The Plan Page 4

  Oh, joy to the world.

  Way to set a festive mood there, Jeremiah Bullfrog.

  Rebecca and Madeline fill me in. It’s not entirely dire. There is a huge merger deal in the works.

  If the contract comes together, not only will it save the company and our collective livelihoods but create a few new production jobs as well.

  Mr. Personality himself, Canon, will be devoting all his time between now and Christmas to sewing it up. The man of the hour has not yet darkened the door this evening.

  His involvement sets me at ease as well as most other folks who can see how effective he is at his job. It should also come as a huge relief to the residents of Whoville since he will be too preoccupied this year to steal their Christmas. Enjoy your roast beast in peace, Cindy Lou.

  8:30 p.m.

  * White Elephants: Exchanged.

  * Not Being Discussed: Other pachyderm in the room.

  * Bert: Team Edward.

  * Canon: Still not here.

  I WISH I DIDN’T FIND MYSELF watching for him every few minutes.

  So let us properly assess this situation: I am trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey and just about as relevant at this moment, surrounded by a drunken crowd of people who may or may not even know my name despite having gone to work in the same building with me for upward of fifty-two weeks.

  I have relied upon the guidance of a friend, who is well-intentioned but flaky enough to think everything from cup-size to prepositions are interchangeable, and who thinks my rather illicit designs on a man who has never deigned to look directly at me is not only not a cause for psychological counseling, but rather a call to arms.

  Received a pair of ninety-nine-cent-store Crocs and a back scratcher in the shape of a brown nose. So I have that going for me. My life is complete.

  They were from a person in human resources who I don’t think I have ever laid eyes on before. Touché.

  I wish I had kept the same frame of mind all night tonight that I had while getting dressed. To come out and have fun with my friends and enjoy myself, not be concerned with some a-hole who would not cross the road to spit on me or my chicken cutlets.

  This is ridiculous.

  I am ridiculous.

  9:15 p.m.

  HE’S HERE.

  Deepest midnight blue suit.

  I want to get this accomplished and behind me.

  I want to squeeze his behind. Whichever. I’m flexible.

  It comes in handy.

  He mills around by the large red and white poinsettia arrangement doubling as a present depository.

  I inhale. Move into position.

  I schedule a much needed self rebuke at eleven.

  9:21 p.m.

  * Me: By the poinsettias, being generally creepy.

  A PARADE OF FEELINGS march through my mind. Dozens of them. So many that I almost expect to spot Robert Preston high-stepping it through here, singing about trombones.

  Canon is alone. Solo.

  I circle around, a lion to his gazelle. He sips from a highball. Stops. Straightens. Ears perk.

  I move closer. Closer.

  Into his personal space.

  He shifts on one leg. Turns, angles away.

  I clear my throat. The glass stops short of his lips. He straightens impossibly more. I catch a whiff of scent I can’t label but need to find and douse my pillowcase in.

  He turns to me, one eyebrow lifted infinitesimally.

  Here’s where I spot a fatal flaw in my design. I have walked up to him. I have his attention…and what do I do with it?

  Say hello? Or shake his hand? Or rip the buttons off his shirt and commence with defiling the flower arrangement?

  This is my moment.

  The world around us goes on spinning. It’s just Canon and me in the doorway. He looks amazing. (And, I must admit, I look darn decent myself.) He smells amazing. He is amazing…ly annoyed-looking.

  So yippee-ki-yay and carpe diem, as Clara said while zipping the back of my dress earlier.

  Say something that opens up the discussion I have wanted to have for a year. Be eloquent. Be confident. Be a goddess.

  “Hi.”

  You know those funny moments in movies where things get all uncomfortable and the editors splice in the sound of crickets in the background? Yeah, those are so not funny when they really happen. And this is merely the DJ playing crickets of the “Buddy Holly and the” variety.

  Canon pivots back away, handing me his empty glass in the process.

  “Johnnie Walker. Neat.”

