Chapter One

Simon Burns woke up feeling something nibbling on the back of his neck. He’d been having a dream where he was swimming in an ocean—maybe the Aegean, off Crete, where he’d never been. It had been a pleasant, relaxing dream until he felt the nibbling. Then his heart rate accelerated as he was convinced he was being attacked by a shark or something deadly, and when he woke up he instinctively sat up and nearly elbowed his wife, Alison, in the jaw.

“Hey,” she said.

It took a few moments to register that he wasn’t swimming in the Aegean and was in his apartment on Eighty-ninth and Columbus.

“Oh, sorry.” His heart was still pounding.

Alison was sitting up, hugging him from behind, kissing the back of his neck. So much for a vicious shark attack.

“Bad dream?” she asked.

“Good and bad,” he said.

“What was the bad part?”

“I thought you were a shark in Greece.”

“A Greek shark, huh? I’m not that scary, am I?”

“It was only a dream.”

She kissed him again under his jaw, then asked, “How do you feel?”

How do you feel? was their code for Do you want to make love? They’d been in a slump lately. No one’s fault; they’d both been busy working full-time jobs, and when they came home they were with Jeremy until he went to sleep—some nights not until ten o’clock—and by then they were so zonked they usually crashed on the couch, watching TV. Dr. Hagan, their marriage counselor, had assigned them exercises to increase intimacy in their marriage—going on date nights, planning romantic getaways—but what with child care and work they hadn’t had much time for any of that either.

“I’m feeling pretty good,” Simon said, trying to get into the mood.

He kissed Alison on the lips, holding her head steady, and then she fell back onto the bed and he was on top of her, holding her hands. He tried not to get distracted, but it was hard not to. He glanced at the clock on the night table—seven forty-four. He was an account manager at a midtown ad agency, and he had a big client meeting in forty-six min­utes. He tried to focus on making love, but he kept worrying about the meeting and the pending decision about a promotion, and replaying bits of random work conversations in his head.

“Is everything okay?” Alison asked.

“Fine,” Simon said. “Why?”

“Never mind,” she said.

Simon kissed her, moaning a little, and then his eyes shifted toward the night table: seven forty-five.

“Mommy!” Jeremy, their three-year-old, called from his room.

Alison gave Simon a look that asked, Can you believe this?

“Maybe he’ll go back to sleep,” Simon said.

They listened, didn’t hear anything, and resumed making love, and then the alarm clock went off with what it played every morning—U2’s “Beautiful Day.”

“I guess bad timing comes in twos,” Simon said.

“Mommy!” Jeremy called again.

“Coming, honey!” Alison said. Then she pulled up her panties and said in a frustrated tone, “This is so hard.”

Simon, also out of bed, said, “It was just a little coitus interruptus.”

“No, I mean all of this.” She gestured with her hands, looking around the room. “Both of us working full-time, trying to squeeze in sex when­ever we can. And I feel like we’re missing Jeremy’s whole childhood.”

“Come on,” Simon said. “I think you’re being a little melodramatic now.”

“You know what I mean,” she said. “We get to spend, what, three or four hours a day with him? It’s just not enough.”
They’d been through this before. When Jeremy was born, Alison had considered leaving her job in pharmaceutical sales and trying to find something part-time, but when they crunched the numbers they real­ized they just couldn’t swing it. They were barely getting by in Manhat­tan on two full-time salaries, and moving out of the city would be just as expensive when they factored in commuting costs and the need for two cars. So they’d decided to stay in the city and keep their jobs and hire a babysitter to take care of Jeremy on weekdays. The situation was hardly uncommon—most working parents in Manhattan had to hire babysit­ters, but it was especially rough when Jeremy had a learning leap and said a new grown-up word or learned a new trick in the playground. These were moments that parents could never get back.

“I’m just as frustrated as you are,” Simon said. “If my promotion comes through, maybe you can switch to part-time or even quit. But until then, there’s nothing we can do.”

“I know, I know,” Alison said. “I’m just saying, it’s getting to be a drag, that’s all.”

Alison put on a long “Best Mommy in the World” T-shirt and left to attend to Jeremy.

Simon shaved and showered as quickly as he could, and then he 20038 came out to the dining room, finishing getting dressed, buttoning his shirt. Jeremy was in his booster seat having breakfast: Special K and a juice box.

“There’s my big guy,” Simon said. “Gimme a high five, kiddo.”

He held up his hand and Jeremy slapped it and said, “High five.”

“Thataboy,” Simon said.

He glanced through the pass-through at Alison, who was unloading the dishwasher. He could tell she was still upset about their conversation, but there was nothing he could say to make it better, especially when he was already late for work.

