Strapped

by Nina G. Jones

  “Hello. This message is for Ms. Ball. This is Elaine Brown, director of Human Resources for Holden Industries. Mr. Holden requested that I schedule an interview with you immediately. Please call me at your earliest convenience...” She then carries on with the usual details about scheduling an interview. I feel a twinge of excitement and I know I am again being foolish because it is not for the right reasons, but I cannot help the reaction. You won’t be a good fit within the glass walls of Holden Industries. You cannot let his looks and charm convince you otherwise. But, there is the other side of me, the curious side, that wants to meet with him one more time. It causes me to reason with myself:

  What are you doing with your life after all? This freelance thing will always be here. You need to step out of the box and try something new. People would kill for this opportunity and here you are squandering it!

  That’s just it! I feel uncomfortable with the ease in which this opportunity has been handed to me. No, I don’t have the job yet, but he seems very eager to interview me. I mean, they must get hundreds, even thousands of applications a day. Maybe he felt embarrassed for me, and as a gentleman wanted to repay me with this good deed. Maybe he felt whatever it was I felt during our brief interaction, but in the end who am I to say no to this opportunity? Just because it fell on my lap, doesn’t mean I should pass it up...right?

  Before I can allow another moment of hesitancy, I call Ms. Brown. She asks about my availability for a meeting tomorrow. “Let me take a look at my calendar...” I rustle a bunch of papers loudly on my desk to sound busy and important. “Ummm...ye...yes, I can do tomorrow at 10:30am.” As we close the phone conversation, she asks if I need a ride. How does she know to ask? Of course, the man saw me pathetically walking in a thunderstorm! Sheepishly, I say yes. I never really needed a car working from home and Rick has one I can borrow, but he’ll be at work. Elaine sounds unsurprised and says I will be picked up from my home at 10:00. Do all prospective employees of Holden Industries get such royal treatment?

  Oh shit. What am I going to wear? It has been a while since I have needed business attire. I run into my bedroom and begin to tear through my closet, lifting up layers of denim to see if I can find my pair of black slacks. I finally do but they look stale and crumpled from lack of use. I shake them out vigorously and run them through the wash along with a baby-blue button-down shirt. I figure this outfit is just professional enough for the occasion without looking as though I am trying too hard. I have an uneasy feeling, but I can’t decipher whether it’s excitement, trepidation, nerves, or all three. I do my best to distract myself for the rest of the day by cleaning every crevice of the apartment.

  Rick arrives home at around six o’clock. “Wow, the place looks great! Do you want to grab some dinner?” I realize that I haven’t eaten all day and I am ferociously hungry.

  “Yes, please!” I exclaim.

  We go to our favorite burger joint and I order the biggest burger on the menu.

  “So how was your day?” Rick asks me, his amber eyes earnestly gazing at me.

  “Well, as I am sure you can tell, I cleaned the apartment.” Why do I feel hesitant to tell him about the interview tomorrow? “Believe it or not, I have an interview or meeting of sorts for a new job.”

  Rick is visibly puzzled. After all, I wasn’t on the market. “I didn’t know you were looking for a job. You never mentioned anything to me. When did you start?”

  “I wasn’t. It’s the weirdest thing, I met someone when I was getting coffee yesterday and we got to talking and he was really insistent that I come interview.” I take a huge bite of my burger to delay the discussion.

  “Hmmm..a guy? What’s the company?”

  “Holden Industries.” Don’t ask me who it was, please.

  “Wow, pretty impressive. We’ve done some programming for them, sometimes they farm that stuff out to us. What’s the position?”

  “I, uhhh, don’t know yet. I assume design.”

  “Well, who was the person you met? What department?”

  I take another bite and put my hand up to signal to Rick to hold on for one second. With my mouth half full, I try as nonchalantly as possible to say his name: “Taylor Holden.”

  “The Taylor Holden?”

  “I guess. I didn’t know you knew much about the company.” Why do I feel so uncomfortable?

  “He’s always in the business section. That’s awesome! When’s the interview?” I feel a sense of relief in his reaction. I don’t know why I thought he would be question this whole thing and I am relieved he has taken the news in stride.

  Chapter Two

  The next morning, I put on my freshly laundered clothing, wrap my hair into a tight bun, and apply a small amount of blush, mascara, eyeshadow, and lipgloss. I am done by 9:50 and pickup is at 10:00. I sit anxiously staring at my phone, not sure what to expect when I arrive at Holden Industries. Minutes later, I look down at my phone to check the time: 9:59. It rings.

  “Hello?”

  “May I please speak with Ms. Ball?”

  “This is Shyla.”

  “Your vehicle is ready at the entrance of your building.”

  I thank the extremely formal voice on the other end and nervously grab my things. I have to stop myself from running down the stairs like a child on Christmas morning. Waiting in front of my building is a black Bentley with a very fit middle-aged man standing by the passenger side rear door.

  “Ms. Ball?”

