A Girl's Best Friend (10 page)
“May I help you?” she asks in that annoyed, get-out-of-here tone.
“I’m Morgan Malliard. I was hoping to drop off a résumé.” And if you’re willing, I’d love to offer hue advice.
“We’re not hiring.” She looks down, blending in with the faux cherry desk.
Be nice. Be nice. Be nice.
“But if you were,” I give her my best San Francisco’s Jeweler smile, “I’d be perfect for this job you have listed here on the Internet.” I hold up the paper Lilly printed for me. “Maybe you could pass my résumé on for me.” I look up at the marquee to see just what it is they do in this office. “Advertising,” I say aloud. To which the redhead mouths “Duh” as though she’s not directly in front of me. One thing about growing up in the city, I’ve learned that people see no reason to withhold their opinions.
I’m not deterred. No one with hair color like that is going to intimidate me. “I’ve done a great deal of marketing for the Union Square merchants and know many of them. Perhaps you could just give this to your boss and have him give me a call.”
“Look, princess—” The redhead has clearly forgotten her hormones today. But like a beacon in the night sky, a man appears. Except when I see how he eyes me, like a lion at the zoo before they throw the meat out, my comfort dissipates. The redhead sees him, too, but it does nothing to redirect her attitude. “We’re not hiring, but when the glass slipper appears, we’ll call you.”
I turn, nodding slowly to let her know I do understand. I mean, would I want to work here anyway? But something leaves my feet planted on the ground, as though I have something to prove here.
The woman refuses to look at me, though I’m still hovering over her. In my head, I keep hearing that little boy: “I see dead people.” It’s the bad shoes. I am completely invisible in bad shoes.
“So did you fill the position you advertised on Friday?” I blurt.
The guy flourishes a big grin. “We didn’t. Are you looking for work, darling?”
Slimy.
Slick, like dirty oil.
Scary.
“Never mind,” I say as I start to back out of the office.
“No, really, what type of work are you looking for?”
Not your kind.
The redhead continues to glare, taking an unnatural pleasure in our wooden conversation. Perhaps in answer to my obvious discomfort she finally offers, “Princess, I’ll give your résumé to the boss.”
“Do you type?” the smarmy guy asks.
“Of course I type.” This is 2005. Who doesn’t type? “As you’ll see by my résumé, I have a Stanford degree in business and work in . . . I worked in advertising for years helping build one of the biggest San Francisco jewelry businesses in the city.”
“Let’s see that résumé.” He grabs the sheet from the redhead, who has rolled her eyes into the back of her head like some creepy puppet.
“I’m looking for a job . . . in advertising,” I add as an afterthought.
“Isn’t everyone? I can’t imagine why; it’s a thankless job.”
I figure, what do I have to lose now? I handled this guy’s type every night of my life wearing my dad’s jewels.
“What kind of work are you looking for?”
I surreptitiously pull
a business card from the last office I entered out from my pocket and read the title. “Account executive,” I say. “I’m an account executive. Excellent with the accounts.”
He laughs. Apparently, I’m not as good as my father at the whole lack-of-knowledge thing and continuing to talk my way out of a mess. You would have thought I might have picked up more of his talent. “Well, if I hear of anything, I’ll let you know.” He allows his eyes to scan me and wets his chops. “I’ll let you know very soon, Morgan,” he says after another look at my résumé.
I need a shower.
Mr. Smarmy disappears from view after the necessary wink. I refrain from comment even though I consider it my duty to pass on to men that winking is not sexy. It just makes them look creepy—although this guy didn’t even need the wink for that. That was an added bonus. And it takes everything within me to not stick my tongue out at the redhead. But painful shoes have certainly cleaned up my attitude.
As I exit the office, I slam into someone in the hallway and I drop the folder that contains all the job leads. I’m bending down to pick them up when I notice that the man bending to help me is someone I recognize. It’s George Gentry.
George and I both gaze at one another, and he thrusts the loose papers at me and stands abruptly. But he doesn’t take his eyes off me, and I can’t tear mine from his.
“Who are you?” I ask. I look at the nearest door, which advertises a law firm, then I look at his suit. “And don’t tell me you’re from
Time
. Who are you really?”
