Chapter 10
TEN
Rhys
"So the panel wants a demonstrated example," I say. "An actual time when you managed a conflict between two staff members and what the outcome was."
Wes nods along, pen moving fast across his notepad, actually taking notes, which tells me how seriously he's taking this. "And if I don't have one? Like, an actual example?"
"You've been doing the staffing rosters for three years now.
I have absolutely no doubt you have one.
" I tap the printed selection criteria between us.
"But if you have trouble thinking of one, don't worry, we'll have a chat, okay?
You've got until Thursday." I start stacking his file, my tried and true tactic to signal I'm wrapping up the meeting.
"I'll send you my draft tomorrow." Wes gathers his things, stands. But instead of leaving, he says, "Hey, you're wearing The Fancy Shirt."
I inwardly groan. Seriously? What about me makes people think I would want to talk about my clothing? “What?"
He braces his hands on the back of his vacated chair.
"You have eight work shirts, all nice, don't get me wrong.
But you've got one special shirt, you wear it when you want to look especially nice, or when you've got an important meeting.
" He points at me, wiggling his fingers. "This one. The Fancy Shirt."
I don’t even look down. I know exactly what shirt I’m wearing. “This is a normal shirt. I mean, I ironed it this morning. Maybe that's why you think it's special?" Why am I even entertaining this conversation? I need to get ready for my next meeting.
"Dude. You iron every shirt. But I will give you this, this one is extra...starchy."
A loud knock turns us both to the door. Hopefully an actual work issue. It's not. Priti, the admin manager, efficient as anything, unless she's got a coffee in her hand, which is her sign she's looking for someone to gossip with. The one she's currently holding is the largest size they make.
"What are we talking about?" Priti says before taking a loud sip of her caramel macchiato.
"Rhys's shirt situation," Wes tells her with way too much delight.
"Oh, right, The Fancy Shirt." She comes in and plops herself in the chair. "And the cologne. He rarely wears cologne. Today he smells like he tripped and fell against the parfumerie wall in Sephora.”
"I wear cologne," I protest.
"He does," Wes says. "When he's wearing The Fancy Shirt."
"I have a meeting," I say pointedly.
"Oh, we picked up on that," Priti says. "The question is...who with?"
"Confidential."
"Everything's confidential with you. You and I had a one-on-one last week that you called confidential. All we talked about was how I needed to stop putting my feet on your desk." She kicks her feet up in the air, crosses them at the ankle, and puts them on my desk.
"I do that for the comfort of all my clients," I say, grabbing a ruler from my desk and jabbing it at her feet. She stays put.
Priti looks up at Wes. “I’m bored. Let's go. Wanna go check his calendar for to see who his meeting’s with?”
"You will not!" I say. "That's in violation of—"
"Employee confidentiality agreements," they both say in unison.
"Okay. So you won't be able to argue ignorance if I find out you did it and file a report.”
"Ten bucks it's that cute new intake he had on Monday afternoon,” Priti says to Wes, completely ignoring me. “He’s been a special kind of mood since.”
I open my mouth to tell her exactly how far off the mark she is, and that's the moment we all hear, "Oh, hello, I have an eleven a.m. appointment?"
Wes turns first. Then Priti. Then both of them, in perfect, horrifying unison, turn back to me with matching expressions of dawning delight.
Alexia's standing in the doorway, a thin folder against her chest, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else in the building.
Anywhere else in the world. Her hair is pulled into a side ponytail and she's wearing a black woollen knee-length dress and ankle boots, that make me wish she was sitting on my desk, while everyone else was outside of it.
And the door was shut, and I was kneeling between her—
"Well," Priti says, interrupting my thoughts.
"Better get back to my desk, important business to attend to, namely working out what to do with that extra ten dollars I suddenly have.” She stands, reaches over and pretends to brush something off my shirt.
"He looks nice today, doesn't he? All ironed.
" She says it while staring directly at Alexia.
Alexia just frowns, confused.
"When have I ever not ironed my shirt?" I mumble, pushing her hand away.
