Emily: Sex and Sensibility

by Sandra Marton

  “PICK UP THIS PHONE, MADISON! YOU HEAR ME? PICK UP THE GODDAMNED PHONE!”

  Emily shoved the covers aside, flew to the wall of ancient, Lilliputian-sized appliances that passed for a kitchen and grabbed the receiver.

  “Mr. Pergozin?”

  “YOU ARE FIRED, GIRLY. FIRED! YOU GOT THAT?”

  Emily winced, propped the phone against her shoulder, opened the cupboard and searched for a bottle of aspirin.

  “Mr. Pergozin. I know you’re annoyed but—”

  “ANNOYED? ANNOYED?”

  “Please. If you could just lower your voice—”

  “Fine. I’ll lower my voice. Is this low enough? YOU WILL NEVER WORK IN THIS TOWN AGAIN!”

  Emily wrenched open the aspirin bottle, dumped three tablets on the counter, turned on the water in the sink, popped the tablets into her mouth, bent down, angled her head, slurped at the water and swallowed hard. The tablets stuck in her throat and she coughed, dragged in a breath and said, “Look, I don’t know what Gus told you but—”

  “He told me what I already suspected. That you’re a dainty prima donna with no more brains than a cockroach!”

  “If you’d just listen—”

  “Didn’t you hear me? You are fired!”

  Emily stood straighter.

  “You can’t fire me. I’m your client. I’m the one who does the firing.”

  “Do I give a crap how you say it? You are done. Got that? D-O-N-E. Done!”

  Emily could feel her mouth trembling. “This isn’t fair! Whatever Gus said—”

  “I just told you what he said. Want me to tell you again?”

  “Gus owes me money for—”

  Max laughed.

  “He owes me! I worked four nights and—”

  “Fine. Sue him.”

  “Mr. Pergozin. Please. There were extenuating circumstances—”

  “That’s it. Use big words. Try and impress me with that fancy degree. You don’t got the brains you were born with; blowing a job my other clients would have killed for.”

  Really? she thought, but she forced herself not to say that. Instead, she bit the bullet and said that what had happened was unfortunate, and that she would take any other gig he had…

  Max laughed and laughed and laughed.

  “I take it that’s a no,” Emily said with all the poise she could muster, and then she slammed the phone back into its cradle. “Stupid, horrid, miserable, awful little man!”

  “Problem?” Nola said carefully.

  Emily swung toward her. Her roommate held out a mug of coffee. She grabbed it and took a long swallow.

  “That was my agent.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He, ah, he’s not happy.”

  “No kidding.”

  Emily sighed. “I lost my job at the Tune-In.”

  “Oh, sweetie! That’s too bad.”

  “Yeah,” Emily said unhappily. “And Max said—”

  “Never mind Max. How are you for cash?”

  Emily felt her face heat. “Not good. In fact, I hate to ask but—”

  “Not to worry. I’ll take care of this month’s rent.”

  “Oh, that’s lovely! Thank you. As soon as I find something else, I’ll—”

  “Actually—actually, there’s something I have to tell you, too.”

  Nola was biting her fingernails. After a while, you knew how to read a roommate. Nola’s biting her fingernails was not a good sign.

  “What?”

  “That part I auditioned for last week? The second lead in the touring company production of Coming up Roses, remember? Well, I got it!”

  “Oh, wow! I’m so happy for—”

  “Yeah. But the thing is, we head out next week. And we’ll be gone for six months. So—so—”

  The floor seemed to tilt under Emily’s feet.

  “You’re moving out?”

  “See, they offered the role to somebody else and she said yes but then something went wrong and she had to back out and that’s why they only just contacted me and—”

  “That’s fine. No, really, I mean it. That’s why Max called. He, ah, he’s got something even better lined up.”

  “You sure? ’Cause it didn’t sound as if—”

  “Oh he’s all bluster. He’s going to call me back with the details.”

  By the time the phone rang again, Nola had left for the theater. Emily was in the shower. Her pulse soared. Maybe it really was Max.