He finished buttoning his shirt as he went into the closet and grabbed the first tie he saw—the navy one—and wrapped it loosely around his neck, then put on his suit jacket and grabbed his briefcase and headed back through the apartment.

The doorbell rang. Simon knew who it was before he answered it—Margaret, their babysitter.

“Hello, Simon, good morning to you.”

Margaret was the third babysitter they’d had since Jeremy was born—Marianna had quit when she and her family moved back to Ecuador, and Linda had left to have her own child. It was weird that babysitters could afford to quit their jobs to take care of their own kids, but he and Alison couldn’t, but then again the babysitters usually lived in the outer boroughs. If you wanted to live in Manhattan, in an apartment bigger than a studio, in a decent building, in a decent neighborhood, then you had to make sacrifices.
Margaret was by far the best babysitter they’d had. She was Jamaican, was in her forties, had two grown kids, and, most important, was great with Jeremy. She was patient and fun, and it was clear that she actually enjoyed the time she spent with him. Jeremy couldn’t get enough of her. He talked about her all the time, sometimes asking for her on weekends and having crying fits when she went home at night. Though it was great that he had such a close connection with his babysitter, at times it was tough to take for Simon and especially for Alison. It reminded them of how much they were missing out on by having someone else raise their child.

“Yay, Margaret’s here!” Jeremy said excitedly. He got up from the table and ran to Margaret and gave her a big hug.

“Come on, you have to finish your breakfast,” Alison said.

Jeremy ignored her, saying to Margaret, “I want to show you the painting I made yesterday.”“Go ahead, finish your breakfast, listen to your mother now,” Mar­garet said, and Jeremy immediately obeyed and returned to his seat.

Simon glanced at Alison and could tell how disappointed and hurt she felt, although she wasn’t really showing it.

While Margaret tended to Jeremy, Alison returned to the dishwasher. Simon, rushing out, came up behind her and kissed her on the neck and whispered, “The vicious shark attacks again.” This didn’t even get a smile. He added, “Everything’s going to be okay, sweetie, I promise.” She remained deadpan. Then he said, “Hey, like Bono says, it’s a beautiful day,” and she almost smirked.

“Got you,” he said.

“Yeah, you got me,” she said.

Simon had been working for Smythe & O’Greeley, or S&O, for seven years. Previously he’d worked as a copywriter for a smaller agency, but he liked his current job better because he had more personal inter­action with clients—that is, he got to entertain more. The promotion to senior account manager would give him more creative input, and it would be a nice change-up from what he’d been doing lately.

As Simon was swiping his card key to enter the S&O offices, Paul Kramer came up behind him and said, “Arriving early to kiss up to Tom, huh?”
Paul was a few years younger than Simon. Like Simon, he was an account manager being considered for the senior position. There were actually four candidates for the position from S&O and—rumor had it—a few candidates from outside the company. Simon felt he was in an excellent position to get the job because of his seniority—he’d been at S&O longer than any of the homegrown candidates, including Paul, who’d only been with the company for about a year—and because he was the most qualified for the position.

“No, I just have an early meeting,” Simon said.

“With Tom?” Paul asked with a sly smile.

Tom Harrison was their boss.

“No, with a client,” Simon said.

“Which client?” Paul asked.

Paul was still smirking, as if he were playing the role of someone who was competitive and catty about a promotion, though it was obvi­ous that he was being competitive and catty.

“Dave Milligan from Deutsche Bank,” Simon said.

“I believe you, I believe you,” Paul said. “I guess.”

Ugh, Simon hated office politics. He just wasn’t very competitive by nature. Growing up, he’d never gotten very involved in organized sports and he didn’t play on any teams in high school or college. Although he went out to bars with guys from the office to watch the big games on TV, he didn’t watch sports at home, and he didn’t really understand why winning and losing was so life-and-death to people. Getting petty with his co-workers seemed just as silly and counterproductive. Ultimately, wasn’t everyone in the company on the same team anyway?

“Morning, Mark,” Simon said to his assistant.

“Morning,” Mark said. “The clients just got here, they’re in the con­ference room. The bagels and coffee arrived and I told them you’d be right with them.”

“That’s great; thanks so much for taking care of all that,” Simon said.

That was the mistake people made. If you got petty with people, it didn’t get you anything in the end. Treat people with respect and good things happen. This philosophy had worked well for Simon throughout his career.

The meeting with Deutsche Bank went great. They were more than pleased with their current relationship with S&O and wanted to in­crease their expenditures for next quarter, and they wanted to discuss new campaigns for next year.

