices—one of the better ones—which had been empty for a few months. I stepped closer and peered inside. Obviously someone had been promoted; the place was occupied now. Two broad windows faced Michigan Avenue, so it was warm and white with the morning sun. There was a pine credenza, left behind by the previous occupant, one with fleurs-de-lis and scrol s carved deep in its sides.
    And atop the credenza sat the photo of my mom and sisters, right next to Odette’s cookbook.
    I opened and closed my eyes a few times, stil trying to focus on the credenza. Was this some kind of freak joke? I glanced at the desk and saw my Northwestern Wildcats cup fil ed with my pens. There was my orange notebook, the square leather box where I kept my CDs, the yel ow mug I bought years ago at Old Town Art Fair.
    Startled, I stepped back outside the office. And there, on the wal next to the door, was a gold nameplate that read Billy Rendall, Vice President.
    “Oh, my…” I said, my breath coming fast. It had happened! That was why Roslyn wanted to see me—she’d final y given me the job!
    “Bil y.” It was Roslyn’s voice. I turned to see her head sticking out of her office. “Can I see you?”
    “Absolutely!” I trotted down the hal , beaming at everyone I passed. This was the validation I’d been waiting for—the official proclamation of my worth. And how sweet of Roslyn to move al my things!
    When I reached her office, she was seated and signing letters, her assistant standing near her desk. I beamed some more, ready to hear rounds of congratulations. But Roslyn barely looked up.
    “Bil y,” she said, sounding distracted. “Are you free for lunch with Lydia?”
    “Lydia Frankwel ?” I had never been invited to break bread with the firm’s owner.
    “Of course.”
    “Any special occasion?” Aha, I thought, they were going to official y announce my vice presidency at lunch. Again, such a thoughtful gesture!
    “No, no. We just need to go over a few things, mostly the budget for the Teaken Furniture account. We’l have salads brought to the conference room.”
    “Oh…okay.” Should I raise the fact that I’d seemingly been promoted overnight?
    Roslyn’s assistant gave me a benign, fleeting smile that seemed to say, Morning. Nothing new here.
    “Lydia is flying in from Manhattan, so we’l do a late lunch,” Roslyn said. “I’l see you at 1:30, al right? I’ve got to get these letters out. You know how it is.”
    “Sure, okay.”
    My walk down the hal way was slower this time. I expected someone to jump out of the shadows at any minute and yel , “Surprise! Congrats!” but everyone was going about their work as if this were any other day. As if I had always been a vice president.

    The leather chair behind my new desk was the color of red wine. I sank into it, but it was too low, too cushy. I spent ten minutes trying to adjust the damn thing, but even