Текст книги "The Plan"
Автор книги: Qwen Salsbury
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
This is my moment.
The world around us goes on spinning. It’s just Canon and me in the doorway. He looks amazing. (And, I must admit, I look darn decent myself.) He smells amazing. He is amazing…ly annoyed-looking.
So yippee-ki-yay and carpe diem, as Clara said while zipping the back of my dress earlier.
Say something that opens up the discussion I have wanted to have for a year. Be eloquent. Be confident. Be a goddess.
“Hi.”
You know those funny moments in movies where things get all uncomfortable and the editors splice in the sound of crickets in the background? Yeah, those are so not funny when they really happen. And this is merely the DJ playing crickets of the “Buddy Holly and the” variety.
Canon pivots back away, handing me his empty glass in the process.
“Johnnie Walker. Neat.”
Flames. Flames out the side of my head.
Not only do I not ring any bells with him after twelve months of working together, apparently, my makeover result is that I now pass for waitstaff at this restaurant.
Rather than the day, I seize any reason to hightail it out of there before I’m motivated to stomp my heel directly onto his big toe.
I walk his glass to the bar.
Place his order, specifying Blue Label because I know that’s his preference. Even though I’d love to see his face if he were delivered an umbrella drink.
Point out the jackhole to whom it should be delivered.
This will not do. This simply will not do.
10:01 p.m.
*
DJ
: Karaoke: “I Will Survive.”
*
Dance Floor
: Barren.
*
Bar
: Drained.
I SPOT HIM ACROSS THE WAY, being chatted up by the vice presidents of sales and marketing.
Canon appears to barely stifle a yawn. He isn’t paying attention to the VPs in the slightest.
Turnabout is fair play; the VPs’ lines of sight pass over Canon and fixate on the area immediately to the left of him.
To his date.
She is made from the same mold as the other two dates I have witnessed, the ladies who have also rested their hand in the crook of his arm.
Flawless up-do. Ivory column dress. Diamond drop pendant of the Tiffany, not QVC, variety. Makeup job so perfect she looks as though she isn’t wearing any at all. A single beauty mark to highlight, rather than mar, faultless, olive skin.
Teeth so white they could potentially blind oncoming traffic.
My lip snarls up like I’m about to belt out “Rebel Yell.”
If pride cometh before a fall, then I am slip sliding away. I pride myself on being observant, so how did I not take into account how very different “his type” is than what I am?
All the extra effort we put into my appearance this evening has moved me even further away from the real bull’s-eye.
Well, Pooh.
And Tigger, too. I am trashy, flashy, brashy, splashy. And oh so bum bum bummed.
This is not a one-size-fits-all kind of man. Casting a wide net is not the solution.
A precision strike is needed. Pinpoint accuracy.
As I speed home, my eyelashes take flight out the car window.
Day of Employment:
365
11:00 a.m.
SUNDAY.
Couch.
Fuzzy blanket.
Remote.
Today is the one year anniversary of my first day at work.
Final paper was submitted two days early. I’m good, but I am not usually that good.
As it is a Sunday, I mark the occasion with a John Hughes movie marathon and eat directly from a jar of Talenti raspberry sorbet until my hand loses all feeling.
When feeling is regained, I dig into the vanilla bean.
5:02 p.m.
HE DIDN’T NOTICE.
One whole year.
Not even a blip on his radar.
Not that I find this shocking.
Not in the least.
I have been utterly invisible since I started. I was not really expecting any acknowledgment of my anniversary.
I have now officially crossed that threshold from new hire to old hand with little fanfare. By “little” I mean none. I won’t even stand out in the crowd as a fresh face now.
So I’m changing this. I’m changing me.
His radar will no longer be blipless.
Tomorrow I start over. I don’t expect him to notice me right away. It is a process. I have a plan.
Day of Employment:
366
6:00 a.m.
*
Awake
: Already.
*
Thus Far
: Plan sucks.
*
Clothes
: Laid out night before.
*
Lunch
: Salad. Yay.
I EAT SALADS ALL THE TIME; however, I maintain they are not truly food. They are food’s food.
