It’s one of my favorite buildings in New York. It’s unfortunate all this beauty is tainted by the reason I have to come here.
Maybe my dislike for Barrett is rooted in the fact that from our very first encounter, he didn’t like me. JoAnna introduced us at a luncheon she hosted two years ago, when I had first started working for her. He took one look at me, those hazel eyes of his briefly tracking over my body before he gave a curt nod and brushed past me.
I could overlook that. Further interaction has proven that is just how Barrett is. Cold and assessing. But, overhearing him question JoAnna, telling her he didn’t think I was a good fit as her assistant was how I found issue with him. He barely looked at me, let alone tried to learn anything about me. How would he know about my qualifications? What an asshole.
The mature adult that I am felt it was only fair to meet him halfway—full contempt.
I pull the door open and make my way to the elevator. My heels click against the Italian marble. I’m not a tall person. Five foot two if it’s an eighties themed party and I’ve got an inch of teased hair. While heels aren’t practical for running errands around the city, they’re a must when entering enemy camp. I’ll need full height today. It’s important to stand tall and appear larger so I don’t look like prey.
While preparation is key, I’m confident I won’t see Barrett. He’s rarely spotted in the wild, he prefers to hole up in board rooms day after day. And, I already placed a call to his assistant, Bea. She’s aware I will be stopping by.
I step out on the thirteenth floor, the large SCM logo greeting me upon my exit. The main receptionist, Maggie, directs me down the hall toward Bea’s desk.
There’s a buzz of productivity as I pass by people’s offices; phones ringing, keys clicking on keyboards.
Bea is on the phone when I arrive, but she motions to one of the guest chairs sitting across from her desk. They’re against the wall of the enclave that is her office outside of Barrett’s door. It very nearly feels like I’m waiting for the principal to see me and Bea is the kind secretary here to offer words of encouragement. Again, I’ve done nothing wrong and won’t be intimidated.
My eyes move around the space, trying to decide if anything looks different. I’ve been here a few times before. Accompanying JoAnna to an SCM board meeting, or dropping off contracts that needed to be reviewed by SCM lawyers. The fact is I try to come here as little as possible. That’s what couriers are for.
My attention falls on the far wall where the SCM logo is surrounded by a large number of smaller logos. St. Clair Press is among them.
With SCM being the parent company to St. Clair Press, I should be familiar with their business, but I honestly don’t know much about the media giant. JoAnna’s late husband started the company back in the 80s and Barrett is now the CEO. Under his direction SCM has been buying up smaller companies in advertising, broadcasting, print publication, digital media and motion pictures. As evidenced by the wall of logos.
“Chloe,” Bea says when she hangs up the phone. “It’s good to see you.”
I stand and offer her the box of chocolate chip cookies I picked up from Levain Bakery on the way.
“These are my favorite,” she says.
“I know.” I smile, relishing in one of my favorite feelings in the world—giving someone something you know they will enjoy.
“You are so sweet.”
“Not as sweet as the cookies, though.” I laugh.
She snaps her fingers as if just remembering something. “The Books 4 Kids donation check. Sorry. It slipped my mind. It’s been a hectic day here.”
“I can only imagine.” Having a raging asshole for a boss would be hectic. I keep that to myself. Working with Barrett, I imagine Bea’s job is stressful every day. I smile sympathetically.
“I apologize. I haven’t had a chance to get the check filled out yet.” She shuffles a few papers around.
In contrast to the way I feel inside, I plaster on an easy breezy smile.
“No problem,” I say, though my plan to quickly get in and get out is crumbling like the cookie I ate on the way here.
“Thank you.” Bea sits down to type at her computer while I sit down again.
My eyes are pulled in the direction of the open door leading into Barrett’s office. I can see a black leather sofa—the color of Barrett’s soul—and a glass-topped desk with a high-back chair. But more than the cold furniture, it’s void of any personal effects. My gaze moves back to Bea’s desk. A warm mahogany piece that barely has enough space for her computer, it’s covered in framed photos and knick knacks, tiny potted succulents sit along her file cabinet with a handful of scribbled crayon drawings tacked to a bulletin board. At least Barrett doesn’t impart his robotic tendencies onto his employees.