Annihilate Me (Vol. 1) (The Annihilate Me Series) (2 page)

“When
can I read it?”

“The
day it’s finished.
 
You’re a great
proofreader.”
 
Her eyes
widened.
 
“Hello.
 
This town is filled with
publishers.
 
Have you considered
that avenue?”

“I’m
a business grad.
 
They want English
majors from Harvard.”

“I
wouldn’t rule it out.
 
You can do
anything.
 
I’ve always told you
that.”

“You’re
the best.
 
I love you.”

“I
love you, too.
 
It’ll get better.”

“I
hope so.
 
It’s only the first week
of August, and this is my seventh interview this month.”

“Lucky
seven.
 
Now, go and take the
hairdryer to yourself.
 
Put it on
cool, blot your face with a clean towel, and air yourself off.
 
I’m giving you money for a cab, and I
won’t take no for an answer.
 
Seriously.
 
Don’t even start
with me.
 
You need air
conditioning.
 
If this new book
takes off, I’ll buy us one for the apartment.”

If this new book takes off, I’m
afraid I’ll lose you, which is another reason I have to find a job.

“OK,”
I said.
 
“But you need to let me pay
you back for the cab when I get a job.”

“Fine.
 
Whatever.
 
Now, scoot.
 
Your appointment is in ninety
minutes.
 
Traffic might be tight.”

CHAP
TER TWO

With
my briefcase in hand, I left our sorry-looking apartment building on East Tenth
Street, and stepped into the baking sun.
 
Thankfully, at least, there was a breeze, which was rare these
days.
 
For the past month, Manhattan
had been an airless sauna with the coals stacked high and some fool pouring
ladles of water over them in a successful attempt to keep the air miserably
moist.
 

I
looked down the street for a cab, and, to my surprise, I didn’t have to wait
long to find one.
 
I held out my
hand, the driver spotted me, pulled toward the curb, and I stepped into the
back seat, relieved to find that the air conditioning was turned to full
blast.
 
I positioned myself so the
cool air flowed over me, and I took a breath.
 
It felt wonderful.

“Fifth
and Forty-Eighth,” I said to the driver, an older woman with a shock of red
hair that was clipped close.
 
“The
Wenn Enterprises building.
 
Or as
close as you can get me to it for twenty dollars.”

The
woman looked at me in the rearview mirror with a raised eyebrow.
 
“I’ll do my best.
 
You know how it is during the lunch
hour.”

“Whatever
you can do, I appreciate it.
 
And
please make sure you leave room for a tip.
 
Unfortunately, five dollars is all I can afford.”

“Don’t
worry about the tip,” the woman said.
 
“Some nice young man just gave me a twenty for a five-dollar fare.
 
We’ll take yours out of that.”

I
met the woman’s eyes in the mirror.
 
Sometimes, this city surprised me with its kindness.
 
“Thank you.”

“Just
paying it forward, sweetie.
 
Now,
you do the same today.
 
OK?”

“Deal.”

And yet another reason why I love it
here.
 
Now, if I can just stay
here.
 
I’ve got to get this job.

We
crossed over to Sixth Avenue, the driver hooked a left past the First Republic
Bank and Jerri’s Cleaners, and we started to move uptown.
 
I kept my gaze fixed on the meter
noticing how quickly we were burning through the money Lisa gave me when I
left.
 
Already, we were at eight
dollars and counting.
 
In this
traffic, I’d be lucky if she got near Sixth and Fortieth Street, let alone
Fifth and Fortieth.

And
I was right.
 
By the time we reached
Thirty-Eighth Street, my twenty dollars was gone.

“This
is fine,” I said.
 
“I can walk from
here.”

“You
going back to work?”

“I
wish I had work.
 
I’m going for an
interview.
 
I think this is about my
hundredth interview in the past few months.”

“Looking
like you do, I’d think someone would hire you in a minute.”

Before
I could deflect the compliment, the woman pressed a button.
 
A receipt started to print, and she
clicked off the meter.
 
“Can’t show
up looking like a mop, now can you?
 
No one’s going to hire a mop.
 
Don’t worry about it.
 
The
fares uptown always pay.
 
I’ll make
up for it.”

“You’re
incredibly kind.”

“Just
paying it forward.
 
I know what it’s
like trying to find a job in this rotten economy.
 
Still pulling myself out of it.
 
I take it you’re not from here?”

“I’m
from Maine.
 
Moved here in May.”

“Without
a job?”

“Just
one of the many stupid things I’ve done in my life.
 
There’s so much to offer here, I thought
it would be easy to find work.
 
Well, at least easier than finding work in Maine, where there are zero
jobs.”

“Nothing’s
easy in New York, sweetie.
 
But pay
it forward.
 
Every day do someone a
kindness.
 
You’ll see.
 
Things will turn around for you.
 
They did for me.”

When
we pulled alongside Wenn Enterprises, which was a gleaming, modern skyscraper
that seemed to catch the sun and toss it back to kiss the sky, the woman
adjusted her rearview mirror so I could look into it.
 
