Annihilate Me (Vol. 1) (The Annihilate Me Series) (7 page)

“Do
you think I did the right thing by keeping most of the length?”

“You
can do more with your hair that way.
 
Any number of things.
 
And
your split ends are history.
 
Thank
God for that.
 
One day, you and your
cheap shampoo will part.”

“I
haven’t done this since we left Maine.
 
I was way overdue for all of it.
 
And if the job at Wenn doesn’t work out, it will just help me when I
look for a waitressing gig.”

“A
server gig?”

“Right.”

“And
it will.
 
But you’re going to land
this job, so we won’t think of the other right now.
 
It’s all about confidence.
 
Looking like you do now, you should be
filled with it.”

But
I wasn’t.
 
I wondered if that day
would ever come.

On
Lisa’s dime, we took a cab to Prada on Fifth Avenue.
 
After trying on six different outfits, I
bought a pale blue suit with a white silk top that fit perfectly and worked
well with my hair color and skin tone.
 
The suit was nearly three thousand dollars, though I scored big when we
found some discounted leather point-toe Prada pumps that cost a third of what
the Louboutins would have cost me.
 
I had to hold my breath when I paid for them.
 
What was I doing?
 
Today had cost me a fortune I didn’t
have.

I’m doing the right thing.
 
I’m investing in my future.

At
least I hoped that was the case.

After
finishing our cheap salads and Diet Cokes at a corner table at
McDonald’s—we had to make a concession somewhere on this ridiculously
expensive day—Lisa grilled me with leading questions in an effort to
prepare me for tomorrow’s interview.
 
When she finished, she seemed pleased by the answers.

“Well,
there’s one thing that can be said for the past four months,” she said.

“What’s
that?”

“Because
you’ve had so many interviews, you’re more than prepared for whatever comes
tomorrow.
 
It’s as if you have your
master’s degree in interviewing.
 
Whatever he lobs at you, you’ll be prepared for it.”

“Do
you think so?”

“I
know so.”

Neither
of us could have known then how wrong she was.

CHAPT
ER TEN

At
ten minutes before noon, I arrived at Wenn Enterprises by cab.
 
The taxi was yet another treat from
Lisa.
 
I owed her big time.
 
Not just for the financial support, but
also for the emotional support.
 
To
make certain that my feet returned home without additional swelling and
blisters, she gave me enough cab fare for a ride back to the apartment as
well.
 
There was no better
friend.
 
I was blessed to have her
in my life and in my corner.

If I get this job, she is so going to
be spoiled with a shopping extravaganza that will annihilate anything in her
zombie-apocalypse world.

I
left the cab, and approached the building, clicking toward it with my new
shoes, which were beyond beyond.
 
I’d never splurged on shoes like these because, frankly, I couldn’t
afford them.
 
They were elegant,
chic, and surprisingly comfortable.
 
I was relieved that my feet were nearly back to normal.
 
But as I crossed the sidewalk, I
couldn’t forget what happened the last time I was here:
 
My moment with Ms. Blackwell.
 
My briefcase smashing onto the
sidewalk.
 
Resumes flying
everywhere.
 
And that God of a man
rushing out of the building to help me retrieve them.
 
All in all, coming here that day had
turned out to be one of the worst days I’ve had since I’d arrived in Manhattan.
 
And now here I was again, invited back
to interview for a position that could change my life for the foreseeable
future.
 
Surreal didn’t even begin
to describe how I felt.

I
crossed the lobby to the reception desk, and tossed my hair neatly behind
me.
 
I had decided to wear it
down.
 
The way it was skillfully
cut, it just looked better that way, especially with my newly chestnut hair
contrasting against my pale blue suit.

“I’m
Jennifer Kent,” I said to one of the men behind the desk.

“Sorry?”

There
were too many people in the lobby.
 
I needed to speak up.
 
“I’m
Jennifer Kent.
 
I have an interview
with Mr. Wenn today.”

“Which
means you need to see Ms. Blackwell.”

Terrific.
 
But I knew that was coming.

“Let
me call and let her know that you’re here.”

“Thank
you.”

He
acted as if he didn’t even hear me.
 
Instead, he spoke into the phone.
 
“A Ms. Kent is here to see you.
 
Waiting room?
 
Oh.
 
OK.
 
I’ll have her come straight to you.”

He
hung up the phone, and said, “Fifty-First floor.
 
Hang a left.
 
Down a long hallway.
 
You’ll find—”

“I’ve
been there,” I said, dreading the moment when Ms. Blackwell would belittle me
again.
 
“I can find Ms.
Blackwell.”
 
I
can sniff her out like a dog on a bone.
 
“Thank you.”

This
time, he actually smiled at me.
 
“My
pleasure, Ms. Kent.”

 
*
 
*
 
*

When
I arrived at Blackwell’s office, she looked up at me, took in my hair and suit,
and then she held up a hand.
 
She
was on the phone again, just like the last time.

“Max,
here’s what you need to know, which is what you already know, but which you
can’t seem to get through that thick head of yours, so I’ll do you the favor of
repeating it again.
 
