The Plan Read online

  It’s not really a nod. It’s a goodbye.

  “Put me down for twenty bucks and two p.m.,” I say to Madeline as I pass her desk. “Today.”

  “What?” she and Bert say in unison.

  “She doesn’t want any of my help.” What I don’t say is that she’s got acrylic nails, is chewing bubble gum, and wearing open-toed shoes with hosiery.

  I don’t know about her, but I have done my homework.

  Day of Employment:

  360

  10:18 a.m.

  YESTERDAY, A TEARFUL MISS STRAWBERRY BUN collected her personal effects and left the premises at 2:30 p.m.

  I was off by about half an hour with my bet, but I still took that money and added it to my shoe kitty while Bert shook his head. Poor guy got wrangled into taking notes during the board meeting. During that time, I made sure I was as scarce as intact hymen the morning after prom. I can only imagine what that atmosphere was like. It seems the lunch order took longer than expected, and the PA was late getting back. Shocking.

  2:58 p.m.

  * Location: Break room.

  * Caffeine Dependency: Approaching twelve-step program territory.

  TODAY, THERE IS A THINNED CARPET PATH worn between here and the cubicle in which I spend the bulk of my days tethered like veal. I have never ventured to the coffee machine this often before. We’re forming a bond. We may have to be introduced as Mr. and Mrs. Coffee at this weekend’s upcoming office holiday party.

  Alternative Dispute Resolution class last night coupled with two final take-home exam briefs due tomorrow have Nosferatued the life from me. My get-up-and-go has got up and gone. Of great concern is that this end-of-semester stress coupled with demands at work and life in general may invoke the lanky, bearded spirit that manifests in my nightmares during periods of turmoil. Beside the coffee pot, a collection jar of shiny silver and an inordinate amount of patina tinged copper catches my eye.

  I shudder. Put a fistful of coins in that jar and a pin in that thought. I have been lucky thus far. No need to jinx it.

  Down the hallway, I can hear the telltale rumblings of an international conference call. On a hunch, I peer out of the break room entryway just in time to see the door swing open. Canon exits and makes straight for his corner of the office area. Just before the conference room door clicks shut, a collective sigh reverberates from within the room, as if the tension of the entire place decompressed upon his departure. I doubt it is a cheerful call. Our numbers are down. I don’t know this for a fact because I don’t generate those particular reports, but I have observed the general morose climate and that the volume of requested estimates and orders are on the decline.

  That, plus an announcement that the office party is not going to be an open bar this year. Always a surefire clue to economic downturn. One doesn’t exactly need to be a resident of Baker Street to arrive at such a deduction.

  Having noted that Canon is without the barnacle of his phone, I decide to venture out in the hopes of encountering him without the distraction when he’s on his way back to the meeting. I’m annoyed that I could not get so much as a blink out of him yesterday, and far more annoyed with myself that it seems to matter to me.

  I just want a glint or glance and maybe a little nod in greeting customarily extended to another member of the human race.

  Just need to get that and then put this foolishness to bed. Wait, no. That invokes some seriously dirty thoughts. Just need to put this behind me. Speaking of behinds…

  Ugh. I really have to quit fixating on buttocks.

  This is going to be the end.

  *rimshot*

  Okay, I give up.

  Halting my sense of humor’s complete metamorphosis into that of a pubescent boy, Canon enters the hallway. I aim for nonchalance and walk evenly into his direct path. He deftly steps aside, eyes fixed straight ahead and never breaking stride.

  I might as well be a puff of smoke.

  This crap is fast getting on my reserve nerve.

  8:02 p.m.

  * Dinner: Being eaten on sofa.

  * Roommate: Inquisitor, it seems.

  “SO,” I SAY, SOUNDING TOO DELIBERATELY CASUAL even to my own ears, “there’s this guy I keep seeing at work—”

  “A guy? What guy? You never mentioned a guy.” Clara stops mid-carrot-bite. “You’re seeing a guy at work?”

