Chapter 7
I AWAKE FULLY rested the following morning.
For the first time since arriving in New York, my night was uninterrupted by a noise disturbance or an overly full bladder.
As I’m getting out of bed, I realize I still have no idea what my neighbour’s name is.
If I had to guess, I’d go with Chip. Or Chad.
Or some other arrogant guy name. The kind of guy who could make an apartment located under the Amsterdam airport flight path seem like a better option than my current accommodations.
Those name options are just based on his behaviour, though.
Based on his looks, I’d go with Keith or Kurt or some other name that would match a guy who plays the electric guitar with the stage presence of a rock god being pelted with lace panties.
I still haven’t been grocery shopping, so I’ve made it through my mornings so far fuelled by gluten-free bagels with cream cheese from a vendor.
I might be brand new to New York, but I’ve already concluded that the locals have an unfounded fear of gluten.
In this city, I feel like you could pull off a bank robbery armed only with a baguette.
Since we’re heading to Lockhart & Cahill today to present our ideas and take stock of their wishes, I pull an outfit from my closet that was made to impress: a tight-fitting, navy blue dress and a pair of high heels.
After pinning up my blonde locks, I assess the end result in the mirror and decide I like what I’m seeing.
Thankfully, I don’t need quite as much concealer today to camouflage the dark circles lining my eyes.
I add some mascara, then rush off to the subway station.
Before I get to the gates, I make a quick stop to grab a bagel that I munch on while I speed-walk ahead, keeping an eye on my watch as I go.
My train leaves in six minutes. The train after that is only five minutes later, but showing up even a few minutes late to work won’t exactly be appreciated here.
As if I’ve been doing this my whole life, I follow the flow of people to the gates as I nibble away at my breakfast. I marvel at what a natural I am, using my subway card with one hand as I scroll through my incoming messages with the other.
Holding my bagel snug between my teeth, I rush to my train on my click-clacking high heels.
I’ve even mastered the smooth flick of the wrist that allows me to check my watch every ten seconds.
Yep, I’ve released my inner New Yorker. I’ve got the pace down, I’ve got the bagel, and—
Dammit!
There’s cream cheese on my dress.
Frustrated, I stare at my former breakfast. The bagel took a nose-dive, skimming my dress before landing cheese-side-down on the ground.
People are shooting annoyed glares my way now that I’m holding everyone up.
Sorry! I squeak, as I bend over, pick my bagel up from the ground, and toss it into the closest garbage can. Taking in the damage to my dress, I try to figure out which one is worse: showing up late or showing up in an outfit with a stain on the chest.
I decide I can probably deal with the stain at the office with some paper towels and soap, so I scoop as much of the cream cheese from my dress as I can, and lick my fingers clean before stepping onto the train.
Are you . . . lactating? I’m in the office washroom with Mariana. There’s a funny look on her face as she takes in the sight of my dress.
My bagel ricocheted off of my boobs, where the blue fabric has now taken on a white sheen.
I thought you didn’t have kids, she continues.
Uhhh, sorry, what? I give her a confused look.
Lactating, Mariana repeats, gesturing at my breasts.
It happened to me all the time after I gave birth.
Such a nightmare. I had to wear those nursing pads in my bra to avoid looking like a walking dairy farm.
Pained, she stares at herself in the mirror, looking as tired as ever.
Now that I’m hooked up to a breast pump all the time, I honestly still kind of feel like a milk factory anyway.
I’m taken aback by Mariana’s directness for a moment, before letting out a chuckle.
I dropped a bagel on my dress, I confess, while I make an attempt to wipe away the cheese. It’s not working. The worst of the cheese blobs are gone, but there’s still a transparent white stain highlighting my cleavage.
Ugh. Mariana looks at me with empathy. Don’t you have that meeting at Lockhart & Cahill this afternoon?
Yep. I’m scrubbing my dress so hard now that it’s starting to go fuzzy.
Damn it.
You should probably change, in that case, she says, shaking her head. This might not make the best impression.
I know. I rub my forehead in frustration. But I don’t have time. I still need to go over the presentation with Patrice and add my proposal to her selection of performers.
