The Plan (18 page)

“I’m not suggesting the level of detail be anything that…stringent,” I say. “But there are concerns with sales in foreign markets. Your international distributors, their tactics, expose the whole organization to scrutiny. If anyone receiving discounts or free items is a state official—”

“Maybe I was not clear, Emma. I am sure you are competent at what you do. This is what I do. Don’t get me wrong. What you do is important; one can’t undervalue the skill of making a good cup of coffee.” She smiles too sweetly and smooths her already immaculate updo. “I’m also very good at what I do.”

I think this is not about work.

“There are those who work for and those who work with.” She traces her finger along the top of Canon’s laptop.

Yep. Not talking about work.

“Listen, let’s cut to the chase,” she practically whispers. “I have an MBA and I earned my way to VP in less than two years. I will run this place when Lawrence Peters’s slow, worthless ass finally retires. I know where I belong, where I fit. And with whom.”

This may be it.

This may be my breaking point. Well, my daylight breaking point.

I may snap and get on the intercom and yell to all who can hear me that I have an advanced degree in technical writing, a law school scholarship, and a recently acquired mastery of my gag reflex.

I’m under attack. I want to tell her that I—courtesy of numerous hours of lectures from my professor who actually helped write NAFTA into law—have a tad more awareness than she does of the recent surge in Department of Justice and SEC prosecutions for things like giving free samples to anyone who works for a hospital in a nation with state run healthcare. Things are different. People are going to jail. Companies are paying hundreds of millions in fines.

But I don’t. Because that is not my role.

I do not flaunt my divided priorities.

I do not assert myself.

I do not embarrass my boss.

And it hits me. I hadn’t even thought about it. I’ve been focused on awkward, morning-after hook-up tension.

He may be embarrassed to have been with me.

Diana Fralin knows her place. I never thought about mine.

I have never before so thoroughly questioned something I have done or why I have done it.

Question myself.

I don’t like that. I’m allowed to celebrate my womanhood, experience what I choose with whom I choose. I am not easy. I’m discriminating.

I have wanted him to notice me, hoped he might desire me. He might not always do so, he might do so and not show it, but there is no denying he desired me last night. I, literally, had proof in the palm of my hand.

The door opens as Canon returns to the room.

“Alaric,” she says, bolting from her desk and bumping my shoulder on her way to him, “your Ms. Baker is quite the go-getter. So very concerned about our foreign trade practices.”

“She is quite thorough,” he says, sounding almost as confused by her comments as I feel.

Fralin taps her chin as though she is just now forming an opinion. It’s for show; she’s plotting.

“Well, she seems to have so much insight. Maybe it would be a good idea for her to spot-check some things.”

Warning bells. They’re ringing.

Canon turns to me. He must wonder what I have been saying. “What did you have in mind?”

Fralin smiles broadly. “Well, I can give her access to a few market segments, let her explain her accusations to the sales people whose records she pulls—of course you’d want to find more passive phrasing, Emma,” she chirps. Canon’s eyes look like they may pop out of his head at the word “accusations.”

She doesn’t miss a beat…or an opportunity, it seems. “I can lend you a temp while she’s working on things.”

She wants me out of the way.

Here is where I’m going to balk. I’m not playing this role under different circumstances.

I’m here for him…for my company.

“I really don’t thi—”

“Mr. LaCygne would—”

She and I talk over each other.

“That will not be necessary.” Canon holds his hand up, effectively cutting us both off. “Give her unrestricted access to everything pertinent. We will go over it. Together.”

“Surely that would be a burden for you, Alaric,” she backpedals.

I, on the other hand, may do a wee jig. Even my plan didn’t fail this miserably.

Walking away, he punches keys on his ever-present phone. “I am not enduring a temp. Ms. Baker is the best I have ever had.”

Suddenly, I’m fine if we’re not talking about work anymore.

1:15 p.m.

*
Location
: Hotel front desk.

*
Luggage Trolley
: Stacked like a Jenga tower.

“B
UT
I S
PECIFICALLY
R
EQUESTED
adjoining rooms or ones across from each other.” I’m livid. Distraught.

My hands have taken to gesturing as if independent from my body.

“Our sincerest apologies, Ms.…Baker,” the front desk clerk says after glancing to verify my name. “We can try to arrange for accommodations elsewhere.”

“I have already checked. I gave up two sets of reservations in favor of here,” I say as my hand swings, smacks, and threatens to topple our bags.

I’m both mad and scared. The rooms are in separate buildings at opposite ends of the hotel grounds. I will have to run back and forth. I will impact productivity. I will have to tell Canon. This is the first thing I have not delivered on.

Still at the counter, I call him. The clerk seems like she’d like to leave.
Oh, no you don’t. You are going through this with me.

“Canon.” There are voices in the background.

“Hello, Mr. Canon.” I swallow back my nerves and take a deep breath. “There is a problem.”

“Such as?” The voices fade. He must be moving.

“The rooms are several minutes apart.” I describe the grounds and room layout.

He’s silent.

Then he’s not.

“Unacceptable,” he says, fumings. “Put them on.”

