Page 26
I look over at Matthew, lining up his cars in a perfect row.
“What if staying in this city is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done?” I say. “Every day I stay, I’m choosing my pride over his future.”
Candy straightens my collar like a drill sergeant. “You are not failing that kid. You’re giving him a home. A routine. A mother who shows up. That’s more than either of us ever got.”
“You’re going to make me cry off the one coat of mascara I managed.”
“Then get out before you start.” She turns me toward the door by the shoulders. “Today’s number six, and six is my lucky number. Go get the job, sad shoes.”
I kiss my son, thank Candy three times, and run for the train.
The temp agency is on the twentieth floor of a skinny glass tower in Midtown, the kind that makes you feel underdressed in the elevator.
My shoes pinch the whole ride up.
Paula is waiting at her desk. Middle-aged. Polished. The closest thing I have to a fairy godmother, if fairy godmothers wore reading glasses and kept a bowl of sad mints.
Today, she isn’t smiling.
“I’ll be honest with you, because I think you’ve earned it,” she says, tapping my folder. “The feedback on you is strange. ‘Strong candidate.’ ‘Great interview.’ And then nothing. A no with no reason. Five times.”
“Maybe I give off an unlucky vibe.”
“You give off a very employable vibe. That’s what makes it strange.” She looks at me over her glasses. “Is there anything I should know? Anything in your background following you around?”
“Nothing I can prove.”
It’s the most honest answer I’ve got.
“There’s some X factor I can’t see. But my job is to get you a job. So.” She takes a breath. “I’ve gotten a little creative with the net.”
“Creative how?”
“Not office work.”
She slides a single sheet of paper across the desk. No letterhead. Almost no words.
“Here’s what I know. He’s supposedly one of the richest, most powerful men in New York. Very private. Very demanding. A little scary.”
“Wow. You’re really selling it. What’s his name?”
“I don’t have a name.”
I stare at her.
“I have an address,” she says, “and a list of requirements as long as my arm. It’s a live-in position. Personal assistant. Housing included. And the pay is…”
She turns the paper and points to a number.
I work very hard to keep my face still.
“Yes,” Paula says. “That’s monthly.”
“What’s the catch?”
“The catch is I’ve sent him six people, and he’s sent every one of them home inside an hour. You go to the house. You meet him. He decides on the spot.” She pauses. “So do you.”
Six people. Sent home in an hour.
