One
The sun shone in brightly through the window, making the contents of the coffee pot resemble murky, muddy, toxic waste. She poured her fourth cup of the morning. Her last cup. She had a rule about coffee and if she went over her morning amount, her teeth would chatter and her hands would shake and she would look like one of those yippy dogs do when their owners get home.
Hannah sat down on a chair with one short leg which made it wobble ominously that had been put out for trash by one of her neighbors. She placed the morning paper down on the surface of a television dinner stand she used as a kitchen table. If she ever had company over, she would be embarrassed at how shabby her apartment was. The landlord had strict rules about not painting the walls and what little decor she had was all the result of garage sales and hand-me-downs from family members who could never understand why she had left the cozy comfort of her small hometown and moved to a city where she could hardly afford her rent, let alone basic necessities.
The newspaper always reminded her these days of failure. Dozens of boxes circled in red then crossed out with black marker after yet another waste-of-time job interview. There were too many people out of work and not enough job openings the never upbeat people of unemployment informed her with scrunched up eyes and pursed lips that always implied that she was an inconvenient nuisance to them and that it was certainly not part of their job description to help the people who were unemployed to try to attain gainful employment.
But pretty soon the unemployment checks would cease to arrive and then, well, she didn’t know what she would do with herself. Move back in with her parents? Sure, they would be all too happy to have her. She received worried calls from her mother at least twice a week and her father was always quick to remind her that her old high school room was there just as she had left it. And no matter how much she loved her parents, moving back in her mid-twenties felt like admitting defeat.
She needed a job. As soon as possible. Her resume must have been in the hands of hundreds of employers in the past few months. She applied to everything. There wasn’t anything she couldn’t do if she put some effort into it. Baby-sit, retail, office work. Brain surgery? Sure. Just hand her the sharp pointy thing and tell her where to cut. Fly a plane? Just give her a few motion sickness pills and point her in a direction.
Hannah had been no stranger to odd jobs and the kind of work that left your body aching and too tired to do anything but fall into bed at the end of the day. And she had a degree in business administration she had gotten when she was just shy of twenty-four. It had been two years since then and she still had yet to get a job in that field.
No, instead she had served complicated coffee drinks to over-caffeinated teenagers. She had slaved at the only all night restaurant in the area, serving greasy hash browns and endless coffee pots to drunks and cops and taxi drivers. She and cleaned apartments and sold cheap jewelry at the mall.
Her most recent job had been washing dogs at the groomer down the street. She had been there three months and was finally getting used to being covered in hair and constantly smelling like wet dog- even after a shower. Then one morning she arrived to find it still locked and a sign on the window thanking the patrons for their loyalty and informing them that they, regrettably, had to close their doors.
With a labored sigh, she turned her attention back to the classifieds.
Personal asst. F/T. Exp. req’d. Fax resume to…
So technically she did not have experience as a personal assistant. But, really, who needed experience to know how to make a phone call, pick up dry cleaning, and brew coffee? It no longer mattered to her if experience was required or that even a doctorate was required, she applied to anything that was hiring that didn’t require her to strap on clear platform heels, take off her clothes, and slide down a pole.
With a handful of resumes, she grabbed her keys and went to the local office supply store to fax them out. The employees knew her by sight now. It was becoming embarrassing. She debated even going to another store in the same chain so it didn't feel like she had a giant “UNEMPLOYED” scribbled in permanent marker across her forehead. But she always went back to the same place, figuring it was the closest and she really had no business wasting gas money to give her pride a little boost.
--
It was lucky for Hannah that she knew a thing or two about how to cut back. She had grown up with a thrifty mom and with the recent shortage of cash flow, she put her imagination to good use. She had even taken to grabbing the pile of newspaper on the curb before they went out to recycling so she could use them as the bedding for her guinea pig, Ricky’s, cage.
After laying the fresh bedding in the cage, she chased the screeching guinea pig around her apartment floor, marveling at how quickly such little things like them could run.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror, her black hair pulled up into a messy bun, her grey eyes, the absurd high cheekbones that hinted at Native American ancestry but was in complete contrast to her pale British-like skin. She was getting a bit thin, she realized with a closer look. In general, she was a size six on a good day and a size eight in the winter when layers and bulky sweaters were more forgiving of an extra doughnut or two. But joblessness had eliminated take-out food and she generally chose to walk everywhere to save on gas money.
She had just put Ricky away when her cell phone let out a shrill ring.
Her heart always leapt into her throat when the phone rang lately. Which usually proved pointless because the other end of the phone was typically her worried mother or a bill collector hellbent on making her lie and say their check was already in the mail.
“Hello,” she said somewhat unenthusiastically into the receiver.
“Hannah Clary, please,” came the high-pitched and clipped female voice on the phone, reminding Hannah of her sixth grade troll of a math teacher.
“This is she. Who may I ask is calling?”
“This is Sally from EM Corporation. I am calling with regard to your resume. I was wondering if you would be able to come in for an interview.”
