Chapter 2
Lucy
I’ve been offered a lot of jobs on the spot, usually by very desperate fast-food places, but none of them have been quite like this.
First, the HR assistant marches me up to the hiring office, where I catch a glimpse of Linda through a glass window, talking on the phone.
It was never going to be her—maybe I should have assumed it would be the executive interviewing the executive assistant.
Maybe that would have kept me from making a complete fool of myself.
It doesn’t make sense to me. Surely there must have been other more suitable candidates. People who did better during their interview than I did. So why hire me on the spot?
Unless there aren’t other candidates, and this is the start of a thriller with a ridiculously expensive set. Maybe there’s a reason people don’t want to work here—and it could start with the woman at the front counter, her bob unreasonably, perfectly straight.
“You’ll need to start studying these right away,” the assistant says, dropping several binders into my arms without fanfare, though they send me stumbling backward a few steps.
“They have all the information you need to know about the execs—and, despite what you might be thinking, yeah, you do need to know this stuff. You need to know which brand of organic coconut water they drink, their allergies, their preferences for which private jet to use, depending on where they’re going—all that.
They’ve fired people for fuck-ups way smaller than the wrong drink.
There should be notes from the last assistant but take them with a grain of salt. You know, since he was fired.”
I stare at the binders, then glance up at the assistant, whose name I still don’t know, with a slightly slack jaw. This is real. This is actually happening.
“I’m getting the impression that executive assistants don’t last long here,” I say, trying to be friendly, and he just gives me a tired look.
“Lazy people don’t last long,” he shrugs. “This is a competitive environment.”
“I’m not lazy,” I promise, and I’m tempted to tell him about my research into Linda, but I don’t want to come off as a stalker, so I stay quiet.
“Great,” he rolls his eyes again, and I get the sense that he’s doing his best to make sure I don’t get any wrong ideas about him and me being friends.
So, I don’t try to make small talk with him, even as I end up spending most of the first day in his company, signing papers and filling out forms. Most of the paperwork has to do with not running my mouth about the executives—NDAs so strict and lengthy I’m almost glad I have no idea what they’re saying, or I’d probably have more reservations about signing them, one after the other, without reading anything more than the title.
“Great,” the HR assistant says, yawning and gathering everything up when I’m finished. My hand cramps from signing, and he reaches over, making a show of taking the pen from me, which he wipes carefully before tucking it back in his pocket.
He then slides a sleek white card toward me.
“This is a temporary access card. In the next few days, they should have one with your name on it. This will not get you into every part of the building—we talked about that security thing earlier—but it does grant you access to the executive level, since that’s where your desk is.
Be careful with it. You would be surprised by the number of crazies that come in here, trying to get to the three of them. ”
He points casually upward, and I’m not quite sure what he means by get to them—hopefully it’s more in a “ask-for-your-autograph” way, and less in a murder-y way.
“Great, thank you,” I say, taking the card and standing, but he’s already walked through the door, disappearing without a good-bye.
I get the feeling I’m not going to see him again.
“Alright,” I whisper to myself as I push through the exit and emerge into the hallway. Somewhere down the hall, I can hear the gentle burble of a water fountain, and the smell of leather and spice still hangs in the air, like they’re pumping it through the system. “Time to go back up there.”
Maybe it’s the fact that deep down I don’t want to return to the executive floor, or maybe it’s just the sheer size and scope of the building, but I try for twenty minutes to find those black elevators.
But instead, I find myself back in the hallway I started in, face hot again, sweat pooling on my back.
“Great,” I mutter, tugging at the dress once more and raking my hand through my hair, which is frizzy and ruined from the rain. “Just great.”
“Lucy? Lucy Sullivan?”
I startle and turn to face a man I’ve never seen before. Just a bit older than me, he’s wearing a tight ribbed shirt with a muted floral pattern, dark pants, and leather boots.
His outfit is a slight variation of the HR assistant’s, but still original and fashionable. He has olive skin, stark black hair, and a clean-shaven face. Everything about his look is cohesive, effortless.
I’m starting to realize this isn’t like any of the other offices I’ve worked in, and the jean skirt and cardigan combo I’d planned for a potential first day isn't going to work.
