Chapter 5 Jules
JULES
Unpopular opinion: I like Mondays. It’s a fresh start to the week.
Anything could happen, even small miracles.
So after a weekend of being held in suspense—certain HR made a mistake about the new role—when the Meridian Holdings app notifications pinged at zero dark thirty, indicating I had a personal message, I thought it was a correction.
I also secretly hoped Andresen felt bad about keeping us late on Friday and was giving us the morning to sleep in.
No such luck.
I’m on the thirty-third floor with Wendy and Carmen, packing up my desk while they pepper me with questions. “I read the notification word for word. Checked, then double-checked that it was intended for me. Marcel messaged me personally to confirm I’m moving departments.”
Wendy tips her head from side to side. “It is unlikely that another Juliana Lindley works for the company.”
I give her a wide-eyed Ya think? look, then regret it because this is a “we all lose” rather than a “win-win” situation. The office girlies and I had a good thing going here.
“I thought the meeting on Friday was just about the new management system,” Carmen says, scrolling through the app, presumably to make sure she didn’t miss any notifications.
“Never mind staying late, Marcel told me that Andresen and the new exec, Mr. Sullivan, wanted me here early and then—” I start.
“Your new boss?”
I nod, exasperated. “He’s a no-show.”
Carmen hisses, “The pair of snakes!
Wendy bounces on her toes. “Maybe that means you’re staying here.”
“I wish. One of the women who works on the exec floor said he was in a meeting and told me to come down here to pack my stuff. It’s definite.”
I puff my cheeks. Thanks to the pointless early arrival, I missed my usual Monday morning coffee shop stop and the precious quiet before the week’s corporate bloodsport commenced.
When I finally snuck out for caffeine and oxygen, a power-walking stiff in a suit nearly mowed me down trying to get in the building.
I tuck my candy bowl into a file box when my phone chimes—another Meridian notification.
Carmen and Wendy pop up like prairie dogs.
My hope dies fast—the notification is from L. Sullivan, informing me in the smuggest possible terms to return to the office “at my earliest convenience” and to “make timeliness a priority going forward.” I want to stick my tongue out at my device.
“That was him. I have to go,” I say, hefting my box.
Carmen hugs me. Wendy, knowing the dangers I face, slides some Dove chocolate in the box for extra reinforcement.
Remember when I said I hate my boss? Still true, maybe more so because I also preemptively hate my new boss. That’s double hate. Hate squared. Hate on top of hate. Hate in duplicate.
Wendy, Carmen, and I have always had a long leash—junior employees who deliver avoid micromanagement. But with this new structure, I doubt Sullivan will extend the same courtesy. I can already feel him breathing down my neck.
This reminds me of how, when I was new to driving, when a more experienced driver was in the car with me, I’d get nervous and inevitably—and accidentally—honk the horn or stop short when pulling into a parking spot.
Same as when someone watches me type. When left alone, spellcheck is hardly necessary.
When someone is watching over my shoulder, it’s like I’m suddenly using my toes instead of my fingers to make the words appear on the screen.
Taking a breath as deep as the Mariana Trench, I exit the elevator.
The space the girlies and I shared in the Collections Processing Department was almost cozy—three desks in a triangle, modern wall sconces, a little personality, a touch of charm.
Up here, it’s marble and mahogany ego. Polish and power plays.
From the upholstered leather chairs to the hand-woven rug, even the silence feels expensive.
In the reception area, two desks flank a runway that leads to the main office, where I imagine Mr. Sullivan sits in a wingback chair while stroking a Persian cat.
He’ll probably demand that I feed him green M&Ms or whatever it is that goblin men consume instead of grapes like a Roman emperor.
However, a framed lithograph that looks remarkably like the Gettysburg Address draws my attention. I pad closer, but a clatter comes from the main office, and I whip around. Two women freeze in place.
When they see me, the taller one says. “Oh, I thought it was him.”
“I’m Juliana Lindley. The new—”
The shorter one with a broad face narrows her eyes. “Yes, we know who you are.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, drawing on my manners and expecting them to introduce themselves.
