The Plan Read online

  He’s standing at the window, his back to us. Without turning, he sighs loudly and gestures toward a chair.

  I sit and hear the door click; Rebecca has already abandoned me.

  Coward.

  “Tell me.” He continues to look out the wall of windows. His arms are crossed and long fingers drum his sleeve.

  I wait for a moment. I wait for him to clarify. His jacket is draped over his riveted-leather desk chair. His pants are light gray, and I force myself not to focus on any portion of them. The slope of his broad shoulders is also not a safe focal point. Light from the window catches golden strands in his hair; that is off-limits too. I don’t know where to look.

  I become acutely aware of the silence.

  “Pardon me?” I really feel at a loss, as if I have walked into a conversation midstream.

  He huffs and continues to stare out the window. “Tell me everything. The who, what, when, where, why, how. Who you are. What you think this job entails. When you think your workday ends. Why you took this position. How long you think you will last.”

  My throat is a desert. I’ve already exhausted his patience. It never occurred to me that he would ask me anything about me. I’m an expert on him, not on myself.

  I launch into a dissertation on my education and credentials. Masters in English. Intern and job experience.

  Scholarships. I omit any mention of my current law school scholarship or enrollment; I doubt he’s the type to be receptive to divided priorities. I make sure all this takes no longer than thirty seconds. I skip right over anything that relates to why I think I can do this job—I don’t think I can pull off confidence.

  “The job expectation is that I make you available to perform your job at optimum level. I need to learn and anticipate your needs in order to ensure this. Any distraction or delay has a negative impact. My workday began when I walked into this room, and it will end when I leave your employ.” I keep talking, but I notice a shift in his demeanor. His fingers still. A few moments later, he moves to his desk chair. I know I’m in. Maybe, just maybe, I’ve even impressed him.

  Words continue to spill from my mouth. I explain that I’ve been with the company for a year. I’m flexible and a good observer. Performance stats.

  “Finally, Mr. Canon, I understand there’s a critical contract on the line, and there is no time to prep a new employee. I bring to the table a solid understanding of this company and am committed to its success.”

  My speech has taken under two minutes. Brevity. I feel good about it. My face is hot, but I’m still breathing.

  The win column gets a tick.

  “Ms. Baker, I have no illusions about my reputation. That being said, I consider myself fair. I do not expect miracles, but I will not tolerate mistakes.” He leans back in his chair and levels his gaze at me. His eyes are a gray-green. If he ever blinks, I miss it. I’m caught in their pull.

  “It is my understanding that there is a CYA file on me. It would be in your best interests to familiarize yourself with it.”

  My eyes are probably bugging out. He knows about the file?

  He must misinterpret my surprise for bewilderment and explains further. “Cover Your Ass. A cheat sheet,” he seethes. Clearly, he thinks I’m playing dumb.

  “The COYA file?” The words are out of my mouth before I can think better of it.

  One corner of his mouth turns up. It might be a burgeoning smile. It might be irritation.

  He gives me a look that tells me he wants an explanation. I want to show him I get non-verbal communication. I want to show him I’m honest. I want to show him my matching bra and panty set. I sure as hell do not want to tell him what COYA stands for.

  There is no escape.

  “Canon Owns Your Ass.”

  He blinks. Finally.

  I hasten to add, “I feel it is important to point out that I did not name the file, sir.”

  Without looking away, he writes on a paper and walks around his desk to hand it to me. “My number. Call me so I have your cell.” He pauses for a moment, his face unreadable. This is unsettling. I thought I knew him better than this. His gaze falls to my shoes. I can’t understand why as they are completely nondescript. “Check the calendar and itinerary. Leave word in human resources about the trip departure date and phone extension change. IT will need to reroute your calls. I take lunch when and only when it does not impede my job. You will follow suit. You take lunch when I do, for as long as I do.” I know I look surprised, and it doesn’t get past him. “This does not mean, however, that you and I have lunch together.

  “Emma, I’m aware that this is all short notice. You’ll need to make arrangements for the upcoming trip. I will handle the bulk of my own this time. Get yourself ready and familiarize yourself with the material. An ill-prepared assistant will be a distraction and an embarrassment to me.”

  A flick of his wrist dismisses me. Immediately before I open the door, I hear his voice behind me.

  “I will not let you be either.”

  12:00 p.m.

  * Files: Downloaded.

  * Calendar: Set.

  * Desk: Conspicuously free of my personal belongings.

  * Bert: Sufficiently guilt-tripped for getting spotted slipping a bet to Rebecca.

  * Shoes: Pooled with the blood of my innocent toes.

  “I’M OFF, MADELINE. See you later, right?”

  She pats my back reassuringly. “Of course! I’ll be by with everything you asked to borrow. Call if you think of anything else.”

  I do my best to smile at her but can’t help feeling like I’m off to meet the noose.

  One last item of business before I head out remains incomplete. I have procrastinated over calling him. Now I can call him and check in before I leave without facing him again. This is pointless craziness because I will be neck-deep in Alaric Canon for the next seven days. Just one less encounter.

  I program the digits into my phone then shred the paper so no one can stumble across his private number.

