“Wow. Thanks.” My heart warms at the compliment. After the awful start with the man I almost drove over, it’s nice to run into someone who could potentially be a friend. I wonder if Stacey also takes lunch at noon and if she knows of any good places within walking distance.
“All you really need is to wear some make-up and not dress so frumpy,” she continues, and my hopes of us ever being close go crashing to the ground.
“I’m more of a minimalist,” I mumble, trying to control my anger. I’ve run into enough women like the kind I think Stacey is — the ones who feel the need to always keep other women in check — to know it’s best to just not engage in prolonged conversations with them. “Where do I go?”
“Last door right down the hall,” she says, pointing to my left. She picks up the desk phone and presses it to her face, dismissing me.
There are two short hallways. I take a quick peek at the one to the right. Bathrooms, a water closet, and a closed office door. Got it.
I pick up my neon-orange backpack from the floor and head down the other hall, passing several more office doors on the way. My heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s about to burst out of my chest, and I realize I didn’t even check my reflection before getting out of my car. I’m about to start work with the head of Mulroney Pictures, and for all I know, I could have breakfast on my face.
I take a second to halt and slip out the little compact mirror that I keep in one of the backpack’s side pockets. The hallway is empty, but I still try to be as inconspicuous as possible in checking my reflection. My short, wavy brown hair is still pinned back in place. My blue eyes, though, look a tad frantic — kind of like I’m an animal walking into the slaughter house.
Calm it down, Sydney, I tell myself while I put the mirror away. As I get closer to the end of the hall, the sounds of people talking and phones ringing grow louder. I stop at the last door, boasting a sign reading “Simon Mulroney,” and take a right through the open doorway.
My heart sinks. What greets me is less than impressive.
I’m in an office with several desks all cramped together. A long window runs the length of the far wall, with views of the ass of another building. A closed door sits adjacent to the window.
Two young men are on phones, shuffling through papers, and clicking on laptops as they talk. The third person — a girl not much older than me with blonde, pink-tinged hair and glasses, gives me a wave.
“Savannah, right?” she asks.
“Sydney. But you got the city part right.”
She gives a little smirk, but it’s a friendly one, and I’m relieved my often pathetic humor has hit its mark.
“I’m Dana. We’ll be working together. These guys are Chuck and Daniel.” She nods at the two men who are also somewhere in their twenties. They both wear pastel colored button ups and both seem impervious to my appearance.
“Great,” I nod. “Is Mr. Mulroney in?”
Dana gives another smirk, except this time it doesn’t seem like a good one. “Oh, is he ever,” she responds with heavy sarcasm. “He’s in a killer mood today. I’ll buzz you in.”
She takes a step over to a desk and hits a button before speaking into the buzzer. “Mr. Mulroney, our new assistant is here.”
A second passes and a buzz is followed by a brusque man’s voice. “Send her in.”
Dana gestures towards the closed door on the other side of the room before promptly turning away to a wall covered with notes. I take a deep breath and walk across the room to open the office door.
The man in the room has his back to me, his hands in his pockets. As he begins to turn around everything moves at a normal pace at first, but then time abruptly stretches out, each second happening in agony-drenched slow motion. His tousled blond hair. The vibrant eyes that catch the light coming in through the window. The broad, tense shoulders.
Mr. Mulroney raises his head to take me in, the initial look of nonchalance on his face turning to first one of surprise, and then contempt.
Holy freaking shit.
The world is still spinning in slow-mo as I take a deep breath and make an instant conversion to the religious life — any fucking religious life — in order to send out a prayer to heaven.
Please God, don’t let him fire me, is all I can think.
“You’re not going to knock me over?” he asks. “You didn’t get a chance to finish what you started on the asphalt.”
I chuckle slightly, hoping he’s making a joke. His lips tighten into a thin line.
Okay, so he wasn’t trying to be funny.
“I-I am so sorry,” I stutter in a voice that doesn’t even sound like my own. It sounds scared; slightly pathetic.