Connectivity

by Aven Ellis

  I tilt my head to the side and stare at him for a moment. Today he is wearing a fitted, long-sleeved shirt, one that seems tailor made for his lean frame. It is a light blue color, which really looks nice against his pale skin and dark hair.

  I ponder him for a moment. Cumberland doesn’t look like anyone I have ever met, but that makes him intriguing in a way. You know, in addition to being mysterious, brilliant, and aloof.

  Suddenly those blue eyes are staring right back at me with laser precision. I feel my breath catch in my throat. God, that gaze. I feel like he can see every thought in my head. I narrow my eyes at him and forcefully project the I am so happy you are leaving thought right back into his brain.

  People are moving into position and the stage manager begins a countdown. Cumberland remains in front of the desk, leaning against the side, and projecting a casual, relaxed image for the camera.

  Soon, his deep British voice fills the studio, and his voice, and presence, command the room. He reveals his plans to integrate the networks with Connectivity; how he is not afraid to make changes to make us stronger; how he wants exciting programming and we should not fear change but the status quo instead.

  Then Cumberland pauses for effect before continuing.

  “Obviously, we have a monumental task ahead of us,” he says, his eyes very, very intense now. “Yet I know each and every one of you are up for the challenge. And to make sure my vision becomes reality, I am temporarily relocating to Chicago to oversee this process.”

  What? I can’t breathe. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. He’s staying?

  “My assistant, Arabella Dalton, will go back to the United Kingdom to assist my team there,” Cumberland says smoothly.

  I glance at Arabella, whose mouth is wide open. Holy crap, she didn’t know this was coming, I compute.

  “And while there are many qualified candidates between all the networks here, I have chosen Mary-Kate Grant from the TATS Network to be my personal assistant here in the United States.”

  What????

  Oh my God. Oh my God. I feel dizzy. Sweat forms on the back of my neck. My heart is pounding and I feel everyone in the studio looking at me.

  He chose me? Me?

  I stare at Paul in shock. He stares back at me, and I can tell he is just as floored as I am.

  “So please contact Ms. Grant directly if you need to reach me,” Cumberland says. He speaks for a few more minutes, but I can’t hear a word he is saying over the pounding in my head, and then he signs off.

  A crowd of people instantly forms around him. I just stare at him in stunned silence. I stand still, waiting for everyone to empty the studio. Finally, his eyes meet mine and I watch as he excuses himself and comes directly over to me.

  “Let’s go over here,” he says, gesturing to a remote corner of the almost vacant studio.

  As soon as the studio is empty, I launch into my questions.

  “I don’t understand,” I say, shaking my head.

  “I need an assistant. You are one. What is not to understand?”

  “What is not to understand?” I repeat. “Between all the networks and departments in this building you have 30 different assistants to choose from!”

  “I am well aware of that number and that fact, Ms. Grant,” Cumberland says, his blue eyes never leaving mine.

  “But—”

  “No buts. I loathe that word.”

  I feel my face turn red in embarrassment. “I can’t even bind!”

  “Irrelevant, as you yourself pointed out.”

  “I dropped your tea set!” I hiss.

  “Replaceable.”

  “Why are we playing verbal tennis?” I spit out in frustration.

  “I wasn’t aware that we were,” Cumberland says, lifting an eyebrow up. “Are we, Ms. Grant? Playing a game here?”

  Arrrrghhh! I want to scream, but I can’t.

  “No,” I say through gritted teeth. “We are not.”

  “Good. Now details. I will be moving up to the 15th floor to office on the same floor as the Beautiful Homes Network. You will relocate up there with me.”

  Okay, I see a silver lining in hell with that bit of information.

  “Please be there Monday at 8:30 sharp. We have a lot to do next week.”

  “All right,” I concede. “I will be there.”

  “Brilliant. I shall see you Monday, Ms. Grant.” Cumberland turns to walk away but I decide I want the last word.

  “Mr. Cumberland?”

  He pauses and turns back around.

  “Do not expect service from a tea trolley on Monday.”

  And before he can respond, I turn and walk away.

  Chapter 4

  “I really want a gold champagne fabric,” Michelle declares, going through mounds of swatches on the kitchen table. “Not beige champagne. But gold champagne. That is very important. MK, do you understand the difference?”

  Oh my God. I am trapped in hell. Which today is apparently located at my mother’s Pottery Barn kitchen table in suburban Milwaukee.

  “Yes, Michelle, I get it,” I say, absently flipping through a fabric book.

  “It must look like a glass of champagne,” Michelle says with the seriousness of a CIA agent planning a covert mission. “Because that is my favorite drink, and all the bridesmaids are going to be dressed in champagne fabric.”

  “Right,” I say.

  “And it is so perfect for a New Year’s Eve wedding!” my mother gushes, happily flipping through yet another pile of potential fabrics.

  I get up to refill my coffee as they both squeal in delight. Yes, leave it to Michelle to hijack a holiday for her wedding. It is just so . . . Michelle.

