by Celia Loren
“Alright that’s one down,” I mutter, stretching my back over the chair. “How many applications will it take to get a job this time? Wanna make some bets?”
“Five bucks you get this one,” says Rachel, standing. “And I’m going to bed.”
“Wow, really? You’re supposed to be the party animal. Just let me brush my teeth before you shower.”
I stand and start to walk away from the computer when the sound of an email alert stops me. Curious, I turn to peer at the screen.
The address is one I don’t recognize, subject: “Interview: Personal and Executive Assistant job.”
“Rachel!” I shout, making her jump. “It’s the application! Oh my god, they responded right away! They responded right away!”
I force myself to stand still long enough to open the email. Rachel and I crowd together, hunched over the dim blue light of my laptop screen to read.
Ms. Clark,
After reviewing your materials, you have been selected to participate in the interview process. Congratulations. Please arrive at 2211 Wall Street at 9am tomorrow.
We look forward to meeting you and discussing the Personal and Executive Assistant position in further detail. Please arrive prepared and in business formal attire.
Amanda Johnson
Assistant Corporate Secretary
Skollz Corp.
2211 Wall Street
New York, New York 10005
Skollz Corp: change is the future.
“Skollz Corp,” I say, glancing at Rachel. “I’ve never heard of them, but apparently their secretaries answer emails at two in the morning.”
Rachel nods slowly. “They’re big, like Unilever big. One of those names that consumers usually don’t hear because they secretly own all the labels you’d recognize.”
“So, they’re an umbrella corporation?” I frown. “Ruthlessly sweeping the little guy under the rug, destroying rain forests and the free market to monopolize the world.”
Rachel laughs. “You’re such a hippy. They’re called conglomerates, not umbrella corporations.”
“I knew that.” I blink at the screen. “Yikes, 9am is really soon.”
“Well, guess you’re not sleeping tonight.” Rachel yawns, shuffling toward our shared bedroom.
“Yeah, guess not.” Nothing like a high stakes, tipsy Google search. I collapse in front of my laptop, grinning. “Let’s you and I get to know one another, Skollz Corp.”
Chapter Three
So many flagpoles line the courtyard that I could almost think I’m at the United Nations but no, this is it; the Skollz Corp headquarters, a sleek glass skyscraper housing the machine that makes the economy tick. After my all-night googling, I know more about this company than I ever wanted to. They have more international influence than the US President and more money than God. Craning my neck, I can’t even see the top of the skyscraper in the clouds.
I check my watch; it’s 8:45am. I take a deep breath and step through the glass sliding doors, the clack of my stilettos echoing off the high ceilings.
The walls, pillars, and floors are white marble. The only pop of color is the suited woman standing behind the security desk, flanked by guards and automated turnstiles. Her hair is red, a deep and shiny copper quite like mine.
“Good morning,” I say, overly bright. “I’m Ava Clark, I have a 9am interview that was scheduled through Amanda Johnson?”
“Identification.”
The redhead takes my driver’s license from me and assesses the picture. She nods at me, expressionless, and taps a button or two. A mechanical whirr under her desk ends with her ripping a newly printed nametag and handing it back to me with my license.
“Sixty-sixth floor, Miss Clark.”
I try to keep my face relaxed. “Did you say six-six?”
Without looking up she points to the elevator bank furthest to the left in the lobby. I gulp and go. My smile is twitchy by the time I reach the elevator attendant and play a ridiculous game of fumble-fingers with him over the buttons. He wins in the end. The doors click shut and we are catapulted into the sky.
Good thing there are no windows. My stomach is churning.
I am petrified of heights.
The doors open on the sixty-sixth floor and I see that unfortunately for my vertigo the entire eastern wall is a window. I avert my eyes from the too-close clouds and see clear glass chandeliers dangling from the high white ceiling, calla lilies in clear glass vases, and a secretary’s desk built in to the wall to my left. The only door is next to her desk and shut tight.
