He leans forward and steeples his fingers. “We’ve recently launched a new brand. La Moda. Seen it around?”

The name tickles my mind, though I can’t place it. I nod again. “I believe I have.”

“We’d anticipated a stronger takeoff.” Adam frowns. “Aggressive promotion of the brand is currently a priority, and I believe your services will be beneficial toward that end.” He spins a pen, Mont Blanc, I notice, between his fingers. “Should your work meet our expectations, there’s potential for collaboration on additional projects.”

Just like that, little old Chava Blau landed the opportunity of a lifetime. And I’m going to give it my very best shot. I mask a stupid grin with a professional smile, and launch into the details. “What message are you hoping to impart?”

My hands take notes, while my brain flashes layout options and suitable shapes. Some 40 minutes later, I float out, contract in hand, mentally debating the virtues of pastel shades vs. bolder coloring.

Burgundy and gold, I decide as I head toward the elevator. Bold, sophisticated — yes, definitely burgundy and gold.

I exit the building into brilliant sunshine, giddy with possibility. I might just have made it to the big leagues.

I’m determined to meet Adam’s expectations. Whatever it takes.

Twelve days later, Leah Malka sits across from me, clutching a familiar burgundy and gold flyer.

“Outdo this,” she instructs, thrusting the page onto my desk, “Or I’m going to drown.”

Huh? Where does she come into the— OH. MY.

That’s where I’ve heard the name. La Moda. Leah Malka’s new competitor.

My stomach bottoms out. What have I gotten myself into?

I clutch at my desk. Time. I need time.

“How about we start at the beginning?” I blurt.

Leah Malka tilts her chair back and crosses her arms. “The beginning,” she intones, “is that I’ve spent seven years building a fairly successful brand. The middle,” her voice rises, “is that this giant barges in, intent on encroaching on my niche. Does it matter that I’m barely making ends meet? No.” She glares at me, like it’s my fault. “All that matters is earning even more money.”

Her chair comes clattering down, so that her eyes are level with mine. “The end depends on how well you come through for me.”

My insides churn.

“What do you have in mind?” I ask nervously.

“Play up experience.” She plants her elbows on my desk. “You know how long I’ve been doing this? Consumers should.”

My eyes go wide. Oppose La Moda.

I need an escape, I need a response, I need an excuse.

“Time,” I burst out. “I have no time. The sales, the season, it’s hectic, maybe another time…” What am I saying?

Leah Malka bites her lip. “You can’t be too busy for me. Not now. I’m desperate.” She hunches forward. “I’m struggling, Chava. Terribly. Mimi needs braces, Shmuly’s tutoring is cleaning me out, and sales just keep plummeting in favor of this — this monster.”

I follow her gaze to the offending piece of paper between us. The color scheme suddenly seems garish. I avert my eyes.

“Ouch,” I say carefully. “That’s… tough.” And how.

She looks at me sadly. “I need you to help me.”

“I-I can’t,” I choke out. “It’s too much.”

“Chava,” Leah Malka’s eyes are large. “Please. I’ve been your client forever.”

I clench one fist inside the other. La Moda is my client too. Not that I could tell that to Leah Malka.

“Is it really necessary?” I attempt. “To go against such a huge corporation?” Steely gray eyes, steepled fingers. I shudder.

Leah Malka shrugs, defeated. “I have no choice.”

And, I realize, neither do I. I can’t refuse my friend’s plea for help.

Ten minutes later, Leah Malka gets up to leave. “I knew you’d come through. After all,” she says with a wink, “in six years, have you ever let me down?”

I manage a weak smile.

And feel sick.

“Loud advertisements,” Adam booms over the phone lines, “need a louder response.”

I gulp.

“I presume you’ve reviewed the ad clipping I emailed you?”

“Y-yes,” I manage. “I-I’ve seen it,” In fact, I created it.

“I suppose you too find it rather disturbing.”

“Very much so,” I agree wholeheartedly. More than you’d like to know.

“The competition is aiming to emphasize our weakness.”

“Well, no, I mean….” No. No! They’re just aiming to make ends meet.

“In that case,” I practically hear him shrug, “we’ll play strong.”