  Flames. Flames out the side of my head.

  Not only do I not ring any bells with him after twelve months of working together, apparently, my makeover result is that I now pass for waitstaff at this restaurant.

  Rather than the day, I seize any reason to hightail it out of there before I’m motivated to stomp my heel directly onto his big toe.

  I walk his glass to the bar.

  Place his order, specifying Blue Label because I know that’s his preference. Even though I’d love to see his face if he were delivered an umbrella drink.

  Point out the jackhole to whom it should be delivered.

  This will not do. This simply will not do.

  10:01 p.m.

  * DJ: Karaoke: “I Will Survive.”

  * Dance Floor: Barren.

  * Bar: Drained.

  I SPOT HIM ACROSS THE WAY, being chatted up by the vice presidents of sales and marketing.

  Canon appears to barely stifle a yawn. He isn’t paying attention to the VPs in the slightest.

  Turnabout is fair play; the VPs’ lines of sight pass over Canon and fixate on the area immediately to the left of him.

  To his date.

  She is made from the same mold as the other two dates I have witnessed, the ladies who have also rested their hand in the crook of his arm.

  Flawless up-do. Ivory column dress. Diamond drop pendant of the Tiffany, not QVC, variety. Makeup job so perfect she looks as though she isn’t wearing any at all. A single beauty mark to highlight, rather than mar, faultless, olive skin.

  Teeth so white they could potentially blind oncoming traffic.

  My lip snarls up like I’m about to belt out “Rebel Yell.”

  If pride cometh before a fall, then I am slip sliding away. I pride myself on being observant, so how did I not take into account how very different “his type” is than what I am?

  All the extra effort we put into my appearance this evening has moved me even further away from the real bull’s-eye.

  Well, Pooh.

  And Tigger, too. I am trashy, flashy, brashy, splashy. And oh so bum bum bummed.

  This is not a one-size-fits-all kind of man. Casting a wide net is not the solution.

  A precision strike is needed. Pinpoint accuracy.

  As I speed home, my eyelashes take flight out the car window.

  Day of Employment:

  365

  11:00 a.m.

  SUNDAY.

  Couch.

  Fuzzy blanket.

  Remote.

  Today is the one year anniversary of my first day at work.

  Final paper was submitted two days early. I’m good, but I am not usually that good.

  As it is a Sunday, I mark the occasion with a John Hughes movie marathon and eat directly from a jar of Talenti raspberry sorbet until my hand loses all feeling.

  When feeling is regained, I dig into the vanilla bean.

  5:02 p.m.

  HE DIDN’T NOTICE.

  One whole year.

  Not even a blip on his radar.

  Not that I find this shocking.

  Not in the least.

  I have been utterly invisible since I started. I was not really expecting any acknowledgment of my anniversary.

  I have now officially crossed that threshold from new hire to old hand with little fanfare. By “little” I mean none. I won’t even stand out in the crowd as a fresh face now.

  So I’m changing this. I
’m changing me.

  His radar will no longer be blipless.

  Tomorrow I start over. I don’t expect him to notice me right away. It is a process. I have a plan.

  Day of Employment:

  366

  6:00 a.m.

  * Awake: Already.

  * Thus Far: Plan sucks.

  * Clothes: Laid out night before.

  * Lunch: Salad. Yay.

  I EAT SALADS ALL THE TIME; however, I maintain they are not truly food. They are food’s food.

  My feet hit the cold, hardwood floor and I fight the urge to creep back under my duvet. Sleep is my friend.

  Not as faithful a friend as cellulite. It is so loyal. Always there.

  The treadmill groans right along with me as it whirls to life. It probably thinks I have sold it to someone who will actually utilize it. Maybe it will miss its life as my coatrack.

  It’s slow going. I’m walking on an incline. Walking, not running.

  It’s slow going, but that is okay. It’s a process. I have a plan.

  7:45 a.m.