The elevator attendant holds the door for me because apparently corporate people don’t know how to enter and exit elevators by themselves. I step past him.
“Thank you,” I stammer.
He blinks at me, clearly unused to being noticed, and shuts the doors.
Friendly staff.
Avoiding the window view at all costs, I stare intently at the secretary typing behind the counter. She too is a redhead, more of a strawberry blonde.
I am sensing a pattern.
“Hello,” I say, but before I can proceed she holds up a finger to silence me and points to a white bench I hadn’t noticed floating out of the wall. Three other girls are perched, their hair perfectly smooth and blazers crisp. They all have briefcases and blank expressions. My smile stiffens as I move to join them and carefully sit on the slim plastic bench.
Watch check. It’s 8:50am.
I am so nervous and only have ten minutes to get a grip. Remembering my classical voice class back at University of Michigan, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly in a barely audible hissing “ssss” sound. The secretary glances at me sharply. I stare right back, eyebrow raised in challenge.
I have to relax, damn it.
Something buzzes. The secretary picks up a phone.
“Yes sir?”
Silence.
“Yes sir.”
Click.
She peers over her horn-rimmed white plastic glasses at the row of us. “Ladies, Mr. King will see you now.”
Uh-oh. I definitely didn’t mentally psych myself up for a group interview. It’s hard enough to be nice and charming to one dude, let alone a posse of competition.
But it’s happening anyway, happening now.
The secretary presses a button on the wall and the white section of door slides to the side, exposing a long, low-lit hallway.
There’s a tall thin man in a pressed gray suit waiting for us, a tablet in his hand. Surprise! Another redhead, or more like a carrot-top, his face barely discernable underneath a confusion of freckles. He looks us over and points to the girl on my left.
“Thank you for coming today,” he says, “That’s all we need. You are free to go. The rest of you follow me, please.”
Confused, the girl stands with a gaping mouth, but the man hasn’t stopped to wait for a response. With an impatient wave of his hand he leads the remaining three of us away. I glance over my shoulder trying to figure out what about her got her eliminated, and watch her shuffle dejected back to the elevator.
After a few twists and turns, our carrot-topped guide has led us into a conference room and motions for us to take places at the wide end of a white plastic oval table. Thank god the walls in here are gray, not white, otherwise I think I might scream.
“Thank you for your punctuality.”
The low, cool voice emanates from a man at the other side of the table. He stands as we all shuffle in and offers a dazzling smile that more than makes up for the brusqueness of the rest of corporate America. I feel my lady brain glaze over the way it automatically does around handsome men.
“I am Vincent King, CEO of Skollz Corp. You’ve been screened from over 1,500 applications and hand selected by my administrative staff to interview. Congratulations. As you are applying for the role of my Personal and Executive Assistant, I thought it best I oversee the selection process from here. Welcome, ladies.”
He reaches across to shake hands with e
ach of us. I’m last, and as our skin brushes I feel an inconvenient bolt of attraction that manifests as one small, dumb butterfly trying to fly out of my stomach. My cheeks redden.
This is not a good time, body, damn it!
Mr. King is tall and broad with chiseled features and a tailored five-o’clock shadow. He looks something like a cross between that model Johnny Harrington and David Beckham, but in a perfectly fitted suit. There’s something magnetic about him. Power maybe.
And yup, he’s a redhead. Flaming. Suddenly it all makes sense. My lips twitch involuntarily a smile.
Mr. King catches it and quirks an eyebrow. “Something amusing?”
“No, no,” I stammer. His blue eyes burn into me, my gut clenches, and I fumble for something charming to say. “Just briefly wondering if maybe we’re related. You know.”
I glance at his hair and he laughs, breaking the tension, and tucks himself into the massive leather chair on his side of the table. Carrot-top sets his tablet down on the table on a stand, and I realize he’s recording us.
No pressure.
There are exactly enough chairs for each remaining applicant, telling me they had premeditated eliminating one of us right off the get-go. We all sit, and I look around. The brunette next to me has her eyes riveted on Mr. King like a worshipful teenager. Ew.