Hannah felt her heart thrum against her ribcage. “Yes. Yes, absolutely.” She couldn’t help but to say whilst chiding herself for sounding too eager, too desperate.
“Will tomorrow at nine sharp work for you,” Sally asked and Hannah could hear the clicking of computer keys as Sally, presumably, multi-tasked.
“Of course.”
“Nine sharp,” Sally said again, firmly, and hung up the phone.
“And a nice day to you too,” Hannah murmured at the silence of the dropped call.
Ten minutes later, she sat with her hands on her knees staring at her phone. She wasn't about to let herself get too excited about it. That had only ever left her devastated in the past. Just because she got an interview did not mean she would get the job. But, gosh, how amazing would that be? It didn't even have to pay that well. It just had to pay… something. Something would be more than she would be getting in a few weeks when her unemployment was over.
With a deep inhale of breath, she went over to her closet to pick out her most professional yet most practical work attire. High heels would look great, of course, but they would imply she wouldn't be able to be on her feet all day if necessary. High necks were a must, no middle-aged female interviewer would want to see some twenty-something’s gravity-defying chest. No skirts. Same rule goes for the legs when it came to women. She didn’t want to come off slutty or like she was, in any way, competition. In the end she chose black slacks, an emerald green sweater, and black ballet flats. Professional, yet casual. She didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard.
She spent hours asking herself interview question
s and coming up with clear, professional answers that showed her in the best light. Confident and competent without seeming cocky or unwilling to learn.
There was no lying to herself. This interview would be much more demanding than the ones she had had at small doctor’s offices or at the deli in her neighborhood. These people were clear professionals. You probably needed a masters degree to scrub their toilets.
And she knew that, for once, her youth would be more of a downfall than an asset. She clearly could not compete with someone who had been working in the field for twenty years. There was no way a resume with only maybe one full year of office work would be considered over a more seasoned candidate unless she brought her A-game to this interview.
She felt her nervous energy like electricity just under her skin. She painted her nails. Then she repainted them a more dull color. She arranged her makeup and brushes over her bathroom counter for the morning. She printed out directions and placed them next to her keys. She hung her outfit in the shower after ironing the pants three times to get the cleanest lines she could manage. She set her coffee pot to start brewing at five-thirty in the morning. Then she set her alarm clock for five minutes after that. According to the directions it would only take her ten minutes to get to EM Corporation, but she decided to allot herself three hours to go through her morning routine. Even though it rarely ever took an hour.
Finally, exhausted of tasks to do, she laid down in her bed and stared at the ceiling fan. She tossed and turned. Got up to get water. Turned the lights on. Turned them off. She checked her phone over and over and played the game of “well if I go to sleep right now, I will have six and half hours of sleep” and then six. Then five. She fell asleep somewhere after four hours and forty-two minutes and dreamed about having twelve phones to answer at the same time because if it went to voicemail she would be fired.
Two
EM Corporation had an imposing headquarters. It was fifteen stories high- all shiny, flawless glass and white-as-snow stucco. It looked like money. And that was probably because it was made of money. It seemed like it had sprung up out of nowhere just five years before where there used to be an old sub shop. What they did, exactly, was a matter of debate. It seemed as though they owned a lot of things. They were in the news all the time for buying a small, struggling company, building it up, and then selling them for a fortune. Why that required fifteen floors and hundreds of employees was simply beyond anyone’s comprehension.
Hannah pulled the beaten up green sedan she had gotten, already quite used, for a present on her seventeenth birthday into the parking garage and drove past row after row of gleaming BMWs and Mercedes and even Jaguars. She felt as if she needed to give her car a pep talk so it wouldn't feel so inferior to all the late models and their shiny paint.
She checked her reflection in the mirror. Simple makeup. She had applied a layer of mascara and some pale pink lipstick after fussing over shades and eyeliners for nearly twenty minutes. Her hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail as she felt she looked too young when she left it to do it’s own thing and fall in straight strands to her waistline. She reapplied a quick coat of lipstick, grabbed her keys, and got out of her car.
She had worked in her share of office buildings when she worked as a temp in college. But never one quite like EM Corporation. The lobby was vast and open with cool black tile, grey walls, and an assortment of lush potted plants. There was a seating area through the front door and to the left. Numerous people sat there typing furiously on their laptops or talking into cell phones and looking altogether too important to be kept waiting. Exactly how big was this company?
Hannah walked up to the security desk situated in front of the only two elevators. Behind the desk were two men in typical blue security guard uniforms. The older of the two men checked his computer, handed her a white credit card sized piece of plastic with a bar code and the word “visitor” across it, and waved her toward the elevator. She stood there dumbly for a moment before she realized she had to scan the card before the doors would open. “Top floor,” the officer barked, dismissing her.
As the doors slid closed, Hannah sunk against the wall and took a deep breath. Interviews were always nerve-wracking, but something about the vastness and frantic energy of this particular building was more intimidating than she cared to admit. The man to her right was on his phone negotiating what seemed like some kind of business deal for over two million dollars. She was glad when he got off on the eighth floor and allowed her to ride up to the fifteenth floor by herself.