  I HAVE NOW LOST AN ENTIRE HOUR of my life to exercise and a shower. Time better not be the only thing I have lost.

  I’m one of the first to arrive at work.

  He walks to his office.

  He’s wearing the blue suit.

  He looks around behind him before he enters. Midway, his gaze floats across me as if I’m not even there.

  Invisible.

  No blip.

  2:18 p.m.

  * PA: Old Mother Hubbard.

  * Pot Won: $96 and change.

  REBECCA’S STRATEGY TO PLACE a septuagenarian in the hot seat fizzled out.

  I can’t really fault Canon for this one. She had great phone skills, but was technologically challenged. Got cursor and mouse confused. Kept placing the mouse in direct contact with the screen, right on top of the item she needed to click on.

  Maybe you had to be there.

  Anyway, she’s cleaning out her cupboards and headed back to the Blue Hair Group in time for Wheel.

  Day of Employment:

  367

  6:00 a.m.

  * Awake: Again.

  * Plan: It still sucks.

  * Lunch: Salad. Again.

  * Hair: Flat-ironed into submission.

  * Clothes: Tan pencil skirt, ivory blouse, flesh-toned stockings, brand-spanking-new taupe suede pumps courtesy of yesterday’s winning bet.

  LAUNCHING THE NEXT PHASE OF THE PLAN, I have shoved my teals, pinks, lavenders, bright blues, and all other colors in the Roy G. Biv spectrum to the back of the closet. Even indigo. I’m considering that a unique blue.

  I’m a big blender full of subdued. So beige Helen Hunt would be envious. Total corporate drone, all business.

  Plan forecast: Nothing but black, navy, and beige, with scattered gray and a slim chance of red.

  7:30 a.m.

  OUT THE DOOR.

  The new shoes feel like walking on a big ol’ poofy cloud of air…until about three-quarters of the way to my car when my toes go numb. Too late to turn back now. I sigh and look mournfully down at them. Too bad; I do like the way they make my calves look. I make a mental note to see if I can take them back tonight.

  I scratch through the note just as quickly. These shoes look like hers. Example B.

  I have seen Alaric Canon with two women: Company picnic. Christmas party.

  Example B (name unknown) wore similar shoes to last year’s party. No hair out of place. Everything about her was subdued.

  Colors. Manners. Refined.

  Company Picnic Chick was so similar. She wore capris and a blouse, but somehow they looked like a power suit. Immaculate hair, unaffected by humidity. Grace personified.

  True to form, this year’s Holiday-Party Model was no exception. Made from the same seamless mold and polished to perfection.

  My plan might’ve benefited from a stint at finishing school.

  I picture myself balancing books on my head as I slip into the car.

  Incoming text: My office ASAP—Rebecca

  Weird.

  I know this is the sort of thing that sends others into a tizzy. Rebecca might come off like a bitch, but she’s really just assertive. Her praise is usually in the form of silence. I know she values me, and she knows I do my job, do it right, and never question anything. The only time I have ever feared her was when I went to her about starting night classes. But she appreciated my full disclosure. She seems to trust me even more since then. She knows this is not my forever.

  In no time, I sit in Rebecca’s office and listen, dumfounded, to her explain what’s happened and what she wants me to do.

  “I think there has been some sort of mistake.”

  “Your reaction doesn’t surprise me,” Rebecca says, as she leans over her desk and straightens an already straight stack of files.

  Perpendicular angles everywhere. Without sparing an upward glance, she continues, “Try to see the genius in it. This is the plan. Adjust…and don’t embarrass this department. Here’s his itinerary for the week.” She hands a stack of papers to me, which I nearly drop when I see the look she has leveled at me. She’s terrified.

  Rebecca.

  Terrified.

  I may soil myself.

  “This department has a lot riding on you. And by this department, I mean me.” She clears her throat and manages to assume something close to her normal, chilly demeanor. The cracks in the ice are still there.