Buzzed from the positive meeting, Simon returned to his office. He was about to sit at his desk and start typing up some ideas for the pro­posal when Mark came in and said, “Tom was looking for you before.”

“Thanks,” Simon said. “Did he say what it was about?”

“No, but he wants you to meet with him in Joe McElroy’s office right away.”

“Great, thank you,” Simon said.

Joe McElroy was an assistant in Human Resources. Simon figured this had to do with the promotion; maybe Tom wanted to give him the news in Joe’s office because they needed to review the benefits package. Simon didn’t want to get too far ahead of himself and jinx it, but it was hard not to get a little excited. He’d been working his butt off at this job for seven years, and it felt so great to finally get rewarded for his work. With the bump in income he could increase his contributions to his retirement fund and Jeremy’s college fund and make occasional double payments on the mortgage. He could also take the family on vacations without feeling a financial crunch and, maybe in a year or two, if he got another promotion with higher pay or was able to switch to move up at another agency, Alison could quit her job and stay home with Jeremy by the time he started kindergarten.

When Simon entered, Tom was standing next to Joe in front of the desk. Tom was in his midforties, but twenty or so years in the stress­ful advertising business and countless martini lunches and happy hours made him look about ten years older. Joe was young, clean-cut, a few years out of college.

“Hey,” Simon said.

Tom started to say something, maybe hello back, but Simon cut him off with: “So I’ve got some great news. Just got out of a meeting with Dave Milligan and Andrew Chin from Deutsche Bank. Looks like they’re going to be expanding their expenditure with us big-time next quarter.”

“Really? That’s, um, great,” Tom said, “but I—”

“I know, I’m psyched,” Simon said. “I’ve been on these guys for months about this and I think I finally pushed them off the fence.” He noticed that Tom seemed distracted, maybe upset about something. Simon asked, “Is everything okay?”

“No,” Tom said. “I’m afraid not.” He still wasn’t making eye contact.

“If I didn’t get the promotion, I understand,” Simon said. “I know there were other candidates and only one of us can—”

“I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to eliminate your position,” Tom said.

There was silence, like the silence after an atom bomb is dropped.

“Excuse me?” Simon actually didn’t understand what Tom had said; the words didn’t make sense to him.

“I’m sorry,” Tom said. “My hands are tied on this and I feel awful about it.”

Simon had a dull, sickening feeling in his gut. He felt like Tom had sucker punched him, which in a way he had.

Joe said, “You can step outside now, Tom.”

As Tom left the office he rested a hand on Simon’s shoulder briefly and said, “I’m sorry.”

Simon was still in a daze. Was this really happening?

Joe held out a folder for Simon to take and said, “This explains everything you need to know about your severance and benefits. . . .”

Joe’s voice faded to white noise. Thoughts swirled in Simon’s brain, and none of them made any sense. Looking at Joe, Simon felt like he was watching a silent movie in slow motion. Simon heard Joe say “be happy to run through it all with you” and “answer any questions you might have” and then the voice faded out again. Simon was amazed how cold Joe was, showing no emotion. Joe could have been alone in the room, talking to a wall.

Simon didn’t remember leaving Joe’s office. He was suddenly marching in the corridor, and then, it seemed like the next instant, he was in Tom’s office, saying, “This is a joke, right? You’re not actually firing me, right?”

Tom was sitting at his desk. Simon was so upset he was actually shaking.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” Tom said.

“Are you kidding me?” Simon said. “What the hell is going on here? Come on, just talk to me.”

Tom took a deep breath, then said reluctantly, “Look, you know how it is these days. It’s a numbers game, pure and simple.”

“But at that performance review two weeks ago you said I’m doing an excellent job. Those were your exact words—‘You’re doing an excel­lent job, Simon.’”

Joe rushed into the office and said, “You’re going to have to leave this office now, Mr. Burns.”

“Mr. Burns?” Simon said to Joe. “Did you seriously just call me Mr. Burns?”

“Do what he says,” Tom said.

“Come on, I’m begging you,” Simon said to Tom. “I have a wife and a kid, and we have to pay a mortgage and maintenance and child care and—”

“I’m serious,” Joe said. “You’re not allowed to have this discussion.”

“Why me?” Simon continued to Tom. “Why not somebody else? I mean Paul’s been here, what, a year? Why not fire him?”

“This could affect your severance,” Joe said.

“I mean you don’t even talk to me?” Simon was getting angrier, raising his voice. “You don’t even give me a chance to defend myself? After seven years? Seven goddamn years?”

“I’m sorry, Simon,” Tom said.

“Please don’t speak to him,” Joe said to Tom.