We.

Meaning… me.

“What…how…” I sputter.

“Simple. We harp upon their shortcomings. Of which there are plenty.” His self-assurance is grating.

Play strong. Against Leah Malka. Simple. The phone goes slippery in my clammy grip.

There’s no way I’m doing this.

Wait. What am I not doing? “What are you asking me to do?”

“You’ll spotlight La Moda’s considerable fashion expertise.” He states. “In glaring contrast to, ahem, competitors.”

He’s not asking.

I think frantically. I can’t agree.

But.

Adam. Très Chic. Potential.

I can’t refuse.

How to get out of this intact?

“Can we take another approach?” I plead, desperation emboldening me, “Highlight La Moda’s attributes rather than AccessoriZe’s flaws?” Can I remain in the proverbial frying pan and keep somewhat out of the fire?

Adam is insistent. “Under no circumstances will Très Chic go on the defensive.”

Which places me squarely on the offensive. For my client. Against my client.

Against my friend.

Did Musk’s vision of commercial spaceflight pan out? Because the moon sounds enticing right now.

Adam forges on mercilessly. “We’re looking at a rush job. Print deadline is Tuesday for many periodicals.”

“Tuesday.” Sweat trickles down my back.

“Short time-frame,” he acknowledges, “but I trust you’ll accomodate Très Chic.” A pause. “Flexibility would be a prerequisite for a continued relationship.”

Relationship. Right. Additional projects. Lucrative projects. The big leagues.

“Um, I…” Say something coherent, Chava. Quick! But my power of speech seems to have been eroded by the sheer force of Adam’s decisiveness.

“Pardon?” he says. “You’re coming over garbled. Was I unclear on the details?”

“N-No,” I say.

“Good. I’ll expect the proof in my inbox tomorrow.”

I’m left facing a silent phone, and the knowledge that he’ll have it. Squeezed tight between Leah Malka’s choices and Adam’s choices, I’ve been left no space for decisions of my own.

For the remainder of the day, I block out all thoughts of Mimi’s braces, Shmuly’s tutoring, and most of all, Leah Malka’s trust. I focus solely on hues and textures, on creating an ad to meet my client’s specifications. By evening, the deed is done. Forcing my brain numb against the protests of my heart, I enter Adam’s email address, attach the completed product, and send my missile hurtling through cyberspace.

Then I sigh, click open an AI file, and set about designing a counter-ad.

The pediatrician’s waiting room is a picture of serious overbooking. I maneuver my Doona through the door, taking in the hordes of weary mothers, overactive children, and the occasional bewildered-looking teenager. Uncle Moishy dances merrily on a screen, oblivious to the two preschoolers contending loudly for the chair across him.

Rikki is thankfully asleep, having spent most of the night screaming. I locate an empty spot in the corner, and settle in for the long haul. To my right, a woman in heels converses animatedly with a blonde feeding applesauce to an uninterested baby. I turn to the magazine rack at my left. A stained Tehillim and a bunch of circulars.

In another lifetime, I enjoyed flipping through circulars. Now, they taunt me. From the front cover, La Moda proclaims, “Non-Toxic Beauty — Guaranteed,” declaring their brand as the sole one selling phthalate-free accessories. On the back, “The only brand endorsed by Rav Gershkowitz” cautions consumers to avoid merchandise lacking non-shatnez certification.

Contradictory faces of a single product.

Me.

Two months and nine ads in, I’m utterly spent. The easy camaraderie that characterized my interactions with Leah Malka is gone, replaced by mild awkwardness. I tremble each time Très Chic’s number flashes on my screen. And in the wee hours, I gaze at my shadow and wonder just who I am.

I sigh and drop the book back into the rack. Lucky stroke, indeed. If only I’d known, back when there still was a way out.

“It’s a tricky balance,” Heels is saying. “Avoiding overstocking while not running short.”

Applesauce nods sagely. “Rochel complains about that too.” She moves another spoonful toward the baby’s mouth. He swipes at the container and turns his head away. “C’mon, Mo-Mo, you’re hungry!”