As the doors slid open, she stepped out into the enormous space with a refreshingly open floor plan. The tile was flecked with shades of brown and red, the walls were painted tan on top then met cherry wood wainscoting half way down. Directly in the center of the space was a seating area with a leather couch, two striped captain’s chairs, a cherry wood coffee table, over a large lush tan carpet.
To both sides of the room were flanked by four secretary desks made of the same cherry wood as the rest of the room. At the desks were women of varying ages and one man who looked to be about her own age. Each of them had a phone glued to their ear and were tapping furiously on their keyboards, making the whole room fill with clicking noises. All of them seemed to notice her but none acknowledged her presence.
Hannah stepped away from the elevator doors as they chimed and noticed that straight ahead behind the seating area where the windows should have been was a wall of red wood with a door on each end where she assumed the CEO or president or... whomever must have worked there. On either side of the elevators were rooms. One was closed off like an office, the other room was open on both sides with a small wall in the center like a passway in a restaurant. Maybe it was a mini kitchen for the staff.
Finally to her left, a woman in her late thirties with damaged blond hair and deep brown eyes stood up as she hung up her phone. “Miss Clary?”
“Yes,” Hannah answered, standing up straighter and smiling.
“Please follow me,” she said, turning into the office near the elevator and leaving Hannah to scramble in behind her. “Alright,” she said, sitting down and opening a file which Hannah presumed contained her resume. Judging by the thickness of it, it contained a few dozen resumes. “My name is Sally Jones. I am the head secretary on this floor. It’s more like an office manager position. I am in charge of all the hiring and firing and office disputes.”
Sally paused and Hannah nodded, making her face appear impressed and interested. This one had a bit of an ego apparently.
“Okay, here we are,” Sally said, pulling out the paper Hannah recognized as her fax from the day before. It had notes scribbled in the margins and had been highlighted in parts. “Well Miss. Clary. You certainly have an interesting resume. It caught my eye. For this position we generally look for someone with a long history of office work. But I thought that perhaps with your varied employment history you might have something that all the people in this position in the past have been lacking, namely, flexibility.” Sally looked up and Hannah felt the need to fill the silence.
“Yes, absolutely. I have learned invaluable things from each job I have held.”
“I figured. As you can see… we are an extremely busy office. We are looking for someone who can multi-task and be at a high energy level from the time they arrive here until the time they leave in the evening. Lunch breaks are, well,” she said with what could be perceived as a smile in her usually dry voice, “a laughable concept. On the off-chance that we have time to take lunch, we eat at our desks. We almost never leave our desks. The jobs are simple enough. We make calls, answer phones, make appointments, keep schedules so nothing ever accidentally overlaps. That sort of thing. That being said, we have had many a people quit within a week when they couldn’t stand the pressure here.”
“That’s to be expected. Most people are used to a less demanding office.”
“Exactly,” Sally said, tapping her pen and looking pleased. “No
w the personal assistant job is, of course, a little more than making calls and scheduling. Though all of that you are still required to do,” she added firmly. “but you will also make the coffee and run the errands for the office and the boss. You will, essentially, be the boss’s right hand. Anything he needs, you do. No questions or objections. Your main goal will be to make sure all his needs are met. Now if you feel you are unable to do that, please tell me now so you don’t waste my, or your, time.”
Hannah smiled. This was a real ball-buster. In a fairer world, this woman would be the boss and not just a secretary. “I believe I am fully capable of living up to that job description,” Hannah said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.
Sally nodded, pleased. “Right then,” she said, closing the folder. “the hours are… uncertain. Some days you will be able to leave at five like the rest of the office. Other days you can be held back here until eight at night when there is a need for you. You are expected to be here by eight-thirty every morning. Not a minute later. And there is often a need for you to come in even earlier. Punctuality is imperative at this company.” She paused long enough for Hannah to agree with her. “Do you have any issues with the hours?”
“Not at all,” Hannah replied. It’s not like she had anything to do with her free time anyway. And a company this size was sure to hand out overtime to its employees.
“Do you have any more questions you would like to ask?” Sally inquired, looking at the clock.
“I cant think of any,” Hannah said. Aside from… did she have the job?
“Then you are a very foolish girl,” a deep male voice said from the doorway.
Hannah felt her heart leap into her throat and let out a startled yelp, turning in her chair so quickly the room blurred for a split second.
When her vision cleared, she saw the man responsible for the interruption. And the insult, she reminded herself. He was leaning slightly against the doorjamb. He was tall, well over six foot with broad shoulders and thin waist. A swimmers body, she had heard it called in romance novels. He had dark brown hair cut short and kept neatly with startling blue eyes. His face was all sharp angles, a straight nose and a strong jaw line which was covered in more than a day’s worth of stubble. He was dressed in an expensive-looking grey suit with a bright blue tie and silver cufflinks.
What the Heart Needs Page 1