She expands on her point as we head down the hall, while I punctuate her thoughts with murmurs of agreement until I spot Marian Hammersmith outside the conference room we’re meeting in. She’s talking to a couple of higher-ups, her chin tilted up like it does when she’s putting someone in their place. I lift mine as well. Running my tongue over my freshly bleached teeth, I try to think of anything I could use to start a conversation with her. To my surprise, the effort proves unnecessary.
“Good morning, Olivia,” she says, turning my way just before I walk through the conference room door.
My knees threaten to drop into a curtsy. Marian Hammersmith is so elegant, so perfectly put together that being acknowledged by her feels like being greeted by the queen. She’s wearing a beige suit today, with a crisp white shirt underneath and a gold necklace to give the whole look a touch of glamour. If she’s had a face-lift, the surgeon has done excellent work. There’s constant speculation in the office as to her age. Guesses land as low as forty, all the way up to mid-sixties. I have too much respect for her to weigh in with a vote, but I’d love to hear the verified answer. It’s not that I want her to retire. It’s just that I can’t have her job until she leaves it.
“Good morning, Marian.” To my dismay, my voice has gone up an octave like a nervous schoolgirl’s, even after seven years of working together.
“Nice work on that kale project you turned in last week,” she says.
“Thank you.” I feel the corners of my mouth tug toward a frown and have to force them back up. Obviously, Marian’s approval is one of my main goals in this job, but this particular praise stings. I would hope that she, of all people, would recognize the paint-by-numbers outcome my ideas had been reduced to. Did she even consider my original pitch? I want to believe she liked it, that perhaps it was the people above her who decided to keep things at status quo, but it’s difficult to believe when she’s complimenting me for staying between the lines.
Sometimes I wish I’d never come up with the concept for celeriac. If I’d gotten management’s attention with something style-related, maybe I’d be their go-to girl for boutique branding instead of foods that need to be triple-washed. Maybe they wouldn’t see cassava and immediately think of me.
“We should have a lunch meeting next week.” Marian’s eyes drift off me, following someone into the conference room, but the loss of her attention doesn’t prevent me from perking back up at her words. “There are a few things I’d like to discuss with you.”
“I’d love that,” I say coolly, despite my desire to jump in the air, contort my legs into one of those shapes cheerleaders make, and yell hooray.
She focuses back in on me. “Great suit, by the way. The cut of the jacket is flawless.”
“I was just going to say the same about yours.” Dress for the job you want, they say, not the one you have. I wonder if Marian realizes I’ve modeled myself off her. She must at least suspect my ambition. What lowly in-house designer doesn’t dream of one day rising to creative director?
She smiles graciously and nods me into the conference room. I scurry forward in submission, instantly bumping into Elena.
“Oh, did you not see me there, either?” Elena mutters, but I can tell by her tone she’s more amused than offended. “Marian certainly didn’t.”
I tilt my head and study Elena as she and I make our way toward two empty seats back along the wall. With her hair pulled into a messy bun on top of her head, Elena looks more like Marian’s disgruntled teenage daughter than her peer. I’m not sure why she’s always so surprised to be treated as such. I’ve offered her some of my books on how to live life more successfully, but she never seems to get around to it. If I’m being completely honest, I’m always a little relieved when she returns them unread. I want to help Elena, but I’d hate to see her free spirit shackled.
“She saw you,” I say. “She just knew your psychic hadn’t predicted her speaking to you yet.”
“Eddie Radner.” Elena points left across the room and turns right, not noticing as her purse bangs into the knee of the man next to her. In her defense, the room is chaotic. Everyone has taken advantage of the free coffee and cookies and is wandering around with fistfuls of caffeine and sugar, talking over each other in an effort to catch up on any gossip they’ve missed over the week and compare plans for the weekend. This is how all our Friday afternoon debrief meetings go, which is the reason we all keep arriving a little earlier each week. It’s a liquor-less happy hour, the roundup behind the release gates that will soon open to freedom.