The validation spurs Heels on. “Take headbands. AccesoriZe sold out halfway through last season. So this time I ordered an additional 30 percent. Whaddya know, now customers are hankering for the new kid on the block.” She shakes her head in exasperation. “Go figure.”

“Yeah, Moda something or other.” Applesauce gets a spoon in. Mo-Mo protests, but swallows nonetheless. “Not that I’d know, with my boys,” she chuckles, “but I’ve seen them advertised everywhere.”

“La Moda.” Heels nods. “Yeah, they’re selling like crazy. Those ads must be working.”

Mo-Mo wins, sending applesauce splattering all over Heels’ skirt, and my shoes. His mother jumps up, apologizing profusely for the mess. But all I can see is the mess I’ve made.

Because of me, Leah Malka’s business is suffering.

AccesoriZe may just go under. My friend might lose her source of income. Because of me. While I’m being paid to boost her sales.

Rikki stirs and whimpers. I insert her paci and rock the stroller. I continue rocking long after she’s soothed and slumbering.

I’m not doing this by choice. But it’s scant comfort.

If only I could somehow make it better.

It’s nearly midnight when I get to the computer again. I’m behind with my work, having arrived home from the doctor with barely time to spare before Yossi’s homecoming. With a cranky baby to boot.

It’s been a hectic few hours, balancing the cook-feed-tantrum-bath-tantrum-bedtime marathon, but the house is now blessedly silent. Rikki, under the effect of Motrin and a double dose of antibiotics, is hopefully asleep for the night.

I reluctantly click open the draft I’ve been working on for La Moda. This one’s about “When Quality isn’t a Relative Term.”

Customers are hankering for the new kid on the block. The words flood my mind, freeze my fingers.

I can’t do this.

Potential for collaboration on additional projects.

I can’t not do this.

I work mechanically, adjusting the colors. I think of Leah Malka. I’m going to drown. I add shading. Should your work meet our expectations… I tilt the words a bit, now the angle is right. Twenty minutes later, I examine the completed ad. It’s bold. It’s convincing. It’s good.

Evidently, the ads are working.

It’s too good.

I stare at the screen for a long moment. Slowly, I move the cursor toward the caption. I add some characters, delete others. Then I remove the shading.

A few clicks take the background from a striking turquoise to a rather dull blue.

A couple more quick revisions, and I study my handiwork again. Passable enough, though slightly — blah.

I want blah. I push aside a guilty pang, and save the changes. For Leah Malka’s sake.

A wail sounds from upstairs. Motrin has apparently met its match. I hurriedly convert to PDF, attach the file to an email, and shoot it off. Then I shut the computer and head upstairs. Seems I’ve got a long night ahead.

I once saw a statistic on how many hours in life the average person spends waiting. I don’t recall the number, but I’m pretty sure I’ve surpassed it.

I shift on the worn taupe armchair, and wonder yet again why someone would hang an obviously amateur painting on their office wall.

“I’m sorry,” the secretary apologizes. “Mr. Kellner shouldn’t be much longer.”

“It’s alright,” I assure her politely. It isn’t. I’m tired, and I’ve got mountains of work waiting for me at home. But taxes must be filed, and this sit-down with my accountant is long overdue.

Heated discussion wafts out of the closed conference room. Kellner Sr. is inside as well — the client’s either got lots of money or lots of issues.

I tune them out, lean my head back, and get busy compiling a mental to-do list. There’s the estimate for Weiner, the color scheme for Silveresque, a load sitting in the washer far too long, and Adam will undoubtedly request revisions for the ad.

Come to think of it, I haven’t heard from Adam yet. I glance at my watch. 11:30. Interesting. He generally calls within half an hour of my sending the proof.

Wait.

I did send it to him, right?

I absently run through last night in my mind. Yeah, I remember opening a message, I definitely attached something, I input the address—

I jerk upright.

Which address?

The secretary pauses her frowning at a page to raise an eyebrow. “Pardon? Did you say something?”

I stare blankly. “Uh, what? No, no.” I shake my head.

Which address did I send the proof to? Slow, Chava, slow and logical. I think it was Adam. Probably. Why would I not send it to Adam?

But I can’t chase the niggling doubt. I need to be sure.