“We’re preparing things for Mr. Sullivan.” The way the taller one says his name makes me wonder if L. Sullivan should have more gravity in my mental contacts list. So far, it hasn’t rung any bells.
The shorter woman points to one of the desks in the entry area of the office. The placard says Misha Perkins. The other reads Veronica Meller. Presumably, these belong to each of them, and they’re not keen to make room for me.
Misha orders, “Take that stack of files to Ms. Drecken’s new suite.”
Veronica, the taller one, adds, “Matt, the executives’ gopher, is probably in the hall. Just give them to him. He’ll know what to do.”
Turning on my heels, I shake off the command and the lack of so much as a “please” and do as told, hoping to be fast in case Mr. Sullivan returns. Surely, he’ll think I misread his directive to come to the office at my earliest convenience to mean at my leisure.
After such a cool first impression, that won’t fly around here. I also pray I don’t forget how to be courteous and morph into a snobby secretary.
I haven’t spent much time on the executive floors and feel like I’m going to get in trouble because I don’t have a hall pass.
The corridors are wide and eerily empty—neither Matt nor the other assistants rush around with file carts or armloads of paperwork. I entertain myself by imagining actual gophers scurrying around with tiny briefcases, and I’m still grinning when my phone pings. Sullivan again, probably.
I glance down at the screen and nearly crash into a wall … of chest. Suit, tie, solid build—must be the assistant I’m looking for. Flustered, I don’t look up. “Sorry, I’m—”
Panicking about getting fired and suspicious that Veronica and Misha are sabotaging me. I shove the files into Maybe Matt’s hands, U-turn, and call over my shoulder, “Please bring those to Ms. Drecken.”
The elevator takes forever to arrive and a figure drops in to wait beside me.
It’s barely after nine a.m., and my internal tailspin dives deeper when I realize he’s wearing the same gray suit as Maybe Matt.
Same large stature, too. Come to think of it, similar build and posture as Doorway Dance Guy from earlier.
The chances are slim to nothing. I got this. I imagine myself like Rocky Balboa facing off with those seventy-two limestone steps in Philadelphia—that was my father’s favorite movie. I’ll rise to the top, even if I have to take the slow elevator.
Eyes glued to the lacy, golden veins on the night sky marble floor, I don’t dare look up at the masculine figure beside me.
The elevator must be taking the scenic route.
The man beside me jiggles his watch and checks the time. Then he draws an executive badge from his suit jacket and swipes it across a panel on the wall.
Clearing my throat, I still don’t look up and mumble, “Is that to hurry it along?”
“We’ll find out.” His voice is low, quarried from the deepest mines in the earth.
“I didn’t know that was a thing. This gives me a new goal to reach executive status.” My laughter sounds muffled like underwater gunfire.
“Good luck with that.”
Alrighty, then. Possibly Matt is as dry as toast. No doughnuts for him next Monday!
The elevator dings and we both step inside.
In the small space, his words and low timbre echo in my head.
If he’d said anything else—recited poetry in Italian, for instance—I’d have considered his voice alluring, the kind I’d like to hear read an audiobook about true love.
Instead, it was dismissive, almost smug.
Still not shifting my gaze, I sense he holds something—the files, no doubt. This can only mean one of two things. The man was indeed Gopher Matt and Misha was mistaken about the location of Ms. Drecken’s new office. Or I mistook an executive for the executive aide and he’s going to report me to HR.
Suddenly claustrophobic, heat rises to my cheeks and cold sweat makes me wish I had the budget to buy silk or linen rather than synthetic blends. My shirt’s fabric clings to me in a way that will soon necessitate an extra application of antiperspirant.
The illuminated number buttons are like old English script I need to decode. My breathing sounds like I’m slurping the bottom of a smoothie through a straw. My stomach decides to rebel and makes a weird squelching sound.
If Probably Not Matt is aware of this, he doesn’t reveal it, standing there stiffly in his expensive suit—from what I can see, it fits him well. The faint gust of cologne that wafts my way would be enticing in any other setting.
He gets out on the same floor as me, but by some act of mercy, we walk in opposite directions. Of course, my shoes squeak.
Squeak, squeak, squeak goes the little mouse as she scurries away from the big bad cat.
I don’t dare look back.