Pre-Approved Identity Theft

by Nellie K Neves

Which means I’m stuck with her obnoxious notes on the back of cards, plus the files of marketing projects she smuggles back to Hazel’s for me to study. The files are actually interesting to me.

  I’ve always loved ads, loved to see what works and what doesn’t. This is being on the inside, getting to take research analysis and design something new and amazing. I pour over the ads she’s made, the photoshoots and social media campaigns. It’s unfamiliar and I immediately worry that I won’t be able to pull it off, but if I can, and if I like this, it could be a game changer for me.

  Thursday we decide to test the waters. Indigo bought us matching outfits the day before. We met in the morning and did our makeup identically. I’m waiting in the bathroom stall at her firm when I hear the whistle we designed. I pop open the door and she smiles as if we’re about to rob a bank.

  “Okay, I’m eating the salmon salad at the first table on the right. Go eat lunch. Excuse yourself when you’re done, and I’ll switch back.”

  My heart is racing. My palms are sweating enough I doubt my ability to hold a fork. Indigo takes my shoulders. “Hey, you’re me. I’m not scared of anything. It’s depressed Delores, Greg the scum bag, and Declan the nerd. You can do this.”

  I nod but only because I’ve been trained to take orders. I stumble once when she shoves me toward the door, but I straighten and tell myself, “I’m Indigo Maxwell, and I’m not scared of anything.”

  The table is easy to spot. There are only four in the room and mine is the seat that’s empty. I hate salmon. That’s all I think as I sit in her seat. The other three at the table are locked in some life and death conversation-slash-argument about a new study the firm is doing and they haven’t looked up at me yet. I pick at the salad, careful to only stab spinach with my fork and none of the coral-colored fish of death. It’s the exact moment when I jam a forkful of spinach into my mouth that the woman, I assume to be Depressed Delores, says, “What do you think Indigo, are we going the right direction with the Fulton Agency account?”

  All eyes turn on me and I’m chewing a mouth full of spinach like a heifer with cud.

  “Well,” I cover my mouth with my hand to avoid the see-food situation, “I usually defer to those of you with more experience in analytics.”

  There’s a tense moment of pause while they stare. My mind races. Have they figured it out? Can they see that I’m not her? Is that why they won’t speak?

  Delores starts the laughter. I recognize Greg from the mixer, the dirt bag who hit on me and he laughs next. Declan is the last to laugh. It’s reserved, not like Delores who can hardly keep herself in her seat and snorts twice.

  “You?” she gasps out a breath. “You wait on us? That’s a good one, Indigo.”

  “Well you know me,” I say and try to keep my eyes on my salad.

  “Like that last account with Farmington,” Greg says it as if it’s a big joke, “you had the whole plan mapped out before we had a chance to get you the reports.”

  “Well, you have to act when inspiration strikes,” I say as I spear a little more spinach. “But yes, I think we’re on the right track for the Fulton Agency account.”

  It’s a calculated risk, but they appear pleased. That worries me. Maybe Indigo would have been harder on them.

  “Well, I gotta get back to it. You want to walk back with me, gorgeous?”

  I don’t realize Greg is talking to me until they’re all staring at me.

  “No, actually I’m going to wash up a bit.” I push my chair back and step away from the table. They’re watching me walk, but no one said anything. There’s a small chance that this might actually work.

  No more Harper Sutton.

  Hello, Indigo Maxwell.

  Chapter 8

  I meet Indigo outside Garnet Marketing and Consultants. She doesn’t look like herself with a baseball cap and a ponytail and a clean face. I never want to be one of those girls who skips wearing makeup and people don’t recognize me. She’s like that and it startles me when she grabs my arm and pulls me to stand near a newspaper vendor. It takes me a full five seconds to realize I’m not getting mugged.

  “Are you good? Are you ready?”

  We spent the previous night going over details of her life, though as she put it, “I never tell these yahoos anything personal so it’s not like it matters,” and more importantly the layout of her office so I don’t wander around like a lost puppy.

