by West, Lara
“Do you need to know?”
Ouch, that was somewhat cold.
“Please. Right now, you’re kind of a Mr. Nameless.”
He pauses like he’s considering whether or not to tell me.
A Mr. Nameless with secrets.
Another reason why I shouldn’t let myself go weak at the knees over this one…
Chapter Nine
“James,” the suit finally says, but with clear averseness.
I nod and contemplate asking what his last name is too, but instinct tells me not to.
Besides, I won’t see him again after tonight anyway, right?
I shouldn’t care what his full name is.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, James,” I say instead, flashing a smile.
We lay in silence for a few more minutes, eyes to the ceiling, just hushes of our breaths filling the room.
He looks at me now and then, like he’s on the cusp of wanting to say something but doesn’t quite have the mettle to go through with it.
I don’t know why, but even though we aren’t speaking it doesn’t feel awkward.
It’s like we’re comfortable with each other already, which I know is crazy because I barely know him and from what I have witnessed, he’s way more egotistical jerk than beloved Romeo.
But all the same, he does have me curious.
“If you could go any place, anywhere in the world, where would it be?” James suddenly asks, very off character.
I don’t hide my reaction.
I look at him, confused.
“Well, that’s a random question,” I joke.
“No, it’s not.”
“Yeah, it kind of is.”
“Okay…just humor me then,” he grins, those vivid blue beacons shifting between the ceiling and me.
“Okay, Venice,” I say emphatically.
It was always going to be my answer.
I’ve wanted to go there ever since I can remember.
I saw a picture of it once when I was young: it was of St Mark’s Square at sunset.
Even though it was partly flooded, there were still people everywhere. A few of them were sitting at a restaurant, with glasses of wine in their hands, and looking out to the gradual sun as it was sinking into the water.
As I’d continued to stare at the image, I’d thought to myself: Wouldn’t that be nice?
To just sit and stare out at something that beautiful, while the rest of the world carries on around you?
“I think there has to be something magical about a place that’s built on the sea. I’d love to sit by the waterfront with a bottle of wine, peacefully taking it all in as the sunset hovers in the distance,” I tell him.
James is watching me diligently, like he’s truly interested in what I’m saying and is waiting to hear more.
“I also think that any place that replaces cars with boats, streets with canals, and newsstands with mask shops must be pretty awesome.”
He waits another minute before speaking, glancing over at the wall like he’s trying to draw the city of Venice on it.
“That does sound nice,” he says distantly.
“Can I ask you a question now?” I ask, carving a smile.
“Fire away.”
“If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?”
I know it’s a deeper question than his, but I’m intrigued as to what his answer will be.
Thus far tonight, he’s come across as a rich, confident, cunning thespian, and I simply want to know if that’s who he really is.
Not that it’s any of my concern.
In fact, now I’m really thinking about it, why do I even want to know?
He’s just a stranger to me and I’m just a stranger to him.
That’s how things should stay, right?
“I’d reverse time,” comes his answer, with a hollowness to it that pulls at my heartstrings instantaneously.
I look over at him and see a wave of sadness in his eyes, a far cry from the narcissistic man who had approached me at the bar.
“I’d stay in my hometown and get married,” he continues on. “I’d have the white picket fence, the 2.5 rug rats and the family van. Yeah, that would’ve been something…”
There aren’t many times in my life where I’ve been left completely speechless, but this is definitely one of them.
Have I misjudged this guy?
Does this smooth-talking, faraway-eyed suit really have a soul somewhere in there?
“You can still have all that,” I utter gently, trying to sound positive.
But it has the opposite effect: I watch James get up from the bed immediately.
Shit, I’ve actually hit a nerve.
“Are you okay?” I ask, sitting up.
How was I supposed to know he’d have that reaction?
He shouldn’t have asked me a personal question in the first place.
It’s his fault – not mine.
“I’m fine,” he says brusquely, throwing on his pants and shirt. “I have to be somewhere early in the morning. I didn’t realize how late it was.”
I watch him readjust the diamond-studded Rolex so it’s over the cuff of his sleeve, before grabbing his suit jacket off the edge of the bed.
“Tonight was amazing,” he says, looking at me briefly. “I really hope you make it to Venice someday.”
“Ah…thanks, bye,” I barely manage to get out before he disappears, closing the door behind him with a loud click.
What the hell was that?
What was his problem?
Was I really to blame?
All these questions are running through my head and…wait, isn’t this what girls always do?
They blame themselves for a guy’s bad behavior when really he’s just being a jerk?
‘If only I’d said this and done that, then maybe he’d still like me.’
I can hear Brooke’s voice in my ear already.
“One-night stand etiquette 101, Lauren: no exchange of phone numbers or sharing of personal information.”
I give a loud sigh and bury my head in the pillow, pulling the sheet all the way over.
The Ralph Lauren cologne is still embedded there, along with ‘Strangers in the Night’ repeating over and over in my head.
