Not Being Zen

My heels tapped on the echoing marble of the lobby floor. I couldn’t help a hasty glance down to make sure the black marker I’d used to cover up the last-minute nick in my good pumps had done its job. Yep. Unless somebody was really staring, I was golden. And thanks to the beauty of consignment stores, the rest of my outfit would pass muster, too. Maybe. Barely.

Note One. Be Positive.

I stepped into an open elevator and pushed the button for the 48th floor. The elegant brushed-nickel doors whispered shut, and my stomach dropped as fast as the car ascended. It wasn’t just the ride doing it to me, either. 

One nervous hand ran over the waistband of my severe black skirt—simple and secondhand, but, like the jacket, Chanel all the same—making sure my white blouse—from Target—was still neatly tucked in. I wished the ride would take a little longer. We were already on 11, and I needed to breathe. 

Note Two. Be Zen. I breathe with the universe.

Who was I kidding? I breathed like a panicked horse. All right, then, breathe like a less panicked horse.

My hands were sweating, and I fumbled in my purse for a tissue. Note Three. Wipe hands discreetly on skirt as approach Ms. Hiring Manager. Whose name I suddenly couldn’t remember. Martine Devereaux. Martine Devereaux. Ms. Devereaux.

I wiped my hands, glanced up at the security cameras, and waved. Hi, guys. They were probably used to watching terrified job applicants trying to get it together on the elevator. Probably their big entertainment. 

I still couldn’t believe my luck. After all the resumes I’d sent out, met by a silence that had resonated all the way from midtown to my crummy apartment, I’d thought I’d be stuck working for Vincent forever. Submitting to his tirades, having him tell me how stupid I was, how clumsy I’d been every time he made a mistake. It couldn’t be his fault, and there I was, available to take the blame, because I needed the job too much to quit, and I had nowhere else to go, and he knew it. And because I was little and blonde, and everybody loves pushing little blondes around. It’s in the DNA or something. 

No. A lifetime of Vincent wasn’t happening. This was the turning point. It would be this, or it would be…something. I wasn’t going to be stuck in this rut forever. 

They all wanted somebody with a college degree, that was the problem. There was no place on their forms to explain that when other young women had been going to parties and studying for finals, I’d been taking care of other things. Or that I would work harder than anybody they could hire. I learn fast, and I never make the same mistake twice. 

But if you can’t meet them, you can’t impress them. And once they see my associates degree—earned at night, one painfully-scratched-together semester’s worth of tuition at a time—there goes my application, straight into the virtual trash. 

Sometimes, I’ve wanted to go down to their offices and sit there until they see me. Just sit there, nice and polite, and refuse to leave. I’d been about to go for it when the call had come. Nothing to lose. The police wouldn’t actually arrest you for being desperate enough to try a little too hard to get an interview, would they? 

Probably. Next plan. 

Well, that was then, and this was now. Because out of the blue, I had gotten the call. For a job I hadn’t even applied for, an interview for the publicity department at Te Mana, a glamour position beyond my wildest dreams. 

Why? Maybe I’d impressed somebody from the company at the shoot. Maybe they liked the way I crawled on the floor or fetched coffee or got yelled at. Hah. Or maybe Vincent wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe he’d recommended me. Hah again. I’d told him I had a dentist appointment today. I wouldn’t put it past him to ask to see the bill, either.   

The elevator stopped on the 40th floor, and my heart slammed against my chest. Because it was Hemi Te Mana himself getting in, his glance flicking over me just as it had the week before. 

A predatory glance, my wild imagination provided. Or a dismissive one, more likely. A little smile appeared on his beautiful lips. He’d probably noticed my shoe. Rumor had it he noticed everything.

“You’re here,” he said, pushing the button for 51. “Looking forward to your interview?”

Oh, God. I was staring. At his shirt, open at the neck to reveal a triangle of smooth brown skin, glimpsed for a single glorious instant before he turned to stand beside me. Which gave me a great view of the perfectly tailored black suit jacket that clung to his broad shoulders and narrowed to his trim waist.

