The Plan

by Qwen Salsbury

  Blinking rapidly, I try to compose myself. I’m failing miserably. Homework, recorded lectures, coffee beans, starched white shirts. Images flood my mind.

  “Is there a problem?” He finally looks up at me.

  Well, hell yeah, there is a freaking problem! “I, um, I…” I say and clear my throat forcefully. “I don’t have the resources.”

  “I said make arrangements, did I not?” He looks at me like maybe I’m dense.

  My cheeks heat. Coming up short doesn’t sit well with me. “I mean…that is to say…There is a cash flow issue. This is, um, beyond my means.”

  After a moment of monumental awkwardness, he reaches into his wallet and places a department store card near my hand. “Give them your measurements. Purchase at least one more cocktail dress.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I mean, I can recycle.”

  “No,” he says, waving me off. “People would notice.”

  I nod, still processing all this.

  “Branch out. Anything but black.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  From my hotel room’s desk, I watch him leave. On the other side of the door, Ms. Fralin stands, bundled up in a heavy coat.

  “Alaric, darling,” she coos and ushers him out. “Finally I have you all to myself. Whatever will we do to pass the time?” The door shuts, her laughter muffled.

  7:00 p.m.

  * Location: My room.

  EVERYTHING HANGS IN THE CLOSET NOW. The tags and receipt mock me from the desk.

  I took that card earlier today in a moment of shock. Extended trip. More clothes. What appears to be his personal department store card.

  The company dime can roll right in and purchase whatever I need as far as I’m concerned. It sure wasn’t my idea to go on this trip.

  I really need to know if he’s being reimbursed. Otherwise the tags go back on and the clothes go back.

  Ideally, anyway.

  I still need to wear them, regardless.

  I just don’t want to be indebted to him, to take any gifts from him.

  Everything in me demands clarification of whose money I just spent. Hours of contemplating this situation has made me sure of only one thing: Ms. Baker cannot question Mr. Canon.

  I’ve distracted myself satisfactorily with several school lectures, but now nothing is working.

  Clara’s chirpy voice mail gets my message about the delayed return. Never have I so desperately wanted to hear her voice, even if only to interrogate me.

  It wasn’t just lunch without Canon; I was on my own all day. Still am. I haven’t heard from Canon; he’s not come back. I’ve said, “Yes, sir,” to everyone and everything I’ve seen. Even the shower.

  It’s like I’ve had something removed, and yet I keep feeling it. A phantom limb. A phantom pain in my ass that replaces the pain in my ass. Whatever. It’s just not the same.

  Why does this bug me so? Should I check on him? He could be hurt…

  I’m not fooling myself. I want to check because he may still be with her.

  It’s not my business. He’s not my business. I don’t care.

  Keep saying it. It might make it true.

  I had a plan. This was not the plan.

  Fully intent on flipping more channels, I dial him without thought.

  “Canon.” His voice is a surprise in my ear. Why did I call him? What’s wrong with me?

  “Yes, um,” I say and look around the room for some non-existent guidance. Nothing. “Is there anything you’d like for me to be working on?”

  “Are the purchases categorized?”

  All the places he could be, the things…and people…he could be doing crowd my thoughts.

  “Yes, all in order. Every pencil and enough Tyvek to furnish a clean room environment all accounted for.” Word vomit. “We can only have these rooms until Tuesday.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “You did make other reservations, though?”

  “Yes. Three places. When you have a moment, I can go over th—”

  A crash, maybe something small breaking, on his end of the line interrupts me.

  “Whatever you choose will be fine…Good night, Ms. Baker.”

  “Good night, Mr. Canon.”

  One bath, two room service desserts, and a nightie that makes me feel beautiful don’t chase away the glumness.

  I feel lonely.

  I fall asleep reading a textbook.

  9:22 p.m.

  LINCOLN IS HERE. In my room. I throw the bedspread at him.

  Lincoln is unfazed by bacteria. He uses my ChapStick. He paints my toes. He licks them. He sucks them in.

