Maliciously Obedient Part 4

Jonah grinned slyly. "Any chance you and Linda might a "

"Lydia." The slow simmer turned to a low boil. Jesus Christ, man, get her name right. She was part of the series, like it or not. A light bulb went off. "Hold on. How do you secure permission to run these shows if the people who I interact with don't know abut the cameras?"

The grin turned smug. "We ask after the fact. Blur out their faces if they refuse. Most people though, man," he shook his head slowly, contemplative suddenly. "They don't say no."

"Their fifteen minutes of fame?"

"Something like that." He clapped Mike on the shoulder as they stood, the familiarity a bit too unctuous. "I'm sure she'll consider it a privilege when she finds out."

A privilege.

Right.

Chapter Four.

Three hours of yoga. Two hours of careful breathing meditation. One pint of Ben and Jerry's and she thought that she was calm enough to handle the presentation. She had done the research. She knew how to a.s.semble the various components of social media and, by G.o.d, she was having a great hair day to boot.

So, as she smoothed out the skirt and pulled her s.h.i.+rt over it, her curves covered by nicely tailored clothes, she stared herself in the eye in the mirror and said, "Your inner G.o.ddess can do this." Then she grinned maniacally.

Matt Jones had changed everything, that's for sure. Everything. She had tried to talk to Dave about why the job got filled and he claimed to know even less than she did. That "somebody at corporate had just sent Matt down" bulls.h.i.+t a without a word of warning a left her about 50/50 on whether she was going to believe him or not. Dave could be cagey. He'd lied to her on both personal and professional levels, so as far as she was concerned Dave was an obstacle.

A powerful one, unfortunately.

Dave was the epitome of the corporate ladder climber, an early-30s guy with a Harvard MBA and an ego the size of the tuition price tag. She was taking a huge risk by doing this presentation because if Dave liked it he would co-opt it. In that sense, she was glad to have Matt there because if Matt were a decent guy a where to put him on the continuum from hero to a.s.shole? a as long as he lived somewhere in the middle third, she figured he'd back her up if Dave decided to run with the credit. If Dave didn't like it, the idea was dead in the water. Although, she supposed if she wanted to go job hunting she could use it as an example of the quality of her work. But really, who was she? She was a twenty-five year old with a Master's degree in a subject that corporate America considered to be hippieland, or worse a threatening.

Men in middle management took her gender studies graduate degree as some sort of threat, depending on age. Anybody under thirty seemed to just find it interesting or novel, or maybe patronizingly cute. Anybody over fifty suddenly got nervous a and sweaty a because what did "gender studies" mean? Then there was that 'in the middle' where Matt and Dave lived. Reactions seemed to depend on upbringing, temperament, where they were in the corporate structure and where they were on that continuum from hero to a.s.shole. Dave leaned more towards the a.s.shole end.

If she could get Dave to agree that her project was valid then she had a chance at the director of a oh, s.h.i.+t.

And that was the problem. That's where Matt Jones had gummed up the works. When she was honest with herself she had to acknowledge a parallel gumming of the works where he made her heart stand still and beat out of her chest at the same time. Where he made her cheeks flush, not with embarra.s.sment, not with condescension, but with arousal. Where he made her hands twitch, not eager for more work, but needing the feel of his skin.

Matt Jones had taken what was supposed to be a simple presentation today at two o'clock and turned it into a very, very complicated issue. In Lydia's world, everything was typically quite simple. She knew what she wanted, she worked hard, she put her nose to the grindstone and she just did what she needed to do. She didn't have Ivy League degrees, she didn't have well-connected parents, she wasn't some great beauty. In fact, her weight was a disadvantage.

She wasn't quite fat and she definitely wasn't close to thin. Stuck in between what people would call zaftig or voluptuous, she wore a medium/large at J. Jill and had a body type that could fit in sizes anywhere from a twelve to a sixteen (OK, eighteen). She didn't have enormous b.r.e.a.s.t.s; they were quite fine and proportionate to her rib cage and to her nipped-in waist. But she had an hourgla.s.s figure that was the epitome of a pear with a "great big booty" as Krysta called it, and hips that screamed peasant.

Her mother had always said, "You've got hips for birthing, so you need to have four children or more."

Lydia had looked at her in horror and said, "Four children! Who's crazy enough to have four children?"

The mother of six had replied,"I guess I'm fifty percent crazier than that."

