She had $1,100 in her bank account, and she owed $800 in rent at the end of the month. Still, she didn’t worry.
It was the first time since she was sixteen that she hadn’t had a job. And the first time in her life that she felt free from her mother’s scrutiny; Florence still hadn’t told her that she’d been fired.
She couldn’t believe how happy she was. She felt, for once, in league with the universe. The universe, she believed, would look out for her. Fate would intervene.
And then it did.
Two weeks after her firing, she received a voicemail from Greta Frost at Frost/Bollen, one of the best agencies in the business, asking her to call back.
Before dialing, Florence took several deep breaths to tamp down any evidence of desperation in her voice. Greta answered in a flat, husky tone that Florence tried to match as she explained who she was.
“Thanks for getting back to me,” Greta said. “I was reaching out because one of our writers is looking for an assistant and someone floated your name.”
Florence was confused. “This isn’t about my stories?”
“Hmm?”
“The stories I sent in?”
“Oh. Yes, they were very compelling; it’s part of the reason we’re reaching out to you for this role.”
“What role?”
“Before I tell you anything more, I am going to ask that you keep what I’m about to say confidential.”
“Alright.”
“Are you familiar with the author Maud Dixon?”
“Are you kidding?”
“I am not.”
“You’re asking me if I want to be Maud Dixon’s assistant?”
“I’m asking whether you’d like to apply for the position of Maud Dixon’s assistant.”
“Of course.”
“Wonderful,” said Greta in a voice that sounded like it had never found anything wonderful in its life. “Before we move forward, I need to make you aware of several caveats. Due to the rather unusual circumstances—I’m referring of course to her anonymity—the role has several unique qualifiers. Should you get the job, you will be required to sign a nondisclosure agreement. Not only will you be prohibited from revealing Maud Dixon’s real name, but you will also be prohibited from ever saying that you worked for her.”
“Okay.”
Greta paused before speaking again. “I want to make sure you realize what that means, Florence. For the rest of your life, you will have a gap in your resume that you will be legally prohibited from explaining.”
Florence paused. The whole point of being an assistant to a writer was to use his or her connections to leverage your next job, or, if you were lucky, get published. Without that, you’d be better off working as a waiter, where at least you earned tips.
But it would take more than an NDA to make her turn down the opportunity to learn from a best-selling novelist and, perhaps more importantly, to develop a relationship with her very powerful agent. “That’s fine,” she said.
“Alright. Well, that brings me to number two. She doesn’t live in Manhattan. I can’t disclose where exactly she lives at this point in the process, but she has offered to provide lodging to the successful applicant.”
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Yes. Fine.” Florence knew—she just knew—that fate had intervened to send her this job, that it was the next step toward assuming the mantle of greatness herself. Greta could have listed physical mutilation as a job requirement and Florence still would have wanted it.
“Alright then. Let me tell you where you can email your CV. Do you have a pen?”
Florence sent her resume and a cover letter to Greta’s assistant that night. The next day, she received a call to schedule a video chat with Maud Dixon.
12.
Hello? Can you hear me?”
“I can hear you,” said Florence. “But I can’t see you.” Her own face was clearly visible in a small box in the lower corner of her screen, but the space where Maud’s face should have been was blank.
“Well, yes, that is rather the point of anonymity, isn’t it?” said the voice on the other end.
“Oh.” Florence blushed. “Right.”
“What’s that light behind you? I can barely see your face.”
Florence looked behind her. Her desk lamp was on. She switched it off.
“That’s better,” said Maud. “What pretty hair you have.”
Florence reached a hand up to her head as if to check that she still had the same mop of curls. “Oh, thanks.”
“So, tell me a bit about yourself.”
Florence gave her spiel about where she was from, the writers she’d studied in college, how she’d ended up in New York.
“But you don’t work at Forrester anymore?” Maud asked.
“No. I decided I’d learned everything I could there.”
“Okay, what else?”
“Um. I’m a writer. Or rather, I want to be a writer.”
“That’s all well and good but I don’t need a writer. I need an assistant. Can you type? Are you willing to run tedious errands? Can you conduct research?”
“Of course. Yes. To all of it.”
“Okay. What else should I know about you?”
Florence struggled to think of anything that would make her stand out. “Um. I was raised by a single parent, like you.” Florence realized her mistake. “Or rather like the character in your book, sorry. Like the Maud character in your book.”
“Alright. What else?”
“I’m not sure. I loved your book. I love your voice. It would be a real honor to learn from you. And to help in whatever way I can, obviously.”
There was a pause.
“And you wouldn’t mind moving out to the sticks?”
“Not at all. To be honest, I’m kind of over New York.”
“You know, I once heard a psychologist remark that whenever a patient used a phrase like ‘to be honest,’ it was a sign that he was lying.”
Florence gave an awkward laugh. “I’m not lying.”
“No, of course not. Although now that I think about it, a liar would be perfect for this role, considering that they can’t tell anyone who they work for.”
Florence didn’t know what game Maud was playing, but she knew she wasn’t keeping up. “I assure you, I can keep a secret,” she said.
“Well, you’ve given me a lot to think about. Greta will be in touch.”
That was it?
“Thank you so much for this opportunity,” she said, but Maud had already signed off.
Florence shut her laptop and buried her head in her hands.
*
She was still in bed at eleven the next morning when her phone rang. It was Greta, calling to tell Florence that the job was hers if she wanted it.
“Seriously?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking.
“Yes. Why would I not be serious?”
“No, of course. Thank you so much. I accept.”
“You don’t want to think about it?”
“No thanks.”
“Fine. Maud has proposed a start date of March eighteenth. Are you able to make that work? I realize it’s quite soon.”