by Natasha Deen
She said dark colors spurred creativity, the greenery gave an outside atmosphere and the wind-blown setup of the cubicles afforded individual privacy. Nessie didn’t buy it for a second. The cubicle arrangement was to ward off co-worker camaraderie, the clutter of greenery to thwart any attempt to communicate from above the cubicle walls and the dungeon atmosphere to send her serfs careening into the fake plants or walls, thereby making a racket and alerting Grace that the peasants might be forming a rebellion.
Nessie kept her shoulder to the wall, squinting in the dim light to keep herself from slamming into a fake ficus and quietly whispering, “I don’t drink wine. I don’t drink wine,” to appease any wrathful grape spirits. A shaft of light pierced the gloom, and like the voice of judgment Grace’s voice boomed into the quiet.
“Vanessa. Come here.”
She slunk towards the light with less enthusiasm than Dracula. Blinking in the bright sunlight streaming through the floor-length windows and bouncing off the white walls and even whiter furniture, Nessie located the wraith-like presence of her boss. Unlike Grace, who planted herself in the middle of the bright office, Nessie kept to the threshold, figuring if doorways were safe places to hide in case of earthquakes and tornadoes, surely they could provide a modicum of protection from the venomous hurricane of a middle-aged supervisor.
“Where were you going?”
Grace was just a shadowed figure silhouetted against the light. Suspicion slunk in her words, forced joviality slithered in her tone, and Nessie didn’t need to see Grace’s face to know that her eyes were drawn into distrustful slits.
“To the bathroom.”
“Isn’t it interesting how my staff has to visit the cafeteria or the restroom as soon as a meeting is finished?” Grace closed the venetian blinds and revealed her fanged smile.
“We’re all caffeine junkies, I suppose.” Nessie painted a serene expression across her face, though her heart was a canvas of trepidation.
“I wanted to speak to you about the duties for which you’ll be responsible.” Grace hesitated, seeming to search for the correct words, but her calculated silence wouldn’t fool a two-year-old. “However, if I can’t trust you, then I can’t put you in charge of the department.”
The ropes of a trap lay in Grace’s words, and Nessie knew there was no safe place to step. If the ropes didn’t catch her, then Grace would have a steel cage strategically placed nearby.
“If that’s your decision, I’ll abide by it.”
Grace smiled—at least, Nessie thought that was the general intent of the bared teeth and brittle chuckle. While other people had laugh lines, Grace had grimace grooves.
“That’s such a shame. Your record at V & V isn’t perfect, Nessie, and I had hoped you would show some initiative at the eleventh hour to save your career.” Grace pulled a gold lipstick tube from her desk drawer. She pushed aside the blinds and used the window’s reflection as a mirror to apply frosted pink stain to her lips. “If you can’t help me, then I can’t help you.”
“I’m sure that I’ve been at the forefront of all your plans, and I know you’ve done all you can to…move my career in the path you deemed fit.”
The blinds dropped back to the window sill with the brittle rattle of metal. Grace turned silently and soundlessly, her angled body made even more linear by the tension that drove her bony shoulders to her hoop earrings.
“Vanessa. You have such a—distinctive way of speaking, so breathless and husky. And with that sweet, little girl voice of yours, I wonder if that’s what prompted our revered Mr. Holt to hire you.”
A sharp, forceful breath burned its way down Nessie’s throat. “He hired me because I had imagination and he thought—no, he knew I could make a difference in the company.”
“Dear girl, there you go again, reading innuendo where there is none. It was a simple observation, Nessie. If your own guilt and shame prompts you to—”
“I have nothing to be guilty about, Grace.”
“Defend yourself where no explanation is necessary, that’s your own concern.” She levelled a soulless gaze at Nessie. “I wonder what our new owner would think of your outburst.”
She’d sidestepped the rope, but Nessie could feel the sharp points of the steel trap circle her ankles and lick their metal teeth in anticipation of a tender morsel. “I earned this career, fair and square, Grace. And if Mr. Schumacher is any kind of boss, then you, not me, will be the one defending your actions.”