  I twist and claw at my mattress and beg him to stop, but he—

  “Emma! You have got to wake up.”

  Canon is holding me, but I feel jostled. He’s been shaking me. I gulp down air.

  “Shh.” His hand smooths my hair out of my face and down my back. Pulling back, he looks at me. “I thought…oh, God, I thought you were being…and I heard you, and I could see the lights, and then and then and th—oh, my God, what the motherfuck are you wearing?”

  He propels himself backward from the bed.

  This is all so weird. I look down and remember the pity party that ended in donning a peach negligee with black lace inlays and fabric that makes Clara’s sheer robe look like plaid flannel.

  “This? This is actually lingerie.”

  I told him he would know it if I wore it. I don’t do things halfway.

  “W-Why?”

  Deer in headlights. Yeah, that description works here.

  And just to keep things straight, I’m sporting the headlights.

  Maybe we could call them blips.

  I may have just set off the radar…

  There’s something about flustered Alaric Canon I can’t get enough of. I’m practically naked, yet he’s the one uncomfortable.

  “Why? What did you expect me to wear?” I stand to usher him out…and show off the cute little coordinating panties. “Did you think I sleep in the nude?”

  “Good night, Ms. Baker,” he calls behind him. He has already crossed the hall.

  “And a good night to you, Mr. Canon.”

  Day of Employment:

  380

  10:00 a.m.

  * Meetings: All day. Shoot me.

  * Location: Conference room.

  THIS IS OUR SHOW. Canon is in game mode. Proposals. PowerPoints. Power suit.

  Sweet mercy, just look at him. Yum.

  He points out that they seem to have “lost” an important sales area about the time this merger was proposed—a whole product category, just suddenly gone from the line-up.

  His tone is smooth, his insinuation clear: he thinks they are attempting to retain an exclusive area.

  Ms. Fralin adjusts her cleavage so thoroughly I begin to suspect the lost sales area is actually in there somewhere. She pulls an index card out from behind her neckline.

  “That was part of a former associate’s territory,” she offers, glancing at the card. “Anyone have an explanation?”

  Flustered, Peters shuffles through some papers. This guy knows zilch about his job. “Looks like LaCygne oversaw that most recently. Is he…let me see…he may be on site…” Peters flounders while clearly looking for who this LaCygne person might actually be.

  Peters has forgotten to bring a file. He can’t find his pen. Fralin fishes one out of her bra. It’s like the damned Room of Requirement in there.

  Canon is unimpressed. He’s been working the room during his presentation; this breaks his stride. His fingers are in his pockets, his shoulders set.

  The tension is palpable. “I can go track him down,” I offer finally.

  Looking down, Canon nods. He wants this info; he wants this deal between our companies to be on the up-and-up. This glitch was the principal concern that seemed to stand out to him in all those hours of research we logged.

  11:10 a.m.

  I FIND HIM ALMOST IMMEDIATELY. Just had to ask a non-suit.
They always know the score.

  LaCygne is Mitchell LaCygne. We went to undergrad together. Small world. Dated a couple of times.

  Blue eyes and blue jeans. Baritone Scottish brogue. That is quite a perplexing family tree. Roots must span Europe.

  My, oh my, why did we only go out twice?

  Oh, yeah. Kellie.

  Lucky ho.

  “Hey, Emma, it sure is a pleasure to see you. You part of the new regime?”

  I smile. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Well, what can I do for you?”

  The next hour plus is spent at a break table. He’s got records of everything. Looks like the line fell through because his predecessor had failed to deliver on time for the preceding several years. He had inherited a mess. A dying moose.

  “I have no idea why. Just consistent bad luck…poor planning.” He stretches back in the chair, popping his back.

  We catch up for a bit. He’s only been here a year.

  “That’s something else we have in common,” I say, laughing.

  “Ms. Baker.” Suddenly Canon materializes in front of us. “If you can manage to tear yourself away…”

  Mitchell lets the chair legs hit the floor. “You must be Alaric Canon.” He offers his hand without standing.