  I acknowledge his question and look around to see if anyone else notices the ridiculous scenario that is unfolding. I thought a taxi was coming, not Mr. Belvedere and his Bentley. He opens the door for me and I slide in, savoring the newness of the black leather interior. The butterflies in my stomach begin to flutter. Why am I so nervous? They’re courting me! Plus, Taylor was so kind to me, I should have no reason to feel uncomfortable. Then again, there was that feeling, that tension, in the car. Will that happen again? I look up and realize we are on the freeway going North, which makes no sense. Shouldn’t we be headed downtown?

  “Excuse me, Sir?” I ask, as my voice gets caught in the back of my throat.

  “Yes, miss.”

  “I am a bit confused, aren’t we going to Holden Industries?”

  “I’m sorry, I thought you knew. We are going to Mr. Holden’s estate. He frequently works from home and he requested the meeting be held there.”

  I wasn’t even certain I was going to see him again, and my stomach clenches for a millisecond when it is confirmed that I will. I cannot believe that we are on our way to his house. From everything I read, he is intensely private; yet he is inviting a person he just met into his home. What is this all about? I have no idea what it is that he sees in me and why he is so persistent. This all seems completely over the top for a graphic design position and only adds to my uncertainty about accepting his invitation. I take a purposeful, deep breath to calm what is now a butterfly farm in my stomach and lean back, watching the trees breeze by.

  Once we exit the freeway, we drive east for about five minutes and then up a winding hill. Lush green forest surrounds us. I cannot make out the houses in the area because the long driveways fade into the trees. Quite the neighborhood he lives in. After a few more minutes, we turn into one of the mysterious driveways. It winds for another minute. What does this guy do if he wants to grab a quart of milk? The driveway slopes up so that the house is on top of a hill...and what a house it is. A mix of natural and modern, its angular wooden structure frames expanses of wall to wall glass. I was certain houses like this only existed in magazines. I catch myself staring up at it with my mouth agape and hastily fix my expression. The car comes to a halt right at the front of the house and as I struggle with the Bentley’s fancy door handle, Mr. Belvedere opens it from the outside, quite graciously. Oh yeah, this is what he does.

  “Thank you,” I say meekly. I am not used to this level of service. He guides me through the front door. The house is grand, with some of tallest ceilings I have
ever seen in a home or anywhere else. The foyer leads to the great room, which is wide open and full of light thanks to the wall-to-wall glass. Decidedly modern, with clean lines, not a thing is out of place. The home is enveloped by the outdoors, the greenery adding warmth to a very stark house...I mean mansion. He leads me into a massive study that has a 20-foot wall of books. I scan the titles, hoping to find some sort of clue into Taylor’s psyche. The driver seats me in front of the desk, facing floor-to-ceiling windows that look out into the endless woods.

  “Mr. Holden will be with you in a moment,” says Mr. Belvy (as I have decided to call him in my head) as he exits the office, closing the door behind him. My breathing has become somewhat shallower; I can hear it in the silence of the room. There is now a level of formality I did not feel in the car the other day. This assures me that whatever I thought I felt in the car with Taylor was completely off. This is clearly a business meeting, whether or not it is in his humble, or not so humble, abode. Finally, I hear the door open tentatively and I instinctually come to my feet.

  I turn to face the door and there he is. There. He. Is. I do my best not to acknowledge it, but he is divine. He dons a perfectly tailored black pinstripe suit. The buttons are closed on his single-breasted jacket and from beneath it, a white shirt peers out, the first few buttons unbuttoned, no tie. His rich, dark hair is slightly unkempt, but I get the impression he pays a lot of money for his hair to look that way. His eyes are a stark contrast to the color of his suit and look like they could burn a hole right through me.

  “Ms. Ball, please have a seat,” he says after shaking my hand. I guess I am Ms. Ball now. This is so confusing. In fact, it is dizzying.

  He unbuttons his suit jacket before taking a seat across from me.

  “How was your ride over here?”

  “It was very nice...Mr. Belvede...I mean...” I realize I don’t know his name.

  “Harrison,” Taylor chimes in, the faintest smirk surfacing. I think he knows where I was going with that.

  “Yes, Harrison, was very nice. I was a little surprised to be coming to your home. I thought we were going to meet downtown.” I much prefer the name Mr. Belvedere to Harrison.

  “My apologies, I thought Elaine would have informed you.” The man I am now speaking with seems so different from the one who rescued me from the pouring rain. “So, it looks like you are reconsidering the possibility of working for Holden Industries,” he says, crossing his ankle onto his thigh and leaning back into his leather executive chair.

  “Well, you said you might want to contract me for my services, and I thought this might be pertaining to that statement. Ms. Brown didn’t give me many details, but honestly, I was made curious by your persistence.” I shock myself with how confident I sound, compared to how uneasy I feel.

  Mr. Holden puts his leg back down and leans forward, placing his forearms on the desk. “I am aware that this scenario may be highly unconventional, even confusing, Ms. Ball, but my success has come from following my instincts. Some of my best hires have been through personal interactions. I believe solely going through conventional hiring methods leads one to miss out on people who possess intangible qualities.”