My feet hit the cold, hardwood floor and I fight the urge to creep back under my duvet. Sleep is my friend.
Not as faithful a friend as cellulite. It is so loyal. Always there.
The treadmill groans right along with me as it whirls to life. It probably thinks I have sold it to someone who will actually utilize it. Maybe it will miss its life as my coatrack.
It’s slow going. I’m walking on an incline. Walking, not running.
It’s slow going, but that is okay. It’s a process. I have a plan.
7:45 a.m.
I HAVE NOW LOST AN ENTIRE HOUR of my life to exercise and a shower. Time better not be the only thing I have lost.
I’m one of the first to arrive at work.
He walks to his office.
He’s wearing the blue suit.
He looks around behind him before he enters. Midway, his gaze floats across me as if I’m not even there.
Invisible.
No blip.
2:18 p.m.
*
PA
: Old Mother Hubbard.
*
Pot Won
: $96 and change.
REBECCA’S STRATEGY TO PLACE a septuagenarian in the hot seat fizzled out.
I can’t really fault Canon for this one. She had great phone skills, but was technologically challenged. Got cursor and mouse confused. Kept placing the mouse in direct contact with the screen, right on top of the item she needed to click on.
Maybe you had to be there.
Anyway, she’s cleaning out her cupboards and headed back to the Blue Hair Group in time for Wheel.
Day of Employment:
367
6:00 a.m.
*
Awake
: Again.
*
Plan
: It still sucks.
*
Lunch
: Salad. Again.
*
Hair
: Flat-ironed into submission.
*
Clothes
: Tan pencil skirt, ivory blouse, flesh-toned stockings, brand-spanking-new taupe suede pumps courtesy of yesterday’s winning bet.
LAUNCHING THE NEXT PHASE OF THE PLAN, I have shoved my teals, pinks, lavenders, bright blues, and all other colors in the Roy G. Biv spectrum to the back of the closet. Even indigo. I’m considering that a unique blue.
I’m a big blender full of subdued. So beige Helen Hunt would be envious. Total corporate drone, all business.
Plan forecast: Nothing but black, navy, and beige, with scattered gray and a slim chance of red.
7:30 a.m.
OUT THE DOOR.
The new shoes feel like walking on a big ol’ poofy cloud of air…until about three-quarters of the way to my car when my toes go numb. Too late to turn back now. I sigh and look mournfully down at them. Too bad; I do like the way they make my calves look. I make a mental note to see if I can take them back tonight.
I scratch through the note just as quickly. These shoes look like hers. Example B.
I have seen Alaric Canon with two women: Company picnic. Christmas party.
Example B (name unknown) wore similar shoes to last year’s party. No hair out of place. Everything about her was subdued.
Colors. Manners. Refined.
Company Picnic Chick was so similar. She wore capris and a blouse, but somehow they looked like a power suit. Immaculate hair, unaffected by humidity. Grace personified.
True to form, this year’s Holiday-Party Model was no exception. Made from the same seamless mold and polished to perfection.
My plan might’ve benefited from a stint at finishing school.
I picture myself balancing books on my head as I slip into the car.
Incoming text: My office ASAP—Rebecca
Weird.
I know this is the sort of thing that sends others into a tizzy. Rebecca might come off like a bitch, but she’s really just assertive. Her praise is usually in the form of silence. I know she values me, and she knows I do my job, do it right, and never question anything. The only time I have ever feared her was when I went to her about starting night classes. But she appreciated my full disclosure. She seems to trust me even more since then. She knows this is not my forever.
In no time, I sit in Rebecca’s office and listen, dumfounded, to her explain what’s happened and what she wants me to do.
“I think there has been some sort of mistake.”
“Your reaction doesn’t surprise me,” Rebecca says, as she leans over her desk and straightens an already straight stack of files.
Perpendicular angles everywhere. Without sparing an upward glance, she continues, “Try to see the genius in it. This is the plan. Adjust…and don’t embarrass this department. Here’s his itinerary for the week.” She hands a stack of papers to me, which I nearly drop when I see the look she has leveled at me. She’s terrified.
Rebecca.
Terrified.
I may soil myself.