I hot-potato my cell to the wide-eyed desk clerk. “This is H—…Yes…It is an unfortunate mix—Yes, I suppose you are right…No, I mean, yes. Yes, there is no suppose.” Her face is as red as the poinsettia on the counter. “Perhaps I could fin—I do understand, bu—I understand…one moment, please…I’m sure your time is valuable…I do need a moment to loo—but…” She’s tearing up. I almost feel badly for her. The fact that she is the person who originally booked my reservation helps to erode my sympathy somewhat.

“Yes, we do. I will make the change now. Thank you.” Thankful is not how she sounds. She hands my cell phone back to me.

“…is disgraceful. How does it feel to be so incompetent a customer has to complete even the most perfunctory of tasks for you?”

“Mr. Canon,” I say after waiting for him to take a breath.

“Ms. Baker?”

“I take it that you resolved things, sir.”

“Not ideally. You were right to call. Set up there and come back. We should be out around five.”

At least it won’t be a late night. I think of my email inbox once again crammed with unwatched lectures and the copious number of briefs I need to read or write. I feel like joining the clerk in her sniffles.

Moments later, I’m being handed two access cards and a signature page.

“Your room is here,” she says and circles a corner room on the top of the main building. “Room service is twenty-four-seven with a limited menu after ten in the evening. If you need any special accommodations—” she looks up at me as if, having spoken to Canon, she is well-aware that this is a given “—please let us know.”

I sign and wait.

And wait.

“Did you need help with your bags?”

“Well, yes, that would be nice, but we need to finish the paperwork for the other room.” I manage to keep the irritation out of my voice.

“There is no other room. I…I had to…I bumped a late-arrival party and gave you their suite,” she splutters.

“One room?”

“There are separate sleeping areas.”

Oh, well, indeed, yes, that is a great comfort to be sure. I may swoon.

“One room?”

“There are rooms within the room. Separate sleeping areas.”

“Yes, you said that. But we are sharing a room?” I say, and she nods. “I’m sharing a room with that man?” I will have no break, no respite from that man? She nods. I am not entirely sure she hasn’t heard my thoughts.

I snatch the cards from the counter and glare at her as if it were all her suggestion. I barely remember to wait for the bellhop.

It is a lovely room. The nicest I have ever stayed in. Pale marble. Sage green silks. Soft cottons. Deep mahogany woods. One actual bedroom. Living area with glass doors to a balcony. In front of the doors, a sleeper sofa I will be calling home. Small kitchen. Huge plasma. One closet. One bath.

One friggin’ closet.

I hang the clothes. His shoes on the floor, mine on the shelf. He gets the top drawer. I put my stuff in the bottom. His stuff was on the left of the sink in the old hotel, so I put it there and put mine on the right or out of sight completely. I order extra towels and blankets. The room already has a coffee pot.

One friggin’ bath.

Plug his charger in by his nightstand. Make sure the in-room alarm is not set from anyone else.

One friggin’ room.

I’m at a loss for where I can keep all my school reading material. It ends up in a suitcase.

One friggin’…
How the hell did this happen?
I have tried to take it in stride, to go about my business, but how the…what the…I can’t room with my boss! I can’t room with a guy I shoved around and dropped to my knees in front of and sucked the stuffing out of. Went all “wham, bam, you better call me ma’am” on.

Sweating. Not perspiring or glowing or any of those ladylike things. I am sweating. Even my ass cheeks are sweating.

I splash my face at the sink. My reflection seems foreign. These are not my clothes. Not my hair. Not me.

The reflection stares back. Judges.

Perhaps I’m berating myself too much over last night.

How am I going to study? Get dressed? Relax enough to sleep?

Maybe you should try talking to him about what happened…

Voice of Reason…do you have an invite?

I am not allowed reason in this room situation. I have to take it in stride. He set this up. If he is okay rooming together, I have to act like I am as well.

Do what he says, when he says, without question.

I leave for work. I need a raise.

5:25 p.m.

*
Location
: Entryway of hotel room.

*
Pin
: If one dropped, you’d hear it.

S
TAGNATION
G
ETS
T
O
M
E
. “Shall I show you where everything is?”

His lips are pursed, tense. His eyes dart to the sofa, the bedroom, the bath, and back again.

“The bulk of your things are here,” I say and beeline for the bedroom. He shows up in his own time.

I begin opening or pointing to everything. I’m like Vanna White if Pat Sajak had his sex appeal ramped up by infinity.

“I put your things in the top drawer. The rest are in the closet. Shoes on the bottom.” He opens the closet and peers in while I rattle on. “Charger on the stand. Alarm is already off. I have sanitized the remote.”

I think I hear him say “perfect” from behind the open closet door.

“You may notice a few things missing. I have sent them to the cleaners due to the extended trip. If you will follow me, sir, there is not much left.”

Instead, he actually leads into the bathroom. My heels click across the tile. “I believe this is everything you had out in your old room.” I touch near his things at the sink. He glances at them, then around the small room until his eyes fall on the few items of my own I have left out. For a moment, it almost looks as though he is going to pick up my perfume, but he doesn’t. “If leaving this out here is going to be a problem, I can keep my things elsewhere.”

“No, no,” he says rather softly. It’s a small space. Intimate. Something shifts in the air.

I cough to clear my throat and throw open the shower curtain. “I have noticed you are nearly out of shampoo. Shall I pick some up for you or will the furnished kind be sufficient, Mr. Canon?”

“You don’t have to do that.” His hands are in his pockets.