  I nod, clinging onto each word.

  “When I met you, I immediately felt that you were an articulate, intelligent and genuine person. Believe me, when you are someone like me, genuine people are hard to come by.” His eyes narrow just slightly and he looks damn sexy.

  “With all due respect, Mr. Holden, I really appreciate that you think that of me, but, we only spoke for a few minutes.”

  “That’s all I need,” he says. He stands up, removing his jacket, and walks over to the credenza, which conceals a drinks cabinet. He pours himself a drink from a crystal decanter. He gestures to me, offering a drink, and I decline. This is the weirdest interview ever in the history of interviews. Can I even call this an interview? I was just offered alcohol, for Christ’s sake. He takes a sip from his glass. “When I asked you if you wanted to interview with H.I., you didn’t jump; you were tentative, and that struck me. When people find out who I am, they usually don’t say no to me. That tells me something about your motivations.” As he speaks he slowly paces around me, finally ending up directly behind my chair. I feel myself blanketed by his shadow and freeze, unsure if I should look back at him or continue to look straight ahead. I choose against facing him as I am almost afraid to see how close behind me he is standing. While he is not touching me, his closeness has an almost physical effect. At this point, I don’t know what to say. The only thing I can reason is that somewhere along that walk to clear my head the other day, I stepped into another world.

  “So is this for a graphic design position?” I ask innocently, knowing it’s not.

  He walks in front of me and settles just to my right, in the small space between me and the desk, and leans back on its edge. Our legs are just inches from touching and it’s in that space between us, that inch or two, that I swear I feel a magnetic pull. His tall frame towers over me, uncomfortably close. “Ms. Ball. I am an intensely private man. That is why I am so insistent that I personally vet all those whom I work with closely.” Closely? “This is why, before I go any further, I need you to sign this.”

  He slides over a black leather padfolio with a very expensive-looking fountain pen. He turns it so that the document is facing in my direction and opens it. I quickly scan the first few lines and see the words: “Holden Industries” and “Non-Disclosure Agreement.” I look up at his eyes and for the first time since I walked into the office, they hold a twinge of uncertainty. I’ve had to sign a couple of these before, but never so early into a business relationship. The NDA only serves to heighten my curiosity.

  “May I?” I ask out of courtesy.

  “Of course.”

  As I thumb through the document, I notice my hand trembling and grip the padfolio closer to me in an attempt to hide my nerves. The language seems familiar, as I have had to sign NDAs before: I cannot talk about trade secrets, or any information that Holden Industries has chosen not to disclose to the public. I notice that there is another section; it refers to Taylor Holden specifically. In short, from what I can gather, I cannot reveal any personal or business information that I come across during my dealings with him. Now I understand why it was so hard for me to find anything about his personal life during my internet search.

  After a short pause, I pick up the pen...it’s heavy...and after thumbing through the NDA for a few additional seconds, I sign. Who am I kidding? At this point, I would sign my left ovary away to know what he is going to say next. That is when the realization occurs, this might be all part of his game. He has been building this suspense, hasn’t he? I want to be just as clever in return, but he is so cool, so calm. Everything he has said and done thus far has been deliberate and meticulous and I am probably here because I am not that way. If I am genuine, then he is the antithesis of that.

  “Do you have any questions?” he asks.

  “I am familiar with NDAs. I have signed several when working with clients. I completely understand the ramifications of breaching an NDA.” I look him directly in the eyes and they fire up, although the rest of his face remains stoic. I secretly hope he hasn’t stuck any other stipulations in the document. I really hope there wasn’t a left ovary clause snuck in there somewhere. Just tell me what the fuck it is that you want me to do! - I never utter the words, but they ring loudly in my thoughts.

  “You understand the seriousness of this document? If you disclose anything business or personal-”

  “Yes, Mr. Holden. I am taking the NDA very seriously.” I grab the document with my left hand and hand it over. The navy and gold fountain pen is in my right hand and I offer it to him. He waits a moment before reaching for it, making sure to lock eyes with me as he slowly slips it out of my fingers. I catch myself holding my breath as he walks back to his seat.

  He sits back, bites his lip and rests his chin in his hand. “Ms. Ball, I would like you
to be my traveling personal assistant.” I immediately deflate. All of this buildup, all of this sex panther walk around the office bullshit to ask me to be his glorified secretary? I believe my disappointment manifests itself physically, because his posture becomes more erect. “The title does not appropriately reflect the level of responsibility this position entails. You will organize my personal and business calendar, travel with me to events, both national and international...” I can tell he is frustrated that his words are not conveying what he believes is the importance of this role. “You won’t be my right hand woman, you will be my right arm and I pay handsomely.”

  “May I ask, why me? This is not even in my wheelhouse.”

  “You have run a small business for several years, are computer savvy and articulate. Those are the skills I need. I need someone who can juggle multiple roles as there is not a clear cut description. You will be managing various tasks at disparate skill levels.”