Mariana shifts a pensive gaze from her blazer to my face and back, then takes off the piece of clothing and hands it over to me.
Why don’t you borrow this, she suggests. If you keep it buttoned up, no one will ever notice the stain.
I look at the jacket with some hesitation, then focus my eyes on Mariana as she gives me an encouraging nod.
Are you sure? I ask cautiously.
Duh. I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t sure, she replies, rolling her eyes at me.
I accept the jacket and slide it onto my shoulders. My boobs are considerably smaller than hers, so it’s a little on the big side, but I still look put together.
Thanks, I sigh in relief. I owe you . . .
Mariana waves off my gratitude. Don’t even worry about it. Although, next time I need a babysitter, I’ll know where to find you.
The blood drains from my face, since I’m about as much of an expert on children as I am about the mating rituals of crickets. Mariana laughs when she notices.
I’m only kidding, Emma, she says, shaking her head.
No strings attached, I promise. With a chuckle, she jerks her head toward the wall.
I should probably get back out there before The Dictator chews me out for delivering her coffee too late.
She’s even more of a menace without her required caffeine intake. See you in a bit.
She disappears through the door, leaving me alone to touch up my makeup.
The Lockhart & Cahill building is located across from New York City Hall and it’s even more imposing than the Make a Mark Events offices.
I take a beat to let my impression of the enormous building really sink in.
Even though it’s smaller than City Hall and doesn’t have a tower that peaks up over the clouds at times, it’s still enough to make my jaw drop a little.
I’ve dealt with some relatively big clients back in the Netherlands, but everything about New York is challenging my perspective.
Things are just so much bigger than I’m used to: the buildings, the portions, .
. . Sure, my apartment unfortunately doesn’t fit into that category, but that doesn’t change the fact that certain things in this new city are completely overwhelming.
Coming? Patrice asks me, walking up to the door. She looks at me impatiently with a calculated look in her ice cold stare. We absolutely cannot be late.
I check my watch: we still have half an hour. Even so, I follow Patrice into the reception area. The space is absolutely humongous and I’m convinced it would echo the ella, ella, ella from Rihanna’s Umbrella back to me if I had the nerve to sing it out loud in here.
Centred in the space is a wide reception desk staffed with multiple receptionists.
Off to the right, there’s a staircase leading up to the next floor.
Beyond the stairs, I notice a long line of swanky looking elevators.
You wouldn’t be able to just walk in here: only a badge can get you through the row of glass doors between here and the office entrance.
Once we’ve checked in at the reception, a man arrives to usher us off and he looks exactly the way you’d expect a man to look at a law firm: sharp suit, tie, hair combed into a side part. Basically, my whole entire type.
He introduces himself as Lewis Jones and we follow him toward an elevator that sweeps us up to the top floor of the building.
I feel like we’ve been transported into the new season of a Netflix legal drama.
The space is full of people walking and talking in a frenzy.
At the desks in the middle of the room, a number of employees are working their way through piles of paper and a few of them look like they could burst into tears at any moment.
Those are the paralegals, Lewis tells us with a nod toward the younger staff members. And this is me. He points out the empty chair next to a blonde man who’s rubbing his face in frustration. Yo, Sebastian, are you joining us? These ladies are here for that Christmas party meeting.
Lewis turns to us again as Sebastian gets up from his chair.
We volunteered to help out with the party, he says. “HR is handling most of it, but we’ll be the employee representatives on the project. The Christmas party is our biggest event of the year and people are always looking forward to it, so you’ve got a fun job cut out for you.
Sebastian comes out from behind his desk to join Lewis and he feels vaguely familiar. Squinting, I try to remember where I might have seen him before. The past few days have been so dense with new experiences and new people, so it’s not exactly weird that I’m struggling to place him.
When he notices me staring, he reaches out his hand, clearly under the assumption that I was waiting for a round of introductions.
Sebastian Miller. Great to meet you, he says.
I slide my hand into his and hold onto it for a few seconds too long.
Emma Maas . . . I say, hesitating slightly before blurting out, Don’t I know you from somewhere?
Sebastian gives me a crooked smile that triggers a dimple in his cheek.