Chapter 8
Lucia
“Lucia!”
It’s the tenth time he’s yelled, expecting to jump at his call and enter his office. His method of reaching me serves as a mood indicator. If he sends a message on the computer, or calls my desk, all is well in his world. When he yells, his mood is blood red. I don’t know the why, but I know the mood.
I inhale deeply in preparation, pick up my pad and pencil, and dutifully stride to his office, careful to use my pleasant subordinate voice. “Yes, sir?”
“Why isn’t my lunch with Landry on the calendar?”
Perhaps because my ESP isn’t functioning? It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I bite back the reply and sweetly answer, “We scheduled your meeting with Blanchard’s team three weeks prior. It’s a lunch meeting. They have a presentation prepared.”
“I told you about Landry. You should have moved the Blanchard meeting. When you call to reschedule, be certain to apologize for your error.”
He absolutely did not tell me about the meeting, but there’s no point in arguing. “Which meetings would you like for me to reschedule?”
His blistering glare tells me I should know the answer.
“I’ll be with Landry. And you need to clear the calendar until three.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make it clear it’s your error.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How are you coming on the competitive review?”
“It’s finished, sir. I sent it to you two days ago for your review.”
Again, wrong answer. I drop my gaze to avoid his withering one. While no one is currently dependent on my income other than myself, being fired won’t help me get another job, so I need to keep it in check.
“Print it and leave it on my desk.”
“Yes, sir.” Of course, corporate has asked that we print less but apparently that only applies to the lower ranks.
He pushes back his chair and straightens his tie. “Message me if anything urgent comes up.”
“Yes, sir.”
I follow him out of his office. Dread fills me as rescheduling the Blanchard meeting will be painful. Blanchard has been prepping his team for this presentation for over a month. She will not be pleased.
“And don’t leave your desk. I need you there in case anyone calls while I’m out.”
“Yes, sir.”
He’s down the hall without actually hearing my acquiescence. It’s assumed. And today of all days I didn’t pack lunch because I was counting on picking up something from the catered team lunch. I’m supposed to be in the conference room in ten minutes to receive the delivery and set up the conference room.
“What’s got his britches twisted?”
I spin in my chair. I’m usually in this hallway by myself, but appreciate a third party’s assessment of the situation.
“I’m not sure.” I never know. Sometimes I wonder if he and his wife have had a fight, and he’s taking it out on me. It doesn’t matter what causes his bad moods, what matters is that now I need to face Blanchard and apologize for an error that is not mine.
“He doesn’t normally treat you like that, does he?”
“No.”
I don’t have time to share that Pelz is never wrong, and as long as I remember this fact, we get along splendidly. He went through assistants like chocolates before me. I’ve been working for him for almost two years.
Blanchard’s assistant answers the phone. There’s not much he can say. The same ball of dread at informing his boss has probably hit him, but Robert won’t argue. I don’t say it’s my fault. I don’t have to. No one will question the need to reschedule last minute. Of course, if Blanchard calls me directly, I’ll need to beg forgiveness.
“You know,” I tell Robert, hoping to soften what won’t be a pleasant communication to his boss, “you can give the team the free lunch. There’s no time to cancel it.”
“I’ll let you know how Blanchard takes the news when you join me to set it up.”
“I can’t help. I’m so sorry, but I’ve been instructed to not leave my desk.”
“In the doghouse, are you?”
“You could say that.”
“Well, no worries, love. There are worst disasters. Let me hop and get the word out.”
“Thanks Robert. I am so sorry.”
“Hey, if we ran the world…”
There’s a dial tone, and I hang up the receiver.
“What happened that Pelz had to get out of here so fast?”
Startled, I spin my chair toward the deep voice. Tristan leans against the door frame, arms crossed, looking like he’s been there the whole time.
“He has a lunch meeting.”
“Who’d he cancel on?”
“Blanchard. About twenty people in the meeting.”
“She’s one of Pelz’s direct reports, right?”
“Yes. She oversees our clients in Europe and Asia.” I offer him a small smile. “Expect to be treated the same.”
“What took precedence?”
“Oh, a lunch with…” I hesitate. I’m fairly certain Ms. Landry is a friend.
He raises an eyebrow. “An associate?”
“Yes.” I nod, liking that answer.
“Internal or external?”
“She doesn’t work here,” I answer. He’s the son of the former owners. He’s not just an executive. There’s a fine line to be walked. I don’t want to offend him, but I also don’t want to come off like an assistant who can’t be trusted.
“Interesting. Pelz is married?”
“Yes.” His wife comes into the office over the holidays and delivers gifts to each of us. She’s a kind, grandmotherly type.
It could be my imagination, but I think his eyes narrow, as if he’s putting two and two together for himself. Is my boss having an affair? Possibly. He does value these lunch dates with Landry, a woman I’ve yet to meet or talk to, but it’s difficult to imagine a man his age cheating on his wife. We have clients I haven’t met. There are plenty of reasonable explanations.
Tristan leaves and I focus on rescheduling the afternoon meetings and preparing the competitive report to have on Pelz’s desk.
A green glass bottle and a sandwich wrapped in wax paper enter my peripheral vision. I spin in time to see Tristan’s back entering his office.
“Did you bring me lunch?”
“Can’t you have starving because you’ve got an inconsiderate arse for a boss, can we?”
I’m taken aback. I can’t remember the last time someone did something like that for me.
“Thank you. Ah, how much do I owe you?”
“Well, I’d like to take you to dinner.”
“Excuse me?”
“As repayment. I’m new to Geneva. Or, it’s been decades since I’ve lived here. I’d love the company, if you don’t mind. At my age, it’s difficult to meet people in a new city.”
I should say no. Executives don’t mingle with the assistants. And he’s not just any executive. He’s heir to the crown, so to speak. My boss doesn’t like him and if it gets out that I’m becoming friendly with a potential threat, he’ll bite my head off daily.
But he brought me lunch. He’s a connected executive and building a professional relationship with him is an opportunity. And what he’s saying is true. Moving to a new city can be challenging. And while I’ve lived here for years, my close circle of friends moved on. Company over dinner would be nice.
“Sure,” I hear myself answer, overriding the niggling misgivings circling my gut, reminding me Mr. Peltz would not be pleased if he learned I went to dinner with an executive, but especially this executive.
“It’s a date,” he says.
“No. Not a date.” I smile because his gaze feels flirtatious, but it could easily be wishful thinking. “Dinner plans. Between friends.”
I’d say colleagues, but we both know with the number of organizational levels between us, colleagues is a stretch. Of course, who am I kidding? Nothing about this is proper.