It took me a moment to register what he’d said, and not just because I was stunned to be standing beside him. It was the accent. I’d heard it in interviews as well as at the shoot, but all the same, the clipped tones and New Zealand vowels fell strangely on my ear. But there was nothing a bit strange about the low voice. As creamy as chocolate, as deep and rich as his skin. As hot as a New Zealand summer. Well, what I imagined a New Zealand summer would be.

“How did you know?” I asked, struggling to focus on what he’d said.

“I make it my business to know everything. Because it is my business.”

The elevator came to a stop, the doors glided open, and he put a hand out to hold them. “Here you are.” 

“Thanks,” I said. “Wish me luck.” Then I could have kicked myself. Why was I talking to him like that? Like he was…anybody? 

A faint smile warmed his brown eyes for just a moment, lightening his expression so he wasn’t the cold, forbidding figure he’d seemed at the shoot, and then the mask had slipped back into place, and my heart was fluttering, beating out a fierce tattoo. 

“I don’t think you’ll need luck,” he told me. “I have a feeling you’re going to knock them dead.”

I stepped out, the doors closed again, and he was gone.

The Human Resources Department wasn’t too bad. True, the frighteningly thin woman behind the desk eyed my resume as if it had been scrawled with crayon, but she didn’t actually laugh and point or call Security. Instead, she talked about the company—which I’d already researched, of course—then rattled off a healthy list of benefits that had my head spinning. Her business done, she led me into the elevator, down three floors, through a humming hive of activity that was the publicity department, then stopped at the door of a corner office and gave it a quick rap. 

“Good afternoon,” the woman behind the desk said as she rose to greet me. “I’m Martine Devereaux. You must be Hope.” 

She was cool. Poised. Perfect. A slim, elegant figure, white, white skin, dark hair that fell in a smooth glossy sheet that spoke to a perfect cut, nails French-manicured into delicate ovals, and a cream suit with black edging that most definitely had not come from a consignment store. 

I stepped forward and took the hand she offered. “Thank you for seeing me today, Ms. Devereaux.” Project confidence. Yeah, right.

“Martine. Please. You’ll find we’re all quite informal here.” She smiled, and didn’t look quite so scary. 

The Human Resources lady left, and Martine said, “Please sit.” She asked a few questions about my job with Vincent and listened to my carefully-rehearsed-to-sound-upbeat answers, though I had a feeling she saw straight through them. And that took all of twenty minutes.  

After that, she sat silently for a minute. Was this a test? Was she seeing if I’d blurt something out, or have the composure to wait? I bit my lip to keep myself from babbling and gave my palms a surreptitious wipe that I hoped she didn’t catch from under her half-lowered lids. 

Finally, she sighed, clicked a gold pen, and fingered an impressive diamond pendant at her white throat. “You know the fashion world,” she said. “That’s a plus. The job isn’t glamorous, but you’d learn, if you were willing to put in the time. And I mean time.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes.” If that sounded eager-beaver, too bad. I needed this job. Even without the career prospects, I’d take it for the benefits alone. “And whatever I said on that resume,” I added, trying out a rueful, we’re-all-girls-here smile, “the job I have now is the last thing from glamorous. You can’t be asking me to do anything worse than what I’ve been doing.”

Her gaze sharpened. Oh, dear. Too honest. “But of course,” I went on hurriedly, “I’ve had all that coursework in business as well, and I’m a whiz at picking up software.” 

Another minute of this, and I was going to be jumping up and down, screaming, “Pick me! Pick me!”

That was when Mr. Te Mana showed up again. The man really had a knack for catching me at my best. 

I only knew he was there because of the way Ms. Devereaux—Martine—reacted. Her posture was erect anyway, but now she stood as if she were being lifted by a string and said, “Good afternoon.”

