Standing outside the club, I hugged my puffy winter coat around my body and looked up. I had called the club before coming, but no one answered so I decided to take my chances.
The building was as day and night as it could ever be. There were no LED snowflakes floating over the exterior, and there was no blue carpet leading to the front door. There were also no Rottweilers or Pit bulls disguised as doormen guarding the entrance.
Not only did the building look as different as day and night, but so did I. I had wanted to go home and change out of my chunky sweater and skinny jeans before my interview with Wyatt Palmer, but I’d fallen down the Google rabbit hole when researching him and lost track of time. I’d figured it was better to show up dressed casually and on time, than show up late and dressed professionally, but now I was second guessing that decision.
Anxiety and nerves churned around my insides, but I couldn’t deny I was excited. I still couldn’t understand why he’d requested that I be the one to interview him, but I guess I’d find out that reason soon enough, when we met.
I walked up to the club door and knocked, which was probably a dumb thing to do. What was I expecting: Jimmy the Rottweiler to throw the door open and invite me in for a cup of coffee? After a few minutes, when no one answered, I gave the door a push and was surprised when it opened.
In daylight, with no lights flashing and no glamorous people walking around, the club was a cold and empty space that stank like stale booze. I headed straight to the cloakroom, hoping that maybe the check-in clerk from last night would be there. If she was, I would ask her if anyone had handed in a phone.
Shutters covered the cloakroom door. I gave them a push, but they were locked tight.
“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing here?” boomed a voice from behind.
I spun around, and Jimmy stalked towards me with thunder filling his eyes. He wore a long sleeve black T-shirt and a pair of black pants. He was even more intimidating than he had been last night. There was no way he’d recognized me. Not with my glasses on and my hair scraped back.
“Who the fuck do you think you are waltzing in here?”
Screw him. I would not let this jumped-up douche intimidate me.
“Number one, your door was open and number two, I don’t appreciate you talking to me like something you wipe off your shoe. It’s not like I’m an armed robber or thief. I came in to see if anyone handed in a phone last night. I dropped it somewhere in here.”
He didn’t need to know exactly where I’d been in the club when I dropped it or who I’d been with.
He grunted, and said, “You should know better than to even try to bring a phone here. If you had listened to the rules, you never would have lost it.”
I just glared back at him, because I didn’t have a good argument to that one.
Finally, softened a bit and said, “Stay here. I’ll have a look in the lost and found box.”
It didn’t take him too long to reappear.
“Well?” I asked expectantly.
He shook his head. “Come back later. Maggie might know where it is.”
“Thanks. I appreciate you checking. It has pictures of my grandma before she passed.”
“Do you see anything on my face that looks like I care?”
He was back to using gruff words but something close to sympathy flashed in his eyes, and I could tell he was lying. Maybe there was a heart beneath all that beef.
He sighed.
“Leave your name and a number, and if I find anything, I’ll call.”
“Um, Pa— Patricia.” I rummaged through my bag for a piece of paper and a pen and scribbled down the burner phone number. “Call me anytime.”
He flashed me a mischievous grin. “Is that a proposition?”
“No,” I said and laughed. I could tell he was joking.
“Hey, don’t I know you?” he asked. “You look sort of familiar.”
“I come here a lot. Maybe you know my face because of that, but I don’t think we’ve ever met.”
“Now we have. I’m Jimmy.”
“Nice to meet you, Jimmy. Thanks again for your help.”
I left the club. I would go back later to see if anyone had handed in my phone, but I doubted it would turn up.
***
Since it was a beautiful, crisp winter day and the aura of Christmas filled the air, I walked the three blocks to The Avalon apartments. It would be faster than taking a cab, anyway. As I made my way to my destination, I told myself to calm down and not be nervouse, mentally reciting the information I’d read about Wyatt.
I had researched and prepared as best as I could with such short advance notice. I told myself “you’ve got this. You’ll be fine.” But I wasn’t quite sure I believed it. There was a rumbling in my stomach that told me things could go badly, and I’d be out a job.
The Avalon apartment building held more billionaires than should be legally allowed to exist in one area. The building sat on the corner of 5th and 69th and gave stunning views of Central Park.
I hurried my pace, not wanting to be late. But when I looked at the time on my burner phone I realized I was already a couple minutes late. Talking to Jimmy had taken longer than I’d anticipated.
Crap. I briskly walked up to the door and a portly man with black hair and dressed in a red bellhop uniform greeted me. He introduced himself as George Worthington.
“Can I help you ma’am?” he asked.
“I’m Paige Matthews, and I have an appointment with Wyatt Palmer at midday. I’m a little late. Sorry.”
“Mr. Palmer is a bit of a stickler for punctuality, but I’m sure he’ll understand. Step inside, and I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”
George picked up the phone by a small check-in desk and dialed a number. After a few beats, he said, “There’s a Miss Paige Matthews here from The New York Reporter.”
After a pause, he nodded, and then said, “Very well, Sir.” He hung up and looked at me. “You can go on up.”
George gestured to the elevator at the far end of the lobby. “Forty-eighth floor.”
“Thank you.”
As I walked through the Christmas tree-lined lobby, the rich scent of coffee wrapped around me and enveloped me in a hug. To my left was a café advertising all kinds of goodies, including hot chocolate surprises.
I vowed to myself that after the interview, I would treat myself to one, with an extra helping of whipped cream. I didn’t know what the surprise was about, but I made it my mission to find out.
Once inside the elevator, I consulted the notes Alec had given me— boring, boring, and boring. They were the same old questions everyone asked.
How bad would it be if I asked my own questions? And, the first question on my list would be why this guy had requested that I be the one to interview him.
I was a good journalist. That much I knew, but nothing I’d written suggested I was any better than any other graduate, so the question remained: why me?