  As I put the pod into the coffee machine, I watch my mom and Michelle eagerly touch each fabric, oooohing and aahhhing and seriously weighing the merits of each.

  I wrinkle my brow. How am I from this family? My brain just doesn’t operate like this. I mean, there’s no talk of Jason, her fiancé, or the romance, but all about the production of this wedding. Like this is the Royal Wedding or something.

  I pull out the bottle of amaretto creamer from the fridge and pour it into my mug. As I stir it, I gaze out the big window in the kitchen and watch the snow come down in big, fat puffy flakes on this Saturday morning.

  I bet Cumberland is at the office, I muse, taking a sip of my coffee. He’s a total workaholic, at least from the recon mission I have self-conducted since I learned I was going to be reporting to him yesterday.

  What fascinates me most is the story behind Connectivity. Cumberland studied economics at Oxford and went straight to work in the financial corporate world upon graduation. He was brilliant at investing, but completely bored in his job. So he decided he wanted to develop his own business. Cumberland, also very media savvy, noticed how people used different social media applications and didn't understand the inefficiency of storing your pictures one place, giving brief character updates in another, using another site to keep your friends updated on your life, going somewhere else for video calling and yet another for career connections and online portfolios of work.

  Never one for inefficiency, and seeing a gap in the vast social media world, Cumberland created Connectivity—the one place you could manage everything in your social media life. Connectivity "Connects" were coded how the user saw fit—business, personal, etc., and you could "Connect" things and people together—or not.

  Now this is where it gets interesting. Loads has been written about Cumberland's brilliance, his innovation, his ability to surround himself with people who could help his vision come to life yet—and this is very intriguing to me—I have read nothing about Cumberland that is personal. People they interviewed in the articles referred to him as a "business associate" or “acquaintance” but
not “friend”. In fact, the man who created one of the front-runners in the world of social media is not social at all. In fact, the exact opposite. Cumberland was business only, and kept personal matters—even small ones—to himself.

  Then, of course, there are rumors that Cumberland is gay.

  I take another sip of coffee. I don’t think that is it at all. I don’t even think he is asexual, which was the other big rumor I read last night. I think he is just business only and sex doesn’t even land on his radar screen.

  Which, oddly enough, I can completely relate to.

  “MK!” Michelle bellows, interrupting my thoughts. “You are not paying attention, and you are not helping like you promised!”

  My mother lets out an exasperated sigh. “MK, really, if you could just think about your sister this morning and focus it would be nice.”

  I come back to the table. Michelle is pouting, and I am fuming. Have either one of them, since I got here this morning, taken five seconds to ask how my job is going? To ask what the Cumberland take over has done to my company? If I am worried about losing my job?

  Of course not. Because for my mom and Michelle, my worries are stupid. In fact, in their minds, I should be flipping out because I haven’t had a date in two years. This is what is considered to be a DEFCON 1 crisis. Not a silly little corporate takeover where I work.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, picking up a pile of swatches. “Gold champagne. I’m on it.”

  But I am not. Not at all.

  I act like I care but my head is already thinking of Monday, my first day as Cumberland’s assistant. I have decided to approach this as my reboot, if you will. I am actually going to be with people at the Beautiful Homes Network. I will work hard, be visible, and impress my new colleagues.

  And this time, I will not be derailed.

  I get to work insanely early on Monday morning. I lug my box of belongings up to the 15th floor and open the doors to the Beautiful Homes Network. A shiver of excitement rips down my spine as I step through the gorgeous lobby. Wow. Wow! I am here. I am actually going to be walking through these doors every day, at my dream place of employment!

  I happily find the empty cubicle outside of Cumberland’s new office. I set the box down and then slide out of my winter wear. Then I go about decorating my cubicle. After all, I need to show everyone here my unique style and taste, and what do they see first when they come over to Cumberland’s office? My cube.

  I put up my silver desk lamp, add a small tartan pillow to my chair, artfully arrange silver framed pictures of me with Emily and Reese; display my old-fashioned Roman numeral desk clock, and put up my white orchid plant.

  There. Now everyone can see I have a decorator’s eye.

  Next I walk to the restroom to do an appearance check. I am carrying over the theme of looking fashionable but of my own making. Today, I put on a vintage tweed black and white cropped jacket; multi-layered stone necklace, black trousers, and high-heeled black boots.

  Satisfied, I go back to my cubicle and snap a few pictures with my iPhone. I can use this for a new blog article about creating a stylish workplace.

  I boot up my computer and log in. Since it is just eight o’clock, I decide to visit my blog for a second so I can download these pictures. The last post comes up, the scones, and I take a moment to transfer the pictures over. Then I go to the break room to begin tea prep. I fill the electric teakettle and turn it on, so the water will be hot and ready for the teapot the second Cumberland arrives.

  After I get the kettle going, I come back to my desk.

  And find Cumberland standing there, staring at my computer screen.

  Oh my God. I panic as I realize he is looking at my blog, which I must have left up when I went to do the tea.

