Chance (The One More Night Series) (20 page)

I overlooked the comment.  I just didn’t see in the mirror what others saw in me.  Never had, never would.  “I’ve actually thought about waitressing.  And I do have experience, though hardly at a high-end restaurant.  Essentially, I shucked pizzas and beers to get through college.”

Lisa held out her hands.  “What you got at Pat’s is experience.  Whoever hires you will likely train you to serve their customers in the manner they expect anyway.  Think about it.  It would give you the money you need, and allow you to look for a job during the day.  If this interview doesn’t work out, that might be the magic bullet.”

She was right.  “Sorry I freaked out earlier.”

“I’m not.  That shit was good.”  Her face softened, and she looked at me with concern.  “I just wish you weren’t going through this.  I know it’s been difficult.  I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked to find something.  It’ll happen at some point, but I’m as frustrated as you are that it hasn’t happened yet.  You deserve a good job.”

“We’re a team,” I said.  “Always have been.”

“Since fifth grade.”

“How’s the book coming?”

“I’m actually digging it.  The zombies are ferocious in this one.  I think I might have the first draft done by the end of this week, and then it’s all about the editing, which is good, because editing is the best part.  You just slice and dice the words, reassemble them, read and re-read, get the book into its best possible shape, and put it out there.”

“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.”

CHAPTER 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.”

CHAPTER 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?”

I tried to keep myself composed.  “I’ve been here since May, and it’s been difficult to find a job.”

“You are aware that the economy is in the toilet, aren’t you?”

“I am.  I just thought that there would be more opportunities here than in Maine.”

“Which brings you to me today.”

“That’s right.”

“Here’s how I view this.  You want to answer phones until you can find a better job.  Why would I waste my time on that?  That will just mean replacing your position sooner rather than later.”

I could feel myself flush.  “Actually, I was hoping this would be a way to get my foot in the door.  I was hoping that if I worked hard enough at Wenn, that someone might see something in me that would allow for other opportunities to open.”

“Is that so?  And how long would you give us for that to happen?  A few weeks?  A couple of months?  Until you found work elsewhere?”

“If the pay was decent, I’d wait until something good opened up.”

“Well, that’s kind of you.”

“Ms. Blackwell, I’m a good worker.  I just need a chance.  If I don’t find a job soon, I’ll need to move back to Maine and give up my dreams here.”

“And that concerns me how?”  She tossed the resume back on her desk.  “Look, Ms. Kent.  I’m not looking for a short-term hire.  I’m looking for someone to fill this position for the long-term so I don’t have to fill it again for another year or so.  Does that make sense?  You’re not in Maine anymore.  You’re in New York.  It’s a big city filled with lots of people just like you who are trying to find work.  Spare me the theatrics about “just needing a chance.”  That’s already being sold in every show on Broadway.  I suggest you get a ticket to a matinee and soak it up.”

What was her problem? 
“Did I do something to offend you?”

“You’ve wasted my time.”

“Actually, I think I walked into an argument.”

“You think you walked into a what?”

“An argument.  You were arguing when I walked in.  Now, you’re taking it out on me.  That’s unprofessional.  I’m not Charles, so please stop acting as if I am.”

The woman sat back in her chair and looked amused.  “Well, look at you, Maine.  Maybe you do have what it takes to make it in the big city.  That’s quite a mouth you have on you.”  She leaned forward and a lock of her black hair fell into her face.  “But we’re not going to listen to it here.  Have a nice day.”

Furious, I stood.  Really?  A three-minute interview?  What had I done to deserve this?  How many times was I going to be dismissed in this city?  I felt another flash of anger, and directed it at this Blackwell bitch just as she had directed her anger at me.  “Have a swell divorce.  From where I sit, it looks like Charles got away from a dragon.”