Текст книги "The Plan"
Автор книги: Qwen Salsbury
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
I pinch the phone between my ear and shoulder while I dry off. The terry is soft, but it still rustles against me. I might’ve made sure it brushed across the phone a couple of times, too.
“Ms. Baker, um, I will check here again. I will call back if I find it.”
“As you wish, sir. I will finish looking here, and then, if need be, come to your room,” I say, and smile what is probably a very wicked smile before adding, “as soon as I get dressed.”
I throw on the first thing I find and get myself into his room almost immediately.
The file is there. Slipped down in his case. It actually is hard to see, and I’m a bit panicked as I first begin to look.
Not sure what he expected me to show up in when I went to his room, but I don’t think it was pajama pants and a tank. He’s still in his slacks and dress shirt. I think he might sleep in them.
Hell, he may not require sleep. The advances of cyborg technology and all that.
Day of Employment:
376
4:45 a.m.
*
Bedspread
: Back on bed.
*
Coffee
: Set to brew in one hour.
*
Clothes
: Yoga pants and Mr. Bubbles T-shirt.
*
Location
: Hotel fitness center.
I’M WONDERING WHAT cosmic missteps I’ve taken to now find myself perpetually awake before God.
I have committed myself to making personal progress. Hitting the gym early enough to be done and leave it before the sun cracks over the horizon tests my resolve.
Further, the object of my resolution, the point of it, was to get Canon to notice me. That boost of confidence that puts a spring in one’s step. The positive aura that translates as sex appeal. That is what I was going for.
It’s all for naught now. Reminding myself that I was merely trying to garner his attention for motivational purposes—that it would be really sick to otherwise hitch my star to such a dysfunctional wagon—is getting harder to reconcile when the alarm goes off.
How did it come to this? To this point of a desperate, pitiful, embarrassing type of thing you would only admit to yourself and the last amber drops echoing in a bottle of what used to be Jack?
Memory blocks rearrange and stack as I recall my initial time at the company, time when I was centered and the existence of one Alaric Canon was comfortably part of the vast unknown. Surely I was not so transfixed immediately. Surely not…
Day of Employment: 1
7:55 a.m.
*
Bag
: Wallet, picture of best friend and self, makeup, notepad, lunch, hairclip.
*
Clothes
: Red wrap dress, red pumps.
*
Hair
: I don’t even want to talk about it.
I LEFT TWENTY MINUTES early today. That should’ve been plenty of time for normal traffic and most emergency circumstances.
But no.
The lot was scraped down to glaring ice. The windshield would not defrost. Time out in the wind has taken a toll on my hair; it is now inexplicable. Everyone drove too fast or too slow. Hit every light. Encountered a school bus route that I didn’t know about during my route test run yesterday.
I should learn not to even bother with being prepared.
The best laid plans oft go awry. Oft? What the fuck is oft all about? Too much going on to finish the entire word?
That’s all just a nice way of saying one is screwed regardless.
Life’s a bitch, and she has several sisters.
Now I’m riding the elevator while it stops on nearly every floor. People file in and out.
One person gets on and rides it up one whole level. I suppress a scream.
Some guy behind me huffs irritably. I keep my eyes trained on the numbers. Climb. Stop.
We’re over capacity at one point, I’m certain of it. I feel my backside get pressed into the person behind me.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“Not your fault.” A deep voice. A soft reply. The flesh behind my ear tingles. Instinct, for reasons I don’t want to examine, tells me to fold into the man behind me.
Then I realize that this man is probably getting a face full of my frizzy hair. Mortifying.
The doors open for my floor and I bolt, never looking back.
10:11 a.m.
“THIS IS THE BREAK ROOM,” Madeline states the obvious. I don’t mind. It’s comforting.
“The coffee is on the honor system. There’s usually a fundraiser for someone’s school children if you want snacks, otherwise the vending machines are here to price gouge you.” Madeline goes on explaining and tosses a handful of change in the collection jar next to the coffee pot.
“The refrigerators are cleaned out every Monday,” she says and begins to pour a coffee from one of the pots. “You can get some really nice st—”
A blond woman with a severe look barrels through the room toward where we stand. The crowd parts like the Red Sea, clearing a path for her, but conversation continues without pause. Madeline stands to the side, holding her coffee pot aloft and smiling cryptically at me. I’m sure I look confused.
The blonde reaches for a pot with a masking tape ring on the handle, pours a cup swiftly with one hand while adding what looks to be specially reserved creamer and sweetener. She turns, lips pursing tightly, and heads out of the room.
“Damn it!” The blond woman switches the cup to her other hand and sucks her now free—and probably scalded—hand into her mouth, then shakes it off, all the while walking swiftly away.
My hands float out, a silent request for explanation.
