by Jamie Knight
Oh, my God. I don’t have time for this. I’ve got to get to my interview! If I’m late, I might as well throw in the towel. I might as well set my resume on fire, for as much good it’s going to do me if I’m late!
I’m thinking all this, but I don’t do anything to resist the sexy secretary — a person I know vaguely as Melissa, but mostly the “woman who has a British accent” — who is dragging me into a private bathroom.
Melissa puts me right in front of the mirror and immediately goes to work on my hair. I don’t know how, but she has a small personal salon stashed in her pockets — a comb and a small thing of hair gel.
“Tommy is it,” she states this, rather than asks it, as she begins to try to get my hair under control.
She combs it and puts a little more gel in it, before trying again to style it into place. Amazingly, a few of my most unruly pieces behave themselves for once.
I answer her question.
“Yeah, my name’s Tommy,” I say. “Thanks for helping me out… Melissa?”
Melissa combs her long, delicate fingers through my hair, adjusting it, so it’s just so. Focusing the way she is, she looks like the way I imagine a young mom should look helping her son get ready for an interview — focused and content.
She nods. “You’re welcome. Interviews are not something to be rushed through, Tommy. You’ve got to make sure you’re not just selling yourself, but the right qualities and the right image.”
So saying, she finishes the primping she’s doing of my hair.
My God, she’s some Goddess of the hair follicle. Somehow, Melissa has managed to accomplish something with my hair that I’ve been unable to do for as long as I can remember —she’s given me a style. Now my appearance has some measure of collectedness and grace with that style.
Melissa moves on to my clothes. That’s something I know can’t be fixed nearly as easily. Not unless she has a suit my size that looks as good as hers somewhere hidden in those slack pockets. She does what she can, adjusting my jacket, the tie, and a bit of the pants’ cuffs by the shoe.
“You really could use a wardrobe update,” she murmurs.
Before I can get offended, she adds, “You’re much better looking… much more handsome than your clothes give you credit for. If you went out and bought some nice clothes that fit you well, it would really increase your confidence level.”
I don’t feel offended by any of her words. Oddly, I feel cared for or loved, like I actually am worth a damn to somebody, and while the person saying it is mostly a stranger to me, I don’t care.
The way her hands and eyes attend to me, it makes me a little breathless and a little lightheaded, but I force myself to focus on the reality at hand. I need to be mentally preparing for my interview, not getting lost in Melissa’s deep, inviting eyes. Light brown and golden, they remind me of the sweet eyes on a cat I used to have, named Scooter.
“Feel free to thank my father for that,” I say, finally answering her comment about my ill-fitting clothes. “My father doesn’t think big people deserve to look good in anything. Especially me— he says I will never amount to anything.”
I rub at my eyes, feeling stung.
Melissa’s angry, pinched face appears next to mine in the mirror.
“What a terrible thing to say,” she says. “What an ugly little man!”
She uses her handkerchief on me, on my neck and face, wiping away sweat. As she turns me to face her to make a few last adjustments to the front of my jacket and dress shirt, she says, “Own that interview, Tommy.”
Her mouth, beautiful and small, becomes dark, serious, and deliciously tense. “The only ugly person in this world is a man like your father. Or any person who would say mean or disparaging things to you.”
She pats the breast part of my jacket.
“Own it. Be confident. Remember what you have to give and remember what you’re worth.”
I smile, feeling uneasy and blessed at the same time. In my wildest dreams, I would’ve never expected a secretary — the refined, English one at that — to be giving me a pep talk. But I listen and listen well.
Melissa must know what she’s talking about. After all, only someone with guts, courage, and faith in themselves moves halfway across the world for a job. She chose to set up her own life and thrive in her own way, and with no family for assistance.
If someone like Melissa can do that, then so can I. I can go in for this interview and give it my best. I can conduct myself with confidence and clarity, knowing I’ve worked hard, I’ve studied hard, and it’s my time to shine.
If someone like Melissa can move her own way through the world, then I can certainly move up in this one. I can take this promotion, and I can run with it. I can fulfill my dreams and goals of being more than just your average legal assistant.
“Thanks.” I clear my throat, choked by the bit of tenderness I am feeling for Melissa. “Thanks for your help and your support,” I say, extending my hand for her to shake it.
“You’re welcome,” Melissa says, extending her hand.
I take it and give one firm shake. The moment I do, electricity feels like it courses through my body — warm, bubbly electricity. I’m not sure, but it seems like something similar goes through Melissa. She blinks up at me in surprise. For a moment, there is a look of terror and joy on her face, as if she’s feeling the same thing I am, that we’re connected somehow, and not just by our hands.
I let go quickly, feeling my heart begin to race.
Melissa clears her throat and balls up the hand that was holding mine.
“Better hurry, Tommy. I think that interview of yours is about to happen without you.”
I quickly look at my watch — an old Velcro carryover from my teenage years that I haven’t been able to get rid of. It’s almost 10 o’clock, almost time.
“Shit!” I hurry to the door. “Thanks for the help, Melissa!”
