My Escort (7 page)

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lowly but surely the day passed over. There was much to organize. We had the usual dull Monday morning meeting, complete with tedious briefs by the department chiefs. We always acted civilized, but we cut one another down with sharp words. Although we were a magazine and had to work well with one another, it seemed no matter what, the separate departments were always competitive, even though without one another no one would be successful. This behavior was highly encouraged by Debra. When I first became her personal assistant she said others worked better when competitive rather than holding one another’s hands and skipping alongside one another. The logic was an obvious indicator of her personality. But she was the boss.

I long ago gave up on personal opinions because they were so quickly shot down by Debra. She once considered my ideas and even nurtured my concepts. But after those first very short six months, she had turned on me, expecting so much more from me. But for what reason, I had no idea.

It was yet again another day when I had no time for lunch. I followed Debra as we discussed our next edition’s photo-shoot. It went on a lot longer than usual as Issobelle was struggling with the new male model. His poses were awkward. I supposed not everyone had a photogenic appearance. It still struck me as bizarre that he was to claim the cover if he didn’t connect with the camera. Although he was a well-known, handsome chef in the bustling CBD of New York, he really didn’t have a knack for the camera. But as he wasn’t a model by profession, it really was Issobelle’s responsibility to make the picture work.

I suggested to Debra that perhaps we should organize a new model, someone generic and experienced. We could keep the journalist’s piece on the chef. But we really had to have a model that would make the readers want to initially pick up the magazine. Issobelle quickly agreed with me, saying she couldn’t do much more with these photos, but Debra shot me down and simply stated I was wrong.

As soon as it was over I had to bust out a pace that would put an Olympian to shame. Next on the list was overseeing the catering. Within a short thirty minutes, I managed to organize the cafeteria into a classy function room, complete with champagne, and silver and gold balloons. I had even given the humble microwave in the corner a makeover. The long dark-blue marble counter and silver fridge even seemed to complement the decorations. If I had the time and notice, however, it would have been far more spectacular.

Silver ribbon streamed from the white roof. The white marble floor had small gold confetti scattered over it, which trailed through the glass doors and around the glass walls which enclosed the cafeteria. I pushed the elegant white tables with their sleek black chairs to the side of the room, creating a space where the staff could mingle and talk. It was a decent sized room, which was why if we had guests or held small functions we would use this one. Next to the cafeteria was the sales team’s room, who enjoyed a chuckle when I almost fell over whilst trying to attach tinsel to the roof.

Finally my task was complete, and with no time to spare as everyone swarmed into the room, laughing and jostling with each other. Spirits were high as the sound of champagne bottles popping punctured the room. It was a festive group that ran the magazine. Although we often had our differences and debated them quite freely, everyone compensated by drinking together happily, excessively even, when the company paid for it. It was a chance to gossip and to laugh together.

I was just arranging some trays in the kitchen area when Cassidy bounced to my side. “You did a great job,” Cassidy beamed with a glass in her hand. “I am going to pretend this was for my birthday.” She giggled loudly before suddenly sobering up.

“Speaking of a great job... you know how you were going to submit to Debra’s wrath and be patronized about your boyfriend’s dedication? Well, it seems like fate may have slightly intervened,” she smugly said, looking over my shoulder.

I furrowed my eyebrows at her in confusion. Fingers lightly brushed over my shoulder and I spun in shock at the familiar touch, almost spilling my own champagne in the process. Damon stood in front of me, dressed in black polished shoes, a salmon collared shirt, and firm fitting black pants.

“What are you doing here?” I blurted out.

“You have my wallet? I know you said to meet you at yours, but I was driving past the neighborhood and thought I would stop by. Reception said I could find you in the cafeteria,” Damon said casually, placing his hands in his pants’ pockets.

“This isn’t the best of times,” I said, quickly looking around for Debra’s sharp eyes.

“Hi, I’m Cassidy. It’s funny you’re here, actually. Debra was expecting you to come to this party as Clover’s boyfriend. And here you are,” Cassidy mused.

I felt red flush across my cheeks as I gave her a dirty look. “I didn’t want to bother you again. I wasn’t sure you’d want to, you know, after last night...” I admitted awkwardly.

Damon leant toward me and kissed me on the cheek.

I froze under his soft lips and stared at him in shock. “What was that for?” I asked, straightening my blouse uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry I’m late, then,” he said with a smile. His eyes lingered on mine for a moment as my heart raced.

Cassidy excused herself by calling out to a friend nearby. I cast around for something to say. The atmosphere felt thick and I needed to dispel the tension. “I don’t have your wallet here. It’s at my apartment,” I stuttered.

“That’s okay, we can get it later then,” he said, looking around the room. His brown hair wasn’t as slicked back as it had been the night before. It had more of a messy, rough look to it. It framed his strong, muscular face more, causing my heart to melt immaturely at the sight. I wanted to slap myself, knock sense into myself so I could cool myself down. I was acting like a teenager.

              “You’re not wearing a suit,” was all I managed.

“When I arrived at your apartment last night you were wearing sweatpants,” he reminded me with his eyebrows raised playfully.

“I didn’t ask you to follow me home,” I smiled, trying to gain my confidence again as others watched us.

“So, what are you going to do about your ingenious Fake Boyfriend plan,” he teased as he leaned against the fridge.