Madeline, smiling, resumes pouring her coffee. “That is Mr. Canon’s assistant.” She pours in enough sugar to trigger early onset diabetes and leans back on the counter. “Well, for the moment.”
“Oh, has she been having trouble?” That explains why she seemed so nervous, why everyone got out of her way.
“Heck, no. She’s doing exceptionally well. She’s lasted for almost a month. May even set a record.”
I decide I need to stay far, far away from this Canon person.
2:58 p.m.
“PAY UP.” A thin young man leans over Madeline’s cubicle wall with his palm up.
“Hold your horses there.” Madeline is chewing on a marker and looking over a colorful chart. “Yep, it is you.” She looks up at the guy and then hands him an envelope from her desk.
I do my best to acclimate myself to this new computer program, but their exchange has definitely piqued my interest.
“Sweet!” He fist pumps and then looks back at me rather shamefacedly. “Oh, you must be Emma. I’m Bert Stiles.” He extends his hand, and I shake it. “You also must think I’m terribly morbid, benefitting from the misfortune of others.”
My mouth opens, but I don’t really even know what to say. Out of the loop here.
Madeline rolls closer to me and whispers conspiratorially, “We have a betting pool for how long Canon’s assistants last.”
My head pulls back. That is rather cold-hearted. Bert fans through several large bills.
Cold-hearted…and profitable. I have loans to pay. Shoes to buy.
Heels on Deals. Pumps before Chumps.
“How does this work?” I ask, but suddenly everyone seems to have heard some cue that I’ve missed. They straighten and begin a flutter of activity.
Self-preservation instincts are not kicking in; I stand up to see what’s going on. I imagine that I stick out like a sore, red thumb over the tops of everyone else.
That is when I see him.
Whoever he is.
Except, I know.
I just know.
Oh, my good God.
There are not enough words.
Beautiful.
Ineffable.
Utterly F-able.
He’s a few feet from a set of large, dark wooden doors in the far corner. The desk outside that office is empty. He moves smoothly past it and scans the room.
His eyes fall on me. I’m incapable of movement under his gaze. Held. Matador. Bull.
He straightens his collar, never falters in his long strides. Looks away from me.
And then he’s gone.
Everyone resumes their normal lives and conversations, and I’m left standing still and dumbstruck while the world happens around me.
SHAKING FREE OF THE MEMORY, I speed the treadmill up.
I will feel better for this. Definitely. Maybe. Definitely maybe.
I sit at work all day and study all night. It’s not going to do me any good to finish school if I keel over dead.
Runs in the family.
This is the problem with treadmills. Too much time to think.
6:00 a.m.
*
Breakfast
: Arrived 15 minutes ago. Gone.
*
Hair
: French twist.
*
Clothes
: Beige suit. It’s like keeping a little piece of my room with me all day.
*
Coffee
: Blue Mountain Jamaica. Freshly brewed. Go, me.
CANON’S BREAKFAST ARRIVES as I exit my room. The server smiles at me; he knows he’ll be getting a stellar tip for splitting the delivery.
He knocks, and the door opens as if by magic. I duck in behind the cart, hot coffee in hand. Not that I have to sneak in. I have a key.
Clangs emanate from the bathroom while the table is set up, and I make quick work of the sugar and cream.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” The server speaks loudly to a closed bathroom door.
Canon dismisses him with something muffled I can’t quite make out. There hasn’t been any water running. I don’t really know what I will encounter when that bathroom door opens. He may be fully clothed.
He may regenerate suits like a T-1000.
But the distinct possibility he may appear in some stage of undress exists.
Alaric Canon. With skin exposed.
Must focus.
Focus, focus, focus.
He said to be here at 6:00 a.m.
I’m here at 6:00 a.m.
Do what he says when he says. Even though it doesn’t make sense to me.
Some items still need packing up. Chargers and files. His laptop.
Not a chance in hell I’m going to do that now and rob myself of something to concentrate on when he walks into the room.
Be calm. Cool.
Cool as a cucumber…which sets my mind skipping down a dirty little path…
Sweet Baby Moses in a reed basket, it’s happening now. The door is opening, and I don’t know whether to sit or stand or turn around or look away or jump out the sliding door and hole up in a log cabin in the hills.
Calm. The. Fuck. Down.
This might be the closest I will get to the upper hand.
You’re a reasonable man, Mr. Canon. You don’t tolerate mistakes, Mr. Canon. When you set a time, it’s not an approximation, Mr. Canon.
I breathe. Deeply.
It’s like a dance, but I’m leading this one. I know why I’m here. I’m justified in being here.
One long leg breaks the threshold. I force myself to turn at what feels like half-speed. I’m ramped up on nerves, and moving too quickly will show it.
The leg and its friend are in black pants. I’m a bit more disappointed than I expected.
Bullshit. I’m super fucking disappointed.
But the point is, I’m not showing it.