  By the time she skidded to a stop in the tiny kitchen, the call had gone to voice mail.

  “Emily?” a husky voice said. “Pick up if you’re there. It’s Marco. Marco Santini.”

  Her heart thudded.

  She hadn’t expected him to call. Why would she? She’d made a fool of herself, and if she’d had any doubt about that, all she had to do was remind herself that he hadn’t even asked for her number. He hadn’t mentioned seeing her again. If anything, his last words had struck her as not just “goodbye” but “goodbye and it’s been nice knowing you.”

  Her face heated at the memory.

  So, why was he calling? How was he calling? He didn’t have her number.

  She reached for the phone. Changed her mind. Stared at it. Waited for him to speak. Finally, he did.

  He spoke briskly. Impersonally. He was offering her a job playing piano at the opening of that building, the one she’d told him she lived in because common sense had told her not to let a stranger know her address.

  Too bad common sense hadn’t told her not to let him kiss her.

  Not that it had meant anything. The proof of that was hearing his crisp assurances that she would have no involvement with him whatsoever. She would not see him or deal with him. She would be interviewed by a Jane Barnett in his company’s Human Resources Department.

  The message ended.

  Emily slumped against the wall.

  There had to be a better word than humiliating.

  What, was she his charity deed for the week? Saving her from the elements. Finding her a job.

  “To hell with you, Mr. Santini,” she told the telephone. “You can take your big-deal offer and—and—”

  And offer it to somebody else.

  She scowled.

  Was she nuts? A job was a job. Who gave a damn if it came from him? She wouldn’t have to see him, speak to him, have anything to do with him.

  Of course she’d take his offer.

  She grabbed the phone, replayed his message, scribbled down Jane Barnett’s name and telephone number. Two minutes later, she’d arranged for a one-thirty appointment at MS Enterprises on Madison Avenue.

  She’d moved quickly after that.

  By twelve thirty, she was dressed for corporate America. Thank goodness for the clothes she’d brought from Texas to New York. Cream silk blouse. Gray wool suit. High-heeled black pumps. A pair of small gold hoop earrings.

  She looked in the mirror. Good. Fine. Demure but stylish.

  She was ready.

  She took the N train to Fifth Avenue and 53rd Street, walked to Madison Avenue, checked the numbers of the buildings…

  Her jaw dropped.

  She’d figured out that Marco Santini was rich and powerful but this was more than she’d imagined. MS Enterprises was not housed in a touch-the-clouds skyscraper—it was the skyscraper.

  This job, a one-day gig for a corporation like this, could be a lot more important than all those miserable weeks at the Tune-In.

  Back straight, shoulders squared, she went briskly through the doors and to the lobby reception desk. She identified herself, one of the receptionists made a call, smiled pleasantly and directed her to the tenth floor.

  At Human Resources, another smiling individual handed her a stack of papers and a pencil. She spent ten minutes filling out the usual stuff required for corporate job interviews, not just her name and address but, basically, her life story: schooling, degrees, skills, etc. It seemed a waste of time, considering they were going to hire her for one day and
only to play the piano but she’d gone this route before, even when she’d applied for a waitressing job at a fancy Upper East Side restaurant.

  At precisely one thirty, she was ushered into Jane Barnett’s office.

  “Ms. Madison,” the HR manager said pleasantly, “I must be honest and tell you that I don’t know very much about music and musicians.”

  Emily smiled just as pleasantly.

  “Then I must be equally honest and tell you that I don’t know much about MS Enterprises.”

  Polite laughter on both sides. Then Jane Barnett motioned her to a chair opposite her desk and began reading Emily’s application.

  Emily waited, feet placed neatly together, hands folded in her lap. She’d been through this before, often enough to know that the reading would take perhaps two minutes.

  Wrong.

  Barnett started by skimming the document. Midway through, she stopped, looked at Emily and then went back and started at the beginning. She read more and more slowly, looked up, stared at Emily, looked down, looked up…

  Emily gave a discreet cough. “Is there a problem?”