I carefully reconstruct every detail of the past night. The time on my screen read 12:49. I completed the file. My back was aching. There was the sound of rain. I clearly remember converting to Adobe, teary-eyed from yawning, while Rikki cried. I see in my mind’s eye a blank email, PDF attached. I definitely typed something in the ‘to’ field.

But what? I strain my brain, struggling to remember. I come up empty.

It’s really hot in here.

I start again, slowly, deliberately. I envision adamz@treschichusa.com in the ‘to’ field. But strongly as I will it to, my brain doesn’t recognize the image as familiar.

The more I replay the scenario, the more certain I become of two things: One, I sent the proof. Two, I didn’t send it to Adam.

I don’t remember who I sent it to. I do remember, with sickening clarity, who I was thinking about when I sent it.

Leah Malka.

I sent La Moda’s proof to Leah Malka.

My airways shrink. This isn’t happening. It isn’t, it can’t, it’s a nightmare, it—

“Breathe,” I instruct my nose. Nothing is certain. Maybe… maybe her server is down. Maybe the message didn’t go through. Maybe I didn’t even send it. Maybe it went to junk! I don’t really know, right? RIGHT?

I get up, remove my coat, sit back down.

My heart and brain seem to be racing each other, pounding and whirring and thrashing and roaring, as I fight to rein in sheer panic and conjure up a viable path out of this disaster.

If only I’d never met Adam. If only I’d settled on photography, ten years ago. If only people would stop hanging bad art. If only my phone could access my emails.

A door squeaks open. Mr. Money-or-Troubles emerges, followed by both CPAs. Kellner waves me in, all excuses. I barely register his words. I barely register anything of what we discuss over the following 25 minutes. I hope I didn’t sign my business over to the IRS.

Whatever is left of my business, once I’m done dealing with this debacle.

The ride home is torturous. I’m itching to see my emails; I’m dreading seeing my emails.

Five minutes from home, I’m stopped at a red light, and my phone erupts. Leah Malka.

My heart goes silent.

She wants answers.

And though I’ve been providing answers to myself for two months, I suddenly have none.

My phone vibrates insistently. I don’t answer. I don’t ignore. I just stare at my friend’s name, superimposed accusingly across my screen.

“I tried,” I plead silently, desperately. “I’m on your side, I never wanted this, I had no choice!”

After an eternity, Leah Malka gives up and my screen goes dark.

But there’s no relief. Only a deep sense of shame, as the uncomfortable truth crystallizes and slams me painfully.

I had a choice. A difficult one, but a choice nonetheless. And I chose not to make it.

I arrive home and head straight for the computer, heedless of my coat, my wig, my slushy boots. I don’t sit down, just furiously input my password, and wait seven agonizing seconds while windows loooogs on. I pounce on the Outlook icon. My inbox comes to life. I screw my eyes shut. Please, just please.

Jaws tightly clenched, I slowly open my eyes.

There’s a message from Adam.

Good morning, the attachment included with your email showed the ad we ran on February 3rd. Please forward the correct document ASAP.

Additionally, I’d—

I collapse into a chair, utterly drained. I sent the proof to Adam. I sent it to Adam!

I sit for a long moment, just breathing.

Leah Malka has no idea after all.

So why am I not ecstatic?

There’s a little puddle forming around my boots. I heave myself up, place them on the boot tray, and return to the computer.

Additionally, I continue reading, I’d like to meet with you next week, to talk about the Chateaux brochure for the upcoming season.

The Chateaux brochure. My mouth drops open. The project I’d been anticipating. The opportunities I’d been promised. At long last, my big break.

But first.

Please forward the correct document ASAP.

I stare at the line for a long moment. I had a choice. I still do.

I think of Chateaux. Profit. Prestige.

I think of friendship. Loyalty. Trust.

I click open the folder titled “La Moda.” My trembling fingers hover over the most recent file. I hesitate just a split second, then hit delete.

Then, I pick up the phone, dial Très Chic’s number, and brace for impact.

Adam’s presence fills the line before I’m ready. I draw a shaky breath and open my mouth. I’m about to lose my largest client. It won’t be pretty.

But I’ve made my choice.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 733)