Page 3 of Minted

It’s probably the cutest account we work with—two wicked-smart eleven-year-old girls who are identical twins. We started working with them more than two years ago when they were only eight. They would play pranks on people—and catch them on video. When they revealed they’d fooled their teachers and had the same twin take both math tests, for instance, those videos really went viral.

I mean, they probably got in trouble at school too, but I’m not their mom. And people loved their content—the pranks they came up with were really impressive for kids. Always harmless, but always a hoot. It wasn’t until they had a few viral videos that I found them, and now I have a big client who wants to work with them—a gum company that wants to do something similar to the old Double Double Wrigley’s gum ads.

Retro is in.

But we can’t set up any more promotions—certainly nothing like a commercial—until their paperwork is all set for next year. I shoot them an email asking again for the signed forms, and I say that I’ll follow up with a call tomorrow. This kind of thing is routine for me—as the boss of the social media department, I make big decisions, but I catch little things too. I’m sort of like a mother in that way. Big ideas originate with me, and I’m also stuck doing all the small clean-up stuff. I’ve actually really liked most things about this job, but recently things have gotten a little sticky on a personal front. Sadly, personal and business have been inextricably entwined here since I married James.

In fact, I’m considering another career change just to get out.

“Hey, B. Have a minute?” No knock on the side of my door. No cleared throat. Nothing. Just starts talking.

“I asked you not to call me B,” I say, aware that I sound a little juvenile, but unable to help myself. “What do you want, James?”

My stupid British ex-husband looks exactly as pristine as ever. His three-piece suit would look stupid on anyone else, but it works for him. So does the brightly colored tie and the perfectly coiffed hair with just a tiny line of grey at his temple.

By contrast, my hair’s thrown up into yet another messy bun. I didn’t bother with lipstick today, I have a small stain I didn’t notice until I was already at work on the hem of my blouse, and I’m wearing boring, slightly scuffed, black flats.

Mostly, though, I hate how flustered I always feel around him.

He looks at me with an expression of condescension that I hate. “I just wanted to check in about the holiday party.”

“Check in?” The office assigned the two of us to handle holiday party duty last December, back before we were divorced. No one even knew we were struggling then, so we agreed. Several of our biggest clients throw big parties, and we run some of them. Others, they just want us to attend. It’s actually not too bad, usually. But now that we’ve been divorced more than six months, I kept hoping someone would think to reassign one of us so we didn’t have to go together.

So far, no luck.

“I mean, do you really want to go to a half a dozen holiday parties with me?” He arches one eyebrow. “It’s not that we can’t, but it might be. . .awkward.”

And the holiday season is officially upon us. Now that Thanksgiving’s past, we have more than one every week. “Did you ask Doug whether he could take over?”

“He’s leaving on a cruise that interferes with four of the six,” James says. “When I found that out, I couldn’t bring myself to ask him.”

Usually my ex is the nation’s leading expert at imposing on people, even in bad situations. Or maybe that’s just me—he’s great at imposing on me in bad situations. “What do you want to do, then?”

“I think it’ll be fine. It’s not like we can’t be in the same room. We’ve worked together here this whole time, after all.”

“That’s your plan? We should just both go?”

He cringes a little. “I mean, you could send Angela or Heather.”

“Neither of them can handle the politics of attending—much less running—a holiday party.”

“Well.” He shrugs. “I guess we’ll just have to suck it up.”

I wave at the door. “Fine. Whatever. But I’m not going to walk around with you on my arm all night. People are going to know we’re divorced, so get ready.”

“Aye aye,” he says, and then he salutes, like he thinks he’s a Marine or something.

“Ooh, I’m glad I caught you both,” Jennifer says from the doorway. “I wanted to go over something.”

Our boss is unfailingly perky and she’s not even thirty yet, but somehow she wound up with the quintessential name from our generation.

“Yeah?” Please, please let her be replacing me for the holiday party representative. That would make the next few weeks so much nicer.

“It’s about the holiday parties.”

Yes. I breathe a visible sigh of relief. But then my brain realizes that she doesn’t look like she’s delivering good news. She looks nervous. Like we won’t like what she’s telling us.

“A few weeks ago, we started submitting our RSVPs to a dozen or so clients for their holiday parties, as you probably already know. It’s critical at things like this for Follow to put its best foot forward.”

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