“Hi,” I say, using my best isn’t-this-a-great-morning voice.
She grumbles something in response. I keep going, headed for the end of the hall.
The outer office is dark. I reach across the wall, looking for the switches. The lights flicker and then come on, illuminating the desks. I set my backpack against the wall and then just stand there. I don’t really know what to do without Dana around. The last two days she guided me through every task. All there is to do without her is simply wait.
There’s a noise at the door and I turn, expecting one of the other three assistants. My heart does something weird when I see Mr. Mulroney. Dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, he looks completely out of place in the work atmosphere.
His eyes go wide when he sees me. “You’re early.”
“Fifteen minutes.” I bite my bottom lip. I did not mean for the answer to come out so snarky.
He nods. “Your hair is different.”
My hand flies up to my head. I left the windows down while driving here, and my hair’s probably a tousled mess. I open my mouth to apologize for my lazy appearance, but he’s speaking again. “It looks good.”
I wait for more. Specifically, the wildly inappropriate remark that’s destined to come next. But it never arrives. Instead, he walks right past me and goes into his office. The door shuts with a sharp click.
I can’t move my feet. Was Mr. Mulroney just nice to me?
Or was he only temporarily reining in the sexual assault that’s sure to soon return?
He’s just trying to get you to like him. He’s manipulating your emotions.
I run a hand through my hair. It doesn’t matter. Whatever game he’s playing, I won’t be a player. Or a pawn.
Daniel, Dana, and Chuck arrive and we get busy for the day. Apparently, most of working for Mr. Mulroney involves taking messages, making appointments and phone calls, and running errands. It’s fine by me. I don’t quite know why the man needs four assistants all to himself, but whatever.
At ten, his office door opens. He walks through without looking at any of us. “I’m leaving for the day,” he announces. A second later, he’s gone.
From Dana’s desk, where I’m busy writing addresses on thank you notes for some past event at the modern art museum, I stare at the empty doorway. So that was it? No goodbye? No even looking at us? And yet, why am I surprised?
I lick my dry lips. Just because he told me my hair looks good doesn’t mean his whole attitude has suddenly changed.
Across the room, Daniel closes his laptop. “I’m taking lunch early.”
“Me too,” Chuck says.
They both stand up.
Dana shoots them a dirty look. “Who’s going to take that script to Murakami’s house?”
Daniel shrugs. “You?”
“Why can’t you email it?” Chuck asks, not even looking at her.
Dana sighs and drops her face in her hands. “Because the guy is super old fashioned. He still thinks it’s, like, nineteen sixty-five or something. He expects everything to be hand delivered to him.”
“Bummer,” Daniel says. “Have fun with that.”
He goes to the door and holds it open for Chuck.
Dana turns to me and pushes her glasses to the top of her head. “Dumb asses. I’ve been trying to get Mr. Mulroney to can them for months, but he seems to think they’re useful.”
I give her a sympathetic look. “Sorry. Maybe it’s some kind of secret bro loyalty thing. You know, like the Freemasons.”
She purses her lips. “It’s typical. I’m going to have you take the script.”
“Okay. Where is it going?”
“To this house in Beverly Hills.” She hands me a post-it note with an address written on it. “You can just drop it off with whoever answers the door. They’re expecting it. Here.” Out of the top drawer of her desk, she retrieves a manila envelope, thick with the script.
“Be back soon,” I promise. Although it’s not going to be too soon. A chance to escape the confines of the office for a bit can’t be squandered.
Once in the car, I plug the address into my GPS. With traffic, it will take around thirty minutes to get to the house, so I turn the radio to my favorite alternative station and crank it up.
The whole drive, only one thing is on my mind. One person, really.
I hate myself for not being able to stop thinking about Mr. Mulroney, for not being able to quit always trying to figure out why he does what he does. Most aggravating of all is the way he was actually nice to me this morning. It’ll be hard to continue disliking him if I can’t count on him doing something seedy or creepy each day.
“The man is a pig,” I whisper out loud, in order to remind myself. He proved just as much on the very first day.