For all of her flaws, for all of her insecurities that popped up here and there about her body, she really was firmly centered within herself. At peace with her issues, at peace with her bountiful self, and through her studies, research, and a.n.a.lysis she had come to distinguish between what society said about a woman's body and what a woman herself could believe. With deep, conscious effort Lydia had worked to carve out a s.p.a.ce within that no one else could touch. That no one else could judge. That no one else could frame for her and impose on her and make her feel bad about anything.

Smoothing that blouse against the pooch of skin between her hips, she squared her shoulders, tightened her bra straps, and finger-combed her long, brown silky hair, observing the almond-shaped eyes that stared back at her, the slight pink on her cheekbones, the well-placed lipstick that made her face bright.

All of it said Lydia. And that was good enough.

As he watched Lydia set up her Powerpoint, checking the screen to make sure that the controllers all worked, lining up her notes, he realized just how nervous she was underneath it all. He was rooting for her, both as Matt Jones and as Michael Bournham because, although she had been touchy the other day when she came to him with this project and he hadn't heard the entire story, he was pretty sure that whatever she was about to dump on his and Dave's heads right now was smart, well thought out, carefully planned, and ready to be executed in a way that would help the bottom line here at the company.

It didn't hurt that she was so fine to watch, her shapely body bending and twisting, silk and wool and cloth clinging to the parts he loved most, her movements professional, skin so soft and approachable he could barely stand it, a hunger welling up in him that he needed to tame. Dating "toothpicks with b.o.o.bs" a Jeremy's catch phrase a had become too much of a trend for him. The lush appeal of her body, with a bright mind and sharp tongue to match, was making it harder to control his runaway l.u.s.t.

And that was something no Botoxed, surgically-enhanced, cantaloupes-under-chest-skinned women had provoked in him in a very long time.

If ever.

She looked at him as if he were a nemesis, sidelong glances from those topaz-speckled eyes, looks he wished were driven by a sultrier appeal and not by worry or compet.i.tion. Each look came not with a guarded focus, but with a righteous anger, a chip on her shoulder the size, he imagined, of her student loan debt. The size of all the guys before him who had come and gone and taken the jobs that she wanted. Or of the grad school colleagues who had s.n.a.t.c.hed up cla.s.ses, plum a.s.signments as research a.s.sistants, and well a he knew the drill. He had a sister. He had seen her struggle and knew that as much as he wanted to think that gender politics weren't an issue in the workplace the past few days here a my G.o.d, had it really been a week? a had shown him just how out of touch he had become.

Being at the top of the building, literally and metaphorically, with the executive suite flying high over the city meant that he had his fingers in nothing that resembled average American daily life. He was driven wherever he needed to go. He ate food prepared by other people and generally of the finest quality. He wore bespoke suits tailored specifically to his body, to his tastes, to his needs. Women molded themselves to what they thought he wanted in an effort to please him, to snag him, to carry bragging rights. Mike wasn't sure anymore. Real love hadn't entered into the picture in years. He couldn't quite count his friend Jeremy's steadfast presence.

Not quite.

Daily life was all a churn. He met with other CEOs, with high-level investors, with fund managers and with federal regulators in an endless spiral of more of the same, all with the singular goal of generating more money for someone.

Preferably that someone was him.

Here sat a no, stood a no, sat a Lydia the fruitfly, hyped up on the meth of anxiety and possibility. The metaphor was apt; from his point of view she looked so nervous, impossibly anxious. Her hair down and flowing, her makeup perfectly applied, her face fresh and alert and closed off, the stakes were so high in her world that she couldn't bear to let one sliver of her authentic self escape.

In his world this was nothing. He viewed it as an exercise in understanding more about Dave, about how his upper middle managers handled daily life at work. Was workplace mobility really that constricted? Had Lydia been right, that there really was a gender issue? He didn't know, but he was about to find out.

With cameras rolling. Jonah's script be d.a.m.ned. He had actually looked through it before, briefly, when the email Jonah sent popped up. Mike had laughed, rolled his eyes, and snorted with disgust because Jonah had wanted him to "accidentally" spill a cup of coffee on Lydia's front and then take a napkin and start to wipe it up.

