Wait, what?
“I think there’s been some mistake,” I say awkwardly. “Are you sure I’m supposed to be here? The internship—”
“Lydia left the instructions.” Stanford shrugs. “Sorry. You’re supposed to sweep the lobby first.”
His phone starts to ring. “I need to go. Welcome to Carringer’s!”
He leaves and I feel the lump rising in my throat before his footsteps fade from the creepy hallway. I look around. Is this some sort of test? Or a joke? Why would they do that? No, something is wrong. It has to be.
I retrace our steps up the stairs to the lobby and then find my way to Lydia’s office.
I take a breath and knock.
“Yes?”
The door swings open, revealing Lydia sitting cozily on the couch having tea with Chelsea, the shiny-haired girl from the interviews, the one who was boasting about having the internship locked up.
I stop, confused. “I’m, uh, here for the internship,” I say, feeling like I’m on the edge of a cliff and about to drop. Something is totally off.
Chelsea laughs. “What are you talking about? The internship is mine.”
I turn to Lydia, ignoring Chelsea. “Your assistant called me about the position last night,” I say. I can hear the pleading in my voice but I can’t help it. “Listen.” I play the message on speaker so we can all hear it, and for once I’m glad I never delete my voicemails.
“Oh. Dear.” Lydia actually looks a little sorry for me. “I apologize, Miss Bennett. My assistant was supposed to offer you a clerk position—filing, light cleaning, assisting with deliveries, that kind of thing.”
My heart sinks. “So I didn’t get the internship?”
“No.”
I have to bite back a sudden rush of tears stinging in my throat. I knew it! After all my happiness and celebration, it was just a big mistake.
“Sorry for taking up your time,” I say, glad my voice is coming out steady. I turn to leave, but Lydia stops me.
“So you don’t want the job?”
I stop. “You mean, the cleaning job?”
“The clerk position,” she corrects me. “It may not be what you were hoping for, but it’s a paid position here with the staff at Carringer’s. And who knows? It could be a foot in the door for you,” Lydia says. “You did say you would do anything, didn’t you?”
Chelsea smirks. “Did she?”
“Here’s a chance to prove yourself,” Lydia says. “Perhaps if you can demonstrate you are Carringer’s material, there may be room for advancement down the road.”
“You might actually be able to go near the art someday,” Chelsea adds smugly.
My mind races. I want to walk out and leave Chelsea to her snide bitching, but I did say I would do anything. And I meant it. This isn’t exactly what I wanted, but it’s still a job in the art world. A start. It’d be foolish to turn it down.
“I’ll take it,” I say, determined. Look for the beauty, Mom says in my mind and I nod again. “I’ll take the job. Thank you.”
I spend the next nine hours in the filing room, which is where files go to die. And then they get brought back to life by some poor clerk like me assigned to organize and inventory all the old auction sales.
Really though, it’s not that bad. Better than sweeping the lobby, which I’m sure I’ll have to do tomorrow. Stacking and sorting files lets me read up on the artwork, look at photos of some of the most beautiful paintings and jewelry and furniture ever created, and read up on the auction house’s history. I’ve fantasized about owning an actual Monet or Rembrandt or Rothko. Can you imagine?
At six, I lock up the file room and head upstairs to find Stanford. “See you in the morning.”
“Wait,” he stops me. “I need you to stay late.” He grabs my arm and steers me toward the main auction hall. “A caterer messed up and now we’re short five servers tonight. We need you to cover.”
“I have another job,” I protest.
“It’ll be extra pay, and tips too,” Stanford says. “Please? I wouldn’t even ask, but Her Majesty is taking this out on me. And hey,” he looks me up and down. “At least you’re dressed for it.”
I don’t need to ask who Her Majesty is. Stanford looks desperate, so I sigh, and nod. “Okay, I’ll stay.”
“Treasure!” He claps his hands together gratefully. “Can you start with setup? We need chairs brought out for the auction.” He points to a set of double doors at the far end of the hall. “There are more in there. Set them up in rows like these other ones.”
As I trudge across the marble floor, I consider just how different this reality is from my dream of my first day on the job. I thought I’d be consulting over priceless art, but instead, I’m hoisting furniture and serving canapés. Still, I’m excited by the thought of the auction tonight. I’ve never been to one before. Maybe I’ll get a chance to watch, see first-hand how it all works.
The security doors are open at the back of the auction room, leading to the secure space where they store the pieces waiting to be revealed for bidding, an area normally reserved for VIPs and high level staff. I see the rolling pallet with stacks of white chairs piled on top, but before I can get there, I hear the soft murmur of hushed voices and the click of several cameras. A massive canvas sits on its wheeled frame, surrounded by a few photographers and reporters with small notebooks.
It pulls me in like a magnet and as I get closer I can tell it’s a Rubens, the Flemish Baroque painter, one of the most sought after artists of the seventeenth century. Holy crap! A real-life masterpiece. The Judgment of Paris, a scene of naked goddesses parading themselves in front of two gods in the woods, dancing, showing off their beauty in a contest of the fairest, captivatingly rendered in deep light and shadow.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” a silky voice says in my ear and I nearly jump out of my skin. I turn to find the sexy British guy from yesterday, standing there looking just as gorgeous as I remember. He smiles and it’s like his dimples wink at me.
Don’t swoon.
“A true masterpiece,” I say, hoping that he doesn’t take my rapidly reddening cheeks to mean I’m referring to him as a masterpiece, even if I maybe meant him, too.
“A classic.” He sighs, content. Then he looks at me. “This must be old hat for you by now. Seeing such beautiful art up close all the time.”
I smile. “It never gets old,” I say. “Art is meant to be seen a million different ways.”
He looks surprised, then he nods at me, appreciative. “I feel exactly the same way.” Does he remember me? Or was I just a temporary distraction on his way to the office yesterday, the flavor of the day for his morning entertainment?
“This is from one of my favorite eras.”
“You like the drama of Baroque, do you?” he says, squinting at me playfully. “Are you a drama queen?” Seriously, is he flirting with me because he remembers our exchange, or is this just his MO for interacting with women?
“You know your art,” I say, impressed.
“I better,” he says. “I spend a lot of money on it.”
So he’s a collector. I gaze at the painting again, the women seeming to dance right off the canvas, moving with the deep green shadows in heavy brushstrokes. “I love the deep shadows and shimmering details, like they could walk right out of the painting and just…” I let my voice trail off as I realize I’m rambling. “Sorry,” I say. “I just get excited.”
“Don’t be. I get it,” he says, and it sounds like he means it too.
We turn back to the painting. He’s standing right beside me, and I can feel the heat of his body down the length of mine, the brush of his sleeve soft against my bare arm.
“Just think,” he says, stepping closer so that his shoulder touches mine. “This canvas has brushstrokes that are thousands of years old. Unlike this new tie, which I had to buy yesterday since some klutz spilled coffee all over mine.”