At nine o’clock the next morning, Monica sat in the lobby of Cargill & Associates, a cramped office inside a low-rent building filled with plastic ferns, walnut-veneer furniture and dollar-store art. Behind the reception desk sat a young redhead with a ring on every finger and probably a few on her toes, sipping a cup of Starbucks. On Monica’s arrival, the woman had her fill out the obligatory application. She said Mr. Cargill was tied up right now, but he’d be with her in a minute, then turned her attention back to a dog-eared copy of Cosmopolitan, moving her lips as she read about the seven ways to drive her boyfriend wild in bed.
Monica closed her eyes for a moment, trying to calm her churning stomach. How in the hell had it come to this?
Thirty-two résumés, eleven job applications, four interviews and four no-thank-yous. That was how.
No. She had to stop thinking about how she’d failed so far and focus instead on how she could succeed. She knew how lightweight her résumé was, so she was going to have to compensate for her lack of skills in other ways.
She unfastened another button of her blouse and spread the neck apart, calling attention to the one asset of hers that men had never been able to ignore. She turned in her chair to allow the slit of her skirt to inch open farther. Then she pulled her shoulders back, lifted her nose a notch and assumed an air of total indifference, because the only people who got jobs were those who acted as if they didn’t need them, even though she needed this one badly. Once Cargill came out to the lobby and she had his attention, she’d slink into his office like a lioness and go in for the kill.
She heard a door open. “Ms. Saltzman?”
Count to three, she told herself. Don’t act too eager.
With a studied grace that came from all her beauty pageant years, Monica slowly turned her head for her first look at her future boss. And for another count of three, she gritted her teeth and tried not to cry.
She was used to bosses who wore raw silk and Italian leather. This guy was double-knit polyester and leatherette. He was pushing sixty, with a shiny scalp showing through an embarrassing comb-over and a hefty set of jowls tumbling over his shirt collar. If the guy happened to smile, which at the moment didn’t seem likely, she was sure he’d have tobacco-stained teeth.
He wore no wedding ring. No surprise there.
She took a deep, calming breath, reminding herself of her dwindling savings and the mortgage payment she wasn’t going to be able to make in a few months if she didn’t get a paycheck coming in soon.
She rose from her chair, gave him a dazzling smile and extended her hand. “Hello, Mr. Cargill,” she purred, like the lioness she was. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
His eyes never met hers. She was used to that from men because they were usually busy checking out other parts of her body. But when he didn’t bother looking at any of the rest of her, either, she felt a shot of apprehension.
He gave her hand a cursory shake. “This way.”
She followed him into his office, where he plopped down in his pseudo-leather executive chair.
“Catch the door,” he said.
Strike one: he was ugly. Strike two: he had no manners. God only knew what strike three was going to be. Just the thought of unleashing her feminine charm on this man was making her a little queasy.
She closed the door and took a seat. He slouched in his chair as he looked at the application she’d filled out, frowning the whole time. “It says here your most recent experience was as an executive assistant to a bank vice president.”
“That’s right.”
“You worked for him for five years.”
“Yes.”
His frown deepened. “I’m not seeing much computer experience. What programs do you know?”
“Well, Word, of course. And Excel. And maybe a little bit of PowerPoint.”
“Those are pretty much the baseline. What else do you have?”
Not a blessed thing. Her job at First Republic Bank had been to keep Jerry Womack’s calendar, make travel arrangements, answer his calls, chat up any clients who came by for meetings, order lunch and look like a million dollars.
In the past five years, while she’d been working her way toward the forty-fourth-floor executive suite where the espresso machine was the most complicated thing she’d have to run, technology had taken a quantum leap. Unfortunately, she hadn’t leaped along with it.
“What about office machines?” Cargill said. “Typing?”
She could type. Just not very well. As far as office machines, a simple phone system, a fax machine and a copier were about the only things she was sure she could handle.
If he persisted in this useless line of questioning, they were going to get nowhere.
“Let’s cut right to the chase here, Mr. Cargill.” She leaned in and folded her arms on his desk, slowing her words and letting her voice drop to a deeper register. “You and I both know that you can hire just about anyone to perform all those technical tasks. But that’s not what makes an executive assistant so valuable, is it? In the end, there’s only one qualification that’s even worth talking about.” She fixed her gaze tightly on his, giving him a smoldering look that had been known to bring men to their knees. “What you need, Mr. Cargill, is an assistant who can anticipate your every need—” dramatic pause “—and fill it.”
She nearly choked on the words, even though they were something she could easily take back later. You thought I meant what? Her words appeared to have the desired effect. He sat up slightly, his bland brown eyes widening with interest. His gaze roved over her face, dropped slowly to her breasts, hovered there for a moment or two, then rose again—every flick of his eyelashes so blatantly assessing that she knew she had him on the hook.
Five seconds passed. Then ten. And no matter how unsightly he was, she forced herself not to look away.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I don’t think you’re qualified for the job.”
Monica felt a jolt of shock, followed by a deluge of humiliation. He tossed her application onto his desk, pushed away from it and stood up.
Oh, God. He was brushing her off. How could this be happening?
“But…but I’m a very fast learner,” she said, “if only you’ll give me a chance.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I know I’m a little shy on technical knowledge, but I’m perfectly willing to—”
“Thank you, Ms. Saltzman.”
Just like that, rock bottom sank even lower.
Monica rose from her chair, feeling a little shaky, but she forced herself to thank him for his time and walk away with her chin up because she had more class than this big, blind bozo could ever hope to have.
She opened the door to his office and stepped into the lobby. Another woman was waiting there now to be interviewed, a platinum blonde who looked as if she’d cut cheerleader practice short to make it on time. And suddenly a different man was standing in Cargill’s fake leather shoes.
“Well, hello, there,” he said with a smile, practically tripping over himself to usher the woman into his office. As he closed the door behind them, Monica stared with disbelief, feeling like a wallflower at a high school dance.
“Well, she’s a shoo-in,” the receptionist said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she’s got all the qualifications he’s looking for, if you know what I mean.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re lucky he didn’t hire you.”
“Why?”