On the Brink (Vol. 1) (The On the Brink Series) (4 page)

Chapter
Seven

Thursday
was a dreary, drizzly day, with the promise of winter in the chilly air. As I
emerged from the subway, the gray sky sat heavily over the office towers of
Kendall Square. I was ahead of schedule for once, a full half-hour early, so I
decided to treat myself to a latte at Starbucks.

I
paid for my latte, and sat down. Sipping my hot drink, it occurred to me that I
might as well catch up on email. I pulled out my phone and opened my mailbox.
Tapping through its contents produced nothing of importance. The usual junk
mail. A couple emails from students offering excuses as to why they had missed
class.

Realizing
that it was time to get going, I stowed the phone, picked up my briefcase and
umbrella, and headed for the door. Unfortunately, the drizzle had turned into a
downpour, and the wind had picked up. Although I didn’t have far to walk, it
would be difficult to get to work in even a semi-dry state.

Positioning
my umbrella against the wind, I exited Starbucks. Rainwater pooled in potholes
and eddied around street corners. I picked my way around the worst of it,
attempting to keep my feet dry.

For
the first couple of blocks, I managed to stay reasonably dry. Then, just two
blocks from the shelter of Manning Tower, a wayward gust of wind seized my
umbrella and blew it inside out. I gripped the handle desperately, trying to
save the umbrella, but the strong wind ripped the cloth away from several of
the metal ribs, and the cold rain drenched me to the bone in a matter of
seconds.

Splashing
toward the next curb, I spotted a metal trashcan and hurled my traitorous
umbrella into its depths. Through the rain in my eyes, I glimpsed the twisted
ribs and torn cloth of two more dead umbrellas at the bottom of the trashcan,
keeping company with my recent addition to the collection. Despite my
predicament, I had to laugh. At least I wasn’t the only one suffering a
near-drowning experience.

Trudging
the remaining block, rainwater cascading over my face, squelching inside my
shoes and dripping from my body, I finally reached Manning Tower. I shoved the
revolving door, prepared to sprint to work, where I could lock myself in the
bathroom and wring out my clothes in the sink. The door jerked forward
suddenly, and I lurched into the atrium, colliding forcefully with another
body. Thrown off balance, I staggered momentarily, but managed to stay upright.

“Sorry,”
I muttered, wiping my eyes and looking up. With my usual disastrous luck and
timing, I’d run smack into Craig Manning. Even worse, the collision had left a
large wet spot on the front of his impeccably fitted coat. “I’m so sorry,” I
exclaimed. “I should really learn to look before racing through doors.
Especially when I’m soaking wet.”

“Apology
accepted,” he said with a tinge of amusement. “You work for Berta Klein, don’t
you?”

“Yes,
I’m probably late by now. I’d better get going.”

“You
can’t go to work like this. You’ll only catch cold. My executive suite has
rooms that I use when I need to work long hours, and there’s a dryer. Come
along. Let’s get you dried off.”

Before
I could object, he grasped my soggy arm firmly and led me to the elevators. As
we ascended, I avoided meeting his eyes. The whole situation was just too
embarrassing. Standing beside him in the close proximity of the elevator,
dripping and shivering, I struggled to regain a degree of composure.

The
elevator doors opened on the fourteenth floor.

“Follow
me. My suite’s this way.”

I
trailed him past a large desk with two receptionists, who stared. I couldn’t
blame them.

“What
about Berta?” I managed. “I’m new, and she’s going to wonder where I am.”

“Don’t
worry. I’ll have my assistant call Berta.”

He
led me into a spacious, contemporary office. Through the wall of glass behind
his desk, I glimpsed the river and the Boston skyline. Crossing the room, he opened
a door, concealed in the far wall.

I
followed him through the door, then through several rooms, noting as we went
that his decorator had excellent taste. The rooms and furniture mixed beiges
and taupes with touches of dark, rich brown, and against the neutral palette,
paintings provided splashes of lively color. He opened another door, revealing
a large, pristine bathroom, complete with twin sinks, a walk-in shower, and a
spacious hot tub.

“You
can clean up in here,” he said, opening a closet and handing me a beige,
waffle-weave robe and several large, fluffy towels. “There’s a hair dryer
somewhere in the cabinets. Just leave your wet clothes on the floor. I’ll send
someone to collect and dry them, and we’ll let Berta know you’ll be around an
hour late. You can wait in here until your clothes are dry. Take a hot shower.
You must be freezing.”

I
thanked him with as much dignity as I could muster, given that I was dripping
all over his bathroom floor. Nodding curtly, he seemed about to leave, but then
paused.

“What’s
your name? I don’t think we’ve been introduced.” His gaze locked on my own, and
I felt my cheeks flush. His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t look away. I
felt as if he could see my thoughts, as well as every inch of my body, revealed
in embarrassing detail by my wet, clinging clothing. Uncomfortable, I broke the
connection, looking downward as I spoke my name.

“Juliana.
Juliana West.”

“Craig
Manning. Now go get warm and dry.” He turned away and left the room.

