I was a little taken aback. Because of her rather glamorous name and workplace, I’d pictured Kit as a Veronica Lake look-alike with a penchant for Donna Karan. The real Kit Holiday was barely five feet tall with a boyishly slim figure and a close crop of sandy brown curls. She didn’t seem to have on even a trace of makeup, and was wearing a black turtleneck over brown corduroy pants that sat jauntily on her slim hips.
“Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” I said, and found that I didn’t have to fake my smile. Kit was adorable, the kind of person I could definitely see myself being friends with, and was a stark contrast from the blue-haired brigade that staffed Sassy Seniors! In fact, between the beautiful surroundings and more age-appropriate staff, this place was making SS look more and more like the Gulag, and even less like the kind of place that any writer with even a modicum of talent would be caught dead in. I was immediately seized with panic . . . there was just no way anyone who worked here would have the slightest bit of interest in hiring someone from a schlumpy rag that existed merely to pander dubious products to the unsuspecting seniors of America. I was completely and totally outclassed, and it was only a matter of time before the Retreat people would sniff out that I was a complete fraud.
“Thank you for coming in on such short notice. We were just so impressed with your résumé that we wanted to make sure we got a chance to meet with you before the interview period closed,” Kit said as she led me from the reception area, down a flight of stairs, through a double set of steel doors and into the main room that I had just been admiring from my perch above.
Impressed with my résumé, I thought, and wondered if I might have, in a moment of insanity, actually followed through on my plan to overhaul it with a few not-so-truthful additions. I was feeling proud of myself for not making the obvious and moronic joke of “Gee, how funny is it that your last name is Holiday and you work at a travel magazine”—a joke I’m sure she’d heard even more frequently than the “Claire, that’s a fat girl’s name” line, and which if I had made it, would likely have lost me the job before the interview even began.
Kit led me into a conference room, where three rather intimidating-looking people sat on one side of a long, oval table. Kit made the introductions, and in my nervousness I promptly forgot two of the three names. The one I did remember—Sabrina Taft—belonged to an elegant African-American woman dressed in a gorgeous cream pantsuit that made me feel instantly better about opting for the buttoned-up look. She had dramatically sculpted cheekbones and wore her hair up in a twist, which showed off her long, graceful neck. Her two companions were both startlingly handsome men, and strangely similar in appearance. They were both tall and slim, with chiseled jaws, strong features, and perfectly tousled hair. The only way I could distinguish them was that one wore a light purple shirt with a matching lilac silk tie, while the other had on a pair of square black-framed Clark Kent glasses, the kind meant to make truly beautiful people look intellectual.
“Bye, Claire. Good luck,” Kit whispered in my ear, and then skated gracefully from the room, abandoning me.
“Please have a seat,” Sabrina Taft said, gesturing to a chair on the opposite side of the table from them with a graceful flick of her wrist. I was glad that it was her name my short-term memory had decided to hang on to, since Taft seemed to have the most seniority. Suddenly I realized with horror that I didn’t know what any of them actually did at the magazine. It occurred to me that I should have memorized the name of the editor-in-chief, as well as those of the entire editorial department. I’d been so caught up in worrying about what to wear and what to say during the interview that other than flipping through the latest issue of Retreat on the plane ride to Chicago, I hadn’t done any background research on the magazine. How could I have forgotten something so fundamental?
There was a pitcher of ice water and a glass on the table before me, and I contemplated pouring myself some in order to steady my nerves. But then I thought this might be rude, since it hadn’t been offered to me, and I didn’t want to commit a faux pas before the interview even began. I immediately began obsessing about how dry my mouth felt. The more I tried to ignore the tempting, icy-cold water, the more desperately I wanted it.
Sabrina Taft had placed a pair of wire-rimmed glasses on her nose and was reading over my résumé. I could see that Purple Shirt and Clark Kent each had a copy, too.
“What interests you about travel writing, Claire?” Taft asked, looking up from the paper.
This was a question I knew I’d be asked, and I put the water out of mind while I delivered my prepared answer.