“Career? That’s a joke. After two years with this company, you’re nothing more than a glorified gopher—despite my best efforts to pour talent into that plump body of yours. Don’t you ever feel too old to be this low on the totem pole?”
Nessie caught a whiff of cologne—plums, sandalwood, and citrus—then felt a warm hand on her shoulder.
“Come now, Grace,” Barry Holt gave Nessie’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Give the girl a break. We can’t all have had our start on the same pole that began your career, can we?”
Scarlet blotches mottled Grace’s cheeks.
“I came to see Nessie,” he continued. “Vanessa, come along with me.”
“We were discussing whether she could take over my duties while I’m in the meetings with the upper management.”
“Of course she can’t, Grace. When it comes to venomous gossip and spiteful manipulations, no one can fill your shoes.”
The scarlet blotches became a map of red fury that tracked every vein and freckle on Grace’s face.
“I meant,” she said in a hard, stiff voice, “overseeing the designs and campaigns.”
“Oh.” One silver eyebrow arched upwards. “Is that what we pay you to do? My mistake. I thought you were the crucible through which all our staff tested their courage and strength of will. Come along, Nessie.”
He pulled her into the hallway and closed the door.
“Is that true? Did she really start her career on a stripper’s pole?”
“What a dirty mind you have, Goddaughter—”
“Shh!” Nessie glanced around. “Our secret. Remember?”
His laughter rippled through her, calming the internal storm created by Hurricane Grace into the more manageable—though ulcer-producing—waves of anxiety. “What makes you think she wasn’t a firefighter?”
“Because her coworkers would have shoved her into the nearest burning building. Why did you come to get me?”
“I figured Grace would play mind games with you.”
Even with the sombre lighting of the department, she could feel his loving gaze on her.
“I’m sorry, cara, I wish I could fire her. Unfortunately, she was the president’s pet. Fred was always partial to cloak-and-dagger management, and Grace is his very best spy. Though now that he’s sold to Schumacher, I’m hoping she’ll be the one getting the axe.”
“What’s he like?”
“Fred? Manipulative, slimy—Nessie, you’ve worked here too long not to know all about him.”
“Don’t tease. You know I meant Leo Schumacher.”
“He’s a gentleman.” Barry propelled her through the labyrinth of plants and cubicles, and back to the grey walls of her office.
“Which means he’ll be polite enough to sharpen the blade before he gives me the axe.”
“I see Grace’s ongoing style of management has done wonders for your self-esteem.”
The urge to seek comfort and absolution from Barry, who wasn’t just her godfather but vice-president of the company, propelled Nessie to confess. “I...” The scarlet heat of shame warmed her cheeks. “I snuck into Grace’s office—”
“Ah.” Silver eyebrows rose like an ocean wave. “That explains the bruised fingers and wrist guard.”
“Actually—” The words poured out in a guilt-induced rush. “That injury was from last week when I snuck into Nina’s bedroom looking for my birthday present.”
“And what did you get?”
“Bruised ligaments and broken fingernails.”
&nb
sp; “I meant the gift.”
“Oh. Dinner at The Manhattan and a play.”
“That doesn’t sound like Nina’s style.”
“The play was a naughty interpretation of The Wizard of Oz. It was good, though I’m pretty sure the Tin Man should have been too rusty to do some of those positions.”
“That sounds like Nina. What did you see?”
“Not much. A lot of it was innuendo, and the stage was cluttered with shrubbery.”
“I meant in Grace’s office.”
“Oh.” Nessie yanked open the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “I wanted to see my personnel file. Here, I photocopied it. Barry, she makes me sound totally incompetent. She didn’t give me any credit for any of my shoe designs—and five of them are our best sellers.”
He sat at her desk, flipping through the papers. “Is that really a smart idea? Keeping the photocopy in an unlocked drawer?”