We were alone in the kitchen area, but he had lowered his tone, and instinctively, I had stepped closer to him. From the corner of my eye I was dimly aware of a small group of women—some models, in fact—who were whispering in excited tones whilst looking our way. I couldn’t help but feel smug when I saw that he had not even registered their existence. He was looking at me.

“Ah... well,” I mumbled, still embarrassed by my stupidity about the situation. Debra would only ask more questions about him. “Well, I guess I am going to have to be honest.”

“I still don’t understand why you are here when it sounds to me like your boss makes your life a living hell,” he said sympathetically.

I had always just kept working, and yet when Damon questioned it, for some reason, so did I. “I don’t know...because I believe it will get me where I want to be. I mean it has to, and besides, it’s not like I can just leave. Anyway, I don’t think this is the place to be having such a discussion.” I glanced at the women whose eyes still lingered. I knew their attention was not on me, but still, this was the worst place possible to discuss it.

Someone roughly pushed past me, which jarred me against Damon. I automatically put my hand against his hard chest to steady myself, whilst simultaneously trying to steady my full glass. Damon’s reflexes were just as quick, and one hand settled on my hip. My face was now centimeters from his. Almost imperceptivity, his lips parted. I was dimly aware of his pulse, which beat rhythmically beneath my fingertips. After a long, intense pause, he looked down to where my champagne had colored a small spot on his shirt a darker pink. He smiled easily, but I turned redder, realizing I had spoiled his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, composing myself.

He shook his head slightly to indicate that it was okay, and moved his hand to my arm. I stepped back from him slightly, but we maintained eye contact. His deep dark-brown eyes seemed to swallow me as my heart raced. His hand slid down my arm and to my wrist where he held it for a moment. I couldn’t look away from him. It was only when I looked at his hand clasped around me that he also seemed to notice his lingering touch. He pulled away with a tentative smile.

What was that?
I had been with men before, but none had ever consumed me in such away, creating a fire like no other through my whole body.

“Let me clean that for you,” I said in a flustered tone.

When I turned to get a cloth, I saw that Cassidy was in the kitchen. I knew then who had pushed me, and why. She had always been a bit of a meddler. She had tried this trick a year ago with a journalist who had expressed an interest.

“Clover, its fine,” Damon said reassuringly.

“No, I will clean it.” I moved to the kitchen sink, looking for a cloth. I found a clean one in a drawer, and after wetting it slightly, I began wiping over the stain on his salmon shirt, embarrassed. It looked like an expensive shirt and it had a light, silky feel.

“Clover, really, it’s fine,” Damon repeated kindly, pressing his hand over mine to make me stop. He took the cloth out from my hand with a small smile. “Really, it’s okay.”

I smiled again in embarrassment, still flustered from our close contact. I could tell he was too by the alert way he looked at me. Luckily Cassidy saved me from thinking of something to say back.

“Would you like a drink, Damon?” she asked from behind me. I gave her a glare, insinuating that bumping me into Damon was not necessary. She bit her lips, hiding a small smile. “I’ll just grab you one.”

As Cassidy walked over to where a group of women stood by the champagne, Damon began to laugh. He took a seat at a nearby table, and invited me to do the same.

“What are you laughing about?” I asked inquisitively, still standing in front of him.

His hands were now tucked into the pockets of his pants. “Cassidy seems nice, and... determined,” he chuckled. “What did you tell her about my services?” Although he was still smiling, I could hear a hint of curiosity in his tone.

An awkward smile spread across my face and I took another sip to cover my embarrassment. Perhaps he thought I had been gossiping about him.

“Ah Damon, you could make it,” Debra interrupted us. She opened her hands, welcoming him as she walked over to us. Her hips were swinging from side to side in an exaggerated motion. Her makeup had been freshly reapplied, I noticed, and her once neat bun had been thrown over in favor of locks that flowed freely down her back. I stopped myself from rolling my eyes at her. Her motives were so obvious it made me feel almost sorry for her. Poor Gary.

“Good afternoon, Debra,” Damon said politely, welcoming her into our already awkward conversation. But his face had assumed his professional mask of charm once again. There was no indication on his face or in his body language that he had been in any way flustered.

Cassidy walked over with a joyful beat to her step. She handed Damon the glass of champagne, pointedly eyeing Debra’s proximity to him.

“You might actually be just the person I need to see,” Debra announced. “You see, only a few days after Issobelle Sherain signed her contract, she has become disgruntled with her first model. She now refuses to use any of the photos—”

“Are you serious?” I interjected quickly. It was the first I had heard of it. And it was me who had to organize the models’ photography schedule and approve the concepts. Of course everything was watched over by Debra, but any problems usually came under my notice first.

If Issobelle was already complaining about her first model, I was certain this might become a regular problem. And we have no contingency plan for the cover of the next issue. I could bring forward the approved vision for the following month. But to bring everything forward would then put the staff under a large amount of stress.

I feared that Issobelle might be just as difficult in other shoots. Although we both agreed the chef was not the greatest model, after Debra firmly decided against changing the model, I was surprised that Issobelle had so readily disregarded her orders. Although it would now be my headache to fix this all, I couldn’t help but respect Issobelle slightly for standing up to Debra in such a way.