Charles isn’t
getting my money.
 
I’m
getting
his
money.
 
Got that?
 
God!
 
He’s the one who screwed around on the
living room floor with that slut from Saks.
 
That was documented by our nanny cam and
I have the footage of it.
 
What more
evidence do you need to nail this down?
 
What’s more damaging than what I’ve already given to you?
 
Nothing!
 
I suggest you man up and get the job
done, or I’m firing you and going with another lawyer.
 
Don’t give me attitude, Max.
 
Don’t sigh.
 
Don’t grumble.
 
We both know what’s in this for
you.
 
We both know that you’ll make
a killing off this.
 
So, just shut
up, grow a pair, and get me out of this marriage by the end of the week.
 
You’ve got until Friday.
 
If you screw it up, I’m going
elsewhere.
 
Lots of lawyers would
like me to go elsewhere.
 
Oh, good
day to you, too, you son of a bitch.
 
Get it done!”

She
hung up the phone and looked up at me not with the irritation I was expecting,
but with an exhausted look on her face.
 
“Don’t ever get married.”

I
didn’t reply.

“But
you don’t want to hear that,” she said, looking up at me.
 
“You’re here to see Mr. Wenn.”
 

“I
am.”

She
pushed back her chair and stood.
 
“You look nice today.
 
I like
the suit.”

“Thanks.”

“Looks
expensive.”

“It
was.”

“And
here I thought you were poor.”

“I
am.
 
But credit cards can alleviate
that.”

“A
momentary illusion.
 
Can I give you
a suggestion?”

“Of
course.”

“Do
you mind if I touch you?”

“You
need to touch me for a suggestion?”

“Just
your hair.
 
Trust me on this.”

Trust the Kraken?
 
“OK....”

She
plucked a shiny black stick from the silver-plated pen-and-pencil holder in
front of her, came up behind me and lifted my hair off my back.
 
With a twist and a curl, she raised it
up, flipped it over, turned it again, and speared my hair with the stick,
creating what felt to me like a tight chignon.
 

“There’s
a mirror there,” she said, pointing to the wall at my left.
 
“Have a look.”

I
was right—it was a chignon.
 
And it looked good.
 
As much
as I liked my hair loose around my shoulders, this look was more polished and
sophisticated.

“I
like it,” I said.
 
“Thank you.”

“Another
tip?” she said.

I
looked at her.

“In
the middle of the interview, when you understand the situation and you know the
moment is right, pull out the stick and let your hair fall behind you.
 
Do it naturally.
 
Do it absentmindedly.
 
Do it while you’re talking to him, and
make it seem as if it’s the last thing on your mind.
 
Keep your eyes on his while you do it.”

“What
do you mean by ‘understand the situation’?”

“You’ll
see.”

“What’s
the point of letting down my hair?”

“You’re
about to get the point, Ms. Kent.
 
I’m just trying to help.”

“So,
I have to ask the obvious.
 
After
our last exchange, why would you want to help me?”

“Because
we all make mistakes.
 
Because I was
having a rough day when we first met.
 
I took it out on you, and I apologize for it.
 
I’ve been where you are now.
 
I understand what’s coming.”

“What’s
coming is just a job interview,” I said.

She
smiled at me, and behind that smile was a mystery that was reflected—but
not revealed—in her eyes.
 
“That’s right.
 
So, how about
if we go and see Mr. Wenn now?
 
I
know he’s eager to meet you.”

CHA
PTER ELEVEN

We
left her office and walked down the long hallway to the bank of elevators.
 
Ms. Blackwell pressed the down
button.
 
The elevator door opened
after a moment, I stepped in after her, and she pressed the button for the
forty-seventh floor.

Nothing
was said between us.
 
I touched the
back of my hair and felt almost faint with anticipation.

There
was so much riding on this interview.
 
I could feel my heart ram against my chest.
 
Worse, my father was in my head:
 
Good
luck, girl.
 
You’re going to need
it.

What
I needed to do was focus.
 
What I
needed to do was to believe in myself and not mess this up.
 
Lisa was right.
 
At this point, I was a master at
interviewing, even if I’d yet to land a job.
 
The questions were almost always the
same:
 
“What’s your greatest
weakness?”
 
“Why is this job for
you?”
 
“What are your personal goals
in life?”
 
“How does this job
complement them?”
 
Mix in a handful
of other questions, and you’re shown the door with a quick smile and brisk,
“We’ll be in touch.”

I
took a breath, collected my thoughts as the elevator slowed, and straightened
my back when the doors began to part.

“This
way,” Ms. Blackwell said.

We
entered a floor that was completely different from the floor where Ms.
Blackwell worked.
 
It was
beautifully decorated in masculine browns, from the walls to the furniture to
the hardwood floors.
 
There were no
cubicles here.
 
No areas where
people were typing away or collaborating.
 
In fact, as we moved through the quiet space, there appeared to be no
people, period.
 
At the tall windows
were massive shades, which blocked out the daylight so the artificial lighting—strategically
placed around the space—could create a more intimate, welcoming mood.