“It’s Grace. She’s only interested in locked drawers. The best place to hide something is right in front of her.” Nessie dropped a kiss on the top of her godfather’s head. “I’m glad I have you on my side. With all the changes, if I keep my job, I’ll need all the upper level contacts I can get. You’re part of my Plan E—if I don’t go with Plan D and quit.”
Barry cleared his throat. It was an innocuous sound, innocent and trivial. But for Nessie, who had known him all of her life, it sounded with the death rattle of Plan E.
“Oh, God. Barry what are you not telling me?”
The papers dropped to her desk, forgotten as he took her hands in his. “Leo bought me out, as well.”
His words hit the back of her knees like a Louisville slugger.
“It’s all right, Nessie. You’re talented, driven, and Leo’s reputation precedes him. He’s a good man, really. You’ll be fine.”
It took all her energy to stand upright, and her words emerged more as a whisper than a statement. “But up to now, you’ve been the only reason I haven’t been fired. Without you here, and with Grace beaking off to Mr. Schumacher, I’m as good as gone—and I’ll never get a proper reference from them.”
“It’s not as bad as that. Leo’s been asking about you.”
“Oh.” She sounded—and felt—like a deflated balloon.
“He’s been asking about you, and he hasn’t talked to Grace yet.”
“Oh?” Barry’s words inflated hope back into her.
“Yes. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”
****
Everything will be fine. In the two days since Barry had uttered those fateful words, Leo Schumacher’s axe had levelled so many employees that Victor & Victoria was beginning to look like a clear-cut forest. If Barry had still been here, then—godfather or not—the carnage of fired employees and packed boxes would have made Nessie do something rash and horrible. Like hide his chocolate bars, or stuff the vents of his Mercedes convertible with confetti.
She hunkered in her chair, as helpless as a chipmunk seeing its favourite tree being shredded into toothpicks, and listened to a third of her department fell their possessions from off their desks and into boxes.
“I can’t believe this is happening!”
Nessie’s ears perked at the fierce whisper coming from the other side of her cubicle wall. She peered over the top. White light from her coworkers’ cubicles strove upwards and spent itself on the fronds of trees and plants but illuminated no figure amongst the greenery.
“This is just horrendous.” The hiss sounded as though it came from the silk palm tree. Knowing that a palm tree would never hiss at her—especially one made out of cloth, Nessie headed towards the plant.
“Who’s there?”
“Shhh! Keep your voice down before your voracious vocalizations make me visible to that vapid, villainous viper.”
“Jack! I’d recognize those alliterations anywhere.”
Thick, round, black-framed spectacles, perched on a carrot-tip nose that was nestled on a cantaloupe-shaped head, emerged from the shrubbery. “Vanessa, my pearl. How are you?”
“Fine. Are you all right?”
He stepped over the palm’s trunk—no easy feat, given his short, stubby legs. “Me? Why wouldn’t I be all right?”
“Your choice of words. You only resort to the latter letters of the alphabet when you’re very upset.”
“Who wouldn’t be upset at a time like this?” he asked mournfully. “I’ve had to write up so many pink slips, I’m going to have to see my doctor about Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, and my psychiatrist about my new phobia for all things coloured pink.”
“It’s not as bad as that,” Nessie said, with an enthusiasm she didn’t feel. “On the bright side, two of Grace’s henchman got the sharp end of Leo’s axe—and I heard that he’s been chopping away at Fred’s spy network.”
“He also got rid of Myrtle.”
“Myrtle the Turtle?” she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as though it could cover the horror of what she’d uttered. “Poor, harmless, old Myrtle?”
“The same.” His lament was one tone shy of a funeral drone.
“She’s been with the company since the hair on Fred’s head was still his.”
“I know.” Jack pulled at his polka-dot bowtie. “If she’s gone, so am I.” He ran his hand along his neck, seeming to feel the edge of Leo Schumacher’s blade.
They were all goners, and there was just one thing left for her to do.
“Jack, I’m going to go and see him.”
His round, blue eyes grew wide and, because of his far-sighted prescription, made him look like a dishevelled, frightened owl.