“Oh, you’re sorry,” Simon said. “Oh, well, that makes things so much better. Tell me, tell me, tell me this.” Simon knew he was losing control, but he kept going. “When did I ever, in seven years, when did I ever not deliver for you? Every project I’ve gotten to you on time, I’ve never missed a meeting. The only time I took a sick day in seven years was when my son had the goddamn swine flu.”

“If you don’t leave right now,” Joe said to Simon, “I’ll have to write this up.”

“Look me in the eye,” Simon said to Tom. “Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t have anything to do with this decision.”

Tom’s eyes shifted away, toward his computer monitor.

“Unbelievable,” Simon said and marched out. He slammed the door for effect and the whole flimsy wall shook and he heard something in the office fall and glass shatter. He made it about halfway back to his desk, feeling dazed and numb, then turned and rushed back into Tom’s office and said, “I’m sorry. I—I didn’t mean to do that.”
Now Tom looked pissed off, as he was bending over the broken pic­ture frame, starting to pick up the biggest pieces of glass. He said, “Just go, Simon. It’s over, okay?”

A heavyset security guard had entered the office and was standing next to Joe.

“I’m sorry,” Joe said to Simon, “but you need to pack up your per­sonal items and leave the building right away. Kevin will give you a hand.”

Simon stood there for several seconds, feeling numb, and then he walked away. People in the office had stopped what they were doing, peering over their cubicles or looking up from their desks. Still in a fog, feeling like he was half there, Simon ignored everyone. Somehow he wound up in his office, packing a box with stuff as the security guard lingered near the door, but he didn’t remember getting the box and he was barely aware of anything he was doing. At one point, Mark came over and said, “Hey, I’m really sorry, man,” but Simon didn’t answer him or even look over.

As he finished packing, the shock of being fired was starting to fade, and the anger was hitting full force. This was such total crap. He wasn’t just some part-time employee or temp. He’d put in seven years of his life working for S&O, and this was how it was ending? What had Tom said, We’re going to have to eliminate your position? Have to, like it was ordained from God or something. After all these years, couldn’t Tom at least have given him a heads-up, any kind of hint that this was coming down the pike? But, no, Tom hadn’t said a word to him, though—Simon suddenly realized—there had been a few clues. Like that staff meeting two weeks ago Tom “forgot” to tell him about, or what about that time—when was it, late last week?—when Simon got on the elevator with Tom and Eric, one of the creative directors, and their conversation suddenly stopped? The more Simon thought about it, the more he realized there had been little, subtle clues all along, and maybe if he hadn’t been so stressed out at work, and with his whole crazy schedule, he could’ve put the pieces of the puzzle together sooner and realized his job was in jeopardy.

Still, it was so spineless of Tom to just spring this on him. Yeah, like Simon was really supposed to believe that Tom’s hands had been tied on this, that Tom had stood up for him with Andy Wallace and the other guys in management? If Andy had suggested letting Simon go, Tom had probably acquiesced right away. Or, more likely, it had been Tom’s idea. Simon could imagine it so clearly now—Andy meeting with Tom and asking for a suggestion for who to let go—Paul or Simon—and Tom saying, “I think we should fire Simon.”
Simon wished there were something he could do—go over Tom’s head, file some kind of grievance—but he knew that whining about the situation would get him nowhere. People got fired all the time in advertising; it was par for the course. He’d been fortunate that, up until today, it had never happened to him. But it had definitely been a mis­take slamming the door to Tom’s office and breaking that picture frame. After all, he might need a recommendation.

Leaving the office was one of the most humiliating experiences of Simon’s life. Although he didn’t see anyone watching him, he knew everyone was watching him. This would be the highlight of their day—hell, their week. They’d tell their spouses and friends about how Simon Burns had been fired today and how he’d slammed his boss’s door and broken a picture frame. Simon just wanted to get the hell out of there as fast as possible, but it seemed like it took minutes to get from his office to the elevators. He was trying to focus straight ahead and to be Zen, in the moment, but it was impossible to block out his thoughts. This was the first time he’d been fired from any job, he suddenly realized, and he was completely unprepared for the wild rush of emotions. He felt embarrassed, ashamed, like a total failure. He was also terrified, knowing there was no way he could pay the bills with some flimsy unemploy­ment check. The job market was so tough there was no guarantee he could find a job this year, and he was going to have to burn through his savings just to pay the rent.

Walking up Broadway, Simon stepped off a curb when a traffic light had turned to don’t walk and a speeding cab almost hit him. He barely cared, though, as he continued uptown in a daze, feeling like his whole life had gone to hell.