Working It (7 page)

“Yes.” She chuckles softly. “Shall I put you down for three, then?”

This girl is determined.

“Rachel, something tells me your talents are being wasted working for a non-profit. You should get into sales. You’d make a fortune in commissions.”

“Thanks,” she says, chuckling again. “I will text you our address. See you at three.”

“Yes, three.”

“See you soon.”

“Bye.”

I have barely disconnected when my iPhone chimes and Rachel’s text pops up on my screen. I stare at the address, a skyscraper in the Financial District, and wonder what one wears to meet the VP of a non-profit. Something tells me I will look a bit out of place in my Armani suits. Maybe a trip to Walmart is in order. I wonder if Dickies makes power suits?

Something Smells Fishy

Text from Vivian Perpetua Grant:

Did you know Jimmy Choo’s business partner wanted to take the company global, but Jimmy wanted to focus on quality and knew mass producing his product would sacrifice quality? Jimmy stuck to his principles, selling his half of the business to a huge conglomerate. Today, he makes shoes in his original London shop and teaches apprentices. Now that’s a purpose beyond profit.

An organization like Each One, Teach One should be located in one of the converted warehouses that have transformed the Mission District from rundown ghetto to mod ’hood for the eco set, but it’s not. Each One, Teach One is located in a sleek chrome and glass high rise on the fringes of Chinatown.

My Louboutin stilettos echo in the lobby like rapid-fire bullets ricocheting off the black granite floor and glass walls. The security guard checks my name against a register, gives me a passkey, and directs me to take the express elevator to the twenty-eighth floor.

When the doors open, I step out of the elevator into a sleek reception area with floor-to-ceiling windows and panoramic views of the city and bay.

The receptionist is wearing a Bluetooth earpiece and seated at a Lucite desk with a computer monitor built into the top. It’s very Tony Stark-ish. I am not a big movie-goer, but a date took me to see
Avengers
and I’ve been crushing on Robert Downey, Jr. ever since.

She smiles at me and taps the computer screen.

“Good afternoon, and thank you for calling Each One, Teach One. How may I help you?”

She pauses. I use the opportunity to study the picture on the wall behind her of African teens constructing an elaborate pipeline-like structure. The picture dissolves and is replaced by another—grinning school children in a thatched hut in Panama or Guatemala or Honduras.
La Vache!
That is so cool. A hidden laser is projecting the images onto the glass. Totally slick. Totally Stark Industries.

“Yes, sir,” the receptionist says, pressing her finger to her earpiece. “I would be happy to announce your call. Will you hold, please?”

She taps the tabletop screen and then looks at me.

“You must be Ms. Moreau.”

“Yes.”

“Won’t you please have a seat?”

She nods her head at the low-slung white leather sofas arranged in a U behind me. I take a seat, cross my legs at the ankles, and casually stare out the window at the clouds in the wide blue sky, as if I am not completely impressed by this
trop stylé
office.

“Evan,” the receptionist says, in a low modulated voice. “Mr. Eggum is calling with Feed the World. Shall I put him through?” She taps the screen two times and says, “Rachel, Ms. Moreau has arrived.”

A moment later, the receptionist is standing in front of me.

“Ms. Moreau, if you follow me”—she gestures for me to follow—“I will show you to the conference room.”

I stand and follow her down a hallway of opaque windows until we come to a large conference room with a sleek circular mosaic glass table. I take a seat in one of the white leather chairs and rest my hands on the arms.

“Finn and Rachel will be with you in a moment. In the meantime, can I offer you some
jugo de papayo?
”

I frown.

“It’s a South American juice. We make it fresh each morning using pawpaw, lime, and carambola.” She smiles. “It’s quite delicious.”

“It sounds delicious.” I return her smile. “I would love some, thank you.”

Each One, Teach One has this whole Tony Stark meets Deepak Chopra vibe going that totally bewilders me. Should I take my shoes off and sit cross-legged, forearms resting on my knees, thumbs and index fingers touching to form circles? Or should I play it cool and unfazed, as if their slick offices and laser beam photographs are unimpressive, almost passé?

I opt for cool and unimpressed, because it is closer to my natural state and takes far less effort than attempting to pull off the New Age-y thing.