“I’ve always loved to travel, to see new sights and experience different cultures. It’s a thrill to explore the differences not just from country to country, but even within different regions of the same country. And I’m particularly interested in the diverse aesthetics each culture has to offer—architecture, fashion, cuisine—I find it all very exciting. It’s really the best job in the world,” I said, and managed to not cringe at how hypocritical I was being, considering I’d spent the past few years griping about how boring and dull the locations my job took me to were. I was aware that I sounded trite and ridiculous, but Max had assured me that this was exactly the kind of answer a place like this would want. And it seemed to be working—the trio of interviewers all seemed entranced by my answer, and were nodding along as I spoke.
“Name two of your favorite destinations you’ve written about,” Clark Kent interjected.
My mind went blank. This one I hadn’t been prepared for. Think, Claire, think, I begged myself, racking my brains to think of two destinations I’d covered for SS that wouldn’t sound hopelessly dull to these three.
“I was recently in London, which has always been a favorite city of mine. There’s just so much going on there, such a fascinating blend of tradition and innovation,” I said, completely making it up as I went along. “And, um, New Orleans is always a fun, if somewhat offbeat destination, with its unique culture and the world-class restaurants,” I finished, praying that they hadn’t actually read any of my columns, particularly the one that I had slipped past the editors in Robert’s absence, where I referred to New Orleans as the “sixth ring of hell.” But what other choice did I have? Telling them that Orlando was my favorite destination? Or Williamsburg, Virginia? Somehow, I didn’t think that was going to impress the Mod Squad.
To make matters worse, I have an unfortunate habit of sweating profusely when I’m nervous, and could already feel my cotton blouse beginning to dampen. I prayed that pit stains wouldn’t show through my black wool jacket, and tried to relax.
Breathe in, breathe out, stay focused and calm, I instructed myself, trying to channel the tranquil and frighteningly limber woman that teaches my yoga class.
But then all hopes of keeping up a serene front collapsed when, as if in some sort of a bizarre psychology experiment, all three interviewers began posing questions to me simultaneously. They talked over one another, without pausing to give me a chance to even absorb a question—much less answer it—before having another one fired at me.
“Where do you see yourself five years from now?” Sabrina asked.
“Five years from now,” I repeated thoughtfully, hoping to buy some time before I could think of an answer. What was I supposed to say? Working here? Writing my own travel column featuring exotic international destinations? Running this magazine? No, I couldn’t say that, since I had no idea what any of these three did at the magazine, and it could be tantamount to announcing I was planning on taking over one of their jobs. But then again, if I didn’t sound ambitious enough, they’d think I was wishy-washy.
“If you were stranded on a desert island and could bring only three items with you, what would those three items be?” Purple Shirt interjected before I could answer Sabrina’s question.
“Three items,” I stuttered. The first three things that popped into my head were a lifetime supply of tampons, a laptop with a modem connection, and my vibrator—hardly an appropriate answer
. . . well, except maybe for the computer. What were three appropriate things, items that design-conscious people would think to bring? Expensive bath products? A pashmina traveling blanket? A personal MP3 player? But before I could answer, Sabrina was chiming in again.
“Give me an example of a time when you’ve acted as a leader,” Sabrina said, raising her voice and giving Purple Shirt a dirty look. Purple Shirt sighed loudly, clearly annoyed that his question was going unanswered.
I gaped at them, not sure which question to answer. And had I ever acted as a leader? There was that one time when I was in middle school, and I was put in charge of producing a Punch and Judy puppet show for our Renaissance festival, but I had a feeling that wasn’t what they were getting at. And what the hell did it matter anyway if I’d ever acted as a leader? Was I interviewing for a writing job, or for a position on the Joint Chiefs of Staff?
“What would you consider your biggest weakness?” Clark Kent challenged me. Unfortunately, just as he was saying it I made eye contact with him, and at the same time the other two began bickering with one another, so I knew I was going to have to produce an answer—any answer—and I had to make it sound strong, confident, ambitious.