  “I think so,” I tell her, and I regret not sounding more sure because her grip clenches down until it hurts.

  “I’m on a plane tonight, so we need this to work.”

  “I’ll give it my best,” I say, “but there are no promises, Indigo.”

  Her eyes dart side to side, like someone could be watching us. “I thought you might need motivation, so I did some research. I know you don’t want to go back where you came from. I can tell you right now if you lose this job for me, I’ll rat you out to your family, give them your address, your schedule, and not say a word.”

  I want to laugh. She’s literally threatening to tell my parents on me, as if we’re children. It’s stupid. But it’s also terrifying because I can’t handle them yet.

  “Clam down,” I say, “I’m going to do fine. Now get out of here before anyone sees us together.”

  “Don’t screw up,” she says between her clenched teeth.

  She’s one more person trying to control my every move. I jerk my arm free even though it hurts. I have nothing left to say to her. I blend into the stream of people moving inside the building. Garnet Marketing is on the fourteenth floor of the building. I take the elevator with eight other people and keep my head down. Slowly the elevator drains, a couple people at every other floor until I’m alone. My heel taps impatiently as I count down the remaining floors. Indigo’s little stunt made me late, only a minute or so but I can hear my father’s voice scolding me in my head. Suttons are never late. Suttons are always top of the pack. The elevator lurches and stops. Now or never.

  The doors open to the front desk of Garnet Marketing. Ashlee is the receptionist behind the counter, dusty blonde hair with last season’s highlights. I resist the urge to stop and check in because I’m Indigo and instead I smile and keep walking. Through the first large glass door there are steps that spill out into what Indigo called the bull pen. Apparently, they used to have cubicles, then Garnet’s wife hired a decorator and now everything is open and zen. That was the word Indigo used, zen. I count desks as I walk, Indigo’s desk is three clumps in, first desk in the bunch, shared with Delores and someone named Shutter. Apparently, he’s Indigo’s photographer.

  I drop my purse by my desk and kick it under because it has my real ID in it and I don’t want to screw things up in the first hour. There’s not even time to sit in my chair before I hear, “Maxwell! Get in here!”

  Because her last name is so near my nickname, it catches my attention and I jerk to my feet. The voice came from the office in the corner, the office that belongs to the “BOSS” Stephen Garnet. Eyes are on me as I move toward his office. This is a march to the principal’s office, not that I’d know what that’s like, I’ve never gone. But my stomach twists and ties until I feel like I might lose my breakfast on the low pile carpet floor.

  “Yes, sir?” I ask as I step through the open door.

  He’s balding, but not totally, still trying to maintain some hair with a stringy comb over and a halo of hair above his ears. He’s not overweight, at least not in his face, but his sweater vest is covering a slight paunch in his stomach. Picture frames dot the top of his desk, all facing him, nothing but the backs to me. When he looks at me, he actually does a double take.

  “Sir? Now that’s a change. Close the door, Maxwell.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, and I kick myself for breaking character, but it’s how I was raised. The door closes with only the slightest thud. I take a seat in the chair furthest from him.

  “What is this?” Stephen Garnet asks as he waves a manila file in the air. “I mean,
I can’t believe you thought this would fly.”

  “I-I-” I can’t stop stuttering. “I don’t know what that is, sir.”

  “The Napa Valley campaign. You ignored every bit of research, all the analyst’s notes, and you went off halfcocked again. Made it the Indigo Show and did whatever you wanted, didn’t you?”

  It isn’t one of the files Indigo let me study. “I’m sorry if it wasn’t my best.” I limp out the answer because taking full blame is usually the best way to avoid being yelled at further.

  “Not your best? Indigo, there are typos in your final drafts. Were you drunk? The layers aren’t finalized, and yet you still signed off on it. And the overall idea is wrong.”

  He pulls the ad from the file, and I cringe the second I see it. The model is standing on a long white table wearing nothing but a bikini, stomping a bushel of grapes in stiletto heels.

  “They wanted sophistication and you gave them back alley scandal. I’m sorry Indigo, but this is it, you’re fired.”