As I leave, I hear her sigh. She shakes her head and murmurs something under her breath. I don’t hear it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was something along the lines of, “There he goes, messing up all my good work! And after I went to all that trouble!”
Not a minute into being fixed up, I’m running again. I’m living life by the seat of my pants, probably looking like the King of Frump.
I’ll probably never look like anything less in this damn suit and tie. Not unless my interview goes the way it needs to go, and I get transferred out of the legal assistants’ floor, or as I like to call it, the unknown eighth level of hell.
Chapter Six
Tommy
I make it to Conference Room 103 with less than a minute to spare. I slow down my pace, take a minute to gather my wits and my breath, and then I push through the door.
As I do so, I mentally Pep talk myself. I remind myself not to ramble too much and not to make too many unnecessary, anxious moves. Otherwise, I’m going to mess up Melissa’s handiwork and the good impression she’s trying to help me make. I don’t want to do that.
The moment I’m all the way in the conference room, I see three people seated at a large twenty-person conference table. One person at the table I recognize is Joan Vanacore, the successful lawyer from Mississippi. She’s got long, white hair, perfectly-tanned skin, and the chiseled features that would give someone like Meryl Streep or Robin Wright a run for their money.
The other two people present I don’t recognize — one woman and one man. The woman has short hair, olive-colored skin, and a feisty personality. The moment she sees me, she invites me in.
“Tommy Radner, I assume?”
I nod, holding my file folder of resumes and letters of recommendation close to me.
The woman smiles pleasantly.
“Excellent! I’m Charlotte, head of HR.”
She gestures to one of the many chairs across from her and Vanacore and the unknown male.
“Please. Have a seat, Tommy.”
The unknown male next to her gives me the barest of eye contact as I take a se
at. He looks bored. I have a feeling he’s also with HR. And I have a feeling that he’s not going to be doing much talking. He’s got way too many papers in front of him for that.
The moment I sit down, I have to remind myself to breathe.
“Bit of a difficult morning for you, young man?”
The voice that addresses me sounds like an aged whiskey or bourbon — deep, a little jagged and rough, but also musical. It’s also got that southern charm to it.
Following the voice, my eyes immediately lock with those of Joan Vanacore. They are light gray, like spun, slightly dirtied cotton. Not the kind you could lose yourself in necessarily, but definitely the kind that will leave you disarmed.
I actually have to shake myself out of the kind of “spell” I can feel falling over me from her. It’s a kind of slowness or fuzziness around and through me.
“No, no, ma’am. It’s not been a difficult morning.”
“You look a little out of breath,” she says, and then I really do feel that way — squeezed of oxygen. Her eyes have gotten even more bluish gray, but bright, almost silver. “And a little out of sorts, young man.” She says this, but it’s with a little humor, not scolding.
Again, I have to work to snap myself out of whatever haze she’s putting on me. I wouldn’t say that I’m feeling an attraction to her. It’s more like she’s compelling me in some way or drawing me to her.
“Well, this is… this interview is something that I…”
“Don’t want to be late for?” Joan Vanacore smiles at me, and the smile shines like California gold. “I understand perfectly, young man. I felt much the same way during my first interview in a law firm years and years ago.”
She pauses.
“But there’s no reason to be nervous. Despite whatever rumors you may or may not have heard about me, I’m quite gentle. A bit picky, but I only want to make sure I find a young person with enough drive and ambition to match my own.”
She pauses, studying me. She’s savoring whatever she’s looking at in me.
“Shall we see if that’s you, my boy?”
I nod, not sure how I’m feeling now. I’m nervous for sure, but now it’s not just for what I’m going to say or what questions they’re going to ask. It’s from the way Vanacore has me in her sights. The way she seems to linger on every part of me that she can see above the table, and in a way, I’ve never been looked at before — with something like desire.
“We can get started any time if you’re ready, Tommy,” says Charlotte, and at that moment, I’m feeling grateful for her interruption.
I find refuge in Charlotte’s eyes. While I would say that I find Ms. Vanacore good-looking, it’s not like I’m into her. It’s just that I’m unnerved by her aura and by the effect her eyes have on me. The way they seem to wrap me up and bind me in a way I’m not entirely sure I like or can resist.
“I’m ready if you’re ready,” I say, putting my folder down on the table.
Embarrassingly, it has sweat on it from my hands and fingers, but I quickly open it up, hoping no one there at the table notices.
“I’ve got some resumes and uh —” I say, quickly rummaging through the folder and picking out pieces of paper that are, thank God, organized better than the way I had them originally, “— letters of recommendation.”
I put the resume and copies of the letters of recommendation before all three of them.
“I’ve got one for each of you if you’re interested.”
Vanacore immediately takes an interest in what I’ve given her. She picks up the pieces of paper I’ve left in front of her and begins to peruse them. As she does so, she pushes up her fancy silver-rimmed glasses. For being a southern woman, she’s got a rather urban style.
“You’ve been quite busy since college, Mr. Radner,” she says, and with each word, I feel like I’m a barrel being filled with finely aged liquor.