I turned in my chair, and then I was standing up, too. He cast a look my way that didn’t tell me anything at all, and then his gaze was back on Martine. 

“Ah,” he said. “I see I’ve come at an inconvenient time. A few things I’d like to run through with you about Paris, when you have a moment.” 

“Of course it isn’t inconvenient,” she said with a little laugh. “I’m done here. Thank you, Grace. Human Resources will be in touch.”

“Hope.” I could feel my cheeks burning as the humiliation rose. “Thank you for seeing me.” 

She held out her hand in dismissal, and I took it and willed the hot tears back. Crying’s for the subway.

Hemi was speaking now, though. “Hope from the photo shoot last week, eh. You were quite impressive. Nice to see you here.”

Quite impressive? Not hardly.

“I don’t need to introduce you, clearly,” Martine said. “As you already know Mr. Te Mana.”

“Hemi,” he said.

I held out my hand uncertainly. Was I supposed to pretend I hadn’t seen him in the elevator? He took my hand in his much larger one, and something shot through me, sharp and electric. I remembered the way he’d touched my face and licked his fingers, and I had a crazy feeling, looking into his eyes, that he remembered it, too.

“Hope.” His voice was quiet, his mouth firm. His eyes held mine, and my knees were all but knocking together as he let my hand go.

Martine cleared her throat in the most ladylike way, and I tore my eyes from Hemi and stared at her, sure that I looked like a deer in the headlights.  

“Thank you again for coming in,” she said. “Let me see you to the elevator.” She looked at Hemi. “I’ll be right back.”

“No worries,” he said. I sneaked a peek, and he was still looking at me. “I’ll wait.”

Martine walked around the desk and inclined her head a little toward the door. I stood up, grabbing my purse and the folder that held the extra copies of my resume that nobody had asked me for, and followed her out. I had to walk straight past Hemi to do it, nearly brushing his side. And I could feel him watching me leave. 

I was at work when I got the call. Or rather, when I got the voicemail, because I couldn’t take calls at work.

I listened to it in the bathroom, while Vincent was on his lunch break. And I called back from there, too. Standing next to the paper-towel holder, absently noting that I needed to refill it. Models, for some reason, were murder on paper towels. 

As the phone rang, I was chanting in my head. Please. Please. Please. And it didn’t matter that Martine hadn’t exactly seemed like the easiest person to work for. “Better the devil you know,” they say, but I knew my devil, and anything else had to be better. 

Surely asking me to call back was a good sign. They wouldn’t have asked me to call just to tell me no.

“April Winehouse,” Ms. Scary-Thin said. 

I introduced myself, and she said, “Ah, yes. We’d like to offer you the Publicity Assistant job.” She named a salary that topped Vincent’s by a fair margin. Plus those wonderful benefits. 

“Yes,” I said the moment she was done. I’ve read that you should negotiate, but negotiation is for people who hold some cards. “Yes. Please.”

“When can you start?” she asked. 

“How does today sound?” 

She laughed, sounding human for once. “How about Monday?”

“Monday’s good.”

We talked a little more, and I hung up. And then I walked out of the bathroom and quit. 

Did it occur to me to wonder why Martine had chosen me, when she’d so clearly been dismissing me before Hemi had shown up? Sure it did. Especially when I was lying awake beside Karen at four the next morning, in that witching hour when the dark thoughts come. But, I told myself, it was always that way. It was who you knew, right? If the CEO had been impressed with me somehow, and they’d had an opening, and he’d mentioned me to Martine—well, lucky me. 

It couldn’t have been anything else. Whatever kind of over-the-top reaction the man aroused in me, imagining that he’d felt anything similar would be ridiculous. Besides, if he’d liked me, he wouldn’t have had to rescue me from my horrible job and set me up in a new one like some kind of hot Fairy Godfather. He could’ve just asked me out for a drink like a normal guy. 

And I could’ve screamed and run ten miles in the opposite direction, like a normal girl who knew she was way, way out of her league.