He turns toward the main part of the room, toward me, and I begin wrapping the cord around his charger.
Hoping my movements still look natural and unaffected—like hanging out in a hotel room with one’s potentially half-naked boss is a regular occurrence—my eyes flick up to see Canon stop mid-stride.
His shirt is open. The man is wearing a white dress shirt, unbuttoned, cuffs loose. Pretending not to notice has just become a Herculean effort.
“Explain yourself.”
I barely glance up, even though staring would have been worth getting fired.
I start to pack up his laptop. I’m all business.
Pretending to misinterpret his words, I continue packing up as I rattle off the itinerary and my role in it. I’m to take notes, hand him hard copies or access reports as needed, watch for discrepancies. I omit “glorified nanny.”
A few times it seems he’s about to say something, to redirect me back to the situation at hand, but I plow through. Finally I close with describing the food that better not have gotten cold.
He nods once, mouth a thin line. The shirt is buttoned and tucked in now. I have missed the show.
“You failed to mention the dinner meeting tonight. I presume you brought suitable attire.”
“The little black dress. Perfect for all occasions.”
“Hopefully not too little,” he says under his breath. He may have even rolled his eyes.
Do I seem like some sort of tart? Is this because I’m in his room? He shouldn’t have told me to be here and given me a key then.
He takes a sip of the coffee, and the look is priceless. He was so ready to bitch and moan, and I have kept him from it. Despite the fact that he had to realize I’ve checked off all the boxes this morning, he remains somber.
“If orange juice is not okay, I can get you something else.” Prune juice perhaps?
“A good rule of thumb,” he says as he polishes off the eggs, “is not to make offers one cannot complete.”
“Agreed. Thank you for imparting your expertise,” I say. “By the by, I have grape, apple, and cranberry juice in my refrigerator, if you should feel so inclined.”
He stops mid-bacon-chew. I think I’m getting addicted to flustering him.
If I can’t be a blip on the radar, I will settle for being a fly in the ointment.
4:47 p.m.
*
Location
: Office of Lawrence Peters, World’s Most Tedious Man.
I FIND MYSELF THINKING about that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark when a female student blinks at Indy, and her eyelids have words on them that read “I Love You” in black eyeliner. Maybe I can do that but make it look like my eyes are open. Even if I weren’t already sleepy, this company’s CEO would do me in.
He is ether in human form. I could easily keep up even if I hand-wrote everything.
In calligraphy.
Mr. Peters, on the downward slope to retirement, does not self-edit. Interspersed with the incredibly slow-spoken actual negotiations, we get it all. Some of it twice. The kids. The grandkids. The basset hound.
They’re a hardy breed, seventeen years old before Peters had him put down last week. He will be missed.
Peters has prostate issues as well. Nothing’s off limits, it seems.
During this, Canon doesn’t even bat an eye. One would think he might be concerned about the health of his own prostate, given that it has been cohabiting with a very large stick.
He makes notes of this minutia as though it’s as vital to closing the deal as the fine print in licensing our intellectual property rights.
Canon has remained stoic. Begrudgingly, I must admit I’m impressed.
Warm afternoon sun beats down on me from the window. There’s a sunbeam on the carpet near my chair. I want to curl up in it like a tabby cat.
The morning was less trying. Three other executives had livened up the discussion. One was even lively enough to check out my ass. A pen jab to the leg he just happened to keep bumping against mine under the conference table seemed to give him the message that he was not my type.
“I must say, you have thought of everything. What do you need me for?” Peters chortles. Yes, chortles.
Canon smiles and raises his eyebrows infinitesimally; he doesn’t need this guy in the least, and I’m fairly certain Peters is going to be enjoying his retirement sooner than planned. Mr. Peters doesn’t notice and excuses himself to make a call. His meandering trek to the door takes about five minutes.
We’re alone for the first time since his hotel room this morning. Canon takes out his phone then returns it to his pocket almost immediately.
I turn, shifting toward him just a little. I’m sure my eyes are a bit wider than normal due to my struggle to stay alert.
Our eyes meet, and I must be punch-drunk from sleep deprivation and three hours of Peters’ monologue because I can’t help the smile that takes over my face and, just when I think I might be able to rein it in, one corner of Canon’s mouth turns up too. The shock wave ruptures the dam, and I can’t help a single laugh escaping. He looks at papers he’s holding, but even in profile I can see tell that his smile is bigger. Oh, good Lord, we have both been tortured for hours, and he’s just better at hiding it. I clear my throat and shake my head, trying to resume professional behavior.
Not much longer. About 45 minutes, tops. Though it will seem twice as long since this Peters guy has tortoise nervosa.
“What?” Canon is looking at me.
The filter is broken. I’ve said that out loud.
Oh, crap. I’m mocking a potential business partner. I am so fired.
I own it. I repeat myself.
And Canon laughs. Hard.