This is why I avoid flings and guys who think their ego is God’s gift to women.
The aftermath is just too much to take.
Chapter Ten
Two months later
There’s something invigoratingly beautiful about autumn in New York besides the way the leaves change pigment and fall, piling onto the sidewalks for children and lovers to kick their feet in.
There’s also something in the air, an almost stillness to it like a crisp and homely sentiment, which makes an idle walk along the city’s streets all the more gratifying.
I’m sitting by the window in Brooke’s apartment, watching the old tree in the courtyard below trying to steady itself in the usurping breeze.
Over the last two months, I’ve seen a lot of New York by foot. It’s helped fill in time between interviews and casual hospitality jobs—I still haven’t found a full-time position; at most I get a few hours a week serving at some “high society” event.
Brooke got me the work through a guy she knows who manages a company that hires people for catered events. Although it isn’t my usual field of work, it pays well, and I desperately need the money—that $601 I came with two months ago is long gone like the hills of Colorado.
Below the tree it’s becoming more frantic, leaves tearing off to spiral away and down the street. As I continue to stare at it I almost don’t hear my cellphone buzzing in my pocket, barely managing to hit Accept before it rings out.
“Hello.”
“Hello. Is this Miss Lauren Swift?” comes a stiff female voice from the other end.
“Yes,” I reply.
“I’m calling on behalf of Townsend Investments. The panel reviewed your application for the person
al assistant position and would like to schedule an interview with you tomorrow afternoon. Are you available?”
“Um, sure,” I say, trying to remember the application. I’ve written so many now that I can’t remember each one offhand.
Townsend Investments…it does sound familiar.
“The interview is at three o’clock. Punctuality is a must and dress code is formal. I assume you know where the building is?”
Well, you’ve assumed wrong, lady.
“Ah, no, I don’t. Sorry.”
“Hmm.” She pauses with a clear, inimitable tone of judgment. “It’s on Wall Street,” she says snappishly.
“Okay,” I reply, wishing I could ask what her problem is but knowing it would kill the interview opportunity. “I should be able to find that.”
“Good. The panel will see you tomorrow, then. Goodbye.”
“Good—” But the line has already gone dead.
Nice, that’s some people skills she has there.
I hope she isn’t on the panel she mentioned—she’ll cut through me like a knife in warm butter.
“Townsend Investments,” I say out loud.
It sounds like something you’d find on Wall Street.
Yes, that’s right.
It’s a Wall Street fund and the position is of a PA for the fund’s president.
I remember writing the cover letter for it now and thinking that there was no way I was ever going to get selected for an interview. It seemed like the kind of post that required years and years of experience and credentials far greater than mine. I didn’t think my advanced diploma in business administration that I got in Colorado would pass their blue-pencil standards.
I wonder how my resume got pushed through?
I sigh, toss the phone onto the couch behind me, and return to gaze out the window. The tree has become motionless with the city’s skyscrapers towering beyond it.
Clouds drift over, bowls of orange and gold appearing in the white wisps. Sunset, my favorite part of the day, is almost here.
Chapter Eleven
The waiting room at Townsend Investments is exactly how I’d imagined it.
It’s styled like an elegant nook by the main desk, with two white leather lounges on either side, an expensive-looking glass table shaped like a wave in the middle, and a huge painting on an accent wall that appears to be a Jackson Pollock original.
The vivid splashes and drips of color are somewhat comforting as a backdrop, like the calm before a harrowing storm—or in my case, an interview. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to wipe my hands on my suit pants.
No matter how much preparation I do for an interview, I’m always still unbelievably nervous right before I go in.
From the small amount of research that I was able to gather about Townsend Investments from Brooke’s severely outdated computer, the Wall Street fund is owned by renowned thirty-two year old billionaire Clint Townsend—renowned to everyone but me, that is.
Apparently Townsend ranks as number one most handsome billionaire in the Northern Hemisphere and is forty-second on Forbes’ wealthiest billionaires list.
He was born and raised in Rapid City, South Dakota, and is the third youngest of the four Townsend heirs, the children of the late real estate tycoon Lorne Townsend, who is survived by his socialite wife, Delilah Townsend.
Clint Townsend graduated from the University of South Dakota with a degree in arts and science and then went on to Harvard to complete his master’s in business administration.
From trading out of his dorm room to getting his start on Wall Street, Townsend established his own hedge fund with twelve million dollars and all before his twenty-seventh birthday.
Now Townsend Investments makes around thirty billion a year.
If all that isn’t enough to make someone nervous about an interview with this corporation, I don’t know what will.
It’s a shame the photos of him wouldn’t load, though. I should’ve used Brooke’s laptop, but she hadn’t been around last night so I could ask for the password.
Ah well, I guess I’ll be seeing him soon enough.
“Lauren Swift!” a stern voice suddenly calls out, interrupting my thoughts.
