A pineapple has died a needless death.
9:15 a.m.
*
Location
: Office of Diana Fralin, Wearer of Actual Wonder-Performing Wonder Bra.
“THESE CLOSING COSTS seem exorbitant.” I shake my head, looking at the expense records for the deals Fralin has touted as the most profitable.
“You have to grease the wheels overseas for everything from getting your phone lines hooked up to filing government permits,” she says. She looks at Canon and shakes her head. “I thought everyone knew that.”
I do my best to ignore her and also make darn sure I do not see the look she probably throws Canon at my expense. He excuses himself to take a call.
“And these promo items?” I sift through voluminous printouts. “That’s a huge line item expense. Do you have records for where these product samples went?”
“Our paperwork is in order.” She waves her hand. “Listen, honey, maybe this is all new territory to you, but let me explain how things work in the real world.” She sits on the corner of her desk. I feel my eyebrows disappear into my hair. “Sales reps do just that: sell. If they have to account for where every single individual magnet or trial-size cleanser goes, what nurse gets a pen with our logo, who might end up with a free T-shirt…well, you can see where they’d spend all their time meticulously documenting to please the bean counters rather than selling.”
“I’m not suggesting the level of detail be anything that…stringent,” I say. “But there are concerns with sales in foreign markets. Your international distributors, their tactics, expose the whole organization to scrutiny. If anyone receiving discounts or free items is a state official—”
“Maybe I was not clear, Emma. I am sure you are competent at what you do. This is what I do. Don’t get me wrong. What you do is important; one can’t undervalue the skill of making a good cup of coffee.” She smiles too sweetly and smooths her already immaculate updo. “I’m also very good at what I do.”
I think this is not about work.
“There are those who work for and those who work with.” She traces her finger along the top of Canon’s laptop.
Yep. Not talking about work.
“Listen, let’s cut to the chase,” she practically whispers. “I have an MBA and I earned my way to VP in less than two years. I will run this place when Lawrence Peters’s slow, worthless ass finally retires. I know where I belong, where I fit. And with whom.”
This may be it.
This may be my breaking point. Well, my daylight breaking point.
I may snap and get on the intercom and yell to all who can hear me that I have an advanced degree in technical writing, a law school scholarship, and a recently acquired mastery of my gag reflex.
I’m under attack. I want to tell her that I—courtesy of numerous hours of lectures from my professor who actually helped write NAFTA into law—have a tad more awareness than she does of the recent surge in Department of Justice and SEC prosecutions for things like giving free samples to anyone who works for a hospital in a nation with state run healthcare. Things are different. People are going to jail. Companies are paying hundreds of millions in fines.
But I don’t. Because that is not my role.
I do not flaunt my divided priorities.
I do not assert myself.
I do not embarrass my boss.
And it hits me. I hadn’t even thought about it. I’ve been focused on awkward, morning-after hook-up tension.
He may be embarrassed to have been with me.
Diana Fralin knows her place. I never thought about mine.
I have never before so thoroughly questioned something I have done or why I have done it.
Question myself.
I don’t like that. I’m allowed to celebrate my womanhood, experience what I choose with whom I choose. I am not easy. I’m discriminating.
I have wanted him to notice me, hoped he might desire me. He might not always do so, he might do so and not show it, but there is no denying he desired me last night. I, literally, had proof in the palm of my hand.
The door opens as Canon returns to the room.
“Alaric,” she says, bolting from her desk and bumping my shoulder on her way to him, “your Ms. Baker is quite the go-getter. So very concerned about our foreign trade practices.”
“She is quite thorough,” he says, sounding almost as confused by her comments as I feel.
Fralin taps her chin as though she is just now forming an opinion. It’s for show; she’s plotting.
“Well, she seems to have so much insight. Maybe it would be a good idea for her to spot-check some things.”
Warning bells. They’re ringing.
Canon turns to me. He must wonder what I have been saying. “What did you have in mind?”
Fralin smiles broadly. “Well, I can give her access to a few market segments, let her explain her accusations to the sales people whose records she pulls—of course you’d want to find more passive phrasing, Emma,” she chirps. Canon’s eyes look like they may pop out of his head at the word “accusations.”
She doesn’t miss a beat…or an opportunity, it seems. “I can lend you a temp while she’s working on things.”
She wants me out of the way.
Here is where I’m going to balk. I’m not playing this role under different circumstances.
I’m here for him…for my company.
“I really don’t thi—”
“Mr. LaCygne would—”
She and I talk over each other.
“That will not be necessary.” Canon holds his hand up, effectively cutting us both off. “Give her unrestricted access to everything pertinent. We will go over it. Together.”
“Surely that would be a burden for you, Alaric,” she backpedals.
I, on the other hand, may do a wee jig. Even my plan didn’t fail this miserably.
Walking away, he punches keys on his ever-present phone. “I am not enduring a temp. Ms. Baker is the best I have ever had.”
Suddenly, I’m fine if we’re not talking about work anymore.
1:15 p.m.
*
Location
: Hotel front desk.
*
Luggage Trolley
: Stacked like a Jenga tower.
“BUT I SPECIFICALLY REQUESTED adjoining rooms or ones across from each other.” I’m livid. Distraught.
My hands have taken to gesturing as if independent from my body.
“Our sincerest apologies, Ms.…Baker,” the front desk clerk says after glancing to verify my name. “We can try to arrange for accommodations elsewhere.”
“I have already checked. I gave up two sets of reservations in favor of here,” I say as my hand swings, smacks, and threatens to topple our bags.
I’m both mad and scared. The rooms are in separate buildings at opposite ends of the hotel grounds. I will have to run back and forth. I will impact productivity. I will have to tell Canon. This is the first thing I have not delivered on.
Still at the counter, I call him. The clerk seems like she’d like to leave. Oh, no you don’t. You are going through this with me.
“Canon.” There are voices in the background.
“Hello, Mr. Canon.” I swallow back my nerves and take a deep breath. “There is a problem.”
“Such as?” The voices fade. He must be moving.
“The rooms are several minutes apart.” I describe the grounds and room layout.
He’s silent.
Then he’s not.
“Unacceptable,” he says, fumings. “Put them on.”
I hot-potato my cell to the wide-eyed desk clerk. “This is H—…Yes…It is an unfortunate mix—Yes, I suppose you are right…No, I mean, yes. Yes, there is no suppose.” Her face is as red as the poinsettia on the counter. “Perhaps I could fin—I do understand, bu—I understand…one moment, please…I’m sure your time is valuable…I do need a moment to loo—but…” She’s tearing up. I almost feel badly for her. The fact that she is the person who originally booked my reservation helps to erode my sympathy somewhat.