Ms. Gayle opened the door to my office, which was spacious, albeit basic with light gray walls and no windows. I sighed.
“Everything okay?” asked Ms. Gayle. I hadn’t realized I’d been standing as still as a statue in the doorway.
“It’s fine. I just need to put up some photos. You know?” I lied. The bareness of the office was another reminder that I was starting over. In Chicago, I had windows that overlooked downtown and the river. I had worked hard for that office, busting my ass quarter after quarter only for my life to be blown to smithereens.
Ms. Gayle raised a brow with concern. “Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do for you, Ms. James? I can send your blouse out for dry cleaning. Or get a courier to get you something brand-new. Whatever you need. We ladies need to have each other’s backs here and make the best impression.” She gave me a wink.
Embarrassed, I bit the corner of my lips. She was right: Ladies needed to look out for each other. I had to learn to let my guard down. She’s just being nice, Ari. Everyone isn’t out to get you or hurt you. I finally agreed. “Ms. Gayle, is there any way you can get a courier to get me a pair of size 8.5 black heels? Something sensible like Nine West or Cole Haan. Nothing over three inches if possible.”
“No Jimmy Choo?” chuckled Ms. Gayle.
“Ah no,” I laughed. “Just a simple pair of black heels. And a plain white blouse. A size 2X? No, a 3X, maybe. I want to be comfortable.”
Ms. Gayle clapped her hands with delight. “Great! I’ll get on that right away. You just make yourself comfortable in here. I wrote your computer log-in right there on the sticky note on the monitor and put anything else you need in the desk drawers. I’m sure Porter will be ending his call soon. He’s right across the hall. Oh, you’re going to love him! He’s the best. A real standup guy and the nicest associate I’ve ever worked with!”
I gave Ms. Gayle a wry smile. I highly doubted that I’d love this guy. I didn’t know that much about him. After weeks of internet sleuthing, I couldn’t find a decent photo of Porter. Despite being one of the senior most architects at the firm, there were no updated photos of him on the Riddle and Robinson website. Coupled with his sparse social media pages, filled with covers of vinyl jazz records and artsy shots of food—so many shots of food—I figured either the guy was trying to keep a low profile, or he hated taking photographs. The only thing that I knew for sure about Porter Harrison was that he attended undergrad at Hampton, like I had. He apparently had a keen eye for design; the guy had won a few awards over the years. So had I. Mr. Riddle said he’d hope that we could “cultivate a great working relationship” based on those commonalities alone. I wasn’t sure how easy it would be. I had hardly been the social butterfly at Hampton. I didn’t know many people. I’d kept a relatively low public profile within our industry, refusing to mingle outside of work. Besides, I wasn’t here to make friends and get close to anyone. I’d made that mistake once before.
I was just trying to repair the damage and get back to the job I loved. After months of being rejected by every other architectural firm in town, this opportunity with Riddle and Robinson was more than a job. It was an answered prayer.
Ms. Gayle made her way toward the door, but quickly pivoted on her heels. “You know, with a name like Ari, I thought you’d be a guy. Or Jewish. Well…you could still be Jewish. I’m not one to pry about religion. Either way, it’s nice having another woman around here.” With that, she closed the door behind her.
I sat in my sterile office, tapping my fingers on the table and occasionally glancing at the time on my watch. After logging onto the computer and putting away my things, I glanced across the hall. Squinting, I could only see the back of Porter Harrison’s head through the partially opened blinds of his office door. Dude was really taking his sweet ass time. Was he the prince of the firm or something? If there was one thing I hated more than being late, it was being entitled. I couldn’t and wouldn’t work with another entitled jerk.
Twenty minutes later, an out-of-breath bike courier carrying a bag from a high-end department store knocked on the door. The tall, skinny white guy with black skater hair that peeked from underneath his helmet warily gave me a smile. He gripped the items with his fingerless gloves as if his life depended on it.
“Ms. James. Here are the things you requested. Are these sufficient?” He stood pensively, waiting for me to inspect it.