“I hope you can get all of your shopping done this weekend. I’d like you back in the office on Monday so we can begin to get things in line.” Her gaze intensifies. “I intend to groom you as my replacement.”
“You intend . . .” I blink at her, running her words through my head. “You’re leaving Infinity Designs?”
“Eventually.” Marian leans back in her chair and crosses her legs. “The time has come to shift my focus to other things.” With a wry smile, she adds, “In fact, my wife would say that time is well past due.”
“You’ll be missed,” I say honestly.
“As were you,” she says. “You do good work, Olivia. But more importantly, you’re the kind of woman who understands the value in playing the game. This is a long-term plan, of course. It will probably take a couple of years to position you as the only obvious choice to replace me, but I believe it will be worth the effort. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the perfect person to fill my shoes.”
“Perfect,” I echo stupidly, my eyes dropping to the three-inch heels beneath her desk.
They’re a classic black, pointed-toe with a scalloped rim for subtle flair and the red sole to advertise the expense of Louboutin. For lack of a better word, they’re absolutely perfect.
And they look terribly, painfully constrictive.
* * *
—
My stomach contracts as I enter the floor where I used to work. I’m not sure I’m ready to see everyone, but my desire to speak to Elena has won out over my skittishness. The office space feels larger than I remembered. It smells of microwave popcorn, an offense that would’ve irritated me a month ago, although not as badly as Ben’s insistence on heating up fish in the shared area. Now, it merely makes me smile. There’s something impressively unfettered about the decision to make popcorn at 9:46 in the morning. Is it breakfast? Brunch? It’s anyone’s guess.
Elena must be lost inside some project on her screen. It’s the only explanation for her surprise when I lean over her cubicle wall after greeting several coworkers nearby. At the sight of me, she flinches before quickly covering her nervousness with an enthusiastic greeting. Her reaction makes me feel guilty for not reaching out sooner. It’s not like she robbed my condo herself. She was only ever trying to help me out.
“I thought I could convince you to sneak out for a cup of coffee,” I say warmly, “but it looks like you’re hard at work.”
“Looks can be deceiving.” She smiles with relief and pops up, sending her chair spinning behind her. “Let’s make a break for it. Mr. Dailey’s wife has had him on a juice fast all week, and the only time he comes out of his haze of hunger is when he’s running for the bathroom. He wouldn’t notice if I moved to Toronto, much less disappeared for an hour.”
Our footsteps speed up as we head toward the door, as if we really are attempting a prison yard escape. And when the elevator doors close behind us, we erupt into giggles that quickly turn to overlapping apologies. By the time we make it to the street, the sun has battled through the smog and is beaming its approval. What starts as coffee extends into the two of us lying beside my hotel pool in newly purchased bikinis.
Instead of plastic loungers, the hotel has plush cushions on wooden frames. Green plants line the area, and the water in the pool is smooth like glass. A covered area to the left holds a smattering of tables surrounded by flowers, and a group of businessmen have taken them over. They have a small buffet of food lined up against one wall, and they seem to rotate between eating from it and wandering into the pool area to take calls. Other than them, we’re the only people here.
“Now I’m really not going to make it back to work,” Elena says remorselessly as the cabana boy walks away with our orders for two mojitos and a flatbread to share. “If Mr. Dailey notices I’m missing, I’m going to have to pretend I’m on a juice fast as well. He’s spent enough time in the bathroom that he won’t have any follow-up questions.”
“And I’ll be there on Monday to back up your story,” I remind her.
She brightens, but as she takes in my expression, her enthusiasm dims. “Are you sure you want to come back?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” My eyes skim the length of the pool, deliberately avoiding hers.
“I can’t imagine.” She leans toward me, smelling of coconut sunscreen. “You’ve got a real chance at becoming creative director, which is what you’ve always said you wanted. And who wouldn’t? It’s more money. More power. And a lot more prestige.”