The Plan (7 page)

I’m a big blender full of subdued. So beige Helen Hunt would be envious. Total corporate drone, all business.

Plan forecast: Nothing but black, navy, and beige, with scattered gray and a slim chance of red.

7:30 a.m.

O
UT
T
HE
D
OOR
.

The new shoes feel like walking on a big ol’ poofy cloud of air…until about three-quarters of the way to my car when my toes go numb.
Too late to turn back now.
I sigh and look mournfully down at them. Too bad; I do like the way they make my calves look. I make a mental note to see if I can take them back tonight.

I scratch through the note just as quickly. These shoes look like hers. Example B.

I have seen Alaric Canon with two women: Company picnic. Christmas party.

Example B (name unknown) wore similar shoes to last year’s party. No hair out of place. Everything about her was subdued.

Colors. Manners. Refined.

Company Picnic Chick was so similar. She wore capris and a blouse, but somehow they looked like a power suit. Immaculate hair, unaffected by humidity. Grace personified.

True to form, this year’s Holiday-Party Model was no exception. Made from the same seamless mold and polished to perfection.

My plan might’ve benefited from a stint at finishing school.

I picture myself balancing books on my head as I slip into the car.

Incoming text: My office ASAP—Rebecca

Weird.

I know this is the sort of thing that sends others into a tizzy. Rebecca might come off like a bitch, but she’s really just assertive. Her praise is usually in the form of silence. I know she values me, and she knows I do my job, do it right, and never question anything. The only time I have ever feared her was when I went to her about starting night classes. But she appreciated my full disclosure. She seems to trust me even more since then. She knows this is not my forever.

In no time, I sit in Rebecca’s office and listen, dumfounded, to her explain what’s happened and what she wants me to do.

“I think there has been some sort of mistake.”

“Your reaction doesn’t surprise me,” Rebecca says, as she leans over her desk and straightens an already straight stack of files.

Perpendicular angles everywhere. Without sparing an upward glance, she continues, “Try to see the genius in it. This is the plan. Adjust…and don’t embarrass this department. Here’s his itinerary for the week.” She hands a stack of papers to me, which I nearly drop when I see the look she has leveled at me. She’s terrified.

Rebecca.

Terrified.

I may soil myself.

“This department has a lot riding on you. And by this department, I mean me.” She clears her throat and manages to assume something close to her normal, chilly demeanor. The cracks in the ice are still there.

“Emma, you’ve been here long enough to know how this shakes out. No one expects you, or anyone, to last long. Every Canon PA is really a temp position. Help him prep for the trip and make it until he leaves and I’ll give you a raise when you get back here. Make it a month and you’ll come back to this department with a promotion.”

I want to say something about her lack of confidence in me, but I know it’s moot. No one does last as his assistant for long, and I should know. Watching the unbroken string of broken assistants leave his employ has been my hobby for a solid year.

They always screw up. Wrong coffee. Wrong outfit. Right outfit, wrong day. Misdirected memos. Hygienically challenged. Wheat bread instead of oat. Flirting. Tardy. Speaking. Not speaking. Offensive perfume. Desperately in need of perfume. Being in the bathroom at just the wrong moment.

March A had tapped her fake nails on the desk.

March B was personable and professional. Misplaced trust in spell-check had her gone in two weeks.

Early April shut his phone off at night.

After the infamous Indianapolis Incident, during which three PAs had revolving-doored their way to the unemployment line in under a week, a secret back-up assistant had been at-the-ready ever since.

“What about the back-up? Why me?”

“She’s on bed rest as of Monday. High risk pregnancy. Emma, I need a pro in there. We simply cannot afford any mistakes, and Canon needs to be able to focus. You have proven communication skills, a degree in writing, an impeccable performance record, a professional demeanor, and frankly, your obsession with him makes you far and away the best-prepared for the job.”

“Rebecca!” My knees give, and I sit down gracelessly. “I’m not obsessed. If anything, it’s a gambling problem.”

I clasp my hands to hide the shaking.
How obvious have I been?

She laughs softly then says things that make me glad I’m already sitting down. “Emma, I consider you a friend, and more importantly, a colleague. A trusted colleague. I don’t know if you realize, but I’d have you as my right hand if you were planning on working here longer. But you’re too good for that job. Hell, you’re definitely too good for a personal assistant position…and that is precisely why I am entrusting you with it. You see everything. You know when to speak up and when to keep your mouth shut.” She hands me the itinerary that seems to have slipped out of my hand and drifted down to the floor.

Kneeling in front of me, in her closed office, Rebecca looks up at me. I can’t help but notice where she has placed herself. “Emma, please. So much is riding on this deal.”

“Fine,” I hear myself say.

She closes both of her hands over mine and squeezes warmly, a shake of sorts. She opens her mouth to say something just as the sound of her door opening behind me stops her.

“I’m still waiting on that report.” Canon’s voice slides along the walls of the room. I feel it wrap around my spine. Rebecca’s eyes go wide, but she covers quickly and stands. Wordlessly, she grabs a file from her desk and hands it over my shoulder to where I assume he takes it from her. A pause. Rebecca narrows her eyes.

The door shuts.

A gust of air leaves my lungs. I didn’t realize I’d forgotten to breathe.