Really? Not only was that one of the lamest a and oldest a tricks in the book, but it violated about seventeen s.e.xual hara.s.sment policies, it humiliated her for the rest of the day with filthy clothes, and it was so tone deaf that it stretched Mike's credulity. Were television tropes that well-worn? Is that what the public wants? he wondered. Do they really want to see a woman debased by having coffee poured on her and then being patted down by a man who seems predatory? Was he feeding that by even partic.i.p.ating in this show?

Lydia cleared her throat and he shook himself out of these deeper thoughts, realizing he hadn't considered any of this in years, thoughts that connected to larger social concepts. Perhaps the strident feminist standing before him now, her knees practically knocking with nerves, had planted them there.

Dave looked bored. It unnerved her. As if he were just tolerating this as some sort of masturbatory exercise a in a way, though, that was true. As her eyes floated across Matt Jones' face, trying very intently not to make eye contact, she realized that this was just bread and circus, Dave tolerating what she wanted to do. That's not what she wanted.

The whole point of this was to prove herself. Resilient Lydia, the one who had been raised by Sandy and Pete, knew that this would be a success a but if it failed, she would just pick herself up, dust herself off, and move on to the next thing. That resilient self would be fine in the end.

She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, kept her head down and pretended to read her notes, but lowered her lids. The other part of her, the part that had broken so many rules that Pete and Sandy had instilled in her: like family came first, like the family business was her future, like stay here and marry a Mainer a that Lydia was the one perched on a precipice, a giant abyss rising up from the ground to suck her in.

And that Lydia needed this to work.

Apathetic Dave and attentive, friendly Matt were her audience. She had to make a choice. What kind of woman was she going to be? Was she going to be resilient Lydia or fragile Lydia?

Not even a question. She knew the answer already. She always did. She just let the insecurities creep in a little too much, right at the edge.

Resilient Lydia took one more deep breath, looked Dave right in the eye with a nice professional smile, held it for two seconds longer than was comfortable, and then did the same with Matt.

And began.

"Romance novels represent more than forty percent of all books sold in the United States," she started, eliciting the first eyeroll from Dave. She knew there would be more, but continued. "In 2008, according to the Romance Writers of America, the largest romance writing organization in the United States, seventy five million people read at least one romance novel in 2008."

"And all of them women," Dave muttered. Matt frowned.

She kept going. "That's not true Dave. Actually, nine percent of all readers are men."

Matt chuckled. "Men secretly pining to read bodice rippers?" he asked. It was a friendly question, more a shared joke than a taunt. Not at all as closed off or derisive as Dave.

Lydia turned to him and smiled, a conspirator's grin, and told him, "No one knows exactly, but it seems that a lot of husbands grab their wives' romance novels and check them out. Although, there's a whole other component of gay male readers reading romance novels that I'll get into later." She shot Dave a wink. Casting a sidelong look at Matt, Dave showed his first sign of emotion by c.o.c.king one eyebrow and making sure Matt knew he wasn't gay. Which he demonstrated by twirling one finger around his ear and pointing at Lydia, as if she'd been insinuating that.

Matt showed no emotion, instead ignoring Dave.

Thank you.

She forged on, undeterred. "The trend's on the rise and most of my statistics end in 2009, although the social media statistics are much more up to date. But, anywhere from twenty-four to twenty-nine percent of Americans regularly read at least one romance novel per year. And that trend is increasing."

Matt leaned forward, his attention lasered in on her. Now she had him a she could tell, and it felt empowering, gaining his interest with her idea. Her vision. Hers and hers alone; she had carved out a niche for herself and d.a.m.n if it wasn't finally being noticed.

Wait until she showed him where she could take them both. Umm...rather, the company's advertising division. Oh, dear. She could feel herself slipping, his face open and nurturing in a professional way. He wanted her to succeed; she could tell. It threw her off, because why should he want this? They were rivals, right?

Not really. He had the job already. She didn't. Was he patronizing her?

She didn't think so, actually. There was something about the way that he was attuned, those bright green eyes taking inventory of her, of her words. The way that he leaned forward on his elbows, his forearms dotted with sandy hair, relaxed and composed all at once as if what she had to say really mattered. And she was glad.

Because it did.

"The distribution of people who read romance novels across the country is about what you'd expect. The majority, about fifty-three percent, are cl.u.s.tered in the midwest and the south. Although New Yorkers and Bostonians get their fill too. Older readers are spiking, too. In 2012, a survey done by Bowker Market Research shows that readers over the age of fifty are on the rise. The bulge of readers a "

Dave snickered. Matt shot him a withering look, which carried more authority than it should have, leading Dave to glare back. She was watching a very real alpha match and knew who to lay odds on.