I look up to see a mature woman in a gray skirt and matching jacket. Her voice alone tells me that she is the pleasant woman I had the privilege of speaking to on the phone yesterday.
But now that I’m standing face to face with her, I see her real problem: that high bun on top of her head has been wound just a little bit too tightly.
“Yes,” I answer, being as equally short with her.
“The panel will see you now. This way, please.”
Wow, she managed to throw in a please this time. Good for her. Baby steps.
Tight Bun Lady leads me past the main desk, down a long corridor, and over an air bridge, a glass panorama of light all round us displaying this side of New York City in exquisite definition.
Now this is not a view you get to see every day.
It’s simply breathtaking and as I stare out wide-eyed at it, I begin to fantasize about what it would be like to work here, to be able to gaze out at the vast expanse of open space every day.
But my thoughts come crashing down brutally when Tight Bun Lady notices I’ve stopped halfway across the bridge.
“Time is money here, Miss Swift. Do come along,” she nips, quickly directing me off the bridge.
I screw my face up at her once her back is turned.
I know it’s immature for a twenty-six-year-old woman, but I can’t stand bumptious people, and she certainly fits the description of one.
As we round the next corner and virtually power walk down another long hallway, Tight Bun Lady finally brings us to a halt outside two closed large wooden doors.
She knocks twice before entering, swiftly ushering me in behind her like I’m a scullery maid working for some grand dynasty.
From first glance it’s obvious that this is the main boardroom for the fund, with its long, polished black table, padded swivel chairs, huge whiteboard with a clock overhead, and a coffee urn with cups, cream, and sugar ready beside it.
Sitting on the left of the table is the interview panel: one man, roughly in his forties, with puffed-out cheeks and a receding silver hairline; one woman, middle-aged, with boldly cut shoulder-length black hair and a stare that even Medusa would be proud of; and another man whose face I can’t quite see due to being buried in what I assume is my resume.
“Miss Swift,” Tight Bun Lady announces to the panel before gesturing for me to take a seat opposite them.
“Thank you, Penny,” the silver-haired panelist says. “Miss Swift, please take a seat.”
The smile on his face is the fakest one I have ever seen.
When Penny leaves the room, I can’t help but feel like I’ve been thrown to the wolves.
All eyes are on me as I make my way over to the black table, my heels tapping noisily on the smooth, granite floor.
“Miss Swift, time is money for our corporation so we’ll try to make this interview as short as possible,” the first panelist says as I sit down.
I’m beginning to think that’s the slogan around here.
“My name is Bill Meagher, and I’m vice president of Townsend Investments. This lady to my left is Robyn Hewitt, our chief communications officer, and then we have the president himself, Mr. Clint Townsend.”
I nod curtly and take the time to look each of them in the eye.
Until I get to the president.
And then my jaw drops immediately.
No freakin’ way.
It can’t be…
Chapter Twelve
“Your resume says that you have over four years’ experience,” Bill states, distracting me from my shock. “You first worked as a secretary for a real estate company and then as a personal assistant for a congresswoman back in Colorado. Correct?”
I stare at him vacantly, my eyes shifting between him and the billionaire.
<
br /> I look away and try to compose myself, my heart rate accelerating as flashes of two months ago come flooding back.
This guy is the president of Townsend Investments?
This guy is the renowned billionaire?
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“Sorry…. um… yes. That’s correct,” I finally stutter, blushing wildly.
I’ve had some strange coincidences in my time but this one takes the cake—no, the whole cake shop!
“Well, can you tell us a little bit about what was required of you in that position?”
“Sure,” I say, catching a glimpse of the diamond-studded Rolex sitting on the cuff of the billionaire’s sleeve.
Yes, it’s definitely him.
No doubt about it.
Except for the name—James my ass.
“Um, well, I worked for Congresswoman Martha Connolly for two years. My formal duties included filing, scheduling appointments, helping with conferences—both in standard and via video link—and organizing local events and charity drives. That sort of thing.”
Wow, I said that all way too fast.
Calm down, Lauren, maybe he won’t recognize you…
“I see. Good. Go on.”
Go on?
Didn’t I just answer the question?
“Ah,” I splutter awkwardly. “I…also had less formal duties, like lunch runs, picking up laundry, and taking her cat to the vet, ha ha.”
I laugh weakly only to be met with cold silence.
They’re a tough crowd all right, and obviously not animal people.
“And what did you learn in the position?”
“What did I learn?” I repeat. “Ah…”
I try to think of a clever answer.
Any answer.
But the truth is, there wasn’t much to learn in the position except maybe…
‘That no matter how hard you work, it’s never good enough. And that no matter how much overtime you do, you never get paid for it. As a PA, you are constantly taken for granted and often treated like a third-class citizen, like a pebble on the shoe of someone who deems themselves as being way more important. Oh, and on top of that I’ve also slept with James, I mean Clint. Anything else you want to know?’