Realizing
that I was shivering, I decided that a hot shower would indeed be the best way
to warm up. Quickly, I peeled off my clothes, and dropped them in a soggy mound
on the bathroom floor. The walk-in shower was a revelation. Tiled in the same
cream-colored travertine as the floor, it was equipped with a massage
showerhead. Thawing under the hot, powerful spray, I stood, blissful, absorbing
warmth from the water.

Eventually,
restored to normal temperature, I reluctantly turned off the shower and reached
for a towel, wrapping myself in its softness. A second towel served for my
hair. When I opened the bathroom door, one of Manning’s receptionists was
waiting outside. An attractive blonde dressed in a chic, light gray business
suit, she smiled and introduced herself.
 

“I’m
Suzanne. Let me get your wet clothes and put them in the drier.”

“I’m
Juliana,” I replied, “and thanks.”

She
put my soaked clothing into a hamper, and carried it out of the room. Looking
around, I realized that I must have been in Manning’s bedroom. The room was
decorated in warm grays and taupes, with a pale hardwood floor. A wall of glass
presented a view of the Boston skyline similar to the view I’d glimpsed from
his office.

A
king-sized bed with an expansive white duvet occupied one end of the space,
while the other end featured built in bookshelves and a walk-in closet. Beside
the shelves, a Corbusier chaise lounge in dark red leather, sat on a soft dark
gray area rug next to a glass-topped table. Above the bed, a colorful painting
of water lilies beckoned.
  

I
couldn’t resist a closer look. The vigorous, layered brush strokes and
distinctive signature were unmistakable. Manning had a Monet hanging in his
bedroom.

Not
wanting to be caught checking out Manning’s bedroom while dressed in towels, I
returned to the bathroom. I easily located the blow dryer he had mentioned, and
swapped my towels for the robe. My long dark hair, thick and wavy, took some
time to dry, but eventually got there.

Once
finished, I noticed that my wet clothes had left a puddle on the floor of the
otherwise pristine bathroom, so I carefully cleaned up after myself, and then
returned to the bedroom and perched on the Corbusier chair. Suzanne had taken
my briefcase as well, presumably to dry it, so I had nothing to do but sit,
wait, and contemplate the full extent of my humiliation.

Reckless
and clumsy as usual, I had run smack into the best-looking man I’d ever seen.
On top of slamming into him—as if that wasn’t embarrassing
enough—I’d been dripping wet and looking like a drowned rat. That he felt
compelled to come to my rescue only proved how pathetic I must have appeared.

Long
minutes ticked past. I stared out the window for a while, and then studied the
Monet. A knock sounded.

I
called “Come in” and rose from the chair as Suzanne entered. She carried a tray
with a steaming cup of coffee and a plate of assorted cookies.

“Your
clothes should be dry in twenty minutes or so,” she said. “In the meantime, would
you like a hot cup of coffee? If not, I can bring something else.”

“Coffee
would be wonderful,” I responded. “Thanks so much.”

She
smiled. “You’re very welcome. I’ll be back soon with your clothes, and Mr.
Manning had me call Ms. Klein. She’s expecting you around six.”

After
she left, I sipped the steaming coffee cautiously. It wouldn’t do to spill
anything here. Deciding to try a cookie, I picked one up and nibbled it
carefully over the plate. A couple crumbs fell on my robe. Collecting the
crumbs and placing them carefully on the tray, I decided against a second
cookie, not wanting to make a mess.

Just
as I finished my coffee, Suzanne returned, carrying my clothes. Dried and
flawlessly pressed, my blouse and skirt looked better than they had when I put them
on in the morning.

“Here
you go,” she said, placing the clothes on the bed. “When you’re ready to leave,
just go out this door into the main living space. Then, take the door on the
right, which leads into Mr. Manning’s office and the reception area. You don’t
have to worry about disturbing him. He’s gone into the city for a meeting.”

After
she left, I dressed quickly, and then found my way back to the reception area
where Suzanne sat behind the large, curved desk.

“Thanks
for everything,” I said, “and please thank Mr. Manning for me. It was very kind
of him to let me dry off in his suite.”

“You’re
welcome. Have a pleasant evening.”

As
the elevator descended toward Perfect Transcripts, I wondered what Suzanne had
told Berta, and what Berta, in turn, had told Moxie. As the elevator reached
the fourth floor, I girded myself to deal with the barrage of questions that
were certain to come my way.
 

Chapter
Eight

When
I entered Perfect Transcripts, Berta was engrossed in a phone conversation. I
gave her a little wave, and she nodded and motioned me toward the transcription
area. Sitting down at my workstation, I put my headphones on and got directly
to work. An hour or so later, Moxie tapped my shoulder.

“Time
for a break,” she said brightly. “We’re dying to hear all about your little
adventure.”