Once, Vivian forced me to visit a Neoplatonism practitioner with her for an article she was writing about the art of meditation. We were shown into a dimly lit room—the Golden Temple of the Etheric—where we were instructed to lie on mats. A tall, gangly man with a long, dirty gray beard promised us he would be our guide on a mind-bending out of body experience that he called astral flight. Yeah, it was utterly
outré
. Beyond bizarre. Vivian thought it was relaxing and said she thought her soul might have left her body for a few minutes—that she heard fiddle music and saw herself floating over the Irish countryside. I thought it was complete bullshit. And Vivian’s out of body experience? It was probably due to our having consumed a copious amount of Magners Irish Hard Cider while watching a Colin Farrell movie before our visit to the Golden Temple.

The receptionist returns with my juice. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

“Thank you.”

I am sipping the neon orange juice when two people enter the conference room—a tall, wiry blonde in a White House Black Market dress, and a taller handsome man wearing impeccably tailored Canali trousers and vest with a pair of leather mandals. Ugh! The last man to work a pair of mandals was Julius Caesar—and look how things turned out for him.

“Stéphanie,” the woman says, walking toward me with her arms out. “We spoke earlier today. I am Rachel Mills.”

I quickly stand and hold my hand out. Instead of shaking my hand, Rachel hugs me like we are giddy pre-teen BFFs meeting at the mall. I am not a hugger. I stand there with my arms locked at my sides until she steps back.

“And this is Finn Thompson”—she beams up at Mandals—“founder and President of Each One, Teach One.”

“
Bonjour
Mademoiselle Moreau,” Mandals says, grabbing me by the shoulders and kissing both my cheeks
a la
Parisian greeting. “
C'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer. Vous remercie d'être venus.
”

“
Merci
.”

Finn Thompson, with his shaggy sun-tipped California surfer hair and expensive Italian trousers, is as perplexing as his office.

“How was my accent?” he asks, grinning. “Hopefully, not too atrocious.”

“
Parfait
.” I switch to English because I am not sure if Rachel understands French. “You speak like a native. Did you live in France?”

“Briefly.” He pulls my chair out and gestures for me to be seated. “When I was in college, I spent a summer in the Oisans working as a volunteer on a mountain biodiversity project.”

“Which village?”

“Villard-Reculas.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Finn walks around the table and takes a seat opposite me. “Do you know it?”

“My mother was born nearby, in La Garde.”

“
C’est un petit monde
!”

“Yes, a very small world!”

During my loneliest and lowest moments at boarding school, like when the other girls snatched my bath towel and pushed me out into the hallway, naked and wet, I wished God would send my mother back to earth to be my guardian angel. I am not a superstitious person—the French are too practical to be superstitious—but I wonder if this is an omen.

“Are you all right?” Finn asks.

My cheeks flush with heat. I have been staring at Finn. I nod.

“Are you sure? You suddenly looked sad.”

I can’t very well say, “I have felt hopelessly lost for days, but I think my dead mother just sent me the message that I should be working for your company.” So I employ one of my classic avoidance maneuvers and change the subject.

“Your offices are spectacular.” I run my hands over the smooth mosaic glass tabletop. “I like this table.”

“Thank you.” Finn narrows his gaze just enough to let me know that he is wise to my avoidance maneuver. “All of the furniture in the room has been made with reclaimed items.”

“Really?”

“The table was made in Mexico, using repurposed soda and beer bottles,” he says, smiling. “The covers on these chairs and the sofas in the lobby are Eco-friendly sustainable leather, made using bark cloth from mutuba trees in Uganda. In fact, they were made by students at our edification centers.”

“Edification centers?”

“Some would call them schools,” Rachel explains. “We prefer to call them edification centers because we believe our mission is to educate, elevate, and enlighten. We don’t just teach the impoverished a trade. We restore their sense of self-worth through close mentoring.”

“That sounds inspiring.”

“I am glad you think so, because we believe you would be a splendid asset to TTF.”

“We read your mission statement,” Finn interjects. “We were very impressed.”

“Thank you,” I say, my cheeks flushing with heat. “Unfortunately, my boss wasn’t as impressed.”

