You’re fired. Dorian Holder’s voice was in my head, speaking from what I imagined to be the near future. Run along now, Ms Dewitt.
Like Gwen said, it’s always the hotties.
Proudly, I sat up, turned on the computer, and hoped for ‘something brilliant’ to come to me.
Screw him.
Ah, well. Good thing I didn’t phone it in, right?
It’s the little things.
Chapter Three
Intern Flat
Around four o’clock I snuck down to the cafeteria to grab a quick cup of coffee. Since I’d kept my poor team in and out of the meeting room since late morning, with no lunch break whatsoever, I was dying. Wouldn’t Dorian Holder, CEO be so proud of me? As a reward, I let them take off an hour early, and over-apologised. Least I could do. We came up with some decent ideas.
Apollyon needed something New Agey; the closest we had to yoga DVDs were that Joni Speed Pilates thing I mentioned earlier, and a workout for middle-aged women called ‘Stretchin’ to the Oldies’ featuring some benevolent-looking sixtysomething coach with a long fake braid and vintage Seventies leotards leading a group in something called ‘The Alexander Technique’ while soft rock played in the background. Mr Colossimo firmly believed mind-body wellness was a passing trend. Seriously.
So let’s throw together a bunch of Yoga videos, and give them away free with a mat. We could start selling blocks and blankets, preferably blessed by His Holiness the Dalai Lama. Also, we could come up with a cookbook full of veggie-juice and smoothie recipes. There was a start. Plus, outside all our weight-training gear, we didn’t have much for guys who were more into outdoorsy workouts. I figured we should come out with a vertical treadmill for climbers, then overcharge on customised bungee cords and carabiners. Our gyms could start including climbing walls. Also, there were no instructional videos of any kind for the fellas, because, as Jay-Jay pointed out, it just seemed too queer. Maybe we could hire someone who was semi-famous and in decent shape to host a series. Hiking, surfing, ice climbing.
Of course I knew this isn’t what the copy department’s job is, duh. You have no idea how boring it gets writing about the same old gear and trying to make it sound as though Apollyon invented these gadgets. I felt so sorry for the poor tech writers. Anyway, we all agreed that if there were new products that were actually fun to write about, we’d produce higher-quality copy, hence doing our part to increase sales. Why shouldn’t we weigh in on product ideas? So each of us came up with a speculative list of gear, and outlined mock-up advertisements, as though we already had them in stock.
So I figured I’d take the next fifteen minutes or so to go over our notes, type a half-decent memo which I could edit after a well-deserved night of sleep, send a polite suckup email to Mr Holder, run out the door at five sharp, no ‘staying later to impress the boss’, and pray Adonis wouldn’t be prepared to meet me until the next morning.
So it wouldn’t look like I was trying to escape, you see.
Which of course I was.
OK, so my random act of kindness – letting my team take off slightly early – wasn’t entirely unselfish, nor was it random. I needed time to collect my thoughts, needed solitude, needed to stop being a team leader. After all, there is no ‘me’ in team, right? And I desperately needed to take some me time.
The café was generally empty in the late afternoon. Being an introvert is inconvenient, as one can’t always find an escape hatch. Silence and solitude revive me. As does coffee, even the sour stuff they have at Holder Café. Won’t name brands, but I planned at some point to tell Dorian Holder, CEO we all deserved better. And did I happen to mention that I was exhausted? Still a little hungover, even. Really.
As I flipped open my vinyl binder, which was nearly as cheap as my shoes, I heard a cough nearby. ‘Lily?’
Troy Matthews. Why? It’s official: there is no God. Gawd. That Catechism was such a load of bunk.
I glanced up and removed my glasses. Then put them back on. ‘Oh. Hey, Troy.’
Poor Troy seemed almost as uncomfortable as I, which was saying something. Why didn’t he just leave, already?
‘Hi.’ Troy’s eyes darted around before he asked, ‘May I join you?’
I fiddled with my pen. ‘Uh … normally I’d say yes, but I’ve got a major deadline to meet. Be glad you aren’t an Apollyonian today.’
Troy worked in the law office on the first floor.
‘Oh.’ He seemed disappointed by my refusal of his companionship. ‘Heard the head honcho’s in town.’
‘Yep. True story.’ So word had already spread to Wingate&Wolfington. ‘Going to be a rough few months, I reckon.’