“Have you lost your mind? No one goes to him. They’re summoned, commanded, dragged, but they never go. Leo will whip a waif like you, wage war and win with a warlord’s wallop. He’ll—he’ll—” Jack blubbered into silence, and Nessie sent up a quiet prayer of thanks that he’d run out of ‘w’ words.
“I’m going—I’m fired anyway, aren’t I? I might as well go down kicking.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Plan F. I’ve got all my work on those shoe designs, and I’m going to prove that I’m the one who deserves credit, not Grace.” She cupped Jack’s baby-soft and hairless chin in her hand. “If all goes well, I’ll put in a good word for you.”
He wriggled, flapping his arms like an owl trying to calm its ruffled feathers. “Good luck,” he whispered, then retreated behind the palm tree.
She didn’t need luck; she needed a miracle. Nessie headed to her cubicle and, after finding the files, searched for her courage. But it, like bell bottoms and polyester leisure suits, had retreated to a place she’d never find. A hard, walnut-shaped seed of fear lodged in her throat, grew roots and held her to the floor.
With a deep breath and the firm reminder to herself that it wasn’t just her career but also Jack’s she was fighting for, she pulled herself free of anxiety and set off to initiate Plan F. Grape-coloured walls gave way to white paint and deep-pile blue carpeting as she stepped out of the door of the department and into the elevator bank, where she slammed to a stop. “You!”
“Me. Are you planning on hurling any more breakfast foods in my direction?” He asked the question nonchalantly as he set down the latest issue of Sally on the small table that stood opposite the elevator doors.
“Of course not.” She glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. “It’s lunch time.”
His eyelids didn’t even flicker. Her brain, on the other hand, flickered and then fluttered out like the unreliable power source that it was.
“What I meant to say is ‘no, I do not plan on flinging anything at you.’ Besides, it’s lunch time, so I couldn’t very well toss breakfast foods at you, could I? Although,” she cocked her head, staring at the black numbers on the clock’s face. “It’s noon, and technically that would fall under brunch. So I suppose I could hurl a few pancakes your way—not that I would, of course.”
His expression—or lack of i
t—didn’t change. “This is a very odd conversation, and you’re a very unusual woman, Nessie.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Your sister yelled it across the cafeteria, don’t you remember?” He strode towards her, though with the grace of his movements he almost seemed to float across the carpet. He moved with the lithe rhythm of a dancer, and had he done a leap and pirouette she would not have been surprised.
“Who are you?” She stumbled back and found herself pressed against the wall. “What are you doing here?”
“Working.” He plucked at the folders in her hand. “And you? Are you scurrying off with the company’s secrets?”
“Working?” She clutched the folders tighter to her chest. The walnut was back in her throat, harder and bigger than she remembered. “Are you one of Leo Schumacher’s henchmen?”
His ice-blue gaze froze her. “Certainly not.”
“Then who are you?”
“Ah, Mr. Schumacher.” Grace’s voice exploded in Nessie’s eardrums. Traitorous ears—they didn’t have the decency to shut down; instead, they forced her to listen to the echo of Grace’s words. Nessie closed her eyes—screwed them shut—and wondered if she clicked her heels, she would find herself in bed, and that the past week had just been a very, very bad dream.
“Vanessa, what are you doing with Mr. Schumacher?”
“I have no idea,” she whispered. She opened her eyes to the wintry gaze of her new boss. “Leo Schumacher?”
He pried the folders from her grasp. “You, of course, can call me The Lumberjack.”
Chapter Two
A faux pas of such magnitude required more than a simple apology, but faced with the arctic stare of Leo and the calculating gaze of Grace, whose pointed nose twitched at the scent of disaster, Nessie could think of nothing. Defenseless and mute, she did the only thing possible: she imitated a marble statue. That her sudden lack of movement fooled the new owner into believing a careless janitor had left a figurine blocking the hallway, she doubted. But mercifully—or perhaps, cruelly, depending on what he had planned for her—Leo said nothing.