  “I see him at work. Not ‘seeing’ him.” My fork runs through the rice. I like Clara’s idea better.

  I think.

  “Aren’t there a lot of guys that work on your floor?” Clara talks around a mouthful of food. Somehow, she manages to still be cute. I would look like a cow with cud.

  “Not like…not like him. They’re guys. He’s a…well…” I hadn’t really thought about this before. Guys wear ball caps. Sometimes backward. This I cannot picture. Guys swill beer and slap buds on the back and often can be observed being pleasant and have even been known to smile. I have never seen this man smile. “He is a man.”

  “Man.” Clara hums the word. Chomps a bit of zucchini. “Sooo how long has this succulent slice worked there?”

  I fidget. “About five years.” …two months and nine days.

  Silence. I really do not know why I brought this up. Why I couldn’t contain it.

  Clara wears a look that I have learned over time is a sincere attempt to mask supreme annoyance. “Of course. Emma Baker has the hippity hots for a man she works with for a year and just now sees fit to open up and let her best friend in on it.” She sighs and sounds hollowly cheerful. “That is what BFF stands for, you know: Best Friend Forever, not Being Frigging Forgotten.” She chucks a carrot at me playfully. That’s the grand extent of her capacity for irritation.

  I clear my throat and hopefully the air as well. “I don’t work with him.” We interrupt this message to thank God. “He’s got a corner office and a commanding presence and wears suits so very, very well.”

  Clara quirks an eyebrow.

  Another bite. She squirms in her seat. “Go on. What makes this one so special?”

  I shrug. “He’s not special. He’s an asshole.”

  “Oh, yeah. Assholes are not special, Emma. Assholes are, however, your specialty.”

  I chuck a snow pea at her. But it’s true.

  She lobs it back to me.

  “So…probably not my Prince Charming then, you think?” I smile.

  “You know, Emma, you kiss enough frogs and you end up with HPV.”

  “Pretty sure that’s only toads and warts.”

  Day of Employment:

  361

  10:30 a.m.

  * Dress: Same red sheath number as my first day.

  * Wardrobe: In need of upgrade. One that does not run on a two-week repeat cycle.

  * Desk: Clutter-free.

  * Cactus: Withering away.

  “ALREADY?” I’M IN SHOCK. I didn’t even get to place a bet on this last one.

  “You snooze, you lose,” Bert says, fanning himself with the small handful of bills and looking disturbingly akin to a cotillion darling.

  Across the floor, a red-faced man (with the potentially fakest blond dye job I’ve seen possibly ever) packs up his belongings from the desk outside Alaric Canon’s closed office door. Not his desk. The desk. No one has it long enough to lay claim.

  “I was not ‘snoozing.’ I was discussing the profit and loss reports with Rebecca in her office ever since I got here today.”

  Bert remains unruffled. “Snooze, schmooze. Same diff.” We all watch Clairol #103 chuck a knickknack dead center against Canon’s door. Then Bert continues. “All I know is I’m going to be buying some new shoes, and you are still gonna be wearing those BOGOs.” He looks askance at my feet.

  Well, perhaps he is always a tad bit ruffly.

  But, I note my shoes definitely are of the sensible heel variety. I smooth my skirt and tuck my feet under my desk.

  Easy, Breezy, Beautiful PA flips his now former boss the bird and snatches his freshly cut
check from Rebecca’s hand as he flies out the door.

  1:03 p.m.

  * Lunch: Skipped.

  * Savings: Dipped into.

  “WHOA.” BERT NUDGES MADELINE. “Somebody skipped lunch.” He points toward me.

  She looks down. “Ooo, nice shoes. You went shopping? Without me?” She feigns hurt.

  Spinning a quarter turn in my chair, I allow myself a moment to admire my shiny, distinctly non-sensible shoes. The shoe fund is earmarked for a particularly gorgeous pair of boots, but these Gianni Bini platforms were drastically clearanced. Their siren song could not be denied.

  Whether or not impulse purchase resistance levels are low due to increasing irritation with heedless corner office occupant will not be taken under consideration in this matter.

