Chapter 3
OH, COME ON! I growl at the subway card vending machine that’s refusing to do what I just paid it to do. I’m gonna be late! Do you have any idea how bad this’ll make me look?
The machine sputters.
Ugh! Stupid thing. I kick it in frustration.
You gotta remove your credit card, I hear a voice behind me chuckle. Either way, those machines don’t surrender to just any old kick. At the very least, you’d have to come at ‘em pushing all the buttons at the same time.
I look up into a pair of bright blue, twinkling eyes.
And the man those eyes belong to doesn’t look half bad himself: his blonde hair is carefully styled and he’s wearing a sharp suit.
The playful smile on his face has brought dimples to his cheeks.
He’s carrying a Starbucks cup in one hand and his briefcase in the other—the classic accessories of any New Yorker on their way to work around eight in the morning.
He leans in to point at the credit card slot. See?
Once I pull back my card, the machine finally spits out my subway pass.
Thanks, I reply in embarrassment.
A corner of his mouth turns up. You must be new here, he concludes.
Gee, what tipped you off? I mumble with just a touch of sarcasm.
It’s a toss-up between not carrying a coffee and the fact that you just picked a fight with a perfectly functional vending machine. He gives me a wink. Good luck figuring out how everything works here.
Ooh, my first opportunity to flirt with a hot New Yorker. My brain goes into overdrive trying to come up with an interesting topic of conversation. Eucalyptus-eating koalas? The most recent election? Or should I confess that this is the biggest city I’ve ever been to?
I’m still just standing there when the man nods toward the machine behind me. Do you mind? he asks kindly. You’re kind of holding up the line.
I blink a few times, then look over his shoulder to discover a long line of people with impatient expressions on their faces, like they’ve just ended their collective hunger strike and I’m the only thing standing between them and a massive chocolate cake.
Oh—of course. Sorry. Cheeks flushed, I step aside and rush to the turnstile.
The subway is packed. Jammed, really. It’s a miracle no one spills any coffee on me or dips my hair in their cream cheese bagel.
I don’t think anyone multitasks quite like New Yorkers do.
Men in suits make themselves as compact as possible in their plastic seats while they ingest their breakfast and leaf through The Wall Street Journal.
Women in stilettos hold their balance by clinging onto the metal poles positioned throughout the train as they talk on the phone while sipping a latte.
I’m wedged so tightly between everyone else on the train that I don’t even need a pole to stay upright. The backs of my fellow passengers keep me firmly in place—no small feat considering the ankle-breaking heels I’m wearing.
A fifteen-minute ride later, we arrive in Tribeca. As I exit the train, I’m swept along by a swarm of people getting off at the same station. I can’t even stop to enter the office address into Google Maps without meeting my end the same way Mufasa did in The Lion King.
Somewhere in the crowd, I spot the blonde man again. His phone is glued between his shoulder and his ear and he checks his watch over and over again before disappearing from view.
I sigh. Doubt I’ll ever see that one again.
Make a Mark Events is located in a colossal office building.
I stop right out front to look up. It’s so tall that the top floor is out of view.
Its huge windows are framed in black and I can see people rushing back and forth behind the glass.
I tightened my grip on the coffee I picked up on my way over from the subway—I’d rather not have my jetlag kick in later today.
I’m wearing my most expensive heels and one of the most elegant outfits I own: a flowy white blouse with a dark green pencil skirt that hits me at the knees. My hair is up in a pretty bun and I added subtle accents of eyeliner and mascara.
The dress code here is business chic, just like at the office in Amsterdam, but I can usually get away with pairing white sneakers with my work dresses back home. I doubt that kind of thing would fly at the New York office.
There’s a satisfying ticking sound as my heels hit the marble tiles on my way to the reception area.
Behind the desk, the receptionist is talking into a headset.
She holds up a finger to signal that she needs just a moment.
Once she’s done with her call, I explain why I’m here before she presses a button and asks me to take a seat in the lobby.
She points out a pair of sleek leather sofas, angled to create a seating area.
I head over and plant my butt in one of the seats, then gaze up at the endlessly high ceiling.
Dangling down from way up there are gigantic lightbulbs, suspended by cords and hanging at various heights.
Everything here seems so oversized and professional that it’s making me even more nervous.
Emma Maas? I hear a voice coming from the lobby.
Out of the elevator steps a woman who looks like she’s only a few difficult clients removed from total burnout. She has dark circles under her eyes and her long brown hair seems a bit unkempt.
I stand and nod.
Mariana Torres, she tells me, shaking my hand. It’s just this way.
I follow her to an elevator that’s massive enough to lug a dozen elephants.
We’re on the ninth floor, Mariana says, stifling a yawn. Sorry. She gives me an apologetic glance. I’m a new mom and my daughter isn’t sleeping through the night yet.
Tell me about it, I say, as if I’ve already raised eight children of my own and now I’m spending the week babysitting my grandchildren while their parents take a well-deserved vacation in an attempt to save their marriage.
Mariana looks at me with hope in her eyes, clearly assuming she’s encountered a fellow torturee. You have kids too?
Ummm, no. Not exactly, but . . . I do know people who have children . . .
A-ha.
I frown as I watch the number above the elevator doors slowly change from floor to floor.
Like . . . my mom, I reluctantly admit.
I hate myself and my big mouth for closing the door on a topic that might actually give us something to chat about. But I’m pathetically single right now and nowhere near the baby zone, plus none of my friends have started that journey either.
Oh. Your mom . . . Mariana sounds disappointed.
She does always tell me I was a total crybaby, I rush to add. She’d be so wrecked during the day that she’d barely get anything done. I’m super impressed that you’re even here at all.
That puts a delicate smile on her face.
Thank you, she says in a soft tone. I feel like I’m the only mom on our floor who can’t afford a nanny.
There’s a coworker with twins who somehow still manages to get to work without baby barf in her hair.
As soon as the words are out, she clasps a hand to her mouth.
I’m sorry. I barely know you and I’m already pouring my heart out. This is so inappropriate.
Oh gosh, don’t worry about it! I comfort her. You don’t even want to know the things I blurt out sometimes.
I’m still not over the embarrassment of that Pirates of the Caribbean reference I made when Mr. Grumpypants next to me ordered his rum.
Here we are, Mariana says with a hint of relief, like she’s worried she’s about to spill more Dear Diary secrets.
We step out of the elevator and I’m looking directly at a big grey wall with MAKE A MARK EVENTS on it in gold letters. The space is filled with the sound of ringing phones and overlapping chatter.
Karen’s office is just this way. She nods her head to the right.
This floor is made up of a series of corner desks assembled in pairs.
Busy-looking people with markers jot down notes on the multiple white boards scattered around the room, gesturing at their coworkers as they lay out their plans.
The space is lined with glass walls that reveal employees who are likely a little higher up the food chain, if their private offices with views of the city are anything to go by.
A few of my brand-new colleagues look up with interest as I pass.
From what I can tell, I seem to have made the right call on my outfit today: sneakers would definitely have been a no-go.
Ready? Mariana asks, lifting her hand up to the door in front of us.
I nod and she knocks twice.
The voice behind the door sounds a bit . . . chilly. Yes?