I stare resignedly at the portfolio. “Fine. I’ll go. But if I’m hounded by a million reporters on the way there, dart into traffic to evade them, and end up dead…” I heave a heavy sigh. “You’ll be sorry.”
“And, somehow, theFrenchare accused of being more melodramatic than you Americans.” She makes atsksound. “But you’re correct, I will be sorry.”
I start to smile. “Really?”
“Of course. Do you know how long it took to train you?” She quirks one eyebrow at me, her lips twitching in amusement. “And I’ve just spent all that money on your new uniform. A new girl might have entirely different measurements…”
“Hah! Hysterical,” I grumble, tugging at the hem of my dress, grabbing the binder off the counter, and stomping away to find my matching blazer. Estelle’s tinkling laughter chases me into the back room.
***
As I make my way across town, praying no one recognizes me, I do my best to put all thoughts of Chase out of my head. The fact that I can’t seem to shake him off is more than a little annoying because, well, as conceited as it sounds, it’s never happened to me before. I’ve never felt this tingly-all-over, stomach-churning, heart-in-my-throat, electricity-in-my-skin feeling — and certainly not over someone who’s made it clear he doesn’t want to be with me, even in the naked, biblical sense of the word.
I’d like nothing more than to chalk the nervous butterflies in my stomach up to the media frenzy and the stress of last night’s breakup, but I can’t. The truth of the matter is, Chase’s brush-off bothered me.Bothersme.
More than I’d like to admit.
I know it doesn’t make sense. Just as I know four rounds of Two Truths and a Lie, two lingering kisses, and several sexually charged stares does not a relationship make. Not that I even want to be in a relationship at all, with anyone, especially not if his name rhymes withdebase.
Unfortunately, saying this to myself over and over as I ride the Orange Line isnotthe same as believing it. After twenty minutes, when I’ve nearly reached my destination and I still can’t get him out of my head, I’m ready to bash my face against the glass train window, if it means putting an end to the torture of my own thoughts.
I’m not this girl — the one who obsesses over a guy she barely knows, who can’t stop fantasizing about the potential of a stranger. I don’t evenrecognizethis girl.
I’ve never been a believer in the perfect happily-ever-after. Never listened to the scores of people who’ve been shoving fairy tales down my throat since I was a little girl, one Disney movie at a time.
Someday your prince will come, and you’ll ride off into the sunset…
Yada, yada, yada.
The way I see it, everyone’s been telling the story wrong. I mean, take Cinderella, for example. She never asked for a Prince, let alone waited around for one. Hell, allsheever wanted was a night off from work and a fancy dress to twirl in for a few hours. It’s never made sense to me that I’m supposed to sit around pining for some mythical Prince Charming to get off his ass and rescue me. If that’s the grand game plan, I could end up waiting forever. Because, I mean, if he’s anything like the rest of the male population, the prince is probably stuck in traffic somewhere, or got lost along the way and is too damn stubborn to ask for directions.
Point is, I’ve always known there was no fairy godmother in my future. No princes or perfect fairytale endings, either. Which just makes it infinitely more frustrating when, to my great dismay, images of myself in an empire-waisted dress, combing my seventy-foot-long locks of perfect hair while singing to my bird friends, start to play in my mind. Because, in these hallucinations, the score swells to a crescendo and suddenly, there’s a man on a horse charging toward my tower, wearing those weirdly hot leggings, and he looks suspiciously familiar, with a head of blondish hair and green eyes so deep, you could swim in them.
God dammit.
I’m so totally screwed.
***
“Right this way.”
Anita, the severe-looking secretary in a pencil skirt and pumps, gestures sharply at me before turning from the lobby and heading down a wide hallway to the left. My eyes scan the space as I follow after her, glad I didn’t have to wait more than a minute or so in the reception area, which, at the moment, contains not a single piece of furniture. Until this point, I’ve been hovering uncertainly on the threshold of the 29thfloor elevator banks, feeling awkward as a Girl Scout selling cookies to a crotchety neighbor.
It’s clear the offices are in the middle of a huge renovation — outdated colors, fabrics, and furnishings have been ousted in favor of clean lines, modern touches, and a tasteful, rather than tacky, color scheme.
The walls are bare, but half-painted with a fresh coat of warm ivory-toned paint. As we walk down the hallway, passing empty rooms on either side, I can see the painters have yet to finish replacing the deep, depressing green that previously covered every inch of the office. I wince as I spot the clashing emerald carpeting stretched wall-to-wall across the floors.
I suppose it’s true —money really can’t buy class— because whoever designed the original office had terrible taste, despite the fact that they could afford to rent the second-highest floor in this towering, Financial District skyscraper overlooking Boston Harbor and the Atlantic. A space like this, with a view likethat, doesn’t need bold colors or heavy furnishings — it should be light, airy, floating among the clouds.
I feel an instant appreciation for the new designer, who clearly recognizes this fact, if the warm, white colors replacing the previously Oz-themed walls are any indication. This sensation only grows as I step lightly over scraps of ripped up green rug scattered around the hallway, and catch glimpses of the beautiful, if unfinished, hardwood floor the renovators have unearthed beneath.
It’s already an improvement.
Anita leads me to the end of the hall, stopping before a set of huge, French-style doors crafted from beautiful opaque glass. I look at her expectantly, but she says nothing.
“Is the designer in there?” I ask eventually, clutching the portfolio a little tighter against my chest.
Without a word, Anita nods, turns on her heel, and disappears back down the hallway, the expression of aloof-distaste on her face never wavering.