I dashed off an e-mail to Natalie, our office manager, even though she was sitting opposite me.

"That man's such a jerk-off," I typed.

Ping! She bounced a message right back at me.

"He's vile, but he's brilliant at his job. And if he turns this company into a gold mine, we'll see it reflected in our bonuses at Christmas."

I replied, "That's if he's got any staff left by then!"

The clock on my computer told me it was four-thirty, nearly time to go home but not near enough. My severe office clothes began to feel restrictive around this time of the day. In my company, dressing down was not an option. I got a buzz out of working the sexy secretary look, but after a few hours, my pencil skirt began to feel a little too tight, the crisp blouse a little too formal, and my high-heeled shoes began to pinch. I longed for five-thirty.

Then I got an e-mail from Lois, Hugh's dowdy PA.

"Hugh would like to see you for a progress review in his office at six p.m. this evening," it stated. No "Dear Donna," no "please," no apology for the short notice. I spent the next couple of hours-resentfully-going over my recent work. If Hugh was about to pick on me and claim I wasn't good at my job, I wanted the figures to prove him wrong at my fingertips. As I scrolled through documents and spreadsheets detailing the huge deals I'd brought in over the past six months, I felt a renewed pride in my work. I might not have been born with a silver spoon in my mouth, I might not have a degree, but I'd clawed my way up in this industry using nothing but working-class savvy and a whole lot of ambition.

At five to six, I went to the ladies' room with my makeup bag; a girl doesn't go into battle without the appropriate war paint. I ran a brush through my thick, light brown hair, and ran a slick of matte pinky brown lipstick across my mouth. I smoothed down the crisp black fabric of my skirt and checked my top for stains. None. I looked good: successful, in control, and confident.