Holy shit. I have actually fallen asleep on the job. Or died.
I hear myself laugh, too. It is a bit nervous and hollow. I need to get out of here. “May I get you a drink, Mr. Canon?”
He nods repeatedly, pointedly avoiding eye contact, regaining composure.
“Take a chance with their coffee or just a Coke?” Caffeine on an IV drip?
“Coke is fine.” He clears his throat.
Over thirty minutes later, our drinks are gone and Peters has yet to materialize.
“Do you suppose he’s left?” I break the silence. I’m concerned about running late to dinner; I had planned on being back at the hotel by now, and I need time to change.
I bet this is killing Canon, this waiting around.
“We will give him two more minutes, then we will leave.”
I’m in the shower when I realize Canon said “we.”
7:54 p.m.
*
Location
: Sierra De Touro Churrascaria.
*
Itinerary Item
: Dinner meeting with 4 top execs.
*
Dress
: Black. Littlest one I brought. Worn intentionally. Don’t judge me.
THE FOOD IS AMAZING. Freshly grilled meat straight to the table again and again. Salad bar with items I can neither recognize nor pronounce.
We’re dining with the comptroller and three VPs. There appears to be a shit ton of suits at this company; thinning the herd seems to be in order.
My recommendation is that we begin with one Diana Fralin, VP of Marketing. Tits on display and blatant, just blatant, flirtation attempts with the males. She’s the embodiment of every negative connotation with female executives. Giant step backward for the women’s movement.
It is an all-you-can eat restaurant. All you can eat meat. Meat.
Fralin wants the only kind not on the menu. Her attempts would only be more obvious if she stuffed her panties directly into Canon’s mouth.
Most of the evening has been pleasant enough. Canon is beside me, so I’m spared his judgmental looks. I do get a few errant brushes from Fralin’s heels when her attempts to play footsie with my boss go astray.
If she snags my stockings, I might have to cut a bitch.
“More top sirloin?” the server says, leaning a skewer of meat over Fralin and her décolletage. Making sure he gets a tip tonight. She’s giving him two right now.
Others take slices, and I wave him off. Undaunted, he returns with chicken moments later.
“Beautiful lady perhaps prefers chicken?” He smiles down at me. Beside me, I feel Canon stiffen. All eyes are on me.
How unfair is it that this moment feels more unprofessional than all of the off-color comments made by others during the evening? I’ve listened to these company executives execute enough puns and double entendres to rival a sleepover chock-full of twelve-year-old boys.
“Look at him pound back the meat.” Way to stay classy there.
“Don’t choke the, er, I mean on your chicken.” Been waiting all night to say that one?
“Well, hello, Sir Lion, so we meat again.”
How exceedingly droll. Yawn.
Now, with the waiter orbiting Diana’s omnipresent moons, I feel more like a chicken than like eating it. “No, thank you. I’m finished,” I say.
“I will take whatever you’ve got,” Fralin chimes in.
I just bet you would.
“We have glazed pineapple. Sweets for your sweet smile.” He cuts meat for Fralin as he speaks to me.
I shake my head again. Canon clears his throat loudly.
Fralin’s eyes narrow. “How sweet, Ms. Baker. Should I get his number for you?” she sneers.
Silverware clangs next to me. “Thank you for the dinner. We really must head out and go over those new proposals.” Canon stands and pulls my chair out.
Sure. I don’t mind leaving. I’m done. Thank you for asking.
Peters takes a break from his protein bonanza. “Well, well, well. Throwing in the towel already, are you, man?”
“Oh,” Fralin says, crestfallen. “We will see more of you tomorrow, right?” Oh, she wants to see more of Canon, that’s for sure. The thought is nauseating. Her…him…across the hall from my room…touching…each other. I push my chair in a bit too forcefully. The place settings clatter.
I should be thrilled at the prospect of someone keeping him occupied. I shrug it off. It’s probably just the thought that someone so crass, so unworthy, might get noticed when I have failed.
11:10 p.m.
*
Phone
: In bed beside me. Like a lover. Possibly better. Definitely bigger than some.
*
Volume
: On high.
*
Screen
: Dark. Continuously so.
I SHOULD BE FOCUSING on the lecture playing back on the laptop. Instead, my eyes keep darting to the phone.
I keep expecting him to call.
He doesn’t.
A silent ride from the restaurant was followed by a silent ride in the elevator. Then I followed him down the hall to our rooms. Three paces behind at all times.
A couple of hours poring over tweaked proposals and highlighting differences with Bossy Pants. Now I’m alone in my room to thrill to the history of common-law marriages and other things only a handful of states still honor.
Back on task. Two days in and already seven hours behind in lectures. Not good.
At some point, I fall asleep with headphones on, listening to Professor Cameron explain the SEC’s role in enforcing the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act.
It’s as stimulating as you’d imagine.