  Canon ignores him. “We’re breaking for lunch early. Since you have been enjoying social hour, it seems we will have to catch up before everyone gets back.”

  I feel as though I’ve been smacked on the hand.

  Mitchell tries the phlegmatic approach. “Emma and I went to undergrad together.”

  “One big, happy OU family.” Canon scowls. “Ms. Baker?” It’s not a question. It’s a command.

  Forcing a smile, my face on fire, I say goodbye to Mitchell and trail behind Canon. He leads us to our temporary office. I haven’t been gone that long, but he’s incensed. Quiet and fuming.

  “Shall I go get your lunch?”

  “Can you manage to do so without attracting a throng of admirers?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You are paid to do a job. Why is it that at every turn, you are filling your dance card?”

  “My dance card?” I don’t even recall the last time anyone danced with me. Probably when Shady still had people imitating. “I went to school with Mitchell.” One would think the instant rapport would be valued.

  It occurs me that normally Canon would be grateful for something like this, for in-depth knowledge.

  “Mitchell,” he snorts.

  “Mr. LaCygne,” I correct myself.

  “Expanding this trip is not ideal for me either, I hope you realize. Every hour is critical,” he says.

  Unbidden, I think of him leaving with Ms. Fralin yesterday. Spending some untold portion of his day with her. Just exactly how critical am I expected to believe a late night meeting with Executive Expando Bra is? I want to ask.

  I don’t.

  Not that it should matter.

  “Dinner is at the owner’s home tonight,” he says, tapping his pen. “Will you be able to make it, or will you be spending yet more quality time with the illustrious Mr. Mitchell?”

  “I don’t normally spend quality time with my former college roommates’ husbands,” I level at him.

  His pen stops clicking.

  We work in silence the rest of the day.

  6:15 p.m.

  * Location: Samuel Dowry residence.

  * Dinner: Pretentious dish. Name forgotten. “Tastes like chicken” would be a marked improvement.

  * Hair: Down and straight.

  * Drink: Rum and Coke.

  LANCE ROWE, the executive who acquired a new limp in the conference room the other day, thanks to my pen jab, attempts to ply me with alcohol.

  Let us observe the mating rituals of the lecherous North American lounge lizard in his native habitat: The Open Bar.

  He thinks he’s being smooth. Suave. He tried handing me a Cosmopolitan at first. I told him that he might not wish to advertise that he digs Sex and the City.

  Now he’s operating under the mistaken belief that I have consumed three rum and Cokes.

  Let’s get something straight: I can drink. Hold my liquor. The table? That’s what I put other people under.

  It’s a gift. The one thing I have inherited from my mother that I can truly use. Her favorite story is about the time a dive bar band challenged her, and whoever got drunk first had to pay. The night ended with her packing up the band’s gear after every member passed out. Sounds more like a hassle than a victory to me. Mom is a little off.

  Humoring the guy seems like the path of least resistance. Not rocking the boat, I take the drinks, smile, and then set them down elsewhere. Or tip them into a potted plant.

  The fern may need detox.

  I dump most of the latest drink. Say hello to my little fronds…

  This is the largest dinner party I have ever attended. It’s also the only formal one. There are about twenty people roaming around. Execs and a few spouses enjoying drinks.

  “Ms. Baker, how long have you worked for the company?”

  “Ms. Baker, how are you enjoying our fair city?”

  “Ms. Baker, this is an exciting opportunity for us all, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Ms. Baker, that is a lovely dress.”

  The banter is innocuous enough, but I feel the need to guard my words. Remain opinion-free.

  My dress actually is lovely, I must agree. It’s silk in a gradient fade from teal to charcoal with a neck so wide the straps sit on the very edges of my shoulders. Nothing revealing, but the way the air touches my collarbones feels sensual. Sexy.

  My heels click across the marble floor as I position myself in the corner.