What was my biggest weakness? What kind of a question was that? It wasn’t that I didn’t have any weaknesses . . . but I wasn’t about to trot them out—“Well, I absolutely detest authority in every form,” or “I’m inherently lazy,” or “I’m completely unorganized”—in the middle of the interview. But then something popped into my mind, and before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “I’m a workaholic.”
This caused all conversation to cease, and the threesome to stare at me bug-eyed, as if a second head had just sprouted from one of my shoulders.
“How exactly is that a weakness?” Clark Kent asked. It was clear from his tone that he knew I was bullshitting, so I needed to do some damage control.
“Well,” I began, struggling to keep my composure. “They say that being too absorbed in your work isn’t good for you. And that you should have outside interests in order to stay balanced—”
Purple Shirt cut me off. “I don’t think working hard is a weakness,” he said reproachfully, but then bailed me out by asking, “Do you speak any foreign languages?”
“No,” I said.
“None?” he asked incredulously.
“Nope,” I said, and smiled cheerfully. My mouth was so dry, my tongue was practically sticking to the roof of my mouth. No longer concerned about propriety, I reached for the water pitcher, poured myself a glass, and glugged it down gracelessly.
“You didn’t learn a language in school?” Clark Kent asked.
“Yes, I took four years of French,” I admitted.
“Oh, so you could read a newspaper in French?” Clark Kent said.
“No,” I said.
“Interview someone in French?” Purple Shirt asked.
“I only had the basics, and I’ve forgotten most of that. That’s why I said I’m not bilingual,” I said, too exasperated not to be honest.
Clark Kent smirked, and Purple Shirt looked disapproving. Only Sabrina Taft seemed unaffected. She instead peered over her glasses and said, “Give me three adjectives that you would use to describe yourself.”
Cynical, sarcastic, and big-thighed, I thought, and prayed for the interview to end quickly and mercifully.
After the interview was over, and I staggered into the cold, cloudy Chicago day, I felt like I was limping off a battlefield. My cotton shirt, which had been freshly ironed when I went into Retreat, had wilted and was sticking to my back and shoulders, and a quick check in my compact mirror confirmed my worst fears—my hair was limp, my nose was shiny, and my lipstick had partially scuffed off. The remaining caked-on traces of Clinique’s Pink Chocolate on my lips made me look like I had some kind of a skin disease. I just wasn’t sure when the interview had started to go so badly, so quickly. Was it when Sabrina Taft had pursed her lips and read the words “Cat Crazy” off my résumé in a way that made it clear she did not find my former work experience charmingly eccentric, as I’d hoped? Or was it when Clark Kent had critically flicked his perfect, amber eyes down the length of what I’d thought was my rather inoffensive suit?
I ducked into a nearby bistro, ordered a full-fat latte and a thick slice of cheesecake—I’m an emotional eater—and once I was settled at a tiny, round wooden table, I pulled out my cell phone. I needed to call someone, preferably someone who liked me, who could reassure me that I wasn’t as big of a loser as I currently felt like. But whom to call? There was only one person I wanted to talk to, one person whom I wanted to commiserate with on the nightmare I’d just been through. And that person wasn’t Max, or even Maddy. It was Jack. I stared at my phone, not sure whether I should call him. I didn’t know if we’d reached a point in our relationship where he’d be glad to hear from me out of the blue, and at all interested in listening to my sob story. Wasn’t I supposed to be acting like a mysterious and charming enigma right now, so as to pique his interest without showing my hand?
Oh, screw it, I thought, I’ve had too rough of a day to worry about my stupid dating rules. And before I could chicken out, I hit the send button on my phone.
“Hello,” Jack answered, sounding brisk but friendly.
Just hearing his voice made my eyes start to well up with tears. I fought to hold them in, and instead croaked, “Hi. It’s me. Claire.”
“Claire,” Jack said, sounding pleased, even over the echoing cellular line. “Aren’t you supposed to be at your interview?”
“I just got out,” I said, starting to feel foolish. God, now he’d think that I rushed out to call him as soon as it was over. Which, okay, I had, but shouldn’t I play it a little cool?
“And? How did it go?”
“Terrible,” I said, and then I completely embarrassed myself by bursting into tears.