  Barnett put down the application, removed her glasses, then put them on again.

  “Impressive,” she said. “Four languages?”

  “Well, yes. But—”

  “A degree in art. Dean’s list. Graduated with honors.”

  “Did I give too much information? I only meant to answer the quest—”

  “I’ll bet you loved academia,” Barnett said, leaning forward. “You know, doing research, writing papers, taking notes, that sort of thing.”

  What, Emily thought, did any of this have to do with her skills as a piano player? Unless… Her mouth went dry. Was this leading to a request for references? Max wouldn’t give any. Gus wouldn’t, either. In fact, he’d probably do his best to —

  “Am I correct, Ms. Madison?”

  “Yes. I mean, I was a good student but—but I love playing piano. I took lessons for—”

  “Oh, of course. I’m sure you’re a fine pianist. But you have such an, uh, an interesting résumé… Have you been to Europe? South America?” Barnett picked up a pencil, tapped it on the desk. “I don’t suppose you spent any time abroad…?”

  “Actually, my father was—is—um, he’s in the military, so—”

  “Very interesting.”

  “Right.” Emily hesitated. “But, you know, about the piano thing. This Wednesday, right? I don’t know much about it. For instance, how many hours will it involve? What’s the starting time? Would you want me to play popular music? Contemporary? Classical? Light?”

  “Oh. That.”

  That? That?

  “We can work out those details later, Emily. May I call you Emily?”

  “Sure. But—”

  “For now, let’s move right along to the interview.”

  Baffled, Emily stared at her. “I thought this was the interview.”

  “Yes, of course, but…”

  “Oh. I understand. You want me to audition.”

  Barnett smiled brightly. “Exactly. If you’d take the elevator to the fiftieth floor—the executive offices. I’ll phone ahead and tell them you’re coming. And, Emily?” She rose and stuck out her hand. “Good luck.”

  What a strange woman, Emily thought as she took the elevator to the top floor. And what an odd place to house a piano, but then, what did she really know about corporate procedure?

  The car doors opened onto a vast, high-ceilinged space filled with light. Double glass doors led to an attractive receptionist, seated at her desk with a telephone at her ear.

  “You must be Emily.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  The receptionist smiled. “HR called to say you were on your way. In fact, I’m trying to reach the boss’s PA and announce you, but she’s not picking up. Well, never mind. Mrs. Barnett said to move you right along. Through those doors, please, turn left and go to the end of the corridor.”

  Impressive, Emily thought as she followed directions. The doors were massive-looking but opened at the touch of her hand; the corridor was hung with brilliantly colored works of modern art, and the carpet underfoot was so deep that her heels threatened to sink into it and disappear.

  Eventually, the corridor opened onto another huge, brightly lit space. A waiting room, obviously: teak-and-leather chairs, a pair of couches, a big coffee table and, just far enough away to command some privacy, a desk, a chair and a cluster of office machines—printer, fax—arranged outside a set of teak double doors.

  The desk was unattended. And after the handsome, sleek furniture, the artwork, the reception area, it was, well, out of place.

  Papers were strewn across the surface and piled in teetering stacks. A computer monitor blinked in woeful silence. Two drawers were half opened. A mug of murky black liquid stood next to a space-age telephone, lights blinking in desperation.

  For the first time, Emily felt uneasy. She took an inadvertent step back.

  What was this? The Mad Hatter’s tea party? That peculiar interview and now this unlikely mess, topped off by the closed teak doors…

  It wasn’t too late.

  She’d considered her options.

  Wait until somebody showed up.

  Or retrace her steps straight down to the lobby…

  And straight out of a chance at a job. A paycheck. Maybe even the prospect of meeting someone in the art world.

  Really, she had decided, there wasn’t a choice.

