My nose wrinkles. “She definitely has to go,” I whisper, trying to subtly gesture to a white redhead in a killer mauve business suit who looks at Hayes wrong as he marches past her and into an office, where the door is quickly shut behind him.
“She’s not interviewing, Ms. Begonia. Therese is already an executive assistant here, merely filling in until Mr. Rutherford hires his own.”
Well.
If that’s not motivation to get started, I don’t know what is.
I clap my hands as if I’m standing in a classroom, and the entire sea of women turns to face me. “Alright, ladies, let’s do this in an orderly fashion. If anyone has to use the restroom, it’s—Nikolay, where is it?”
He points to a hallway to the left.
“It’s there,” I say, pointing in the same direction. “Don’t be shy about taking care of your own needs, because you can’t take care of Mr. Rutherford if you don’t take care of yourself first. If anyone can’t handle taking care of herself first, no one will judge you if you quietly see yourself out, and I wish you all the best. This world really doesn’t teach us to take care of ourselves, does it? But can you imagine if we—erm, sorry. Right. Interviews. I want you all to line up shortest to tallest, leave your shoes on, yes, and we’ll get started in height order for the first few interviews before I mix things up again, because that’s completely random and nothing any of you have any control over. Questions?”
No one so much as peeps—or moves—and I’m starting to get funny looks.
Nikolay clears his throat. “You heard Ms. Fairchild. Please line up.”
This will not be pretty.
But Hayes is trusting me to help out, and this is just one more adventure I didn’t expect.
Time to keep rolling with it.
19
Hayes
I’m hip-deep in first-quarter financial data, ignoring my ringing phones—yes, phones—and pulling my hair out over the post-it notes decorating the surface of my desk to remind me about who wants to meet with me when and about what for the next infinity. The lunch Begonia insisted Nikolay bring me tasted like sawdust, though I blame work rather than the food. I’d rather be working on the data with the discrepancy in the real estate books, and I’m about to surrender to the urge when someone knocks on my door. I’m agitated that I’m supposed to send this data to someone three levels below me for error resolution. I’m agitated that my father’s agitated with me for rescheduling a meeting with him. I’m agitated that the vice president of corporate development has called six times to reiterate the same thing, as if I didn’t hear his request the first time, and that six other vice presidents have called with mundane greetings, congratulations and condolences, and small talk, and I’m agitated that there are so damn many vice presidents and chairpeople in this damn company.
In short, I’m agitated, I feel ill-prepared to execute this job, which means I feel as though I’m letting my family down despite the fact that I’ve increased all of our fortunes tenfold with my instincts about the stock market and bitcoin and global currencies, and I’m in no mood for one more person to demand my attention.
“Go away,” I call to the knocker.
The door swings open, and a very frazzled Begonia gives me the kind of look my mother sometimes gives my father when he’s being a total twat. “Your executive assistants, my lord.” She bends at the waist, sweeping her arm as if we’re on a Broadway stage after performing a historical musical, and a warm glow spreads through my chest.
But two women appear behind her, and there goes that glow.
“Assistant,” I say. “Singular.”
“Assistants. Plural. Two. Because it’s utterly ridiculous to think that one woman can do everything from fixing your coffee to booking your travel to handling your dry cleaning to managing your complete calendar when managing your calendar alone is a full-time job, and do not get me started on the last time Therese took a vacation since there’s no one to cover for her and she still has to go do work for her other VP when you leave for the day, and yes, I did go to the pub around the corner and tell them to charge you for her lunch, dinner, and all snacks for the next week. If you don’t start valuing the work of the people who make your life run, we are done, Hayes Rutherford. Done.”
She turns her back to me and points at the two people, one tall Black woman and one average-height white woman. “And do not put up with any insistence that either of you work more than forty hours a week. If he has to drop off his dry cleaning on his own, or hire a personal assistant outside of your working hours to tend to his coffee and make his dental appointments, then that’s what he’ll have to do.”