‘Sorry to hear.’ He sat down across from me. What, did men simply just not listen to me … at all? Didn’t I ask him not to join me? But I knew what he was waiting for, and owed him an apology.
‘Speaking of sorry, Troy –’ I cleared my throat ‘– listen, about Saturday night –’
‘Oh, no.’ He held up a hand. ‘Don’t even. It was your birthday, Lily. You deserve to cut loose now and again.’
‘Generally I’m not so “loose”. I cringed at my word choice. ‘I mean –’
‘I know what you meant.’ He took a sip of his coffee. I never like it when men use creamer in their coffee, but that is neither here nor there. ‘Lily, it was a fun night, and I’m happy Gwen invited me along. Besides, nothing happened.’
Poor Troy was such a last-second idea when we left work on Friday. He was wandering around the lobby looking all cute, single and dateless; a stray pup. As I mentioned, the whole thing was Gwen’s doing. ‘We’re partying in Cambridge tomorrow. You should come,’ she’d said.
‘Oh.’ I mulled this over. ‘That’s … that’s good. Thanks for understanding.’
‘Thing is, Lily? I noticed you a long time ago, and thought about asking you out. But you always seem to be in a hurry, and …’ Troy hung his head, his sandy hair flopped over his eyes and he took another sip of coffee. For the record, he was sort of cute. I could forgive myself for making a drunken pass at him.
‘Aren’t you glad you didn’t, now?’ I forced a smile. My facial muscles actually hurt when I fake-smile. That’s why I always looked so miserable in my Facebook pictures. Remove Tag.
‘Not really.’ His voice was all brave-like. ‘I’d love to try again, maybe with less tequila involved. You busy this weekend?’
Before I could answer, my obnoxious ringtone (‘Here in my car/I feel safest of all …’) provided a wonderful excuse to end the conversation. As a rule, I don’t pick up if I don’t recognise the number, but rules are made to be broken, so I grabbed my plastic saviour. Even if it was one of many student loan collection agencies, they bailed me for now, and I would chat them up until the cows come home. Not that I didn’t consider Troy a decent person, it was just not a good time to think about anything non-Apollyon. ‘Sorry, I totally have to get this.’
‘That’s OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait.’
What? Why would I have wanted him to wait? ‘Hello?’
‘Lily Dewitt?’ A rich, deep, voice resonated in my ear. Automatically, my toes curled.
Stupid toes.
I coughed. ‘This is she.’
‘Dorian Holder.’
‘Oh. Hello, Mr Holder.’ My tone was calm, with the slightest note of unalarmed surprise.
I hoped.
Troy’s eyes bugged out, and I gave him a frantic waving gesture, which had nothing in common with my smooth telephone talk. He nodded. I nodded. He left.
Thank heaven. Back to Dorian Holder, CEO.
‘I went looking for you at your desk, but you appeared to have taken off for the day.’
‘Oh, no. I’m not – I didn’t – I just ran down to the cafeteria to grab some coffee.’ Shit. ‘I was heading right back upstairs.’
‘I know exactly where you are.’
‘You do?’ I looked around at my colourful surroundings. Chips, salad bar, coolers, bored food service work
ers …
‘Right over by the grill.’
Sure enough, there he stood, holding his iPhone in one hand, and a hot dog in the other. Gross. He eats hot dogs? Then he was hanging up, walking toward me, his eyes serious as pulmonary edema. Taking enormous bites of that frankfurter. All business.
‘After this morning’s meeting, I would hardly expect to find you down here socialising with the bottom-feeders.’ He turned his head ever so slightly towards the double doors, where poor Troy Matthews viewed our interaction with a little too much interest. Troy didn’t miss the glower and departed at once, a scared bunny rabbit.
Major turn-off.
‘That’s Troy Matthews. He’s in accounting.’ Like I needed to explain anything to Dorian Holder, CEO. Not that he cared. ‘Not for us, for the law office.’
‘Holder Enterprises owns Wingate&Wolvington, and they handle all Apollyon’s legal tangles. But you knew that, right? Ah. I’m assuming this is your proposal.’ Dorian Holder took the last bite of hot dog, slipped the phone into his pocket, picked up my notes and squinted at them. Smooth as silk.
‘You assume correct.’
