The Plan (2 page)

You know, as if it would’ve escaped mine or anyone’s notice that they work in the same place as this guy. You could pick him out in a Cecil B. DeMille crowd scene.

This was not the most stellar plan. I just wanted to steal a moment. Get a tiny bit of eye contact. It would be a welcome pick-me-up after such a dud date. Plus, I must admit I put in a little extra effort today; it’s a rare Good Hair Day with big, fat waves rather than motley curls. The kind of day where you’d refer to your hair in terms of descriptive endearment such as “auburn” or “chestnut” rather than most days when you just want the brown lot of it out of your way in a hair band and be done with it.

I have even broken out my favorite turquoise wrap skirt, plus eye shadow put on in front of bathroom, rather than rearview, mirror.

No judging. Text and drive is a big no-no, but to commute and multitask is an aged and revered tradition which must be upheld. These are dark times. Darker still if we must forego the snooze button.

His phone continues to be the most interesting thing ever.

Frustrating. Another oh-so-casual sidestep and I’m positioned well within his radar zone. In a last ditch effort to generate a blip, I let my keys hit the floor and fail to bend fully at the knees while retrieving them.

I will chastise myself later for stooping to such adolescent, second-string cheerleader tactics.

And by chastise, I mean snarf a Reese’s.

Not even tinny, metal clanking sounds break his concentration. Unfazed. He either doesn’t notice or could not care less.

The doors swoosh open on our floor, and he exits swiftly. Not even a sideways glance.

11:05 a.m.

*
Location
: In my box, like a good Schrödinger’s kitty cat.

“W
HAT’S
T
HE
S
OONEST
Y
OU’VE
G
OT
?”

Madeline, with a pencil behind her ear and looking not unlike a real bookie, peruses her chart. “Bert has end-of-day…today.” She laughs and shakes her head. “Wow, that’d be a record. He’s got confidence.”

Still peering over the cubicle wall Madeline and I share, I look out across the office tundra to spot and evaluate the personal assistant who walked through the doors for the first time approximately twenty-seven hours ago. Tidy, strawberry blond bun; pencil skirt; gray shirt with only top button undone. All in the positive column. It appears she has managed to read the past assistants’ file on Canon’s preferences, and brought the right coffee, and kept out of his way. She looks perpetually busy and nervous.

All signs indicate that she is going in the long-term column.

I dangle a twenty over the partition.

Madeline snatches it and huffs in playful exasperation. “What’s your bet?”

I purse my lips as I contemplate. “When did you say the board meeting was?”

“I didn’t.” She half-smiles and looks at me knowingly.

“That’s a lunch meeting today,” Bert pipes up from across the aisle. “She already booked Bread in Captivity for the food, but your friend said they’re understaffed this afternoon and can’t squeeze in another delivery. So that assistant is picking it up herself.” A snort escapes him as he tries to keep his laughter contained.

“Wha—? She’s going off-site right in the middle of a meeting?” I feel the blood drain from my face. That is a disaster in the making. “I can’t watch. Don’t you think we should warn her?”

“Oh, Emma.” Madeline tsks up at me. “You’re such a softy.”

My heart clenches. Just thinking about the tongue-lashings I’ve heard reverberate through those walls for lesser offenses causes me to cringe. No one deserves the kind of hellfire that would come from being absent without leave during a critical meeting.

And it appears Canon considers all meetings critical.

Critical. Maybe that’s what
Alaric
meant in ancient Gaelic…

In my estimation, the person who these personal assistants were assisting was not completely unreasonable; of course, it’s easy to be objective from my safe vantage point. I’m not interested in loitering on the Grassy Knoll.

Canon is particular and demanding. He’s busy and paid to think. The few times I have heard him dress down someone—and, let’s face it, if he is speaking to someone, he is insulting them—it’s all centered on talk of “impacted productivity” and “wasting” his time.

I have never spoken a word to him, nor has he to me, but I have studied him every day for going on a year. He has high standards and low tolerance. Very low. Subbasement low. Everyone knows it. Everyone stays away.

Everyone who can, that is.

I can’t look away.

Alaric Canon is the single most attractive man I have ever seen. Bar none.

He’s the guy you wish Jennifer Aniston would be with just to get back at Brad.

Scientists should extract his cells and use them in electromagnetic experiments. Those tubes that can destroy the planet if the particles align improperly. Something along those lines. I would look that up if I had time. Maybe when I’m researching ancient Gaelic.

When he passes through the lobby on the way to his corner office, it’s like looking into the sun—in all the good ways and the bad.

From what I can discern, he’s also the most stern and unforgiving individual ever to grace the world with his glorious presence.

He is hard and fierce. There’s something both hawk-like and leonine about his features. Predatory. A lightning storm of power, terrifying and beautiful.

Thankfully, most of the office has a fascination with him as well, albeit a different one, so my fixation doesn’t stand out like it might otherwise. Others watch in morbid curiosity to see how long those who work for him last and what they have done wrong to get their asses handed to them. Madeline runs the pool for PA terminations. There’s a separate pot estimated at around $400 waiting for the day one gets their pink slip and is not reduced to tears. Canon is legendary for cutting to the quick. He made a former Navy SEAL cry.

I have the luxury of distance. I’m certain a few moments behind that thick, cherry door and I would be quite over my little crush. Surely someone who tore through people like so much silt is grating to be around.

