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The woman catches my arm. What is it with rich people thinking my arm is some kind of pull toy?
“Here,”—she shoves her phone in my face—“name and number. What did it cost?”
What did it cost? I had to make dinner for a week. I had to listen to every single episode ofThe Will Power Hourpodcast with Georgia over the last two weeks, so I talk the way they talk in the program.
She taps the phone again. I take it and type in Georgia’s name, business name and number, then hand it back.
“My sister said if I’d had it made on Savile Row in London, it would’ve cost me four thousand.”
“Dollars or pounds?”
“Pounds,” I say, only because I know that’s way more than Canadian dollars, and if this woman is seriously going to hire Georgia, my sister deserves PITA pay.
“A steal,” she says, turning on her heel toward the elevator bank.
“You’re welcome,” I call, loud enough for her to hear. “You giant hogweed,” I whisper to myself.
I sign in with security and am told that someone will be down shortly to take me to my meeting.
“That’s OK. I can find it,” I say with a bright smile.
Aksita—according to the name on the guard’s gold badge—looks over his glasses at me. “That’s cute. Guests don’t travel unaccompanied inside the Power & Bros. building. Have a seat.” He points to a row of custom-made armchairs in corporate colors—gold and Duke blue, the literal brand color of Duke University. Georgia and I were surprised the company didn’t create its own named color: Power Blue. She’s decided to pitch the marketing department on the idea because … well, because Georgia is brave like that.
I sit. I wait. I watch.
Megarich people, and those who serve them, are a different breed. It’s not just their clothes and briefcases and jewelry. They hold themselves differently from the people I ride transit with. Even naked, their privilege would be obvious. I know that even cleaned-up and sent to the barber or hairdresser, that in a police line-up of seven naked normal people and one rich person, I’d be able to identify the one who had over a million dollars in their bank account.
The next time the elevator door opens, a young woman who looks my age approaches. “You must be Virginia,” she says, extending her hand. “I’m Amanda, Mr. Liu’s executive assistant. I’ll take you to your meeting.”
She punches a code into the elevator panel, not a floor number. The doors close, and we whoosh upward.
“Congratulations. It’s quite an honor to be chosen by Mr. Power to receive this coaching. What business are you in?”
I’ve prepared for this moment.Ignore the assumptions, answer the questions.
“I’m a …” My heart rate spikes, breaking every one of its promises to stay calm. I feel my face flush—a dead giveaway that I am a fraud. I clear my throat. “I’m a plant whisperer,” I say, voice still too quiet.
“A what?” she asks, tilting her ear toward my mouth.
“I take care of plants and flowers. I’m a professional plantswoman, a floraphile, if you will.”
“Huh! Learn something new every day. A floraphile … flower lover … interesting.”
I nod. The elevator reaches the floor and I’m regretting every life decision I’ve ever made. “I’m sorry to ask, but is there a powder room on this floor? I just need a quick—”
“This way. Don’t be nervous, though. Mr. Liu is lovely. You got one of the gentler coaches. Some of them,”—she raises her eyebrows and widens her eyes, a small whistle slipping from glossy lips—“some of them scare even me.”
She leaves me to do a few calming breaths in the privacy of a bathroom so beautiful, it only reinforces that I don’t belong here. My palms sweat, and I kick myself for not tucking paper towels into my pockets, something to pat my hands dry if they decide to leak again while I’m talking to Mr. Liu. Nothing screamsfraudfaster than sweaty palms when shaking the hand of a person with authority. I smooth a square of toilet paper into each pocket.
Amanda is waiting right outside the door and gives me an encouraging smile. “You’ve got this. I have faith in you. What is it that Mr. Power says?”
We repeat it together as she leads me to the office: “I am a winner. I am making shit happen. Nothing will stop me from success.”
“Yeah, you are.” She knocks once on a massive wooden door, then pushes it open. “Virginia Beach is here, Mr. Liu.”
5. Will
GOLDEN HANDCUFFS