  He answers on the second ring. “Canon.”

  “Hello, Mr. Canon. This is Ms. Baker. You said to call.”

  “Yes.”

  Cue awkward pause.

  “Let us hope you endeavor to perform future tasks more promptly.”

  Oh…he wanted my number right away? Even when I was still in the office? Okay. Noted. Do everything right away whether it makes sense to me or not.

  “If there is nothing else, Mr. Canon…”

  The line goes silent. Barely a click. He’s probably already reading an assortment of potential PA applications.

  Day of Employment:

  368

  4:00 a.m.

  IT IS FOUR O’CLOCK on the dime.

  Or, more appropriately, the penny.

  Because, while I had fervently wished to avoid it, it has happened.

  The nightmares are back. My private monster sits at the foot of my bed. Addressing me.

  Lecturing me. Giving me a speech.

  Getting his two cents in.

  7:30 a.m.

  * Early: Happens so frequently now that it feels like on time.

  * Outfit: Bland mixture of tans.

  I’M NOT EVEN CERTAIN it’s buttoned straight at this point. I am thoroughly and utterly exhausted.

  Perhaps Canon will take my first day as his assistant to break the shrink-wrap on his sick days.

  One can dream.

  On a good, fully rested day, I would have my work cut out for me just trying to stay upright and form coherent sentences around him.

  He appears as if from thin air. I never heard a door open or the elevator ding.

  Reports in one hand. Phone in the other.

  His leaves his office door ajar. Unspoken expectation that I enter.

  Once inside, I await instruction. My feet begin to shuffle from one side to the other, and I continue to inspect the wall. He still moves around behind me.

  I tell myself to stare at the wall. Stare at the wall. The wall
does not have piercing eyes, or an unholy, defined jawline, or six creases—four long and two short—that form in its bottom lip when it gets dry. The wall is plain. The wall is your friend.

  “I will be out most of the day tying up loose ends before my trip.” He never looks up as he speaks. “Should it prove too difficult to manage a few calls, you have my number.” With that, he brushes past me.

  Then a moment of clarity. Sanity sets in.

  Focus on his personality.

  Oh, yeah. Pass me the Irish Spring. It’s like a cold shower.

  5:01 p.m.

  * Out: Clocked. Patience.

  * Should Be Out: Me—the door.

  I SURVEY THE BATTLEFIELD, er, office as it empties. I have survived.

  That wasn’t so bad.

  I have outlasted predictions. Beaten the odds. Madeline’s number book has never seen such an upset.

  Piece of cake.

  Doubtless, tomorrow will be an even greater challenge. Canon and I might actually be inside the same building.

  7:10 p.m.

  * Dinner: Comfort food.

  * Clara: Treading softly.

  “SO, HOW GOES THE DREAM JOB?”

  Unfortunately, it’s more like Clara is treading softly in steel-toe work boots, shattering eggshells everywhere.

  I do not favor her with a reply.

  “That good, huh?”

  “He was out of the office all day.”

  Clara plates up our salmon in Veri Veri Teriyaki sauce. “That sounds ideal. So why the frowny face?”

  “If you think I’m acting sullen because he wasn’t around, you are wrong. I just feel a bit disjointed from the change and, well…no one would come near me today.”

  She looks at me and rolls her hand as if asking me to elaborate.

  “I was my own private leper colony today. No one came by except Rebecca. A couple of distant waves from Madeline.”

  It’s not a big deal, really. It just felt weird. I might need a day or two to adjust to life on death row.

  Day of Employment:

  369

  7:10 a.m.

  * Me: Low-rent Nancy Drew.

  I ARRIVE A BIT EARLIER TODAY. Want to solve the Mystery of the Magically Appearing Boss.

  Can’t catch a break or a clue. He is already here in full business mode. Fluorescent bulbs shine from his office out across the darkened cubicles. He may never actually leave.

  Maybe his office en suite is a pod chamber in disguise.

  8:00 a.m.

  UPON MY RETURN TO MY DESK, I find a written to-do list.

  Canon is milling about in his office.

  I dive in.

  Item number one: Hand collate a twenty-page handout a previous assistant failed to copy correctly.

  What a flagrant waste of wages. It would be far more efficient to have me recopy the set and cut the others down for scrap paper.

  I knock on his door. Silence.

  I knock again. He initiates a phone call.

  Confident in my assessment of the situation, I set off for the copy room. Of course, all the paper trays are empty. When I open the cabinet for more, I am met with a bright orange Post-it note. It reads: Ms. Baker, Do NOT make new copies.

  I can’t even…

  Shaping up to be my least productive day. Ever.

  10:35 a.m.

  * Location: Conference room B.

  UP TO MY GIZZARD in sorted stacks of corporate propaganda. Reams and reams of it. The Lorax would be impressed with our tree carnage.

  It now makes sense to me that it was both a) important not to waste this much paper by reprinting, and b) a mistake by a former personal assistant worthy of at least reprimand, if not quite deserving of dismissal.

  Make personal note to propose we use a short-run printing house to produce similar future projects.

  “So this is the tower that Beast has been keeping you toiling away in?” Madeline teases, entering the room.