“This department has a lot riding on you. And by this department, I mean me.” She clears her throat and manages to assume something close to her normal, chilly demeanor. The cracks in the ice are still there.
“Emma, you’ve been here long enough to know how this shakes out. No one expects you, or anyone, to last long. Every Canon PA is really a temp position. Help him prep for the trip and make it until he leaves and I’ll give you a raise when you get back here. Make it a month and you’ll come back to this department with a promotion.”
I want to say something about her lack of confidence in me, but I know it’s moot. No one does last as his assistant for long, and I should know. Watching the unbroken string of broken assistants leave his employ has been my hobby for a solid year.
They always screw up. Wrong coffee. Wrong outfit. Right outfit, wrong day. Misdirected memos. Hygienically challenged. Wheat bread instead of oat. Flirting. Tardy. Speaking. Not speaking. Offensive perfume. Desperately in need of perfume. Being in the bathroom at just the wrong moment.
March A had tapped her fake nails on the desk.
March B was personable and professional. Misplaced trust in spell-check had her gone in two weeks.
Early April shut his phone off at night.
After the infamous Indianapolis Incident, during which three PAs had revolving-doored their way to the unemployment line in under a week, a secret back-up assistant had been at-the-ready ever since.
“What about the back-up? Why me?”
“She’s on bed rest as of Monday. High risk pregnancy. Emma, I need a pro in there. We simply cannot afford any mistakes, and Canon needs to be able to focus. You have proven communication skills, a degree in writing, an impeccable performance record, a professional demeanor, and frankly, your obsession with him makes you far and away the best-prepared for the job.”
“Rebecca!” My knees give, and I sit down gracelessly. “I’m not obsessed. If anything, it’s a gambling problem.”
I clasp my hands to hide the shaking. How obvious have I been?
She laughs softly then says things that make me glad I’m already sitting down. “Emma, I consider you a friend, and more importantly, a colleague. A trusted colleague. I don’t know if you realize, but I’d have you as my right hand if you were planning on working here longer. But you’re too good for that job. Hell, you’re definitely too good for a personal assistant position…and that is precisely why I am entrusting you with it. You see everything. You know when to speak up and when to keep your mouth shut.” She hands me the itinerary that seems to have slipped out of my hand and drifted down to the floor.
Kneeling in front of me, in her closed office, Rebecca looks up at me. I can’t help but notice where she has placed herself. “Emma, please. So much is riding on this deal.”
“Fine,” I hear myself say.
She closes both of her hands over mine and squeezes warmly, a shake of sorts. She opens her mouth to say something just as the sound of her door opening behind me stops her.
“I’m still waiting on that report.” Canon’s voice slides along the walls of the room. I feel it wrap around my spine. Rebecca’s eyes go wide, but she covers quickly and stands. Wordlessly, she grabs a file from her desk and hands it over my shoulder to where I assume he takes it from her. A pause. Rebecca narrows her eyes.
The door shuts.
A gust of air leaves my lungs. I didn’t realize I’d forgotten to breathe.
This does not bode well. Surely oxygen will play an important part in performing my new job satisfactorily.
She manages to wipe the confused look from her face and sits on the edge of her desk. “Go gather up what you need at your new desk and meet me back here in twenty minutes. I will officially introduce you to Mr. Canon then.”
8:20 a.m.
*
Hair
: Pinned back.
*
Buttons
: Top only undone.
*
Bladder
: Empty.
*
Shoes
: Killing feet slowly.
THIS WAS NOT MY PLAN. I’m not under the radar at all now. The plan has changed from generating a blip to being directly in his sights.
“Ready?” Rebecca asks as we approach Canon’s door.
“No.” I wanna hurl.
She laughs and knocks once.
“Come in.” His deep voice pierces the door. The last of the free air fills my lungs.
Rebecca walks ahead into his office as if a 2x4 is strapped to her spine. I stay behind her, plotting how to use her as a human shield.
“Mr. Canon, this is Ms. Baker.” She steps to the side and exposes me. “Your new assistant.”
He’s standing at the window, his back to us. Without turning, he sighs loudly and gestures toward a chair.
I sit and hear the door click; Rebecca has already abandoned me.