Her attention returned to Matt, as if he were the one she needed to woo.

Professionally, that is.

Lydia continued, " a come in the 40-49 age range with the second largest group in the 26-39 range. Historically, romance novels were purchased in paper, and ma.s.s market paperbacks are by far the most popular format a but not for long. Nowadays those tend to priced at about $7.99 each. Trade book size is close behind, in terms of popularity, but with trade paperbacks floating anywhere from $12 to $20 each, it's no surprise that people are rapidly adopting the eBook model."

Matt smirked. She turned and clicked her Powerpoint, displaying the statistics as she popped through them, all of them reinforcing the point she was getting to. Dave looked at his watch and stopped any pretense of not being bored.

"What does this," he waved dismissively at the screen, "have to do with advertising and social media, Lydia?" he asked.

"Good question, Dave." She maintained her poise, working on trying very hard not to kill him. G.o.d knows how many run-throughs she had tolerated for him, letting him practice and drone on and on for pitches that he gave to higher levels of corporate or for going out and trying to snag new clients. Ungrateful a.s.s. Here she was with an idea that could boost division profits and he acted like she was a little girl at a talent show.

Maybe she should stuff some marshmallows up her nose and start shooting.

This is how his director of communications treated an innovator. Mike took a good, hard look at Dave out of the corner of his eye as Lydia continued her presentation, breaking down demographics and talking about the impact of Fifty Shades of Grey, Bared to You, and The Virgin Menage series currently dominating the New York Times Bestseller List. As she went layer by layer deconstructing audiences, talking about market share, delving into numbers and specific profit levels, he watched as Dave systematically undermined everything she was trying to do, dismissed all of it out of hand, and wouldn't even bother.

He knew what Dave earned; one of his a.s.sistants had researched it, when he made the decision to take the Director of Social Media job as Matt Jones, and from what he was seeing the guy was ma.s.sively overpaid. He should have given Lydia the position a and by the time this presentation was done, he very well might.

Dave dressed well a a little too well. His look was crisp and clean, a bit overdone, with hands that spoke to never having touched a rake or a shovel or, Mike suspected, a keyboard, until he had no choice. He probably was a double thumber, proficient with a Blackberry, and the type who sent emails to his a.s.sistant so she could email them to others.

Corporate America was filled with Daves. What it needed was more Lydias. If he really were Matt Jones he'd be sitting here, probably adopting Dave's crossed-arm blase att.i.tude in an attempt to fit in, trying to secure his place in the rat race, in the ladder climbing, in the petty world of one ups a of cut downs a of these social signals that permeated business life and took on meanings of their own.

But he wasn't Matt Jones. He was Mike Bournham and he owned this company, which meant he owned Dave. Not really, but metaphorically speaking. He sized him up. Dave probably held no student loan debt. Those smooth hands told him he came from a pampered background. Mike guessed he probably had plenty of consumer debt. An overpriced car in his parking spot with a hefty lease fee a because these guys always leased up, flas.h.i.+ng a car far more expensive than they should drive, but it projected status a right?

Was that a ring on his finger? Yup. Okay, married. Probably owned a house with a heavy, four figure monthly mortgage and at least another car for the wife. Maybe they had kids. If so, daycare costs. Undoubtedly the biggest cable package you could imagine, hundreds and hundreds a month. And of course they had to go to Disney every year and hmm... Guys like Dave radically underpaid their housekeeper and nanny and gardener and considered themselves great guys for giving 'that type' a job at all.

Dave was the kind of guy who left skid marks on his underwear for someone else to clean up. For Mike, that was a form of sacrilege as he sunk deeper and deeper into realizing how far he'd come from who he'd thought he would be by now. There were times when he skittered waaaaay too close to being a Dave, skidmarks notwithstanding.

Right now, though, wasn't one of them.

"And so, now that I've shown you the background, the demographics, the profit issues and where I think we can fit in, let me lay out the exact plan for how we can create a plug-n-play product, a set of services that will allow us to capture as much market share for these writers, bloggers, publis.h.i.+ng houses, all of the people who are intimately connected with the romance industry. And how Bournham Industries and our advertising sector can reap the benefit financially." Lydia's confidence was evident in the lilt in her voice, triggering a smile Mike couldn't contain.

