A short silence. “Hm. Send some bottled water in. For some reason, the fridge is empty.”
A door closes.
“Shit,” Dana hisses.
I straighten up, my back creaking in protest. “What?”
“I’m an idiot,” she whispers. “I forgot to stock his fridge last night.”
I wish I could say it’s no big deal; it’s just water. But we all know with Mr. Mulroney, everything is a big deal.
“Will you go to the front desk and get some?” she asks me. “And hurry. Mr. Murakami will be here any second.”
“Okay.” I grab the cleaning bucket and rush out of the room, suddenly excited. I had no idea the person coming was Murakami. My job suddenly seems really good again.
Maybe his wife mentioned me when he came home that night and read the script. Maybe she told him how “impressive,” “bright”, or “eager” I was. Or maybe she said, “The girl has nice bangs.” I don’t care, as long as she said something positive about me.
I practically throw the bucket into the water closet. About to rush to the front desk, I realize my hands smell like cleaning product. The scent will get on anything I touch.
“Damn,” I whisper, hopping across the hall for the bathroom.
I scrub my skin as fast as I can and then wipe my hands on my jeans while I push the door open. I look down and see two large, wet hand prints across my thighs.
“Damn, damn,” I curse, running back into the bathroom, grabbing paper towels, and making an attempt to blot my jeans dry. Halfway through the process, I deem them to be good enough and toss the paper towels in the trash.
I power walk to the receptionist desk.
“Hey,” I say to Stacey. “Do you have bottled water? I need it ASAP for Mr. Mulroney.”
She looks up at me with her black rimmed eyes. “Yeah,” she says, taking eight years to say the single word. Like my request has just bored her to within an inch of her life.
Sorry to interrupt your game of solitaire, I want to say. I know she just sits there all day and plays games on the computer because I’ve caught her doing just that several times already.
You would think she’d find it invigorating to actually have something to do, but apparently not.
Pushing her rolling chair away from the desk, she edges over to a little fridge near the wall. The woman is sloth like. Every second literally creeps by as I wait for her.
She grabs one bottle from the fridge and shuts it.
“I need more than that,” I say.
She huffs, but grabs four bottles. It will have to do. I’ve already lost enough minutes thanks to the paper towel fiasco and don’t have time to hold my breath and wait for her to roll herself back over to the fridge. I eagerly reach my hands over the counter top for the water.
“Thanks!”
Speed walking down the hallway, I burst into the office.
“Got them!”
“He’s here,” Dana loudly whispers, pointing at Mr. Mulroney’s door.
“Oh.” I press my fingers against my mouth. One of the bottles tumbles from my arms and hits the carpet. I close my ears, waiting for the explosion. It doesn’t come.
“Just go take them in,” Dana says.
I snatch up the bottle and walk across the room.
“Knock,” Dana reminds me.
I rap on the door and wait. The condensation from the bottles presses against my shirt, getting the cotton wet.
“Come in,” Mr. Mulroney says.
I push the door open and flash a quick smile. My boss sits in his usual seat, his back straight, his hands folded in his lap. Across from him is a wrinkled Japanese man. I nod to them both, trying to act like it’s totally no big deal to be in the presence of John Murakami.
“I brought you some water,” I feebly explain.
Mr. Mulroney says nothing. His eyes dart to the fridge in the far corner. I get the hint and go to put the water away.
“Are you Sydney?” Mr. Murakami asks.
About to bend down towards the fridge, I halt and turn around. “Yes. Hello.”
“You met my wife the other day.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, not sure where this conversation is going, but holding onto hope nonetheless.
“She likes you.”
“Oh. Wow. Thank you.”
I clutch the water bottles in an effort to not do a happy dance right then and there. If I’m not careful, I might jump onto the desk and attempt the electric slide.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Mulroney giving me a deadly stare. It’s enough to yank me back down to reality. I hold my back straight and square my shoulders.
Sorry to distract you for fifteen whole seconds, I want to say to him. That man can do anything he pleases, but he is not going to intimidate me.
The asshole clears his throat. “Let’s return back to our conversation. As I was saying, it won’t work with Michelle in the lead. It’s too risky.”