“Yeah?” I’m cautious, still thinking about the “get to them” comment from earlier, but when a grin breaks out over the guy’s face, it’s genuine, and I can’t help but relax.
He’s very handsome and reaches out to take my arm immediately, turning me in the other direction, like we’ve been friends forever. I’m too flummoxed to resist. Unlike the other employees here, he doesn’t have the same sharp, nonchalant attitude.
“I’m Julian,” he explains, and I relax—I’ve heard his name before, in passing. “I’m a huge fan of Aunt Ruby. And Pudding, of course.”
“Oh—” I let out a laugh, thinking of my aunt’s spoiled Burmese cat, “you call her Aunt Ruby, too?”
Julian is leading me through the building with ease, past a massive, glittering sculpture and through a busy concourse full of professionals, many of whom are on the phone.
Art installations turn slowly, suspended from the ceiling.
A huge, mauve and burgundy piece on the wall shifts with the light, little squares following us like shadows.
It looks like a massive collection of sticky notes, but mechanical.
I take it all in as I listen to Julian, who continues to guide me through the lobby and into another hallway.
“Oh, duh,” he waves his hand in the air, shifting his eyes over to me like I can’t be serious.
“She’s an icon. I met her when she did the collaboration with the fragrance garden, like five years ago.
God, I was green to the city back then, and she just took me under her gorgeous wing!
But she takes everyone under her wing—that’s why we call her Auntie. ”
“Wow. I didn’t know about that.”
Growing up, most of my information about Aunt Ruby came from my dad's stories, which meant they were all cautionary tales. What would happen to a woman if she moved away from home, stopped talking to her siblings, and gave up on her family.
But then, once I had a phone, it didn’t take me long to find her socials.
On those, through her sporadic posting, I learned more about her and how free she was. She’s been doing exactly what she wants to for a long time, which explains why the rest of the family ostracized her.
And why my parents flipped when I said I’d be staying with her during my time in the city.
“It’s just to save money,” I’d rationalized to them, arguing gently, “I was able to avoid temptation all throughout college just like you taught me growing up. I don’t see how Aunt Ruby is going to change me in just a year.”
That had been the perfect blend of complimenting and pseudo-logic to convince them, though Dad kept muttering about what a bad idea it was in the weeks leading up to my flight out of Missouri.
“This way,” Julian tugs on my arm, breaking me out of my thoughts. I realize we’ve arrived in a sort of cafeteria, but that’s not quite the right word.
This is more like a restaurant than a mess hall, with white cloths on the tables and more art installation-type lights drifting down from the ceiling. One wall is lined with towering hydro-planters filled with a variety of green and purple herbs, with water trickling gently through them.
The thick, savory scent in here is nothing like pre-packaged mac and cheese or grease from fries soaking into a folded white basket. Instead, I can practically taste the layers of flavor in here, and it makes my mouth water.
Across the way, the other wall is sheer glass, revealing a rooftop garden with a greenhouse in the center.
The rest of the space is a patio area arranged around open-air plants, and Ember employees, all impeccably dressed and styled, lounge casually, eating dishes that look straight out of a magazine.
Beyond the diners are more incredible views of the city. From here, I can easily see through to the East River and the Brooklyn Bridge. Birds swoop low over the water, which shimmers in the afternoon sun.
Even with the spectacular view, I can’t stop myself from staring at the various plates—large, shining, and containing the kind of food that’s precisely prepared, like in a fancy restaurant.
I see a dish topped with micro-greens, delicate little flowers, and a bright green sauce.
Perfect cubes of beef, pink in the center, paired with precisely circular slices of bright radishes that contrast both color and shape.
Another person cuts an Ahi tuna steak, and yet another has what can only be some sort of Borscht, bright purple soup that floods into a lowered spoon.
It hits me, suddenly, that I did forget breakfast. And I’m absolutely starving.
And Julian has tugged me over to what must be the line for food.
“Wait a minute. I don’t know what’s on the menu,” I whisper, looking around frantically for the non-existent board above the little window into the kitchen. Or maybe there’s an app?