Coward.
“Tell me.” He continues to look out the wall of windows. His arms are crossed and long fingers drum his sleeve.
I wait for a moment. I wait for him to clarify. His jacket is draped over his riveted-leather desk chair. His pants are light gray, and I force myself not to focus on any portion of them. The slope of his broad shoulders is also not a safe focal point. Light from the window catches golden strands in his hair; that is off-limits too. I don’t know where to look.
I become acutely aware of the silence.
“Pardon me?” I really feel at a loss, as if I have walked into a conversation midstream.
He huffs and continues to stare out the window. “Tell me everything. The who, what, when, where, why, how. Who you are. What you think this job entails. When you think your workday ends. Why you took this position. How long you think you will last.”
My throat is a desert. I’ve already exhausted his patience. It never occurred to me that he would ask me anything about me. I’m an expert on him, not on myself.
I launch into a dissertation on my education and credentials. Masters in English. Intern and job experience.
Scholarships. I omit any mention of my current law school scholarship or enrollment; I doubt he’s the type to be receptive to divided priorities. I make sure all this takes no longer than thirty seconds. I skip right over anything that relates to why I think I can do this job—I don’t think I can pull off confidence.
“The job expectation is that I make you available to perform your job at optimum level. I need to learn and anticipate your needs in order to ensure this. Any distraction or delay has a negative impact. My workday began when I walked into this room, and it will end when I leave your employ.” I keep talking, but I notice a shift in his demeanor. His fingers still. A few moments later, he moves to his desk chair. I know I’m in. Maybe, just maybe, I’ve even impressed him.
Words continue to spill from my mouth. I explain that I’ve been with the company for a year. I’m flexible and a good observer. Performance stats.
“Finally, Mr. Canon, I understand there’s a critical contract on the line, and there is no time to prep a new employee. I bring to the table a solid understanding of this company and am committed to its success.”
My speech has taken under two minutes. Brevity. I feel good about it. My face is hot, but I’m still breathing.
The win column gets a tick.
“Ms. Baker, I have no illusions about my reputation. That being said, I consider myself fair. I do not expect miracles, but I will not tolerate mistakes.” He leans back in his chair and levels his gaze at me. His eyes are a gray-green. If he ever blinks, I miss it. I’m caught in their pull.
“It is my understanding that there is a CYA file on me. It would be in your best interests to familiarize yourself with it.”
My eyes are probably bugging out. He knows about the file?
He must misinterpret my surprise for bewilderment and explains further. “Cover Your Ass. A cheat sheet,” he seethes. Clearly, he thinks I’m playing dumb.
“The COYA file?” The words are out of my mouth before I can think better of it.
One corner of his mouth turns up. It might be a burgeoning smile. It might be irritation.
He gives me a look that tells me he wants an explanation. I want to show him I get non-verbal communication. I want to show him I’m honest. I want to show him my matching bra and panty set. I sure as hell do not want to tell him what COYA stands for.
There is no escape.
“Canon Owns Your Ass.”
He blinks. Finally.
I hasten to add, “I feel it is important to point out that I did not name the file, sir.”
Without looking away, he writes on a paper and walks around his desk to hand it to me. “My number. Call me so I have your cell.” He pauses for a moment, his face unreadable. This is unsettling. I thought I knew him better than this. His gaze falls to my shoes. I can’t understand why as they are completely nondescript. “Check the calendar and itinerary. Leave word in human resources about the trip departure date and phone extension change. IT will need to reroute your calls. I take lunch when and only when it does not impede my job. You will follow suit. You take lunch when I do, for as long as I do.” I know I look surprised, and it doesn’t get past him. “This does not mean, however, that you and I have lunch together.
“Emma, I’m aware that this is all short notice. You’ll need to make arrangements for the upcoming trip. I will handle the bulk of my own this time. Get yourself ready and familiarize yourself with the material. An ill-prepared assistant will be a distraction and an embarrassment to me.”
A flick of his wrist dismisses me. Immediately before I open the door, I hear his voice behind me.
“I will not let you be either.”
12:00 p.m.
*
Files
: Downloaded.
*
Calendar
: Set.