"Hi! I'm Wes," Wes says, introducing himself. "This is Priti. We work with Rhys, unfortunately."
"Speak for yourself," Priti says, giving Alexia a very thorough look up and down. "I quite like working with Rhys. He's courteous and punctual, has impeccable handwriting, polite on the phone. And all the women in the department call him Pham the Fuc—"
That's my cue.
I'm up on my feet and around my desk before she can finish, one hand on Wes's shoulder, the other on Priti's, steering them both out.
"Out," I say. "Both of you. Get back to work, Priti. And Wes, I want that application draft in my email first thing Thursday."
"But we were just being friendly!" Priti protests, laughing, letting herself be steered.
"Be friendly somewhere else."
I shut the door, but not fast enough to miss Priti mouthing something I choose to ignore, then turn to find Alexia watching me.
"Um, they seem...nice," she says.
"Yeah. That's one word for them." I sigh, patting the chair as I head back to my desk. The faster I can put a big wooden piece of furniture between us, the better. “Ignore them. They're just some colleagues making me question if I've been in this job too long."
I feel her eyes following me as I go.
"Do you not like your job? I would've thought it was perfect for you," she says as she sits.
I almost miss my chair. That's the second time she's surprised me with a question about myself. "Sorry?"
"I mean, you always wanted to counsel people. Not in the traditional sense, like as a shrink, but give advice in some capacity. Some way to help people see themselves in ways maybe they haven’t before."
"Did I tell you that?"
She shrugs as she reaches for something in her bag. "Not in so many words, but I guess over the years you must've mentioned something to that fact.”
I did. I mentioned it to her.
She noticed. She remembered.
And there's that twist in my chest again.
She's not done though. "But, I can see how you might want to try something else now that you've been here for four years.
You like to challenge yourself. I mean, you don't like other people challenging you.” A little smirk tickles the edges of her lips.
“Only you really know what motivates you.
Because it's not money, or recognition, or even normal career success.
" She tilts her head, regarding me. "I guess only you will ever know.
But it's probably doing things that only you know are hard for you. "
Then she stares at me.
And I stare back, every word sinking into my skin like a balm.
"So, the Hargreaves Fellowship," she moves on without me prompting her. “I printed out the description, I know you told me to email it, and I did, but I like looking at things in hard copy, which I think you do too, so I brought you a copy."
Shit.
In one minute she's shown that she knows me better than the people I've worked with for four years.
Abort. Abort.
I can not do this.
Even this giant desk is not enough separation.
I must be staring, because she starts to pull the folder back, her ears turning pink. "But you don't have to use it. I can—"
I reach for it, and for a second our fingers graze before we both yank them back like the other is a branding iron. “No! That’s, I mean, yeah, thank you. Next time, you can have it printed here. I don't want to use up your printing credits. I know the uni can be stingy with them."
She relaxes as I take the folder and waves her hand at my offer.
"Oh, no, I always request way more than I need.
When I die, I offer my body to the trees as payment for all the paper I used in my lifetime.
" She stops. "Is that weird? That was weird.
Put down in your notes, 'discourage Alexi from talking about her corpse as tree noms at job interviews. '"
I'm not sure what I'm more surprised by, her use of the term "tree noms" or my nickname for her. It's quirky. And cute.
I'm quickly remembering why I was so addicted to her.
I open the folder and read, comparing the criteria against her credentials.
Publication record, check.
Grant history, thin but workable.
At least one year of professional experience in the field. Ouch.
I look up.
Her jaw sets, instantly defensive. "I know."
“I’s going to be tough going up against the other PhD graduates when you technically haven't yet."
"Yup, I got it." She says it fast, flat. "I didn't come in here for you to tell me the bad news I already know. I came here because you're apparently good at your job. Because you promised me you’ll be able to help me."
Her words are harsh, demanding. But I can see the fear behind them, and I've done this job long enough to know the apathetic aren't scared. Only the ones with something to lose are. She wants this. Badly enough to be here, in my office. The least I can do is make it happen for her. Whether it’s my job or not.