This could really help Bournham Industries. He doubted the project could get underway fast enough to meet his needs, which were about eight weeks away a before the final board decision when he found out whether he was a billionaire or not.

On that he was confident, as long as everything unfolded according to plan. And why shouldn't it? So far, so good.

In the long run, for a fiscally healthy company and for more a for corporate responsibility, for feeding innovation, for growing internal employees like Lydia who cared, who were clever, who saw opportunities and went for them without any direct incentive a that? That was worth so much more than the money that they would see.

Dave held one hand up, palm facing her, "Hold on, hold on. I just...you know, Lydia." He looked at his watch and shook his head, displaying a condescending smile. "I think that you've done a spectacular job putting together all this market data."

Mike watched as Lydia's cheeks flushed, her back straightened, knowing exactly where this was going but still staring Dave down. "And I think," Dave continued, "in more sophisticated hands, you might have a great idea here. It just don't think it will fly. You've micro sliced too much. A smaller boutique firm that wants to take on something like this, a good mid-six figures kind of an account that you could create by going out, doing cold calls, working the network...alright," Dave mugged, an expression as if he was considering the pros and cons of something.

"But, you know, we're not one of those. We're Bournham Industries and I just can't imagine that Michael Bournham, the ultimate corporate alpha male," he chuckled, "the kind of guy who would be a hero in one of these cute little romance novels, would go for it."

A preternatural calmness seeped into Mike's lungs, over his chest, up his neck, down his biceps and into his forearms, tingling his fingers as he looked at Dave and said, "How do you know what Mike Bournham might be thinking?"

Whatever tone of voice he used, Lydia and Dave snapped to attention and stared at him. Lydia narrowed her eyes, the flush gone from her cheeks, the shake gone from her fingers, her body more composed, turning to face him with her shoulders straight. Mike's jaw felt about as tight as a reconstructed virgin on her twenty-fifth wedding anniversary a a trend he'd been alarmed to learn from one of his last dates was gaining popularity in his city.

A pinched smile from Dave. "Well, I can't claim to speak for him, but why don't you go ask him, Matt?"

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Dave," Mike said. Lydia's hand flew to her mouth, suppressing a chuckle. Ahh, so she got the cultural reference. Dave clearly didn't, eyes flas.h.i.+ng in anger at her laughter, at Mike's face. Whatever anger he was transmitting, he realized it wasn't enough. He had to be...no. Dammit.

He couldn't be Michael Bournham right now.

Role play for the cameras. He had to be Matt Jones; he had to be this a.s.shole's subordinate. This was the part he was playing. This hidden boss for the sake of the cameras, for the sake of the drama, for the sake of those profits. And even if Dave was wrong, Matt had to back down. Even if Mike wanted to roar up.

Quickly, he calculated the best next step.

Meanwhile, Dave answered, "That's right. You can't do that because you don't have a direct line or even an indirect line to Michael Bournham. I do. I'm the Director of Communications." He used his hand to gesture for importance, for emphasis, as if somehow that hand using an "okay" sign spun about, the palm being used to emphasize boundaries, as if it made a difference.

As if it made him more important.

Mike wanted to crush this guy like the bug that he was, yet Matt had to defer. That didn't mean that Mike wouldn't act later. It just meant that it was time for Matt to be the good guy in a different way.

"This has been a great meeting," Mike said, speaking with as much sincerity as he could muster. "And Lydia, I would love to watch the rest of the presentation. You've got some innovative ideas there but I," he choked out, "have to defer to the boss a because he's the boss, right?"

Her eyes sparkled with panic. Mike knew what she was feeling. This was going down, down, down the drain and he flashed back to his own presentation upon which his entire career had hinged. Except that he had been eighteen, nervous, geeky, a code jockey, and telling his dad about the importance of data mining and using these new technology techniques in the mid 90's to help raise the business profile, to help gain customers and market share and new clients. He hadn't been taken seriously at first either.

His father's reaction had been the opposite of Dave's. He'd simply told him go for it. "Do whatever you wanna do kid, just have fun doing it." Oh, how Mike had a helping his father quintuple the size of the company in a handful of years.

Lydia didn't have that luxury. He didn't have the authority as Matt Jones of saying, "Go for it, Lydia. Here's a budget a run with it and show me what you can do."