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“The Sam Adams brewery at Dock Square.”
She rolls her green eyes. “Girl, work with me here!”
“Just being honest.”
“Fine. What bar do tourists go to third then?”
“Sean O’Callaghan’s,” I finally admit, naming the successful bar I’d run an ad campaign for last spring and smiling in spite of myself. That one had gone quite well.
“Exactly! You’re fucking great at your job, and I’m pretty damn stoked to get to be here to watch you in action. I have no regrets about threatening Diane’s iguana if she dared put her name forward.”
“Wait—”
“The point,” Mickey says, putting a hand on each of my shoulders, “is that if you don’t get the account, nobody else in the office could have. That’s why Dan sent you. So just do your best, as you always do, and if it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be. But I do think you’re going to get it.”
Mickey’s pep talk is actually working. I grin at her and playfully push her hands off me. “Okay, fine. You got me. Consider me hyped.” Then I put on a stern face. “But I call bullshit on one thing at least — I know you actually do kinda like fighting with cab drivers.”
Mickey grins. “I’ll never admit it!”
The rest of the morning descends into last minute preparations. We dress and get ready, eat our bagels, and go over final notes for the game plan I’ve devised. Then, just before ten, we head out the door and uptown — in an Uber to ensure the smoothest sailing.
Mickey’s speech helped me, and, driving downtown toward the towers of Lower Manhattan, I feel calmer than I have all week. The pitch will go well. And even if I don’t get the account, I won’t embarrass myself. Everything is going to be all right.
But still, for some reason, despite the importance of the meeting at the other end of this car ride, I can’t seem to keep my thoughts from returning to Nick. I wonder where he’s at right now, what he’s doing. If he’s also thinking of me.
And if the surprise he foretold will come true.
As much as I’d defended the business sector of Boston to Nick, there really is nothing in the United States that compares to the Financial District of Manhattan.
It’s almost 11 on a Monday morning. Thousands of people rush to and fro in a congealed mass. Cabs and cars and limos honk and fight for every inch of space they can get on the congested roads. And above? Above are the stern, towering skyscrapers that house thousands of the brightest, richest, and most arrogant minds in the country, if not the world.
It’s hard to not be a little intimidated.
I’d wanted to work in New York after college, but Brent’s family and friends were all in Boston and he hadn’t wanted to leave them. I’d been disappointed, but I loved Boston too and it was a small hill to die on. Now I’m living my dream at last: click, click, clicking across the plaza outside One Wall Street, briefcase in my hand, Mickey as my backup.
I catch a glimpse of our reflection in the mirrored glass of the tower, and, I have to admit, we look good. We’re strutting our stuff, dressed to kill, confidence oozing from our pores.
I whip off my sunglasses with a toss of my hair as we approach the entrance. I feel sexy. I feel powerful. I feel?—
I almost run face-first into the glass door of the lobby when it fails to open automatically.
Mickey, the ultimate wing-woman, is on it in a flash, pulling the door open for me, and stepping aside so that I can stride in like a queen (or maybe Beyoncé), and I recover enough to convince myself that surely nobody saw that embarrassing move.
Mickey and I are greeted warmly at the reception desk, given our passes, and directed to the correct elevator. And before long we’re shooting up sixty-five stories in a shining gold elevator toward our fate.
I’ve been to some pretty swanky offices in my day, but none of them prepare me for the absolute event that is the Madison Enterprises office. I mean, there’s a freakin’ waterfall in the lobby. It splashes down thirty feet from the lofted ceilings, pouring over cool, gray granite. Directly in front of it is the receptionist’s desk which is helmed by one of the most stylish women I’ve seen outside of a magazine ad for Louboutins.
The entire office drips with modern, masculine style. Everything is in cool grays and silvers, from the floor to the light fixtures. The windows boast floor-to-ceiling views so expansive I can practically see Central Park all the way uptown. It’s like being on top of the world, and it takes all my professionalism not to gawk.
“Evelyn Davis. I have an 8 o’clock with Mr. Madison,” I tell the runway model receptionist.
She nods pleasantly, shoulders her desk phone and confirms, “Ms. Davis for Mr. Madison.” We’re obviously given the stamp of approval because another woman, somehow more beautiful and stylish than the first, appears out of nowhere like a fashionista boogeyman and indicates that we should follow her.
Mickey and I continue to click, I continue to hold my head high, but my power moves definitely gave me more confidence on the street. Up here in Mr. Madison’s kingdom, everyone looks good. It’s not enough to be put together. You need to be operating on your A-game mentally as well as physically.
I swallow and clutch my briefcase containing my presentation tighter.
Fashionista Boogeyman (as her name shall henceforth be) leads us down a black-carpeted aisle that runs down the center of the open plan office. The room is huge. Every wall on the floor has been torn down leaving us in a massive vault surrounded by glass and breathtaking views.