  I greet her with a withering look. “It’s not so bad, actually,” I say and imagine what it will be like to have to spend eight hours a day working closer to Canon, in the scorched earth outside his office. “It could be much, much worse.”

  She starts to set down a fresh cup of coffee and a piece of her homemade banana bread near a few sorted paper stacks. I suck up half the air in the room as I imagine coffee stains ruining the project to which I have dedicated my entire day thus far.

  “I’ll just put this down over here,” she says, placing it on a separate table. “I thought you could probably use a pick-me-up, and I wasn’t sure Mr. Canon allows breaks. I wouldn’t want to see what would happen to you if you incurred that man’s wrath.”

  Wrath of the Tight End. I’d watch that movie. I might even buy the DVD. It couldn’t be any worse than the remakes.

  I know I’m legally entitled to a break, but I didn’t take one. Not sure why. But I sincerely appreciate Madeline’s thoughtfulness. She’s like a USO pilot, dropping a care package behind enemy lines.

  4:10 p.m.

  * Mindless Tasks: Causing me to lose mine.

  I’M IN THE BASEMENT, hunting for the market trials we did on preteen pseudo-cosmetics years ago.

  It’s a wild goose hunt, and I’m dangerously close to cooking Canon’s.

  I get the distinct impression that Canon is avoiding me.

  Why, I do not know. Maybe he wants to avoid the hassle of hiring yet another PA before his upcoming trip. Never being near me definitely limits the opportunities to irritate him.

  I have had far too much time to myself down here. Like, life-evaluating time.

  I feel like my life is on hold, in limbo. Do this. Accomplish that. Work. School. Rent.

  Clara says I don’t leave time for love. I won’t argue. But it’s not accurate.

  I don’t exhaust time on relationships or people who aren’t worth what little time I have.

  Which sounds bitchy, now that I put it in so many words. It’s probably more…cautious. I want a love like my grandparents had. Grandpa saw my grandma on the first day she started at his school and said, “That’s my girl.” They never parted until their dying days. An inexplicable aura of caring.

  A hollow clunk from the basement door startles me, and I drop a file. Papers scatter in two hundred directions. I begin playing fifty-two pick up. When I’m a few papers away from done, I can see a person’s shadow move against the far wall.

  I stop short.

  “Hello?” I force my voice out, quashing most traces of fear.

  “Ms. Baker.” Canon steps out from behind a rusty file cabinet. If he brushes against it, he’s gonna need a tetanus booster. “You’ve been down here a long time. I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

  Make sure everything is okay down here? Or that I am okay here?

  Huh. That is…nice.

  I don’t know what to do with that.

  He’s standing to the side, apparently surveying the place. I can’t see his face, just the outline of his frame. I note, appreciatively, that his voice has a calming effect. Which is good since he was skulking around down here like the Ghost of Christmas Party Blow Offs Past.

  He’s wearing the norm. Suit. Button shirt. Designer tie. It’s how he’s wearing them that stops me.

  Let me make it through a week at this job. Oh, I won’t last long, but I can make like a Young Gun and go down in a blaze of glory.

  Day of Employment:

  370

  9:22 a.m.

  * Old Desk: Makeshift Vegas.

  * Canon: Add an “N” in the middle and launch him out of his own name.

  HE HAS LEFT ME ANOTHER LIST.

  Madeline has turned my old desk into a veritable gamblers’ oasis. There are side bets on everything ranging from what I will screw up to get fired, to how long it will be before Canon deigns to interact with me.

  Lists are a favorite tool of mine. I don’t have anything against lists.

  I am, however, beginning to resent being left a list of tasks a
mentally compromised orangutan could complete with minimal difficulty.

  He must think I am a grade-A dolt.

  Nothing can get me righteously pissed off faster. Do not pass go. Do not collect your teeth from the floor.

  Visit my old desk. Rest and recuperation in the old stomping ground.

  Bert assaults his keyboard.

  “How’s your workweek going?” I ask him. “Anything new or exciting going on?”

  “I work in a box. My weeks are all pretty much the same.”

  Fair enough.

  12:19 p.m.

  * Lunch: Cold. Mine. His. Both.

  * Demeanor: Icy.

  I WAS BID TO GO AND FETCH his lunch. Which I did.

  I delivered it to an empty desk over twenty minutes ago.

  He did not bother to share his whereabouts with me. Even setting aside how impossible not knowing such an important detail cripples the ability to be an effective assistant, that makes the dropping of everything and dashing off to retrieve his hot food pointless.

  Now, I am told to set it outside the conference room door.

  I am not a labrador.

  However, I am closer than ever to lifting a leg. I’d cheerfully whizz in his Cheerios.

  5:00 p.m.

  HE IS WITHOUT A DOUBT, bar none, the most infuriating man on the planet. If I didn’t need this job so desperately, I would tell him where to stick it. I could draw a detailed, relief map of it. Describe it so well that a police artist’s sketch artist’s rendering could look like a sixty megapixel image.

  How long have I worked for him? Three days? Three full days and not a single word spoken to my face. Not a syllable or a gesture or even a yawn. The most I get from him is a condescending look now and again, as he shreds another file.