Tempting the New Boss(2)
Was that all? She was used to being treated like shit. She’d worked as an associate at a New York meat grinder, er, law firm, before they had the gall to repay her hundred-hour working weeks by laying her off to maintain profit margins.
Talbot’s matronly assistant gestured to the black leather sofa in the corner of the office, bigger than Camilla’s entire studio apartment, and placed what looked like an invitation on the coffee table, before taking a seat beside her.
A large woman with a shock of gray hair trailing down her back in a thick braid, Marcia White dressed in peasant skirts that spoke to comfort in her own body after five or so decades and referred to her boss like a recalcitrant child. Camilla was already a fan.
The assistant batted the invitation around on the coffee table with one finger, and Camilla couldn’t help but notice the gold embossed script against the white background. A thank you dinner for our generous sponsor. There was a yellow logo of a smiley face that seemed out of keeping with the otherwise elegant invitation. Camp for Kids it said.
“It’s so nice to meet Mr. Talbot finally,” Camilla offered.
“Yeah, Mason’s a doll,” Ms. White said. “But the thing is, he’s not so good with his, ah, social skills. I won’t get into his family, er, personal background. But let’s just say he’s a little awkward sometimes, with people I mean.”
Camilla didn’t even dare nod. Was this some kind of post-employment test?
“I have a little job for you, Camilla. Something to keep your eye on while you’re doing all that legal crap.”
“Of course. Is it something to do with that invitation?”
She looked down at the white square of cardboard and laughed, as if she’d forgotten she had it, then gave it a rest. “This? No, this is a cause Mason gives a load of money to and just refuses to let them thank him for it.”
Marcia scooted forward. “Now you’re a smart lawyer, Camilla, but there were about a hundred other smart lawyers applying for this job, and I didn’t want another Shreeman, nice as the poor kid was.”
“Sure.”
“So when I saw your resume and did a little more fact checking on you, about your background and all, and then you came in, I could see right away you were what we needed around here.”
“And what was that?”
“Somebody to teach Mason some manners.”
It was about the last thing she expected the assistant to say. She laughed, starting to stand. “I’ll do my best.”
Marcia yanked her back down. “I’m not kidding. With that big family of yours, you got skills from the cradle Mason doesn’t know the first thing about. How to get along with people. How to, well, hide a little of yourself in a crowd. Blend in.”
On interview day, the assistant had asked a lot about Camilla’s big brood of an Irish Catholic family, eight kids in all. But of course everybody asked about that when they found out. Although it had been commonplace in her neighborhood back in Detroit, in New York it was as unusual as saying she’d been raised Amish. How did your mother remember all your names?
“That’s nice of you to say but—”
“And then with your PR training—”
“Not exactly training. It was more like a class or two in college.”
“—and your psychology degree—”
“Just a minor.”
“You have all the right tools to take somebody like Mason and make him, well, a little smoother when he deals with people. Like I said, sort of teach him some manners.”
“I don’t think I’d be very good at that.”
“You’ll do fine.”
“What I mean to say is I’m not comfortable with it. Correcting my boss or guiding him on anything non-legal, that is. I’d rather not.”
“It was in the job description. Footnote three. Check it out if you like.”
She mentally called up the vague reference to other duties as specified by etc. etc. It was always the fine print that got you. “No need. I concede the point.”
The assistant stood up. “Thanks so much, hon. I look forward to seeing how you do.”
Camilla smiled, recognizing an immovable force when she ran into one. “No problem. I’m on it.”
So in addition to the Uniform Commercial Code and Securities Acts, it looked like she needed to pick up an etiquette guide for this job.
When she got back down to the limousine, apologizing profusely for the delay, the driver nodded, and Talbot, sitting across from her, barely acknowledged her presence, staring out the window at the rainy, snarled Manhattan traffic. The car pulled out, and she pretended to read her iPhone, as if she might have some important emails to scan when in fact her work email wasn’t even set up yet.