This does not bode well. Surely oxygen will play an important part in performing my new job satisfactorily.

She manages to wipe the confused look from her face and sits on the edge of her desk. “Go gather up what you need at your new desk and meet me back here in twenty minutes. I will officially introduce you to Mr. Canon then.”

8:20 a.m.

*
Hair
: Pinned back.

*
Buttons
: Top only undone.

*
Bladder
: Empty.

*
Shoes
: Killing feet slowly.

T
HIS
W
AS
N
OT
M
Y
P
LAN
. I’m not under the radar at all now. The plan has changed from generating a blip to being directly in his sights.

“Ready?” Rebecca asks as we approach Canon’s door.

“No.” I wanna hurl.

She laughs and knocks once.

“Come in.” His deep voice pierces the door. The last of the free air fills my lungs.

Rebecca walks ahead into his office as if a 2x4 is strapped to her spine. I stay behind her, plotting how to use her as a human shield.

“Mr. Canon, this is Ms. Baker.” She steps to the side and exposes me. “Your new assistant.”

He’s standing at the window, his back to us. Without turning, he sighs loudly and gestures toward a chair.

I sit and hear the door click; Rebecca has already abandoned me.

Coward.

“Tell me.” He continues to look out the wall of windows. His arms are crossed and long fingers drum his sleeve.

I wait for a moment. I wait for him to clarify. His jacket is draped over his riveted-leather desk chair. His pants are light gray, and I force myself not to focus on any portion of them. The slope of his broad shoulders is also not a safe focal point. Light from the window catches golden strands in his hair; that is off-limits too. I don’t know where to look.

I become acutely aware of the silence.

“Pardon me?” I really feel at a loss, as if I have walked into a conversation midstream.

He huffs and continues to stare out the window. “Tell me everything. The who, what, when, where, why, how. Who you are. What you think this job entails. When you think your workday ends. Why you took this position. How long you think you will last.”

My throat is a desert. I’ve already exhausted his patience. It never occurred to me that he would ask me anything about me. I’m an expert on him, not on myself.

I launch into a dissertation on my education and credentials. Masters in English. Intern and job experience.

Scholarships. I omit any mention of my current law school scholarship or enrollment; I doubt he’s the type to be receptive to divided priorities. I make sure all this takes no longer than thirty seconds. I skip right over anything that relates to why I think I can do this job—I don’t think I can pull off confidence.

“The job expectation is that I make you available to perform your job at optimum level. I need to learn and anticipate your needs in order to ensure this. Any distraction or delay has a negative impact. My workday began when I walked into this room, and it will end when I leave your employ.” I keep talking, but I notice a shift in his demeanor. His fingers still. A few moments later, he moves to his desk chair. I know I’m in. Maybe, just maybe, I’ve even impressed him.

Words continue to spill from my mouth. I explain that I’ve been with the company for a year. I’m flexible and a good observer. Performance stats.

“Finally, Mr. Canon, I understand there’s a critical contract on the line, and there is no time to prep a new employee. I bring to the table a solid understanding of this company and am committed to its success.”

My speech has taken under two minutes. Brevity. I feel good about it. My face is hot, but I’m still breathing.

The win column gets a tick.

“Ms. Baker, I have no illusions about my reputation. That being said, I consider myself fair. I do not expect miracles, but I will not tolerate mistakes.” He leans back in his chair and levels his gaze at me. His eyes are a gray-green. If he ever blinks, I miss it. I’m caught in their pull.

“It is my understanding that there is a CYA file on me. It would be in your best interests to familiarize yourself with it.”

My eyes are probably bugging out.
He knows about the file?

He must misinterpret my surprise for bewilderment and explains further. “Cover Your Ass. A cheat sheet,” he seethes. Clearly, he thinks I’m playing dumb.

“The COYA file?” The words are out of my mouth before I can think better of it.

One corner of his mouth turns up. It might be a burgeoning smile. It might be irritation.

He gives me a look that tells me he wants an explanation. I want to show him I get non-verbal communication. I want to show him I’m honest. I want to show him my matching bra and panty set. I sure as hell do not want to tell him what COYA stands for.

There is no escape.

“Canon Owns Your Ass.”

He blinks. Finally.

I hasten to add, “I feel it is important to point out that I did not name the file, sir.”

Without looking away, he writes on a paper and walks around his desk to hand it to me. “My number. Call me so I have your cell.” He pauses for a moment, his face unreadable. This is unsettling. I thought I knew him better than this. His gaze falls to my shoes. I can’t understand why as they are completely nondescript. “Check the calendar and itinerary. Leave word in human resources about the trip departure date and phone extension change. IT will need to reroute your calls. I take lunch when and only when it does not impede my job. You will follow suit. You take lunch when I do, for as long as I do.” I know I look surprised, and it doesn’t get past him. “This does not mean, however, that you and I have lunch together.

“Emma, I’m aware that this is all short notice. You’ll need to make arrangements for the upcoming trip. I will handle the bulk of my own this time. Get yourself ready and familiarize yourself with the material. An ill-prepared assistant will be a distraction and an embarrassment to me.”

A flick of his wrist dismisses me. Immediately before I open the door, I hear his voice behind me.

“I will not let you be either.”

12:00 p.m.

*
Files
: Downloaded.

*
Calendar
: Set.