He has to be an ass of epic proportions.

He has an epic ass.

I’ll take “What is Irony?” for $200, Alex.

The (non)incident in the elevator this morning continues to irk me. I’m deeply considering squeezing some lemonade out of it and using his lack of attention to my…details in order to motivate myself, for personal progress. Just once I would like to have him notice me, to look appreciatively at me, a chink in his armor of sorts. I want to see if I can coax a glimmer of humanity from him.

It is a goal. I have a plan.

While I can afford to observe him from a safe vantage point, those poor PA suckers are a different story.

They are the ones in the trenches. I learn from their mistakes. I tell myself it’s so I can play along, place winning bets, supplement my meager income through their misfortune, but honestly, it’s primarily to support my shoe addiction.

I know his favorite coffee, its substitute, and the proportions of cream and sweetener. I know he prefers oat to wheat and never, ever rye.

There’s something he favors about conference room C; I suspect it’s the projection equipment. For all his perfectionism, he manages to drip on his tie fairly often. He never sends red roses. No one gets the chance to interrupt him twice.

All in the name of winning the office pool. That’s what I tell myself I watch him for.

I know I’m lying.

Madeline waves the tattered green bill in front of my face, breaking my reverie. “So, Emma, what am I putting you down for?”

“I just cannot stand idly by and let anyone go through that.” I start toward the redhead’s desk.

“If you fix it, I reserve the right to change my bet,” Bert says and bolts out of his chair.

I nod in agreement and smooth my hair and skirt as I approach the PA’s desk.

The air crackles thickly the closer I get to her desk, to Canon’s door. Behind her, behind those solid walls, I picture him in his crisp white shirt, pacing while on a conference call.

“May I help you?” The PA
du jour
doesn’t even bother to look up from her papers.

“Actually I think I can help you.”

This gets her attention. She turns her head and narrows her eyes. “Oh, really? And just what makes you think I would need your help?”

Wow, she is brusque. I shrug it off. “I can run out on my break and pick up the lunch order for you.” I force a smile. Her demeanor is so off-putting. I tell myself that anyone would be on edge in her position.

“That won’t be necessary,” she snaps and spins in her chair.

“Oh.” I’m not prepared for this from her at all. “I had heard you were going to have to pick it up yourself. It sounds as though you have made other arrangements. Good.”

She’s so defensive, and I can’t figure out why. But she’s going to let me know.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you, missy.” She stands and pokes her long fingernail in my chest before I can shrink back. Her red polish glares up at me from her peep-toe pumps. “You staring over here, salivating. You want this position. You think you can show up with the delivery and take the credit. Well, you’re out of luck. I have done my homework on him, and I am not going anywhere.”

Oh, sweetie. I wouldn’t do your job for anything
. I swallow back all the things I would like to say to this crass and unpleasant woman and depart, giving her a simple nod.

It’s not really a nod. It’s a goodbye.

“Put me down for twenty bucks and two p.m.,” I say to Madeline as I pass her desk. “Today.”

“What?” she and Bert say in unison.

“She doesn’t want any of my help.” What I don’t say is that she’s got acrylic nails, is chewing bubble gum, and wearing open-toed shoes with hosiery.

I don’t know about her, but I have done my homework.

Day of Employment:
360

10:18 a.m.

Y
ESTERDAY
, A T
EARFUL
M
ISS
S
TRAWBERRY
B
UN
collected her personal effects and left the premises at 2:30 p.m.

I was off by about half an hour with my bet, but I still took that money and added it to my shoe kitty while Bert shook his head. Poor guy got wrangled into taking notes during the board meeting. During that time, I made sure I was as scarce as intact hymen the morning after prom. I can only imagine what that atmosphere was like. It seems the lunch order took longer than expected, and the PA was late getting back. Shocking.

2:58 p.m.

*
Location
: Break room.

*
Caffeine
Dependency
: Approaching twelve-step program territory.

T
ODAY
, T
HERE
I
S
A T
HINNED
C
ARPET
P
ATH
worn between here and the cubicle in which I spend the bulk of my days tethered like veal. I have never ventured to the coffee machine this often before. We’re forming a bond. We may have to be introduced as Mr. and Mrs. Coffee at this weekend’s upcoming office holiday party.

Alternative Dispute Resolution class last night coupled with two final take-home exam briefs due tomorrow have Nosferatued the life from me. My get-up-and-go has got up and gone. Of great concern is that this end-of-semester stress coupled with demands at work and life in general may invoke the lanky, bearded spirit that manifests in my nightmares during periods of turmoil. Beside the coffee pot, a collection jar of shiny silver and an inordinate amount of patina tinged copper catches my eye.

I shudder. Put a fistful of coins in that jar and a pin in that thought. I have been lucky thus far. No need to jinx it.

Down the hallway, I can hear the telltale rumblings of an international conference call. On a hunch, I peer out of the break room entryway just in time to see the door swing open. Canon exits and makes straight for his corner of the office area. Just before the conference room door clicks shut, a collective sigh reverberates from within the room, as if the tension of the entire place decompressed upon his departure. I doubt it is a cheerful call. Our numbers are down. I don’t know this for a fact because I don’t generate those particular reports, but I have observed the general morose climate and that the volume of requested estimates and orders are on the decline.