  My eyes widen because I can’t. Not just because the real Indigo will still hold me responsible, but because I can’t be fired in the first five minutes of the only job I’ve ever worked.

  “Please, Mr. Garnet. I have other ideas. I know the alcohol industry, and I can do this. You don’t even have to pay me to redo it. It’ll be on my time.”

  “It’s too late. There’s not much more I can do at this point.”

  “I went in the wrong direction,” I say. “It’s been a hard time in my life and I need this job, sir.”

  “You haven’t been to work on time in months, if you come in at all. You don’t pull your weight on projects. You disregard the group and go your own way. I don’t know what to do with you except cut you free.”

  “I swear I’m a new person.” Desperation floods my voice. “Give me one more week. If I’m not impressive by this time next Friday, then fine, cut me loose. Call it my come to Jesus moment, but I’m going to show you.”

  “Come to Jesus? What on earth are you talking about, Maxwell?”

  Certain southern vernacular doesn’t translate I guess.

  “Please, sir. I promise. I’ve changed.” I give him my best doe eyes because my father has always had a hard time ignoring them.

  “Fine, but I’m giving this account to Nix and Spiro. Maybe their age will give it the class it needs.” His chair grinds against the dust on the floor as he rolls back to the long counter behind his desk. “With your penchant for the wild, I’m giving you the Devil’s Harp Ale account.”

  My mouth goes drier than the Mohave. My father’s company? What are the chances?

  “They’ve got this new hard cider coming out and they want an edgy campaign that is geared toward women. I want ideas ready to fly on Monday if you plan to keep this job.”

  “Yes, sir.” I take the outstretched file.

  “Now get out,” he says with a wave of his hand. I’m happy to oblige.

  I take the file back to my desk, flipping pages as I go. The names are familiar on the memos, people I’ve known my entire life. I’ve never been one for fate, but what are the chances that this could end up in my hands on the other side of the country?

  The chair is soft beneath me as I ease in and switch on the computer at Indigo’s desk. I’m fully engrossed in the notes the analyst made in regard to previous campaigns. For years, my father has run ads featuring a man dressed in red with devil horns seducing women with his harp until they drink. The reports show what I already know, men love the idea, and women hate it. With allusions to manipulation and macho bravado, not to mention taking away the power of the women in the commercial and ads, it’s no wonder that they want a new outlook.

  “Are you ever coming up for air?” Delores asks from across our desks. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you read so much.”

  “Oh,” I’m not sure what else to say, “the report is quite thorough. I don’t want to miss anything.”

  She leans forward. I note the way the desk cuts into her softest parts and makes them bulge. “I heard you were getting axed today. How did you get out of it this time?” Her eyebrows quirk up a few times and I don’t like the accusation, or insinuation of her tone.

  “I begged a lot,” I say. “I told him I’d prove myself this week, be a whole new person.”

  “Like you can change that quickly,” she eases back in her chair and I swear I hear it whimper. “You’ll be gone by Tuesday.”

  Until this moment I’d inaccurately assumed that Delores was Indigo’s friend. Now I see it for what it is. Delores is jealous of Indigo and can’t wait to get her job.

  Fine.

  I was top of my class all four years of high school, and an amazing student in college, I know how to excel and beat out the rest.

  “We’ll see,” I say, and my head drops back into the reports to signify that we’re done.

  I spend the next two hours sketching out ideas, writing catch phrases, and researching on the internet. My new work ethic sparks some office chatter. Delores is doing her best to create enough gossip that I’ll be distracted, but it does nothing but fuel my fire. I skip lunch and eat a granola bar I find in the back of the second drawer. It tastes like sawdust, but my stomach stops grumbling. I’ve got this concept ready, but I need to run it by someone.

  “Hey book worm,” a male voice says from behind me, “haven’t seen much of you today.”

  My swivel chair spins and I take him in. At least 6 foot, likely a few inches on top of that, sandy blond hair with more product in it than I have owned in my whole life. Dimples, not bad there, but a wedding ring on his finger, so it’s hands off.

