In a New York Minute
Kate Spencer
To Anthony, who makes up one half of my New York City love story. And to Teresa and Sarah, who make up the other.
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Chapter One
Franny
No one plans on getting laid off when they wake up in the morning.
No one sips their first drop of coffee and thinks, Today’s the day, fifteen minutes into checking my morning email and drafting a reply to that pain-in-the-ass client Melinda, that I’ll get a notification in Slack telling me to head down to the main conference room for an “important chat.”
No one imagines that the super successful interior design start-up they work for—you know, the one that had a massive hiring blitz four years ago, keeps fridges full of organic cold-pressed juices, has beanbag chairs in all the conference rooms, and hosts weekly rooftop happy hours—will lay off half their staff in a matter of forty-five minutes.
No one dares to consider that the venture-capitalist money that had poured in, so much endless cash that it had instilled an overblown sense of possibility and security and allowed the twenty-six-year-old founder to increase staff from twenty-seven to seventy-four people over just the last year (and buy a cherry-red Maserati along the way), would be mismanaged by the team at the top, and totally gone, just like that.
At least, I didn’t.
In fact, it seemed impossible that the same people who once had excitedly told me about their standard four weeks of vacation for all employees, even entry-level ones, would be one day sitting across from me on multicolored midcentury-modern chairs (not ones I’d ever choose for a client, if I’m being honest), with giant cups of Starbucks in front of them, uttering these words:
“We’re so sorry, Franny. We’ve really valued everything you’ve contributed to Spayce. But we need to consolidate the digital and design team. Even marketing is taking a big cut. This is just part of working in the start-up space. You know how it is. We grew too quickly, and now we need to scale back.”
I should have known that when you’re working for a company that promises to “disrupt” things, they might just mean your life.
The promotion that I’d been assured was right around the corner—for over a year—never came. Instead, I’d been unceremoniously sacked, all before ten in the morning. It felt like I’d just been dumped by someone I thought was about to get down on one knee and propose.
I walked back in a daze to the massive bright-white worktable I shared with six other junior designers, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. Tightness spread across my chest, panic settling into my body. My brain was suddenly a running list of numbers and bullet points, ticking across a screen in my head.
Student loans.
Phone bill.
Food.
Those custom checkered Vans I had forked over one hundred dollars for while doing some late-night online retail therapy last week.
Rent.
My apartment was “affordable” by New York City standards, but on my salary it was still a stretch, an expense I justified because I loved the space so much. Tiny, yes, and occasionally visited by a cockroach or two. But it was all mine.
And, of course, I had big plans to knock down some of my credit card debt and pay off that trip I took to Miami three years ago, where I ordered a $300 bottle of wine by accident at dinner and was too embarrassed to tell the waiter I’d made a mistake.
I’d put all my hopes and dreams for the year on the vision board I’d made alongside my two best friends, Cleo and Lola, and a mound of bagels from Russ & Daughters on a Sunday morning in early January. A promotion at work, financial freedom, a vintage black Chanel purse made of soft buttery leather with a gold-chain strap. Losing my job had definitely not been on there. And I still didn’t have that Chanel bag. I guess at least now I could definitively say vision boards were 100 percent BS.
Doug, the head of IT, circled our communal desk with an awkward look on his face, logging us out of our computers with a few quick taps. Melinda was never going to get a reply from me about the bright-red velvet couch I’d sourced for her Austin living room. The fact that she’d be sitting there, irritated and awaiting my reply, was the only bright spot in this otherwise garbage day.
A stack of cardboard boxes was now in the center of the office, strewn atop the bright-pink couches that served as our design team’s morning meeting gathering space. Ramona, my quiet, introverted, and brilliant coworker, who created life-size papier-maché sculptures at her art space in Queens on the weekends, stood across from me, sniffling as she placed a few items from her desk into a box.
“Ramona,” I said as I caught her eye. “I’m so sorry.”
She wiped her eyes on the back of her sleeve and gave me a weepy smile. “I haven’t told anyone here yet, but I’m pregnant.”
My mouth fell open. “Oh god.”
She nodded. “And Chris—” She got choked up again as she said her partner’s name. “He just quit his job so he could do culinary school full-time. We’re so screwed.”
My stomach flipped with that about-to-puke feeling at the thought of how they were going to afford everything they needed for a baby.
“It’s so messed up,” I said. “My student-loan bills are already a nightmare. I don’t know how I’m going to pay them down now.”