“I already told you who I am, Morgan. You just didn’t believe me. I’m a lawyer. A lawyer late for a meeting.” He turns to leave, but I grab him at the wrist and force him to look me in the eye. They’re deep russet brown, the color of a California redwood, and they have an honesty to them. But I know he’s lied to me so my dreamy fantasies about his character are just that: fantasies.
“You also told me
Time
,” I say facetiously.
He hands me a card. “I never said I worked for them. You inferred that. I was about to give you a great quote I’d read there. Look, I can’t explain to you right now, but someday, Morgan Malliard, when a man isn’t waiting for me to ensure he doesn’t go to prison, I’ll tell you everything.” He places his hand on my arm. “It won’t be long now. What are you doing here?” he asks as he drops his hand.
“Looking for work.”
He eyes the door I just exited. “Find anything?”
“Human vermin,” I joke. “But no, not really a job.”
“I can’t talk here. I’ll be in touch.” He jogs down the hallway, and as I watch him disappear into the elevator he gives me a smile. I honestly hope he’ll wink at me, and I realize it’s not really the wink, it’s the bearer of the wink. But he doesn’t wink.
I scan the card. “George Gentry, Attorney at Law.” I look at the door he just came from. It says “Lemur and Lemur, LLC.”
My dad hired him. The question is why. Is it serious?
Truthfully, I don’t even care. As much as he’s annoying me, George has a trustworthy face (not to mention smart-sexy in the handsome news-anchor mold). And I imagine that if Lilly hadn’t shown up the other day at the spa, I probably would have ended up spilling anything he wanted to hear. I’m a sucker for a pretty face.
Sigh
. I wouldn’t know the truth if it were cast before me in stone. Naïve might be too gentle a word to describe me. Dumb-as-a-box currently seems more apt.
I
t’s been one full twenty-four-hour period without my designer clothes or the heels to go with them. I personally think I’ve learned a lot about character and human potential by the experiment, and I’ve discovered my image is just . . . well, it’s just better off in quality clothing. Study over. Call the fashion journals. I know I sound spoiled, but I long for my comfort zone. Some people find it in sweats; I’m partial to Marc Jacobs. “Where are my shoes?” I ask Lilly when I get back into the loft and toss the Got Milk? bag to the floor. “I’m never going to get a job dressed like this. The receptionists are dressed better than me.”
“I took them back to your father’s house this morning after you left. We don’t have room here, and I thought you’d agreed to the conditions.” She’s bent over her sketch pad. “Trust me, people get jobs without couture, or imagine the unemployment rate.”
Now I could get huffy. I could explain that my father threatened to leave me destitute or that soon my clothes will be last season’s, or even that she had no right to touch my stuff. Or I could just go buy some Dr. Scholl’s corn pads and deal. From the look of Lilly’s lack of sympathy, I imagine that’s what I’ll do.
Switching gears, I pull George’s card from my pocket and I study it, rubbing my hands over the raised letters and thinking of him. His eyes seemed so sincere today. There was an intensity, a scent of importance to him I couldn’t quite understand. But then I remember that day at the spa, and his arrogance, and I feel a sense of anger rising.
“Why on earth would he lie to me? A complete stranger?”
“What?”
“Nothing. I’m just thinking out loud. Do you remember that guy from the spa, George Gentry?”
“Sure. Is he still following you?”
“I think I might have followed him. I met him at a law office today.
“What did you want to do for dinner?” This is a question that’s really wasted on Lilly. She doesn’t care what she eats, or even if she eats. She somehow manages to get enough calories into her slender hips to keep moving and buzzing around life like an ADD bee flowering the whole of San Francisco with her pollen.
She turns her sketch pad, studying the angles. “I’ve got some Cup O’ Noodles in the cabinet. Shrimp or chicken?”
“That is not dinner, Lilly. That is a camping snack. ‘Just add water’ is a direction for a facial substance, not a meal. Do I need to go to the grocery store?”
“I guess you do if my Cup O’ Stuff isn’t good enough for you. Or maybe you could phone Mrs. Henry and have her come by on her way home and create a seven-course meal for you. Cleanse your palette before the pâté and all that. Tell her to bring the good china; mine’s at the shop.”