  “Mr. Cumberland,” I say in a rush, “I—”

  “Was looking at the Internet on company time?” Cumberland supplies helpfully, lifting an eyebrow at me.

  Fuck! I fly into my chair and immediately click out of the screen. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it!

  “I am so sorry,” I say sincerely, looking up at him. “I just pulled it up for a second while I went to start the water for your tea. It will not happen again, I assure you of that.”

  Cumberland’s laser eyes stay on me. “I see,” he says in that deep British voice as he pulls off this leather gloves.

  Which is not exactly the “It’s okay” or “No big deal” response I was hoping he would give.

  Then he turns and goes into his office without saying another word.

  While he is in his office, I fight the urge to throw up on my desk. I take the teapot and go fill it, and I come back and arrange the tea service items on the tray. God, I feel so sick. I do not want to face him. But since I have no choice, I pick up the tray and walk into his office. Luckily I manage not to face plant this time.

  Cumberland is already on the phone and typing on his computer as I arrange his tea on his desk. He turns around at the sound. Cumberland nods at me without even breaking his conversation.

  I retreat to my cubicle and find an IM waiting for me.

  From William Cumberland.

  Please read the attached corporate policy on Internet use. Let me know if you have any questions upon review. WC.

  Oh fuck. Oh fuck! My face is on fire with humiliation as I read the message. I read the attachment, which specifically states the Internet is for company use only. I swallow every ounce of pride I have, because Cumberland is right on this one, even if the entire company surfs the net during the day. It is still a rule.

  I don’t have any questions, Mr. Cumberland, and I will comply fully. Please accept my sincerest apologies, MKG.

  The rest of the day I lay as low as possible. Luckily Cumberland has meeting after meeting with all the network people in Chicago, so he’s busy. Arabella has sent me a slew of bossy emails from London dictating what kind of supplies I need to order for Cumberland, how he likes things organized, blah, blah, blah.

  I am working through the massive supply order list when my cell phone beeps with a notification. I have it parked next to my keyboard, so I pick it up.

  And to my surprise, I see it is a response to my blog.

  Oh my God! A real reply to my blog! My first real response!

  I excitedly open the message on my phone.

  William Cumberland is now following your blog.

  I gasp out loud. Oh no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no!!!!!!! My heart begins to pound. My stomach completely bottoms out.

  Beep!

  William Cumberland has commented on one of your posts.

  Panic engulfs me. I access my blog from my iPhone. Oh mother of God, he is reading my posts. In which I talk about him!

  Oh shit. He has written a comment on the scone one, in which I oh-so-brilliantly commented that he was too thin and needed to eat more scones.

  I read his comment in horror.

  I prefer the word “lithe” instead of “too thin” myself. WC

  Beep! My phone goes off again.

  William Cumberland has commented on one of your posts.

  I put my forehead into my hands and groan. Apparently Cumberland is going to read every single thing I have ever written.

  Beep!

  And comment on it as well.

  Beep!

  I shut off my phone. This is nothing short of a disaster. And I have no clue how I am going to face him after this.

  Chapter 5

  I sit at my desk for a good hour fighting the urge to throw up before I finally decide to take the bull by the horns and step into his doorway. Cumberland is on his cell phone, walking around his office. He is in front of the large window, which has a fantastic view of the Magnificent Mile, sprawled out below in all its glory.

  Cumberland
sees me and holds out his hand, signaling for me to wait. I watch him as he stops in front of the window. The snow is cascading down from the gray sky, and I can’t help but observe how his crisp white shirt stands out against the backdrop.

  I notice a lock of his dark wavy hair has fallen out of place and is resting against his forehead, and as I combine the image with the brilliant and in control way he is speaking right now, there is something very magnetic about him. You are drawn in, and you just can’t help but stare at him.

  Cumberland finishes the call, and as soon as he does, I clear my throat.

  “Mr. Cumberland, I want to thank you for following my blog,” I say simply. Then I see it. A slight expression of surprise flickers across his face. Ah-ha! Cumberland didn’t expect this and that is good! My confidence grows and I smile at him. “And you are absolutely correct that lithe is a better way to describe you.”

  Cumberland folds his arms across his sleek white shirt. That is all he wears—modern-cut designer shirts. I am pretty sure they are Prada, too. And I have to admit, they suit him very well.

  “You have a talent for writing, Ms. Grant,” he says, interrupting my thoughts.

  I feel my face burn hot. No, don’t blush! I will myself. Don’t!

  “Thank you,” I say quietly.

  “Why am I the only follower?” he asks, his laser blue eyes riveted to mine.

  I swallow hard. And then I give him the honest truth. “I don’t want pity follows.”

  Cumberland’s brow creases. “Pity follows?”

  I nod. “Yes. Like my family and friends ‘following’ me because I ask them to, not because they really want to. Does that make sense?”

  “Very similar to people telling me ‘yes’, no matter what the question is, because my name is William Cumberland,” he says slowly.

  I suddenly realize that we might be more alike than I ever could have imagined. We are both career-oriented, and we are both prideful. It was an interesting thought.