“The position is demanding,” began Mr. King. “Long hours, international travel. The ideal assistant will be able to transition seamlessly from providing a discreet hand in my personal affairs to maintaining flawless support in Skollz Corp. Once hired, my assistant will be subject to an extensive confidentiality contract and our company’s standard non-disclosure agreement. I’m very serious about protecting the integrity of our vision as a company. I warn you now; I am ruthlessly exacting in my standards and somewhat difficult to live with. But I make up for it with nice presents.”
He says this with a wink, and the other two interviewees twitter. But I’ve done my homework and know he isn’t just kidding around; I read that he gave his Vice President an Island in the Mediterranean as a retirement gift. Only, the guy hadn’t wanted to retire and it was sort of a mandatory gift. I feel his north-sea bright eyes curiously flit over my face. His gaze rests somewhere around my lips. I feel heat rush to my cheeks.
“To offset the high level of commitment and intensity of the job,” continues Mr. King, “I aim to make the interview as brief and easy as possible. I’ve already run background checks and am impressed with your educational credentials, so this is really just about chemistry. I have only two questions for you. Let’s dive right in. Number one, it’s your first day as CEO of Skollz Corp. What would be the first change you’d make? Let’s start with Ms. Walker.”
Our heads all swivel to inspect Ms. Walker, the pretty Asian girl on the end. She blinks. “Um, I supposed I’d look at consolidating customer service centers to one of Skollz Corp’s overseas locations, probably Mumbai,” She says. “All of Skollz Corp’s competitors are doing it and I would want to make sure not to lose the edge in efficiency.”
Mr. King nods. “I can see you’ve read about our layoffs in Illinois. How about you, Ms. Peterson?”
The brunette next to me puts on a thousand watt smile and bats her eyelashes.
Ew.
“I wouldn’t change anything,” she says, her voice bouncy. “I’d spend the first day really getting to know people here and listening to what they have to say, their concerns. Their insights and experience would give me a good idea of the needs and next steps to take.”
“A team player, always good. And what about you, Ms. Clark? ” Mr. King turns his full attention on me with an energy and focus that make me feel naked.
I meet his gaze, ignoring my flushed cheeks. I could say something pithy about business. I know about the acquisition difficulties they are having with ElectricCub software, and have some opinions.
But those piercing blue eyes don’t seem like they can be outsmarted in their home territory. I shift tactics.
“I’d paint all the walls,” I say, looking around the room pointedly. “More color, more energy.”
He blinks at me. “Are you insinuating my tastes are bland Ms. Clark?”
My eyes narrow. I sense he’s toying with me, the way Rachel does. “I thought I was the CEO now, Mr. King. Change isn’t personal, it’s the future. I think maybe butter yellow for the offices and French Provincial blue for the hallways.”
I put on my best business smile. Now I can see the ghost of a smirk around his lips and know I read him right, but the other girls are staring at me like I have two heads.
“Touché, Miss Clark,” he glances down at the folder in front of him and writes something down. “Using my own company’s slogan against me. All right ladies, next question: it’s your last meal on death row, what are you having? Back to you, Ms. Walker.”
Wow, that’s kind of grim for corporate America. But then, I’d read that Mr. King is famous for unconventional interview questions and startling negotiation tactics.
Ms. Walker frowns, obviously thrown. “My last meal?”
This clearly wasn’t on the list of questions she’s practiced answering. She glances pleadingly at carrot-top but he’s checking his watch, and then she locks eyes with me briefly. I can see a glimmer of panic and I try to smile encouragingly.
“Can I just ask for clarification as to how this question relates to assessing my skill level and compatibility for Skollz Corp?” asks Walker.
Mr. King is a perfect gentleman, but it seems to me his eyes go a shade cooler as he scribbles something down. “I’m just hoping to get to know you a little better, Ms. Walker. Since my assistant and I will be spending a great deal of time together, it’s nice to discover a relatable human beneath the professional.”