  I head over to give Rebecca the reports before her meeting.

  Unfortunately, she’s not in her office.

  She is also not to be found in the supply room, copy room, or bathroom. By the time my search reaches our deserted break room, I regret not breaking in the new shoes before wearing them at work.

  I take a moment to lean over a table and take the weight off my feet. Just a second. Please. Ugh. A moment of relief, that’s all I’m asking.

  I’m pretty certain I look a sight: my face plastered onto the cool table, and my ass up in the air, feet swinging in the wind.

  Thunk. One heel slips to the floor.

  My toes fumble around until I feel the leather, twist into it, and oh-so-carefully lift it up behind me like a crane until I can reach back and put it on properly again.

  I stretch and grunt and twist and probably channel all the grace of Cloris Leachman performing Swan Lake.

  Well, that was certainly…relaxing.

  Grabbing the reports, I leave just in time to see one Alaric Canon round the corner, gorgeous jaw clenched.

  All the air squeezes from my lungs.

  He doesn’t even spare me a glance.

  Whew. A few moments earlier and that would have been supremely embarrassing.

  4:45 p.m.

  * Email: Empty.

  * Spreadsheets: Done.

  * Mind: Preoccupied. To say the least.

  ALARIC CANON.

  His door stares back at me.

  I watched him go in there about five minutes ago.

  Or twenty.

  Black suit, sky blue tie.

  Outline of his frame burned into my retinas.

  “Emma? You okay?” Madeline peers over her cubicle wall.

  “Hm? Oh…oh, yes. Yes, I’m fine.” Shake the cobwebs from my head. I need to do the same for other parts of me. “Long day.”

  “They all are,” Madeline says and performs her end-of-day station shut down shuffle. “I’m heading out after I run over to HR with the picture that PA left today.”

  “He was in a hurry to get outta here, huh?”

  “More likely, to get away from Canon,” she says, laughing. On the betting pool chart, she makes a winning mark for the day under Bert’s name. “Be ready tomorrow, Emma. Bert is taking us to the cleaners.”

  She’s right. Bert is winning all the time. He must have a system.

  Or—I think back to his comment about my shoes, my whereabouts, everyone’s happenings—he’s just observant as hell.

  I am the quintessential, definitive portrait of observant.

  Why I’m not winning these bets every damn time is bizarre.

  Hell, no one is more observant of Canon than I am. Need to get my head in the game and apply this recon I have been doing in a more constructive manner. Often these betting pools turn into some serious money, and I am not exactly living the type of life in which Robin Leach is going to show up with cameras in tow.

  I look at the closed, hardwood door.

  There are worse things to look at.

  Oh, I will be ready tomorrow.

  Thinking about Canon, I’m ready now.

  Madeline leaves.

  The office sounds fade away.

  No clicks. No buzzes. No chatter.

  Nothing but me and that unforgiving door.

  Clearly, I have read far, far too many trashy romances in my lifetime—because I cannot help myself. I imagine it opening.

  Canon would emerge. Starched white shirt. Crisp.

  Jacket over his arm. Hair…doing whatever the fuck it is that it does.

  I would be at my desk.

  Fans blowing my hair back. No. No, that’s a bit much. Scratch the fan.

  I would be at my desk. Pretending to work.

  Pretending not to hear him approach.

  “Miss…Baker, is it not?” His voice would spill over my shoulder, warm like coffee along my neck.

  I shiver at the thought alone.

  I’d spin, look up at him through my lashes. Suppress the urge to say I will be whoever he wants me to be.

  “Yes. Mr. Canon, is it?” As if I don’t know.

  He’d look down at me. Tongue darting. Lips glistening.

  “I’m told you handle—” stepping so close I could feel the heat of him “—spread—” hand running along my chair “—sheets.”

  “Yes, I do.” I’d cross my arms, pushing my breasts together. Subtle. Or maybe not. “Anything you want me to handle, you can put in my box.”