  “I’ve been busy,” I say and prepare to spin back.

  “Whatcha working on?” He moves closer. I’m trapped by his arms, one on the back of my chair, one on my desk, and his face well inside my personal bubble.

  “Devil’s Harp Ale account.” I shove my file in his face to force the space between us. “What do you think?”

  Not even a cursory glance. “I think everything you touch is gold.”

  “Yeah,” I speak slowly because the only words I can think of are insults, “you didn’t even look at it.”

  “I don’t have to.” He snaps his fingers. “I need something from the supply closet, can you help me find it?”

  It’s a strange request, but he acts as though it’s normal. “Sure,” I reply and smooth my skirt as I stand. “What are you looking for?”

  The man whose name I still don’t know leads the way. “Those double pronged file folders. I can never seem to find them.”

  I can’t help but notice that quite a few people are watching us walk to the closet. If they’re so interested, couldn’t they go and help good ol’-what’s-his-name?

  “After you,” he says and swings the door wide open.

  I walk in and begin searching the shelves for the files he’s looking for. Knowing how many times Reg sent me looking for things in his kitchen that were right under his nose, I figure this will be a quick fix. The door shuts and the light darkens. I spot the files on the top shelf and reach to snatch a few.

  “Look, they’re right here, silly.”

  His arm snakes around my waist and his lips press against my neck.

  My whole body goes rigid.

  This can’t be right.

  Indigo or not, I won’t cross this line.

  My hands plant into his tailored shirt and I shove him back with all my strength.

  “What are you doing?” I demand in a terse whisper.

  “Looking for folders,” he says with sarcasm, like this is a joke. He moves toward me as if nothing happened.

  I shove the folders in his face. “Here, they’re here, not down my blouse.”

  He actually has the nerve to roll his eyes. “Really? What happened to ‘Oh Fynn, I need you’?”

  Fynn. Fynn.

  I reach back in my memory for my flash cards.

  “Fun for a short break.”

  Oh gosh, did she
really make out in the supply closet with this dirt bag?

  “Married, kinda.”

  That makes sense now.

  “You’re married,” I say. “You should know better.”

  “I thought you liked that,” he whispers as if it’s a come on. “You said I have to keep the ring even after the divorce is final.”

  My stomach lurches at the thought. “No. No to all of this.”

  Fynn takes a step forward and I stumble back into the shelving. “Ease up,” he whispers, “let’s have a little fun, Indie.”

  Control.

  Everyone wants to control me.

  Everyone seems to think I don’t have the right to choose what happens to me, but I do.

  I have every right and that’s why I slap him as hard as I can. The sting in my hand brings tears to my eyes. He’s holding his cheek. The one light bulb of the storage closet catches the glisten of tears in his wide eyes.

  “Go home to your wife,” I snap at him. I shove him again and fling open the supply closet door.

  The entire office is frozen in time. How loud were we? Every eye is locked on me. I have no words, so I start for my desk. Even with my back turned, I can tell Fynn has stepped out because a rush of whispers run over the office.

  “Do you see that mark?”

  “She slapped him.”

  “I can see all five fingers!”

  That last one makes me smile, and better yet, it gives me an idea.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  “Sir?” I knock softly on Mr. Garnet’s door. “I wanted to run an idea by you before I take it much further.”

  “That’s what the analysts are for,” he snaps, and I know I’m still in boiling water.

  “Yes, I agree, but considering the thin ice I’m on, I want to make sure it’s the right direction before I spend the weekend on it.”

  His chair spins so he can face me, elbows on the desk, chin smashed into his palm. “Fine. Shoot.”

  “Okay,” I take a deep breath because my knees are literally shaking. This is my first pitch, ever. “I was thinking about the past campaigns and how the devil is seducing everyone. This new apple ale gives us an interesting opportunity to visit the biblical story of the Garden of Eden. Now in the story it’s usually told that Eve was tricked by the devil, that she gave up her power so to speak, but the way I want to play it is the other way around. Eve engineered the whole thing. She’s in control.”