I drop my hands to my sides and feel my smile disappear. And suddenly everything—the agonizing shoes, the stupid Got Milk? bag, the humiliation of hawking myself to ungrateful companies, not to mention the fact my whole life has suddenly become a whole lot harder than it was even a week ago—comes crashing down on me. I’ve had it with Lilly’s comments. I’m ticked. I’m fumbling with my future while Lilly’s grasping hers by the horns, sketching her spring line with confidence. I’m envious that she just naturally knows what to do in her life and that she has so much initiative that she can push away a perfectly good man like Max and not be the worse for it. I haven’t even had enough initiative to get rid of the cell phone number my ex-boyfriend (I can’t bring myself to say
husband
, and since the annulment is complete, helped along by the fact that we were never legally married, I’m going to stick with
ex-boyfriend
. It makes me sound like less of a loser. Sort of.) keeps managing to call me on.
I cross my arms and glare at my friend. “Lilly, maybe I don’t know all that you know as a street-smart San Francisco girl, but I’ll tell you what—not once did I ever make you feel like less. Not once. When you didn’t have money and couldn’t afford fabric? When your roommate stole your check? Did I ridicule you? No, I gave you my credit card and what you needed.” I feel the knot in my throat rising painfully under the words. I hate conflict (and truthfully,
doing everything my father has told me to do, I’ve never really faced much conflict).
I slip on the excruciating shoes and I exit Lilly’s apartment, slamming the door behind me. It’s only when I’m in the dimly lit hallway that I realize how limited my options are. If I go back home to my daddy’s, everything they say about me will be true, and I will be forced to admit I am inept, naïve, and most likely my mother’s daughter. Of course, part of me wants to whine that it’s not my fault. I know I’ve been given everything in life, and perhaps I shouldn’t have taken it all, but I didn’t know anything different and I never prepared for the alternative. One doesn’t spend her entire life rich and yet contemplate poverty. Maybe as a Christian, I should have done this all along.
The realization stuns me that I truly am twenty-nine with nothing to show for my life except a trail of paunchy old men my dad hoped I’d marry. (And something tells me I can’t exactly print that in the Stanford alumni newsletter.) I do what my father always told me—stand up straight and try to focus on the positive:
I have my degree.
I have my health.
I had good shoes. (It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.)
However, none of these things adds up to a life purpose, and I don’t have the first idea what I could do for a job. My father always just told me where to be, and like a good little lemming, I went. And now, as I stand here waiting for my next cue, there is no director.
But I can’t spend my entire life looking for someone to direct me—I have to make a choice. It’s just at the moment I have no idea what.
As I reach the stairwell, I stop to ponder where exactly I’m going and I hear someone breathing. A dark shadow envelops the wall and crawls up it like an ever-expanding black widow and I jump back, pasting myself against the wall in stark terror as the labored breathing gets louder and closer. The shadow grows, darkening the wall, and leaves me nowhere to run. But just as I’m about to turn back towards Lilly’s apartment, Max Schwartz skips up the last step, letting out a deep exhale. I whimper as he gives me a tender smile.
“Morgan, what are you doing out here?”
Just then, Lilly opens her door and calls out my name. I turn back to look at her, and then to Max again, but I can’t speak. I’m still catching my breath. I grab his hand to let him know I’m acknowledging his presence, and then I rush down the stairs, unsure of my destination, but feeling the desperate need to run. What I wouldn’t give for an Internet-ready treadmill at my gym.
When I get downstairs, there is no car waiting for me. There is no doorman to bring my convertible around. There is only the orange-streetlight glow and the steady rush of traffic noise and rhythm of honking horns.
“Morgan?”
“Ah!” I grab my heart as it pumps furiously.
“It’s me—Nate. Do you need something? A cab, maybe?”
I feel my head bob up and down as an aura of peace floods my senses. Someone to take charge.
Nate pulls out a cell phone and dials for a car. Then he sits down on the stoop with his bag of groceries and telltale San Francisco sourdough baguette protruding from the contents. I sit down beside him, thankful for his small show of chivalry even if I can’t quite place his motive for playing Superman.
“You don’t have your purse. Do you need some money?” he asks and I relish the thought that someone notices me. Anything about me, even if it’s a complete lack of organizational skills. At least it’s not the scarlet letter.