  “I need to whip it out by five.”

  “Well, that will be hard.” My eyes will dart to his zipper. “I’ll need you to give it to me, right here on my desk, now.”

  I want to assume an entry-level position.

  He’d look around the empty office and then to me. Like a predatory cat, he would make a final move forward, lean around my body, breathe into my hair, as his white linen-clad arm swept the papers from my desk. Rather than cascade down en masse, they would flutter around us like feathers. Our own private, ticker-tape libido parade.

  His hand would slide under my hair, fingers digging into my neck. He’d bend me, bowing my back. I’d crush into him, part my lips, and breathe in the scent of him. He’d lean in, searching my face, eyes to lips to neck, then he’s on me. Pouncing. Covering my mouth with his. Again. I’m open and swallowed up.

  Underneath his tongue would be smooth and sweet.

  My ankle would wrap around his leg, and he’d lift me against him before pushing me down against the desk that I would henceforth never be able to look at again without thoughts of Alaric Canon.

  Hands everywhere. I’d feel him at my ribs.

  I’d fumble with his buttons. He’d tear mine free.

  I would touch his face. He’d wrap my legs around his waist, grind into me. Deep. Hard.

  Even through clothes, it’d be better than any of my real sex.

  One hand at my throat, thumb under my jaw, lips parted and panting down on me, his fingers would tear through my hosiery, slipping, slipping—

  “Emma?”

  Wha—?

  “It’s after five.” Rebecca looks at me questioningly. “Are you having difficulty completing all of your work? I haven’t overloaded you, have I?”

  “I’m fine.” Load-free even. Regrettably so.

  We both turn to the sound of Canon’s door opening. He looks to Rebecca briefly then goes on his way.

  I feel my cheeks burn.

  It’s no big deal.

  One more office daydream.

  Not like I’m going to let myself get even more obsessed with him.

  I clock out.

  Day of Employment:

  362

  8:11 p.m.

  * Day: Different.

  * Shit: Same.

  * Workload and Course Load: Big, steamy load.

  * Consider: Pro v. con of liquid diet.

  * Shopping List: One bourbon. One Scotch. One beer.

  MR. THOROGOOD, YOU SIR, are a culinary genius.

  Inebriated academia is not in the mix for me. High alcohol tolerance and low fiscal flow preclude sufficient acquisition of libations.

  In summation: What is commonly referred to as “broke.”


  Clara is in my room and, with all her traditional subtlety, suggesting I get gussied up to go out with her and have gentlemen buy our drinks. That’s just not my thing. My bar crawl phase was short, sweet and sour.

  Not to say I no longer have scandalous, wild times now. Example: I routinely spend long, late night hours having as many as four men entertain me in my bed. Men like Fallon, Kimmel, O’Brien, and Letterman.

  “Do you even own fancy duds anymore?” Clara says, scavenging through my barren closet.

  I shrug. Turn the page in my textbook.

  “Emma,” she faux whines. “Let’s get stolen.”

  Stolen? My brow furrows. “That doesn’t sound pleasant.”

  “Then you have never been properly stolen.” She sticks her tongue out playfully, then winces. I am pretty sure she just realized she smudged her lip color; however, this setback, much like everything else, doesn’t ruffle her for long.

  “What has become of my fine, feathered friend?” A few hangers slide against the rod in punctuation.

  There is no point in pointing out the ludicrousness of most of Clara’s asides. If it were my job, my 401(k) would be fully vested.

  Further, my personage has not, at any point in my longer-than-I-care-to-admit existence, been either fine or feathered. I may have, however, recently allowed Canon to make me cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.

  Jury is still out on that.

  Ha. See? And they said law school is not a joking matter.

  What really is not a joking matter is the $1,800 in textbooks that, conveniently for the university’s budget, never ever, ever seem to be used by any instructor the following semester. I have given up even venturing to the campus bookstore for buyback.

  Clothes shuffling racket stops abruptly. On the uppermost shelf, a black box seems to hold Clara’s attention.