Dear Valentina [The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel]

☆ Chapter Four: Deus ex Machina

CHAPTER FOUR.      DEUX EX MACHINA

☆

     Valerie struggled not to tamper with the butterfly stitch located above her right eyebrow, opting to slide her hands underneath the thighs and press down, hoping that would soothe the temptation. Herb's office, an entire night later, looked completely clean and spotless after the drunken tirade of men showed up; one wouldn't have thought a nasty brawl had taken place here, along with the appearance of police. His secretary, moreover, presented her with her usual warm smile and guided her to the office as if she didn't punch someone the night before. However, the evidence of the fight still presented itself onto her; the butterfly stitch was to handle the cut Guy's fingernails caused above her eyebrow, the bump on the back of her head had gone down but still hurt sporadically, and there was now purplish bruising around the right side of her nose (barely visible after Valerie went to war with the bruise with a bottle of concealer this morning). One thing that wouldn't recover from last night's blow out was her brassier (a very nice bra, she might add, but she knew nothing about getting rid of blood stains) and probably her writing career.

     Herb had left a voicemail on her landline hours after the police dragged her away, very politely asking her to come by the office in the morning for a one-on-one meeting. With much anxiety, but also resignation, Valerie arrived once the office was open and came with a box, ready to collect her things. She hadn't yet breached the news to David about what happened as she had managed to skip out of the apartment before he awoke; the only one who knew were Susie, Midge, and every deputy in the ninth police precinct. She would have to find a new job quickly, she concluded. She wasn't a good enough journalist (or a more prominent one, more likely) to get a job at the New York Times or New York Post, but maybe some editor job at a magazine; she couldn't, no matter how desperate she was, work at some dirty rag like National Enquirer where all she'd do, day-in and day-out, was discuss which actress was fucking which producer. She wouldn't reduce herself to that.

     Before more job contemplations could come to her, the glass door opened and Herb walked in, dawning that singular type of respectability like always. He adjusted his glasses and sat down at his desk, situating himself. Valerie straightened in her chair; if she was going to be fired officially, she was going to obtain some professionalism during it.