*
Desk
: Conspicuously free of my personal belongings.
*
Bert
: Sufficiently guilt-tripped for getting spotted slipping a bet to Rebecca.
*
Shoes
: Pooled with the blood of my innocent toes.
“I’M OFF, MADELINE. See you later, right?”
She pats my back reassuringly. “Of course! I’ll be by with everything you asked to borrow. Call if you think of anything else.”
I do my best to smile at her but can’t help feeling like I’m off to meet the noose.
One last item of business before I head out remains incomplete. I have procrastinated over calling him. Now I can call him and check in before I leave without facing him again. This is pointless craziness because I will be neck-deep in Alaric Canon for the next seven days. Just one less encounter.
I program the digits into my phone then shred the paper so no one can stumble across his private number.
He answers on the second ring. “Canon.”
“Hello, Mr. Canon. This is Ms. Baker. You said to call.”
“Yes.”
Cue awkward pause.
“Let us hope you endeavor to perform future tasks more promptly.”
Oh…he wanted my number right away? Even when I was still in the office? Okay. Noted. Do everything right away whether it makes sense to me or not.
“If there is nothing else, Mr. Canon…”
The line goes silent. Barely a click. He’s probably already reading an assortment of potential PA applications.
Day of Employment:
368
4:00 a.m.
IT IS FOUR O’CLOCK on the dime.
Or, more appropriately, the penny.
Because, while I had fervently wished to avoid it, it has happened.
The nightmares are back. My private monster sits at the foot of my bed. Addressing me.
Lecturing me. Giving me a speech.
Getting his two cents in.
7:30 a.m.
*
Early
: Happens so frequently now that it feels like on time.
*
Outfit
: Bland mixture of tans.
I’M NOT EVEN CERTAIN it’s buttoned straight at this point. I am thoroughly and utterly exhausted.
Perhaps Canon will take my first day as his assistant to break the shrink-wrap on his sick days.
One can dream.
On a good, fully rested day, I would have my work cut out for me just trying to stay upright and form coherent sentences around him.
He appears as if from thin air. I never heard a door open or the elevator ding.
Reports in one hand. Phone in the other.
His leaves his office door ajar. Unspoken expectation that I enter.
Once inside, I await instruction. My feet begin to shuffle from one side to the other, and I continue to inspect the wall. He still moves around behind me.
I tell myself to stare at the wall. Stare at the wall. The wall does not have piercing eyes, or an unholy, defined jawline, or six creases—four long and two short—that form in its bottom lip when it gets dry. The wall is plain. The wall is your friend.
“I will be out most of the day tying up loose ends before my trip.” He never looks up as he speaks. “Should it prove too difficult to manage a few calls, you have my number.” With that, he brushes past me.
Then a moment of clarity. Sanity sets in.
Focus on his personality.
Oh, yeah. Pass me the Irish Spring. It’s like a cold shower.
5:01 p.m.
*
Out
: Clocked. Patience.
*
Should Be Out
: Me—the door.
I SURVEY THE BATTLEFIELD, er, office as it empties. I have survived.
That wasn’t so bad.
I have outlasted predictions. Beaten the odds. Madeline’s number book has never seen such an upset.
Piece of cake.
Doubtless, tomorrow will be an even greater challenge. Canon and I might actually be inside the same building.
7:10 p.m.
*
Dinner
: Comfort food.
*
Clara
: Treading softly.
“SO, HOW GOES THE DREAM JOB?”
Unfortunately, it’s more like Clara is treading softly in steel-toe work boots, shattering eggshells everywhere.
I do not favor her with a reply.
“That good, huh?”
“He was out of the office all day.”
Clara plates up our salmon in Veri Veri Teriyaki sauce. “That sounds ideal. So why the frowny face?”
“If you think I’m acting sullen because he wasn’t around, you are wrong. I just feel a bit disjointed from the change and, well…no one would come near me today.”
She looks at me and rolls her hand as if asking me to elaborate.
“I was my own private leper colony today. No one came by except Rebecca. A couple of distant waves from Madeline.”
It’s not a big deal, really. It just felt weird. I might need a day or two to adjust to life on death row.