‘Correctly.’
‘What?’
‘You said, “You assume correct.” Which I do not. I assume correctly.’
‘Either one works, Mr Holder.’
He examined my scribbles. ‘You have the penmanship of a high-school girl, Ms Dewitt.’
What was that supposed to mean? It’s not like I put hearts over my i’s or anything. Deciding not to rise to the bait, I responded just as coolly as the proverbial cucumber. Kind of like the one he must have in his … Oh, geez.
Eyes up, Lily.
Hope he didn’t just catch me looking at his crotch.
‘Well?’ He met my eyes, and his flashed with sparkle of merriment in them. It was hard to tell, though. Around his pupils there was a ring of gold flecks. Like a wolf’s.
I was so busted. Oh, shit.
‘I like your tie,’ I bluffed, hoping he would believe that was my distraction, rather than what was below. ‘An interesting choice.’
‘One would hope.’ He lifted it up, and leaned over me so I could get a closer look. ‘A Hoffman. That’s 24K gold woven in there.’
‘Wow. That’s … extravagant.’
‘You can touch it, should you wish.’ His voice dropped to a purr.
I reached up and pulled. A curious blend of silky and stiff filled my hand.
‘Now you can release me,’ Dorian Holder said. He brushed my hand away. ‘You have a fine grip, Ms Dewitt.’
Flustered, I said, ‘If you’d like to discuss my proposal, I can meet you in your office in about fifteen minutes. But I’ll need to type it up. Lest I subject you to my “high-school-girl penmanship” any further.’
Nor would I subject him to my high-school-girl gawking. Hands shaking, I put my glasses back on in what felt like an aggressive gesture.
‘Yes, you will.’ He almost smiled at me, pleased at my flustered state. ‘Are you throwing me out of the dining hall, Ms Dewitt?’
I shrugged, averting my eyes. Some people deserved to be handsome. Dorian Holder was not one of those people.
‘Maybe.’
‘Ms Dewitt, I own this cafeteria.’
As if he was pulling rank about the lunchroom. Like I would be ever so impressed and intimidated. Who cared? I was getting canned, anyway. ‘I am well aware. See, Mr Holder, I’m actually throwing you out of my personal space. Which, at the moment, you are standing in, and you don’t own.’
Whoops. It just popped out.
How dared he chuckle? But chuckle he did.
‘Not yet, I don’t.’
My jaw dropped, as Mr Holder stifled a yawn.
‘Mr Holder, what are you –’
‘It’s decided, then. Meet me on the top storey when you’re finished, Ms Dewitt.’
‘Done and done.’
Dorian Holder took a sip of my coffee, and his Adam’s apple took a dip as he swallowed. He winced. ‘Christ. Is this what we’re serving?’
‘Unfortunately, yes. Please don’t drink my coffee, Mr Holder. I actually paid, so you no longer own it.’
The whole thing struck me as bizarre. Couldn’t I just go home?
‘Now that was me being in your personal space.’ He set the cup down. ‘You like it sweet and creamy. I’m surprised.’
‘Would you have guessed dark and bitter?’
‘Hmm. I’ll have to speak to the staff.’ His eyes wandered to the kitchen. ‘But not now.’
I shrugged, ‘It’s good enough for me.’
‘I refuse to be served anything less than the finest,’ Dorian Holder explained. He glanced at my feet and sneered, ever so slightly. Huh? Oh, yes. Horrified by my cheap flats. Can’t blame him there.
‘Yeah, well.’ My pulse pounded. Was it lust or anger? Mix and match.
‘Nor do I like shabby presentation.’ He appraised my casual-chic frumpwear ensemble.
OK, chic was not involved in that particular outfit.
‘What size shoe do you wear, Ms Dewitt?’
Wow. Bisexual, foot fetish, or Buffalo Bill? I tried to appear unruffled.
‘Eight.’
‘Eight?’
‘Yep.’
He glanced at his watch. You got to be kidding me, he wears a Rolex? Does he think it’s 1983? ‘You said it would take you fifteen minutes?’
‘Or so.’
‘Fifteen minutes,’ he repeated, ‘is what you said. There is no “or so”.’
And then he strode away.
Definitely a strider.