  From behind the rim of my glass, as I pretend to take another sip, I watch Canon. He maneuvers through the clusters of people. Talking. He slides to another group when Fralin appears. A few minutes later—after she appears to count down to “not too obvious” parameters—she inserts herself into his new group. Shortly after, he moves away.

  Their game begins anew.

  Oh, his discomfort pleases me greatly. Enjoy, sir. Enjoy.

  9:20 p.m.

  IN MY HAND, I hold the ninth rum and Coke of the evening. All totaled, I’ve taken enough sips to equate one whole drink.

  This guy thinks he’s adding stains to my hotel bedspread tonight.

  Moron. I’m not even acting tipsy.

  “No, thank you, Mr. Rowe. Enjoy the veranda without me.”

  “Thank you for the drink, Mr. Rowe.”

  “Really, Mr. Rowe? Four touchdowns in a single game?”

  Canon is looking at me from across the room. I may have been hasty in congratulating myself on how I’ve handled this situation. That is one heckuva scowl he’s rocking.

  Extricating myself from the lecherous delusions of Mr. Rowe yet again, I walk closer to Canon. Letting him know I can tell he has something to say. I stop a few feet away; I am not going to heel. He can come to me.

  He does.

  “I see your reputation for professionalism is undeserved,” he hisses over my shoulder.

  “If you feel I have behaved unprofessionally, please clarify, Mr. Canon.”

  “Drinking.”

  “I can handle it.” I turn to face him. As punctuation, I take a sip. “You are drinking too.”

  “It seems Rowe thinks he is what’s going to get handled.”

  “He can think what he wants.”

  “That is your fifth drink.”

  “Ninth,” I say just to irk him.

  His mouth drops open. “Do not move. I will say the goodbyes.”

  Before I can formulate a response, he’s gone. He makes the rounds, shaking hands enthusiastically and thanking the owner for a lovely dinner. When he sidesteps Rowe’s outstretched hand, I can’t help but smile.

  “Give me your arm.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He rolls his eyes, grabs my hand and wraps it around his bent elbow. His pace is slower
than normal as he leads us outside.

  Utter silence until we’re in the car.

  “I’m not drunk.” My voice echoes in the car.

  At a stoplight, his gaze shifts to me. Silently assessing. His hands wring the steering wheel.

  “I didn’t do anything to embarrass you,” I say in the hotel parking lot.

  “Surely you’re not implying I should’ve waited until after you did.” His sentence is punctuated by the door’s near slam. He escorts me through the lobby. I allow his flat palm at the small of my back to guide me. Our pace is quicker, closer to normal.

  Mute elevator ride. He removes his jacket and watches the numbers climb.

  The doors open, and he turns toward our rooms.

  He’s going to fire me. Maybe I don’t care anymore. I have done my best. I have been his ideal. Even when I felt certain he wanted to find fault, I gave him nothing to complain about.

  Well, fine. Have it your way, Canon. Enjoy the stimulating company of Lawrence Peters without me. Good luck with closing this deal on your own. I’m taking your coffee with me too, you picky bastard.

  “Good luck,” I say, seething as he watches me open my door. I’m so pissed I actually do fumble and miss the first two times I try to slide the card. Fantastic. “I’ll catch the first flight out.”

  “Be quiet.” He steps into my room.

  “Quit telling me what to do!”

  “Don’t act like you need to be told.”

  “You can’t boss me around!” I switch on the bathroom light in the darkened room.

  “It may have escaped your notice, but I am your boss.”

  “Not anymore. You’re firing me!”

  “You’re being nonsensical. Sleep it off.” He towers over me, his breath smoothing across my exposed shoulders.

  Sensory overload. I’m so exhausted I can’t think properly, and I can’t take it anymore. I put my hands on his shirt and push him. Even in the dim light, I can tell he’s surprised.

  “Either you are firing me or I quit. Either you fire me because you’re convinced I was going to embarrass you or I quit because you actually did embarrass me.” I shake my arms, but he must think I plan to slap him because he grabs both my hands in his.