Chapter 7
Ms. Greaves asks a few more general questions about my experience with working as an assistant and receptionist and what I did in my previous positions at the temp agency. Answering those, I relax a bit. My hands stop shaking, and my voice grows stronger and more confident.
And then she asks, “How do you see yourself making a difference in this position?”
My mind goes completely blank. I have no idea. I’m not even sure what the position is, let alone how I am going to make a difference in it. So I just open my mouth and let whatever is going to come out, spill out.
“Well, I’m a very prompt and diligent and hard-working professional, and I will bring those same exact skills and attributes to this position. I will make a difference by being the best possible person for this position, and I will give my best in all situations.”
The answer isn’t great, but it’s not crap either. Ms. Greaves smiles. I hope that she thinks that I referred to the job as ‘the position’ instead of its actual job title because I’m professional – not because I have no idea what position I’m interviewing for.
“Well, Ms. York,” Ms. Greaves says, closing a thick manila folder with my name on it. “I think you will be an excellent fit for this position.”
I nearly lose my ability to breathe. “You do? Really? Thank you. I really, really appreciate it!”
“You’re quite an impressive young woman,” she continues. “Your file checks out well, and the thing that I was particularly impressed with was your ability to think on your feet.”
“Oh really?” I nod. I can’t stop smiling.
“Yes, especially since you came here without having the faintest idea what position you were interviewing for and had never even sent in an application.”
My mouth drops open. She knew! How did she know?!
“Oh don’t worry, Ms. York. It’s okay. You have been pre-selected, and now that I’ve interviewed you, you have been approved for the position.”
“Pre-selected? How? Why?” I mutter.
“Oh, I’m sorry. We can’t discuss those details. What I can do is give you this packet with all the information for you to look over, and you can let me know if you’re still interested.”
I nod and take the packet.
“Please let me know by the end of the day. An email is fine,” she says. “If you’re interested, you start tomorrow morning.”
I nod and say good-bye.
I open the packet at home, sitting at the dining room table and holding my breath. The contract is long and tedious, covering everything imaginable. It’s close to seven pages in length and of a very small font. I skim it looking for the only thing that matters: the salary.
Finally, in the last paragraph on the last page, I see it.
$4000 per month!
Four fucking grand!
I can’t believe it. I never imagined making that much money. I pour myself a glass of wine and read the contract more carefully.
I’m going to be a receptionist, a personal/executive assistant. My duties include answering phones, replying to emails, and miscellaneous other duties including picking up groceries and dropping off packages.
The next two weeks will be my trial period, and if that goes well, then I will get full-time pay: an additional $1000 per month, plus benefits.
Benefits. No other company I have worked with has ever offered benefits, and I’m constantly afraid of going to the doctor when I get sick out of fear of the medical bills that I’d incur. This place is amazing!
I don’t sleep a wink that night and get up around five to get ready. Even though my hair and makeup usually take me less than twenty minutes to do, today I spend a full hour on it. I blow-dry my hair and then flat-iron it, spray it with moose, and curl it with Maggie Mae’s thick curling iron.
I arrive at work half an hour early and decide to go on up anyway. This time the security guard, whose name is Tom, is ready for me. He takes my picture and hands me my badge. The whole process takes a bit of time, and I start to worry that I won’t make it to the 67th floor on time. But Tom assures me that everything is going to be okay.
I smile and wait.
Finally, with my newly minted warm badge in hand, I step into the elevator and press 67. To my surprise, my hands are no longer shaking. The badge with my full name, Annabelle York, and the best standardized picture I’ve ever taken gives me a strange and unfamiliar feeling of confidence.
I am Annabelle York, and I belong here. I was hand-selected as a personal/executive assistant to work at Wild International, and I can really do a good job here.
“Ms. York, you’re right on time.” Ms. Greaves flashes me a smile from her desk. “I like that.”
Instead of the main receptionist desk in the middle of the lobby, there are suddenly two desks sitting before me. One large glass one where Ms. Greaves sits and one smaller, wooden one with the same elegant Scandinavian design where I will sit.
Ms. Greaves turns on the computer for me and gives me all the login information. She also shows me how to answer the phone. “This is Mr. Wild’s office. How may I direct your call?”
“You will be getting all the calls for Mr. Wild today. I will be supervising,” she explains. She shows me all the buttons and what each one means. One puts someone through to Mr. Wild, and the others send the callers to various other departments in the building.
“You will not be putting anyone through to Mr. Wild today. If someone asks directly for him, you tell that person that he is in a meeting and take a message. This is very important, do you understand?”
I nod. “Does Mr. Wild never take calls?” I ask.
“That’s none of your concern, Ms. York,” she says. “But no, that’s not always the case. But until you know him well, you will not know which calls he’s taking and which ones he’s not. So I will take care of that for now.”
I nod. Suddenly it occurs to me that I have no idea who this Mr. Wild is. I imagine an old, ugly CEO or executive man who looks good in a suit but is basically a walking corpse. Someone with a really old wife, and grandchildren. Someone who probably misses seeing his kids and grandkids grow up because of all the hours he puts in at work.
Or worse yet, what if he’s some elderly bachelor who dates twenty-year-olds? Yuck!
I’m about to ask Ms. Greaves about him, but I feel like it’s a stupid question. It definitely isn’t professional to talk about the boss in this way, and I am not going to start my first day here on the wrong foot. Whatever he looks like and whoever he is is fine by me. It’s none of my concern, as Ms. Greaves said.