  So she’d squared her shoulders. Breathed deep. Marched past the disaster area of a desk directly to the closed double doors, knocked more politely than she’d figured the situation warranted, opened the doors…

  And been treated to a snarled “What?” and a man she’d never wanted to see again, Marco Santini, all six feet three inches of gorgeous male, with a look on his face that made it absolutely clear he felt the exact same way.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Emily stared at the apparition that was Marco Santini. He stared back. Then he took a step forward.

  “Emily?”

  “Mr. Santini?”

  “It’s Marco. And what—”

  And what are you doing here? he’d almost said, but from the look on her face he suspected she was about to ask him the same question.

  “I don’t—I didn’t—” Her gaze swept past him, raked his entire office before returning to him. “Where’s the piano?”

  “The what?”

  “The piano.”

  Marco shook his head. “What piano?”

  “The one I’m here to play.”

  “Wednesday,” he said, “you’re playing on—”

  “Oh, I know that. But I assume Mrs. Barrett—”

  “Mrs. Barnett,” he said, as if it mattered. “It’s Jane Barnett.”

  Emily nodded. “She sent me up here. I figured it was to audition.” The tip of her tongue appeared and slicked lightly over her bottom lip. “But not for you. Your message said you wouldn’t—that I wouldn’t be seeing you.”

  “No. I mean, yes. I mean…” Marco walked to his desk, put down the papers he’d been holding and ran both hands through his hair. “Obviously, there’s been some kind of mix-up.”

  “Yes. Probably my fault.” She turned toward the door. “It’s been nice seeing—”

  “Don’t go.”

  He spoke the words in a rush. She looked at him and he cleared his throat.

  “I mean, now that you’re here… How are you?” He bit back a groan. Was he a brilliant conversationalist or what? “What I mean is, I wondered if you were OK, if you’d caught a chill last night.”

  “Oh. No. No, I’m fine, thank you.” She hesitated. “What about you? You must have been as soaked as I was.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You didn’t even have the protection of your jacket.” Her eyes widened. “Your jacket! I should have brought it with me. I wasn’t thinking. To your office. Your office building I mean, I certainly didn’t expect t
o see you…” Emily clamped her lips together. “Sorry,” she said, after a couple of seconds. “I’m just a little surprised. I didn’t think you’d be auditioning me.”

  X-rated images shot through his head. He swung away, busied himself straightening the papers he’d dumped on his desk.

  “No need for that,” he said briskly. “I already know that you can do the job.”

  She gave a little laugh. “But you don’t. Not really. I mean, you only have my word for it.”

  She was right.

  He’d arranged to hire her without knowing anything about her except what she’d told him. That wasn’t how he did business. Before he signed a contract, bought a property, hired anyone who would be part of his staff, he did as much research as possible.

  And yet he’d hired this woman to help launch a boutique project that had consumed his time and energy for months when for all he knew, the only thing she could play was “Chopsticks.”

  Or “New York, New York.” Remembering what she’d said, he gave a soft laugh.

  “What?”

  “I was thinking about Wednesday. Just play “New York, New York” if somebody asks. You do that, everything will be fine.”

  They both laughed. The palpable tension in the room eased, if only a little. Then Emily touched the tip of her tongue to the middle of her bottom lip again.

  It was disconcerting.

  So was the fact that his waif of the storm was gone.

  No bare feet. No rain-soaked silk dress clinging to her like a second skin. No soft curls begging for his touch.

  She was the epitome of professional competence. Wool suit. Silk blouse. Black pumps. Hair tamed into submission and drawn back in a no-nonsense, nape-of-the-neck ponytail.

  He felt a pang of regret.

  The formal Emily was as beautiful as he’d remembered but there’d been something charming about the less formal one.

  And wasn’t that a ridiculous thought? Who cared about that? All that mattered was that she could pull off the performance on Wednesday…

  Dammit!

  “You’ll need a white formal gown.” Her eyebrows rose. “For Wednesday,” he said. “I don’t know how specific I was when I left that message, but the overall theme will be dramatic. Romantic. White candles, white flowers, white piano… And you in something long and white.”