* * *
While I’ve never been the world’s fastest typist, I’m not so bad. Trying to edit, revise and hammer my cryptic notes into something smart and clarified? While my hands shook and I was terrified? Not so much. To make matters worse, I couldn’t open half the attachments the team had sent. Altogether I was caught in a real-life spin on one of those anxiety dreams where someone or something is chasing you, you’re running as fast as you can but your legs are nearly immobile and, just as the Thing is about to catch you, you awaken swaddled in wet sheets with your heart throbbing.
A little blip notifying me of a new message did nothing to assuage my growing panic.
Fr: Dorian Hartley Holder
Subject: Tick-Tock
Fifteen minutes have come and gone. I’m waiting.
BTW, you won’t find a number button on the elevator. Press ‘P’ for the penthouse.
Yours,
D
I took a deep breath, my fingers hovering over the keys.
Fr: Lily Elizabeth Dewitt
Re: Tick-Tock
Penthouse? We’ve always called it the 13th floor, but you’re the boss. I know where the top storey is, though I wasn’t aware that’s what the ‘P’ button stood for; I had other ideas.
Just five more minutes, if that’s OK. I’m almost there. Sorry to make you wait.
Respectfully,
Lily Dewitt
Yeah, I totally did that.
A few seconds passed, and there was a second blip.
Fr: Dorian Hartley Holder
Subject: Impatient
I am, indeed, the Boss.
But no, I said ‘now’. Nobody makes me do anything, you see. Just email me whatever you have, which – judging from your ‘notes’ – is worth trying to do something with. We’ll discuss the rest in person. Despite what you may or may not have heard, I’m relatively flexible.
And I like your mind.
I want you in my office. Thirteenth floor, per your correction. Penthouses are for Playboys. I’m curious about your P.
Yours,
D
Oh, do you, now? I paused, nibbled at my fingernail and began to type.
Fr: Lily Elizabeth Dewitt
Re: Impatient (Tick-Tock)
OK. I’m coming.
P is for Porcupine.
Respectfully Yours,
Lily Dewitt
P is
for Prick, but you know that.
Very well, then.
I highlighted, cut, pasted and sent what little I’d typed up. None too impressive. I bit my lip in consternation.
Hopefully, I won’t get all stuttery again. Scratch that. I promise myself not to get all stuttery again. I would channel my inner coolness I faked in the cafeteria. That’s part of me, somewhere inside, straight-up Lily Dewitt. I take no guff. I will present my plan with all kinds of confidence and enthusiasm, while not sounding overly bubbly. Like a high-school girl. Right?
What did he mean by that, anyway? My penmanship is like a high-school girl? Meh. How did he know so much about high-school girls and shoes, anyway? P was for Pervert. The more I could think of Dorian Holder as just freakazoid control freak, the easier this meeting – or confrontation – would be. As my mom used to say, when I was faced with a spelling bee or whatever, ‘Pretend they’re all in their underwear, Lily. And instead of fighting off tears, you’ll fight off laughter. Don’t forget the funny.’
Sighing, I grabbed my bag, and prepared myself to lose my first decent job.
Ah, well. It was a good run, I figured.
Then I was off to Dorian Holder’s office. The thirteenth floor. The Penthouse.
P.
The top storey.
* * *
The thirteenth floor was a euphemism for ‘gentlemen’s club’, which is itself a euphemism.
Anyone who knows from what knows there’s no such thing as a thirteenth floor. It’s straight-up bad luck. Look at any control panel of elevator buttons, whether in an apartment building, hotel, skyscraper – there will never be a 13. But Apollyon LLC did the thirteenth-floor thing with pride, though it had apparently been re-christened ‘The Penthouse’ by Dorian Holder, CEO in some covert operation.
Because he could do that shit. He could do whatever he wanted.
Still can.
The thirteenth floor was actually the thirty-first floor (see what they did there?) and last I had known was a sweet little bar with a view of the city, and a couple of faux offices in which I assumed private dances happened. Maybe a random handjob or two. Seeing as Mr Colossimo’s and his ever-changing Vice Presidents’ desks had always been next to the conference room on the nineteenth, and that I was always a sucker for water-cooler gossip, that wasn’t an unreasonable call. My poor former boss was not only afraid of climbing stairs, riding the elevator apparently stressed him to the max. If it had been me, I’d have been hanging on the top floor all the frigging time.
Reaching Lily Page 4
