Carl had been with another client then. It took two minutes of watching them go at it before I wanted in.
“Turns out,” Carl says, turning the key in the lock, then dropping his key ring into his bag, “you’re not the only one who likes to be up early.”
“But you hate getting up early.” Carl told me that during one of my first few sessions with him. He normally doesn’t open the studio until 2:00. Getting him here at 4:30 isn’t cheap.
“You know what I love?” he elbows me lightly in the ribs, and I shove his hand away with a laugh. “Money.”
“So you’re cheating on me, is that it?”
He throws up his hands. “Hey, hey, I showed up. I didn’t even make some bullshit excuse about working late.” Our feet are thunderous in the empty stairwell. “No, I told Money Bags the earliest I could be there was 6:30, so he settled.” Carl flashes me a winning smile. “I’d never do anything to lose what we have going on.”
“You’re the worst, Carl,” I say, shaking my head but smiling too. “So, who’s the lucky guy?”
He purses his lips, pretends to lock them and throw away the key, a dainty gesture for a muscled boxer with more tattoos than a t-shirt could hope to hide. “Not supposed to tell. Let’s just say…he’s rich as sin and can pay my outrageous early morning rates.”
We stop outside the black town car idling by the curb. After my first year working for Sandra, she called me into her main office and gave me a laundry list of criticisms, followed by a clipped, “You’ll have a car now. Twenty-four hours. Be available.”
“Need a lift?”
Carl shakes his head, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “I’m good. You really woke me up in there, Cate!” He cups his hands around his mouth and lets out a whoop.
I laugh, but standing near the car has hit the kill switch on my workout buzz. I trace the outline of my phone in the outer pocket of my gear bag. The list tumbles into my mind, beginning with the four meetings before lunch that need to be confirmed.
I can hardly let the thought all the way to the surface of my mind, but now that I’m changing to work mode, the fatigue is starting to set in. It’s hard to keep up this breakneck pace.
But I have to.
I can’t fail.
Can’t end up like Dad.
Mark, my driver, hustles around to my side of the car and opens the door, and I slide in.
“See you on Wednesday?”
Carl puts a hand on the door, freeing Mark up to come back around to his side. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Neither would I.”
“I’ll tell you all about it then.”
My hand is already on my phone. I have no idea what he’s talking about, and it must show in my face.
“The new client who wants your slot,” says Carl, giving me an incredulous look. “Don’t you want to know who the other woman is?”
“Thought you said it was a man,” I tease.
“That’s right,” says Carl, dragging out the word, eyes shining. “And not that it matters to me, but he’s hot. Even you wouldn’t be able to help yourself.”
I step out of the town car at 7:30 sharp, a full hour before the rest of the office generally arrives. At Basiqué, regular hours aren't a thing. I never know when I'll be leaving for the night. Depending on when mockups come in, it could be 10:30. But that's only if Sandra's done for the day. She has an eight-year-old son and his schedule has as much sway over my life as hers does. But that’s irrelevant now—now is when I set up for the day. And my setup needs to be perfect, and perfectly on time.
“Thanks, Mark," I call back into the interior of the car and a wild urge bubbles up in my chest. I could get back into the car right now and tell Mark to drive me all the way back to the Midwest, back to the sleepy little town I grew up in, back to the second bedroom on the right on the upper floor of my parents’ house. The room's not quite the same. My mom gave it a fresh coat of paint and a new bed and packed all my things into the basement. But if I went there she wouldn't care if I slept for two days straight. Maybe three.
I shake my head and press the car door shut, straightening my spine. The last thing I need to do is take a vacation. I haven't taken a vacation in a year. With every day that goes by, it seems less and less likely that I'll have the time. This just isn't that kind of job.
The empty elevator whisks me up to the sixth floor, where Basiqué has its headquarters. The building takes up most of the block, so it's a labyrinth. Now, at 7:30, most of the lights are still off, but as I stride down the center aisle of the cubicles in the bullpen, the sharp points of my high heels muffled by the carpet, it's clear that I'm not the only one taking advantage of the only slow period of the morning. I can't see who's here—probably at least two people from editorial, they're always up against deadlines—but their fingers whirr against keyboards, making changes, coming up with new copy, all with the goal of pleasing Sandra.