“You’ve had some pretty good internships and made a memorable impact on all of your coworkers and internship leaders,” she adds, perusing the letters of recommendation. “Driven. Attentive to detail and to client needs. It says you have an uncanny knack for understanding how the law moves and flows. The intricacy and flexibility of it.”
She hums pleasantly as if she’s tasting something gourmet.
“‘Treats the law as a living, breathing creature. Something that can work miracles and magic in the lives of the people, if used correctly,’” she says, reading verbatim from one of the recommendations.
She looks over at me from the letter she brings down.
“Those are some very unique and intriguing statements about you, Mr. Radner. So far, I like what I see. I like what I’ve read.”
She sets down the papers, petting them with her delicate, ringed hand like a pet. “Far and above some of the other applicants I’ve met with over the past few weeks.”
She turns to Charlotte, who’s also been perusing the papers I gave her, but she’s doing so with much more professionalism and efficiency.
“Wouldn’t you say so, Mrs. Anderson?”
Charlotte laughs nervously.
“Vanacore,” she says, “I keep telling you that hasn’t happened yet.”
“Oh, right, right,” she says, smiling slightly. “You and Calvin get along so well, I keep forgetting the two of you aren’t married to each other yet.”
“Anyway,” says Charlotte, stressing that word in her mouth. “I agree with Ms. Vanacore here. You are much more accomplished and attentive than most of the people we’ve seen over the last few weeks.”
She looks to her male counterpart, not surprised that he’s only giving a cursory glance to anything I provided. “What do you think, Mr. Smith?”
My stomach drops as I realize the third person across from me is Ashton Smith, one of the CEOs.
Chapter Seven
Tommy
“Tommy,” says Ashton, swiveling his office chair slightly, “I’d like to begin this interview with a simple question. Why work for Ms. Vanacore? Why this position?”
He looks at my resume.
“You’ve worked on the legal assistants’ floor for almost five years and have become a sort of ‘lead’ among the people working there. I talked to a lot of your coworkers, and they said you do a good job. You are not always the most personable, but a lot of them said they rely on you heavily and look to you for guidance.”
They look to me to do their work is more like it, I think, but I don’t say that out loud. It doesn’t matter, though, because Vanacore sees something. She gives me a kind of strange, knowing smile as if she’s run into those kinds of people before as well.
I look away from her, saying, “Yes, I suppose you could say that. I’m one of the more responsible people on that floor, I think, so if they are looking to me for guidance, that’s why. I often have to remind others of what they are supposed to be doing and how they are supposed to be doing it.”
Charlotte nods.
“How do you feel about that? Do you enjoy being their go-to?”
“Not really,” I say, surprised by my own honesty. “I mean, I’m grateful that I’ve had the opportunity to be able to work for this company as long as I have, but it’s not really my job to be telling other legal assistants how to work properly.”
Vanacore chuckles at this, whistles, and murmurs something under her breath. Something I think sounds like, “hot one there,” but I can’t be sure.
Ashton frowns and swivels in his chair again. Charlotte smiles knowingly and nervously.
“Of course,” she says. “I don’t think I would enjoy doing something that was outside my job description, especially if I wasn’t getting paid enough to do those types of tasks.”
I blush, feeling sweaty. The financial motive insinuation she’s just made is not lost on me.
“It’s not about the money so much,” I say, not sure if that’s entirely true. “I just want out of there. I want to be utilized better.”
I clear my throat, feeling it go dry
and papery.
“I’ve been applying to various open positions under lawyers for the past year or so,” I add, surprised that I’m even adding this and being so forthright. “Ever since we got all the new mergers and partnerships and everything, I’ve been applying to openings, hoping that I would get my chance to show off my skills and use those skills to help out a lawyer, but I keep getting passed over.”
Here, it’s Vanacore and her “poor baby” kind of noise that grabs my attention and puts it back on her.
“Isn’t that the way of it, Tommy? Those of us who are legitimately skilled, we always end up getting passed over for things, and by people with not nearly as much talent or commitment?”
By the edge in her voice, I know she’s speaking from personal experience. By the steely, dull darkness in his eyes, I know she’s gone through pain over it.
“And all because of silly things. Like how we look. Who we love, what we desire.” “Look,” “love,” and “desire” are charged words in her mouth. So charged, that they cause some kind of electric or static shock to go through me.
Somehow, I have landed on her radar, and it’s not something I’m sure I like.
“Tell me, Tommy. What do you desire? If you could have any kind of growth, any kind of reward for your hard work, for your diligent study and your commitment to the law, what would it be?”
The way Vanacore appraises me as she asks these questions makes me feel naked and exposed.
“I want a chance,” I say, working to steady my voice.
It’s begun to shake, along with my hands.
“I want an opportunity to do some real work. To serve in a noticeable capacity and get away from being a nobody. All those other legal aids down there, they all want to be somebody too, but they don’t want to put in the work. They haven’t put in the work, and they’re not going to.”
Surprisingly, my rage starts to come through. The volume in my voice goes up, as does the heat. I actually have to work to cool it down some before I speak again.
“They expect something for nothing. They expect me to do work they won’t do, and then act like I won’t ever amount to anything.”