“I know you were terminated.”

“How?” I blink. “How did you know?”

“We read
San Francisco Magazine’s
editorial piece.”

Wait.
What?

“What piece?”

Rachel slides a thick manila folder to Finn. He opens the folder, removes the first piece of paper, and pushes it across the table to me.

San Francisco Magazine’s
banner stretches across the top of the page, and just below it, the words Aurèle L’Horreur in big, bold block letters. The perversion of L’Heure’s name—from
the golden hour
to
the horror
- makes me cringe. As I scan the text, the acid lying dormant in the pit of my stomach begins roiling. It is an op-ed piece criticizing capitalism and unchecked corporate greed. The editor—Roberta Buelher—mentions me by name and calls on her readers to boycott luxury brands like L’Heure until they “stop violating the fundamental, puritanical principles that are the cornerstones of this great nation.” It’s an articulate, scathing indictment against a company I respect. The final paragraph is brutal.

“Ms. Moreau’s mission statement might not have been fiscally responsible, but it was uncommonly socially aware. Corporations like LVMH Global have become the tyrants of our generation, selling their over-priced, unobtainable luxury items and fomenting deep discontent among the less-than-privileged classes. L’Heure is like Louis XVI, bloated by profits earned from a slender segment of society, while ignoring the suffering of the masses. It is time for a Revolution—in fashion and finance. Let the masses no longer cry, ‘J’adore L’Heure!’ Let them firmly assert, ‘J’abhor L’Horreur and unchecked corporate greed.’”

“You’ve spawned a movement,” Rachel says, smiling. “Soon, J’abhor L’Horreur will be the mantra on every consumer’s lips.”

I can’t speak. The moment is too surreal.

“J’abhor L’Horreur,” Finn repeats. “It’s the new catch phrase for those opposed to wanton corporate greed. J’abhor L’Horreur.”

I wince. Finn and Rachel might be impressed with the op-ed piece, but I see it for precisely what it is: another nail in the coffin containing my mortally wounded career. J’abhor L’Horreur? Roberta Buehler’s article effectively destroyed my chances of ever getting hired by another major couturier.

“Look,” I say, turning the article over and sliding it away from me. “When I wrote that mission statement, I was…”

Drunk. I can’t very well tell these radical touchy feely do-gooders I got sloppy-drunk and had an epiphany.

“Yes?” Finn encourages. “You were what?”

“When I wrote that mission statement, I wasn’t intending to smear L’Heure or spawn a movement. I loved working at L’Heure and am horrified my mission statement has caused the company embarrassment.”

“Which speaks highly of your character, Ms. Moreau.”

“Thank you, but I am not worthy of such praise.”

An awkward silence stretches between us. I want to slide off my sustainable leather chair and curl up in the fetal position beneath their recycled
cerveza
bottle table until the world forgets my name and my stupid mission statement. I don’t want these two tree-hugging do-gooders grinning at me like I singlehandedly settled the crisis in Darfur or negotiated peace between North and South Korea.
Foutre!
I wrote a mission statement. A stupid, ill-conceived, pity-fueled mission statement.

“Yes, well,” Rachel says, clearing her throat. “We reviewed your application and believe we have the perfect position for you here at Each One, Teach One.”

What the what? Did she just offer me a job? I look at her White House Black Market dress and boring chin-length bob and wonder if she wants me to be her personal stylist. What would a recruiter at a non-profit need with a stylist?

Maybe they were so blown away by my rousing mission statement that they want to offer me a position working in their PR department. That must be it.

I can’t keep from grinning because we have moved into comfortable territory. I am a highly adept negotiator, having honed my skills in the Beijing markets. When I was a teenager, my father took me on a few of his business trips to China. He would hand me a wad of yuan, and I would spend the day haggling for cashmere pashminas, bolts of shantung silk, and strands of pearls.

“I am intrigued,” I say, keeping my tone appropriately bland and leaning back in my chair. “What did you have in mind?”

“We believe you would be perfect as a community outreach educator.”

I knew it. They want me to do PR. They probably want me to let the community know about their good deeds by writing press releases. I can do that. It’s not fashion, but it would be something to do while I get my life back together.