  “Emma, you’ve been here long enough to know how this shakes out. No one expects you, or anyone, to last long. Every Canon PA is really a temp position. Help him prep for the trip and make it until he leaves and I’ll give you a raise when you get back here. Make it a month and you’ll come back to this department with a promotion.”

  I want to say something about her lack of confidence in me, but I know it’s moot. No one does last as his assistant for long, and I should know. Watching the unbroken string of broken assistants leave his employ has been my hobby for a solid year.

  They always screw up. Wrong coffee. Wrong outfit. Right outfit, wrong day. Misdirected memos. Hygienically challenged. Wheat bread instead of oat. Flirting. Tardy. Speaking. Not speaking. Offensive perfume. Desperately in need of perfume. Being in the bathroom at just the wrong moment.

  March A had tapped her fake nails on the desk.

  March B was personable and professional. Misplaced trust in spell-check had her gone in two weeks.

  Early April shut his phone off at night.

  After the infamous Indianapolis Incident, during which three PAs had revolving-doored their way to the unemployment line in under a week, a secret back-up assistant had been at-the-ready ever since.

  “What about the back-up? Why me?”

  “She’s on bed rest as of Monday. High risk pregnancy. Emma, I need a pro in there. We simply cannot afford any mistakes, and Canon needs to be able to focus. You have proven communication skills, a degree in writing, an impeccable performance record, a professional demeanor, and frankly, your obsession with him makes you far and away the best-prepared for the job.”

  “Rebecca!” My knees give, and I sit down gracelessly. “I’m not obsessed. If anything, it’s a gambling problem.”

  I clasp my hands to hide the shaking. How obvious have I been?

  She laughs softly then says things that make me glad I’m already sitting down. “Emma, I consider you a friend, and more importantly, a colleague. A trusted colleague. I don’t know if you realize, but I’d have you as my right hand if you were planning on working here longer. But you’re too good for that job. Hell, you’re definitely too good for a personal assistant position…and that is precisely why I am entrusting you with it. You see everything. You know when to speak up and when to keep your mouth shut.” She hands me the itinerary that seems to have slipped out of my hand and drifted down to the floor.

  Kneeling in front of me, in her closed office, Rebecca looks up at me. I can’t help but notice where she h
as placed herself. “Emma, please. So much is riding on this deal.”

  “Fine,” I hear myself say.

  She closes both of her hands over mine and squeezes warmly, a shake of sorts. She opens her mouth to say something just as the sound of her door opening behind me stops her.

  “I’m still waiting on that report.” Canon’s voice slides along the walls of the room. I feel it wrap around my spine. Rebecca’s eyes go wide, but she covers quickly and stands. Wordlessly, she grabs a file from her desk and hands it over my shoulder to where I assume he takes it from her. A pause. Rebecca narrows her eyes.

  The door shuts.

  A gust of air leaves my lungs. I didn’t realize I’d forgotten to breathe.

  This does not bode well. Surely oxygen will play an important part in performing my new job satisfactorily.

  She manages to wipe the confused look from her face and sits on the edge of her desk. “Go gather up what you need at your new desk and meet me back here in twenty minutes. I will officially introduce you to Mr. Canon then.”

  8:20 a.m.

  * Hair: Pinned back.

  * Buttons: Top only undone.

  * Bladder: Empty.

  * Shoes: Killing feet slowly.

  THIS WAS NOT MY PLAN. I’m not under the radar at all now. The plan has changed from generating a blip to being directly in his sights.

  “Ready?” Rebecca asks as we approach Canon’s door.

  “No.” I wanna hurl.

  She laughs and knocks once.

  “Come in.” His deep voice pierces the door. The last of the free air fills my lungs.

  Rebecca walks ahead into his office as if a 2x4 is strapped to her spine. I stay behind her, plotting how to use her as a human shield.

  “Mr. Canon, this is Ms. Baker.” She steps to the side and exposes me. “Your new assistant.”