“Oh,” she says, still frowning. “I see.” She pauses for a long second. “My favorite meal is Thanksgiving, so I’d have a Thanksgiving dinner. Tur-turkey.”
“A classic,” Mr. King says, smiling. Ms. Walker sighs, relieved. “How about you, Ms. Peterson?”
Peterson preens, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “My last meal, oooh,” she laughs. “That’s such a hard choice, I just love food.”
I glance at her stick arms and can’t help but raise my eyebrows. Liar. I feel Mr. King glance my way and force my features back to neutral.
“Well I’ve been a vegan for about nine years now,” Peterson prattles, “And it’s really changed my life and my relationship to food, so, it would have to be something vegan. Fear-free food. People don’t realize how many great vegan options there are, especially in New York City. I love them all, it’s hard to pick! If I had to have just one thing, I guess it would have to be a big vegan enchilada with guacamole and rice. And maybe some dolce de leche.”
“Wouldn’t dolce de leche be off limits?” Mr. King says, smiling. “You like breaking rules?” He’s toying with her, too. I feel less special.
She laughs a little too hard. “Sometimes, but I wouldn’t have to break any rules with vegan dolce de leche!” She wags a finger at him, playfully biting her lip.
Ew.
“Ah, made out of tofu or something?” Mr. King flashes a smile. He’s so pretty. I look away from his perfect teeth to Peterson’s uncomfortably flirtatious grin. “Okay. Interesting. And Miss Clark, your last meal of choice?”
I’m still staring at Peterson.
“Hm? Oh. Last meal.” Before I can think I hear myself say, “Definitely whiskey. I’d need it to be whiskey.”
Carrot-top starts to laugh but disguises it as a cough. Mr. King turns and looks at him pointedly before riveting me again with those burning-cold iceberg eyes of his, scratching his chin. I notice how strong and manicured his fingers are, then try to un-notice so that I can concentrate.
“Yes, whiskey and maybe pizza.” I assert. “New York pizza, obviously. But mostly just the whiskey if it’s my last meal, as I don’t want to feel anything that’s coming next. A whole bottle of whiskey, maybe a whole barrel
, and go out with a bang!”
Mr. King stares at me for a long moment and I feel heat swirling in my belly. The corners of his mouth twitch. I can’t read him. Either he stifling a laugh like carrot-top or he is offended. I mentally curse myself for being so un-corporate. That was probably an inappropriate answer.
Finally he clears his throat and stares down at the papers in front of him.
“Ladies,” he says evenly, “Thank you for your time today. Gerard will escort you out. You will be hearing from us within two business days. Goodbye.”
Wow, that was fast.
Carrot-top, or Gerard I guess, waves for us to follow him out the door. Walker and Peterson both murmur thank-you and scuttle out. As I follow, I turn for one parting glance at our beautiful, weird interviewer. I find those piercing baby blues following me and a sort of a pleasant chill washes down my spine. He winks. I redden and run.
Gerard leads us through the white labyrinth back to the elevator.
“Good luck,” he says crisply before disappearing again.
The same secretary is at the desk and doesn’t glance up when the elevator door opens for us. I rush into the elevator, determined not to look out the window. Peterson, Walker and I squeeze together uncomfortably close. The door slides closed and the elevator shoots downward.
“Well,” I quip as my stomach lurches several floors above me, “That wasn’t the weirdest interview I’ve ever had or anything.”
Peterson pulls out her phone without responding. Walker tries to smile while avoiding eye contact with me, and accidentally makes eye contact with the elevator attendant, who almost hits his face on the wall in his rush to look away.
Awkward.
My phone rings. I had forgotten to silence it! Thank goodness it didn’t ring until now. It must be Rachel. I dig in my purse for about four rings, drawing an annoyed glance from Peterson. Finally, I find the dang thing and see that it’s a number I don’t recognize.
“Hello?”
“Miss Clark.”
My spine tingles at that low, cool voice.
