Still determined to maintain a demeanor of confidence and focus, even if it’s fake, I head into the conference room that doubles as a cafeteria of sorts, where associate orientation is to be held. The room is large, with many tables arranged in dutiful order. A small back room is attached to it and serves as a kitchen of sorts, with a few microwaves, coffee makers and a sink, some cupboards stacked with snacks and mugs bearing the firm’s logo, as well as a couple refrigerators for employees to stash our own food and another one overflowing with goodies.
It’s all set up this way so that lunch meetings can be held here for a captive audience. And the managing partners make no bones about the fact that they provide associates with free soda, gourmet coffee, snacks and often even lunch so that we have no excuse to leave the office. Their goal is to make it so that we will have more time to bill more hours for them.
Reminding myself to focus on my job and not on my ex or my co- workers, I pick up a hoagie and a Coke and try to figure out where to sit. Damn. I don't see Mystery Man among those milling around. I eye the long, rectangular tables and their occupants. I hate having to make decisions such as these.
The Barbies from the bathroom are already here, sitting together on one end of a table. Now that I’m able to see their entire bodies, it’s obvious that they look like twigs compared to me. It’s probably because they spend all their time discussing my alleged cankles instead of eating.
Beside them is a male associate who looks rather nerdy and boring. It seems obvious that he always hangs out with the Barbies, as if he's trying to either have sex with them and/or copy the legal pleadings that they write. Or maybe his social and career ambitions align and he hopes to do a bit of both.
Continuing to look around the room for any other options as to where to sit, I remind myself that I need to network with the partners. But I don’t know too many of them yet, and I feel awkward standing around in my tight- fitting business suit squinting at their unfamiliar faces. So, I sit down beside Monique, the friendly office manager, who’s about the only woman in the room bigger than I am.
“Hi Madilyn,” she says to me, waving a manicured hand.
Then she turns back to a real estate lawyer on her left, with whom she is discussing dogs.
“They still like to go for a jaunt in the mornings, but they’re getting old.”
She faces me again and says, “Madilyn, you have a dog, don't you?”
“Yes,” I answer, “She’s a…”
Someone sits down to my right, and I briefly glance at him.
Oh, my God.
It’s Mystery Man.
He has excellent posture, sitting up straight and looking important. Now that I see what other lawyers around here are wearing I can tell that the outfit I thought was so rebellious is really just the office wardrobe for male lawyers whose schedules are cleared of court for the day.
So, Mystery Man must be a lawyer after all and some kind of a senior partner to boot. But still, he wears his clothes differently— better— than the rest of them. He has a debonair air about him that seems to say he doesn’t give a fuck.
"…rottie mix,” I finish. Once my head clears, I explain further. "Half Rottweiler, half German Shepherd."
“I have dogs too,” Mystery Man suddenly announces. "Three of them."
I turn back towards him and smile.
He’s staring at me.
“That’s nice,” I reply, trying to place him from somewhere other than today.
His face is handsome and chiseled, sun-exposed but still youthful despite his age. There’s no doubt he’s sexy, and powerful. Although the same could be said of almost any senior partner at this firm, he stands out head and shoulders above them all— not only because of his height but also because of the aura he exudes.
“In fact, I have two Shepherds and a Rottweiler,” he says, warmly.
He’s obviously a dog lover, as am I.
“No way,” I say, dropping my professional demeanor as I become excited about the similarities. What are the chances? “That's crazy that I have a Rottie/ Shepherd mix and you have both breeds.”
He beams, and I suddenly realize that all the Barbies are staring at me with their mouths wide open.
Then I realize who I’m talking to.
Asher Marks is sitting beside me. And he’s acting like we’re old friends.
I momentarily freeze, but as soon as I snap back to reality, I can’t help but sneak a peek back over at the Barbies. Their perfectly lipsticked mouths are still hanging open, as they stare at me in obvious disbelief.
“I’m Asher Marks,” he says, extending a hand for me to shake.
“I…” know, I want to say.
I know. I’ve heard so much about you. Most of it just a few minutes ago, as I was hiding in a bathroom stall.
But I catch myself just in time.
“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Marks. I’m Madilyn St. Clair.”
“I know,” he says, not bothering to catch himself like I did.
He stares straight at me, as if he’s reading my mind.
“I know who you are,” he repeats.
The chill from this morning returns to me. I remind myself to use good posture and try to sit up straight like him. I feel super uncomfortable and wish I had either gone shopping for a bigger suit or lost a good ten pounds before I started this job. I'm still trying to squeeze into suits from my summer clerking job during law school— when I was thinner— and denying that it's time to upgrade to a bigger size.
Asher continues staring into my eyes, clearly not as concerned with my wardrobe issues as I am. The way he looks at me makes me feel a lot sexier than I feel.
“You're the new associate, and you clerked at last summer. Our firm wasn’t smart enough to snatch you up the first time around. But once I saw your resume during your 3L year, I made sure to rectify the situation.
“You…?” I begin, yet trail off yet again.
Asher Marks saw my resume?
He’s the reason I have this job?
“Well, thank you,” is all I can think of to say.
“Don’t thank me,” he says. “It’s for the good of the firm. We need associates like you around here. I think you’ll do very well.”
I nod my head and look up as Cameron Sanchez, one of the other named partners at the firm, approaches the head of the table and starts the meeting. It appears that the purpose is to introduce the new associates, and that means me. I can’t allow myself to slip into fantasy land.
As Mr. Sanchez starts talking, I’m conscious of Asher Marks by my side— and of the fact that the Barbies keep whispering and pointing— but I try not to act as flustered as I feel. There are people to listen to, look at and try to impress, which is my job as a junior associate and so I turn to the task at hand.
Maybe later I’ll think more about Asher— professionally, of course, I chide myself, reminding myself that I can’t keep being as bad as the Barbies when it comes to mixing work with pleasure, especially now that I know who Mystery Man is— but right now is not the time.