“There
really isn’t much to tell,” I said, following her into the breakroom. Sara and
Crystal were already there, seated at the Formica-topped table. “My umbrella
died an anti-climactic death two blocks from the office, and I got completely
drenched. Mr. Manning saw me in the atrium, and insisted that I come to his
suite to dry off.” I wasn’t about to tell them that I’d crashed face first into
him. The embarrassment was a little too fresh for me to laugh at myself.

“You’re
not getting off that easily,” Moxie said. “What did you talk about? What’s his
suite like?”

“I
didn’t really talk to him,” I replied. “One of his receptionists, Suzanne, took
care of me. His suite is decorated in a modern, kind of Scandinavian style. The
view’s amazing, as you might guess. Oh, and there’s a Monet in his bedroom. One
of the more colorful water lily paintings.”

“You
were in his bedroom?” Sara giggled. “How did you end up there? Boxers or
briefs? Oh, and Moxie will want to know his condom size, of course.”

I
grinned, shaking my head. “Sorry, girls. I wasn’t there to search his room,
okay? He took me to the master bath so I could take a hot shower and wait while
my clothes dried. Then he left to go to a meeting. Like I said, one of his
receptionists looked after me. It was really nice of him to let me dry off in
his suite, though.”

“So
he was a perfect gentleman,” Moxie said. “Sara, you really shouldn’t believe
everything you read.”

“What
do you mean?” I asked.

Sara
explained. “The media are obsessed with Craig Manning. First he became an
international business celebrity with the success of Manning Biotech. Then he
started producing movies and hanging out with Hollywood types. The paparazzi
love him because he makes their job easy. Obscenely wealthy, handsome,
photogenic, always a new model or actress on his arm. Perfect fodder for
gossip. By the way, that suite that you were in today is his fuck pad. We’ve
seen him taking women up there late at night. Gossip aside, based on observation
alone, the man is a sex machine.”

Sara
seemed about to continue, but Moxie put a finger to her lips.

“Shhh.
I think it’s Luanne,” she whispered.

Luanne
entered and began making a cup of tea. “How are we doing, Moxie?” she asked.
“Do you think we’ll finish by Monday?” Her battered tweed skirt hung at a
bizarre angle, and the lapel of her matching jacket held a small gold cross.

“We’ll
get it done,” Moxie said. “The extra hours help.”

“I
can do all this through him who gives me strength,” Luanne announced.
“Philippians 4:13.” Swirling her teabag in her cup, she exited the breakroom.

“That
wasn’t too bad,” Crystal volunteered.

“That
was nothing,” Moxie said. “One time she overheard me and Sara discussing the
finer points of an extremely cute security guard, and she went off like a
rocket, quoting some shit about the desires of sinful nature. We couldn’t shut
her up. Berta had to order everyone back to work.”

“If
you let her do her Bible quote-of-the-day thing and just don’t respond, it’s no
big deal,” Sara said. “She goes back to her desk happy, thinking she’s made
progress toward converting the heathen.”

“She’s
a good worker. I’ll give her that,” Moxie said. “Speaking of which, we’d better
get back to it.” She rose from her chair and headed back to the transcription
area. Sara and I followed suit.

Back
at my workstation, questions flooded my mind. The callous playboy Sara had
described didn’t match the kindness and thoughtfulness of the Craig Manning I
had seen today. But work wasn’t the place to consider these apparent
contradictions. Pushing my questions aside, I let the soothing rhythm of the
work take over. Listen…listen…listen. Type-type-type-type-type.

The
next time I looked at my watch, it was nearly nine-thirty, and high time for a
break. I got up, retrieved a snack bar from my briefcase, and walked to the
breakroom. Thankfully, it was empty. It had been a long day, and I didn’t have
the energy for conversation. I made a cup of tea, and seated myself, unwrapping
my snack bar. I was just finishing when Berta entered, carrying a large pizza
box, Dolce yipping and leaping behind.

“Juliana.
Heard you got soaked today. Dolce and I almost got caught in it during our
walk, but made it inside in the nick of time.” She put the pizza box on the
counter. “Have a slice if you like. It’s sausage, bacon, and caramelized
onions, thin crust, from Emma’s. Once George finds it, it’s good as gone.”

“Thanks,
Berta,” I said appreciatively. “It smells amazing.”

“Emma’s
is the best,” Berta replied. “Dolce, come with Mama. You know pizza doesn’t
agree with you.”

I
helped myself to a slice. Delicious and still warm, the spicy meat and sweet
onions tasted fantastic. As I finished eating, savoring the last couple of
bites, Dolce reentered the breakroom, his little white tail wagging furiously.
Yip. Yip! Dark, liquid doggy eyes communicated desperate longing.

“Sorry,”
I said. “I don’t think Berta wants you to have any.” As I got up, the dog
leapt, with bared teeth aimed at my fingers. I washed my hands and left the
breakroom quickly. I wasn’t about to risk adding a dog bite to this disaster of
a day.

Thankfully,
the remainder of the evening was uneventful, and my late night subway ride and
walk home passed without incident. Once I had finally stumbled into the
apartment, exhausted and grateful to be home, I promptly went to bed, falling
into a deep, well-earned sleep.