“Tell me,” Jack said, and his voice was so kind and so gentle that it just made me cry harder. I wanted him to be there with me, to put his arms around me, to tell me everything would be okay. Admitting that to myself was shocking enough as it was—after all, I’d been on my own for quite some time and was perfectly capable of taking care of myself. But suddenly I knew that I didn’t want that anymore. There were times, like now, when I actually wanted to be taken care of, and in return, to take care of him sometimes, too. Even more shocking was my realization that wanting this was okay. I’d always have myself to fall back on, but it would be better—it would be wonderful—to have someone to take some of that pressure off, to carry the burden with me for a change, instead of always having to do everything on my own.
“Claire? Are you there?” Jack asked.
“I’m here. I just . . .” I said, and then before I could stop myself—or even think through the implications of what I was saying—I continued. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m coming to London to spend Christmas with you.”
“That’s terrific,” Jack said, sounding elated at my impulsive decision. “I can’t wait to see you.”
“Me too,” I said, and then, feeling better than I had in days, I tucked into my cheesecake and latte while I told him about the interview from hell. Somehow, it no longer seemed as disastrous as it had before. Before I knew it, I was giggling about the way Purple Shirt had kept patting his hair, probably to make sure it was still perfectly tousled, while Sabrina Taft and Clark Kent had bickered over whose turn it was to ask me a question.
Chapter 14
“I don’t think you should go,” Max said. We were camped out in my apartment, and I had just proven Max wrong on his theory that I was incapable of cooking by making him a half-decent Sunday brunch (well, if you ignored that the scrambled eggs were overcooked, the bacon a bit rubbery, and the pancakes were anything but light and fluffy—at least the toast was perfection). He was mostly back in my good graces, since not only had he kept his promise to treat me to dinner, he had taken Daphne and me out to Picholine for a heavenly meal. My meager s
alary barely keeps me in boxed macaroni and cheese, so it was a real treat. Max also spent the entire meal giving me pointers on how to talk to chichi travel magazine people, since he’d done some freelance work for Condé Nast Traveler, while Daphne encouraged me to hang bunches of dried lavender around my apartment, swearing that it would bring me good luck.
“And the aromatherapy will help you relax,” she promised.
Even though the interview had been a disaster, I hadn’t the heart to stay angry at Max for setting me up on the date from hell, particularly after Gary called me, pleading with me not to make Max stick his tongue in Gary’s ear as retribution.
“Please leave me out of it,” Gary had begged. “Every time I turn around, Max is standing right behind me, ready to pounce, and I can’t tell if he’s joking anymore.”
I took pity on them both and released Max from his task of atonement. Besides, on a purely selfish note, I needed someone to obsess with me over what to do about the whole London-for-Christmas, Jack-and-Maddy thing, and since Maddy was obviously off limits, Max would have to do. Since Daphne was spending the weekend at her mom’s house in Philadelphia—when Max mentioned this, he said it in a way that suggested they hadn’t parted on the best of terms, although he shrugged me off when I pressed him on it—I enticed him with the prospect of a free breakfast. Max had been a good sport and choked down most of the food I served him, and afterward we lingered over our mugs of coffee with steamed milk. We were both dressed for a lazy Sunday—I hadn’t changed out of my charcoal gray cotton pajamas, and Max was outfitted in sweatpants and a Rolling Stones tour T-shirt. But as soon as I brought up my Christmas travel plans, Max had immediately shot them down.
“Why not? I thought you said not to worry about Maddy’s feelings, because she’d never find out,” I said, feeling vaguely uneasy that Max wasn’t agreeing with me. I mean, for God’s sake, I already knew I shouldn’t go to London. Any idiot could see that I was standing in the middle of a hole, digging myself in deeper. But the plain simple truth was that I wanted to go. And Max was the one morally flexible person I knew—I was sure he’d advise me to ignore my conscience and follow my bliss. He’s always saying touchy-feely crap like that, which usually annoys me, but for once, I was willing to follow this line of advice. This was not the right time for him to turn into Dr. Phil on me.
True Love (and Other Lies) Page 18