“Do you have a compact?”

“I
do,” I said.
 
I lowered my head and
saw why she asked—despite the air conditioning, my face was shiny.
 
I opened the right side of my briefcase
and removed one.

“I’d
blot.”

“Blotting.”

“Under
the eyes.”

“Eyes.”

“Don’t
forget your neck.”

“Neck.”

“Now,
kill the interview.”

“You
must have some very lucky children.”

“I’m
the lucky one,” the woman said, taking the twenty I handed her.
 
“I remind myself of that every day.”

CHA
PTER THREE

Once
inside the lobby, which was a hive of activity as people stepped into and out
of elevators and crisscrossed in front of me, I approached the reception
area.
 
I was so nervous that my
heels sounded to me like drum taps on the marble floor.
 

A
man looked up at me.
 

“I’m
Jennifer Kent,” I said.
 
“I have an
interview with Barbara Blackwell.”

“Ms.
Blackwell?”

“Sorry.
 
Yes, Ms. Blackwell.”

He
typed something into his computer, read the screen, picked up the phone that
was next to him, and made a call.
 
“Jennifer Kent to see Ms. Blackwell.
 
Shall I send her up?
 
I understand that she’s early, but she’s
nevertheless here.
 
Thank you.”

He
hung up the phone and motioned toward the elevators.
 
“Fifty-first floor.
 
Take a right when the doors open.
 
You’ll find a sitting area to your
left.
 
You’re early.
 
Wait there for a bit, and Ms.
Blackwell’s assistant will come for you.”

“Thank
you,” I said.
 
“Sorry I’m early.”

“Better
than late,” he said.

 
*
 
*
 
*

When
the doors opened, I steeled myself and stepped into the hallway.
 
I saw the sitting area, went to it, and
found it packed.
 
There was no room
to sit down.
 
Fourteen faces looked
up at me, eyes roamed over me, and one fat man stuffed into a gray business
suit that barely contained his girth smiled suggestively at me.

“Excuse
me,” someone said as they brushed past me in the narrow hallway.

“Sorry.”

“Right.”

Christ.

“Julie
Hopwood?”

I
turned and saw a middle-aged woman standing next to me.

“No,
I’m Jennifer—”

“I’m
Julie Hopwood,” a pretty brunette sitting next to the fat man said.
 
She was polished and when she stood, I
thought she looked smashing in her dark blue suit.

“You’re
here for the secretarial job?”

“I
think we all are,” she said.

The
woman smiled tightly.
 
“Right this
way.
 
Ms. Blackwell will see you
now.”

“Thank
you.”

As
she moved past me, she said, “I’ve so got this.”

Seriously?

I
looked over at the fat man, who was staring at me, his lips slightly
parted.
 
Why is he looking at me
like I’m roast beef?
 
I
certainly couldn’t linger in the doorway, so I went over to the chair next to
his and sat down.
 
I put my
briefcase in my lap, and noticed that his face was turned to mine.
 
I didn’t want to engage him, so I
ignored him, snapped open my briefcase, and pretended to look inside for something
until he finally looked away.

Fifteen
minutes later, I caught sight of Julie Hopwood walking past the sitting room’s
door with a contented smile on her face.
 
Then the older woman who had retrieved her a moment before asked for a
Jennifer Kent.

“That’s
me,” I said, standing.

“Ms.
Blackwell will see you now.”

“Thank
you.”

“Good
luck,” the fat man said.

I
raised a hand in acknowledgement and continued toward the woman, who brought me
down a long hallway to the open door of a corner office.
 
Inside, I saw a severe-looking woman in
a chic black business suit sitting at a large desk with the Manhattan skyline
shining behind her in the sun.
 
She
was talking on the phone, but she waved me inside, motioned for me to sit in
the chair opposite her, and mouthed but did not say the word “resume.”

I
clicked open my briefcase and retrieved a copy of it for her.
 

“No,
no,” the woman said into the phone, while reaching out a hand for my
resume.
 
“That’s not how it works,
and you know it, Charles.
 
Speak to
my lawyer.
 
Don’t call here
again.
 
And may I offer you a piece
of advice?
 
Just sign the damned
paperwork so each of us can move on with our lives.
 
It’s been months since I’ve filed.
 
I’m tired of this.
 
I want you out of my life.
 
So do the children.
 
God!”

Without
another word, she hung up the phone, looked down at my resume, and then looked
back at me, anger clearly stamped on her face.
 
“Ms. Kent,” she said.
 
“Hellohoware?”

“I’m
fine, Ms. Blackwell.
 
Thank you for
seeing me.”

“There’s
no need to thank me.
 
It’s what I
do.
 
All day long.
 
Sometimes on weekends.”
 
She scanned the resume.
 
“You’re from Maine?”

“I
am.”

“And
you graduated in May?”

“With
my master’s degree, yes.”

“In
business?”

“That’s
right.”

She
looked at me.
 
“Why would you be
interested in a secretarial job when you have an MBA?”