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20
NOBODY WILL HIRE ME
MICHELA
Two weeks later, neither Mom nor I have secured a job. The gigs that pay require cars, and the remote positions require a nice laptop, neither of which I have. We’re stuck, and while I’m not yet terrified of what’ll happen when we don’t make the rent on the first of the month, I’m getting pretty close to it.
Which means I must nail the interview I have at a design firm today. It’s a secretarial position instead of a designer one, but I’d wash toilets at that design firm if it meant my foot was in the door. Not to mention, at this point, I’m pretty much ready to beg for work.
I wear my best black suit with a pencil skirt and a crisp white shirt underneath, my hair done up and my makeup subtle. I walk past Manhattan’s finest buildings, wondering which one Corrado would occupy if he worked in New York.
I’ve thought about him a lot, and how I never even heard his full proposal. Sometimes, during my lonely nights when I’m worried and restless, I think about what his money could do for me.
I also think about what his body could do for me. Seeing him naked and hard in all the right places is not something I’ll unsee any time soon. But we didn’t exchange phone numbers, so he hasn’t called or stopped by. I presume he’s moved on.
I wonder what he says when people ask about his wife. Corrado doesn’t strike me as a man who’d say his wife left him or that the marriage failed. Perhaps he says his wife’s on vacation. The extended kind. The kind the wife of a mobster goes on when she displeases him. The kind the wife never comes back from.
Spotting the office number I’m looking for inside the massive New York high-rise tells me I’m in the right place. I take the elevator to the top floor, my stomach tied up in knots.
Once the elevator door opens, I step into the workplace, which is bursting with people.
The airy, open space is decorated in a contemporary style. Shades of gray dominate the space, from the concrete floor to the ceiling covered in parts by large steel pipes running from one end to the next. They give off a cold, industrial vibe, softened by the peach curtains framing the large windows, along with the warm yellow lighting. Scattered leather sofas in natural hues make the space appear less like an office and more like a lounge.
It's beautiful even with only two mint plants, both of which are sitting on the same desk by the window. With this much sunlight, the office is practically outdoors, and plants would not only thrive here, but fit in with the vibe of the workplace.
Behind my back, I cross my fingers for luck. Coming here to work would be wonderful.
A blond man in a sharp black suit walks by.
I catch up with him. “Excuse me, sir. I don’t see the front desk, and I don’t want to miss my interview with Mr. Evans.”
He’s tall, with broad shoulders and a classically handsome face, and when he smiles, he shows a dimple on his right cheek. “This way, then.”
I follow him to the far-left space, a masculine office with a black sofa instead of an orange one, and a severely edgy industrial metal desk. The only warm thing in this arrangement is the wooden golden retriever figurine on the desk.
The man offers me a seat on a charcoal chair as he swipes a file from the top of the pile of files and opens it. He peruses the file for a few seconds, then drops it back on the desk. He approaches me, his hand extended. “Henry Evans,” he says with a slight British accent.
We shake hands, and he sits on the black leather sofa across from me. “You are applying for the position of my secretary, is that right?”
In the listing, it didn’t say it was his secretary specifically, but he just told me this is an executive secretary position since Henry Evans is a top designer in the firm. “Yes, sir.”
“With no prior experience in this sort of work, and a bachelor’s in…” He pauses, “Botany, was it?”
“Yes, it’s the study…” Thinking about what Corrado said, I stop myself before I explain. “I graduated magna cum laude. I’m a quick learner, sir.”
Mr. Evans seems pleased with my answer and offers me a cup of coffee, which he gets himself. We seem to get along, and as we sip coffee, and as the interview winds down, I check the time. I’m fairly certain I secured the job, since men in charge hate wasting time, and a forty-minute-long interview would waste his time if he had no intention of hiring me.
Mr. Evans, whom I won’t call Henry even if he insists I do, rises, his hand outstretched. I shake it again, and he says, “Mrs. Mancini, I’m happy to offer you the job.”
“Oh my God!” I squeal like a little girl who found a birthday cake in the fridge. It takes me a moment to rewind what he’s said. “Mancini?” I applied with my last name. You know, the Trentino one, since I’m not married.
“Corrado tells me you’re still working out the details in regard to the change of name. When you do, come back and take the office over there.” He points toward an empty space next to his.
“There’s nothing there.”
“You will order furniture and whatever else you need. I hear you have a knack for design.”
I swallow. “Where did you hear that?”
