Then I go back to clearing out my inbox, taking all the urgent items off my plate first. HR’s response arrives when I’m almost finished.
That’s why we’re emailing you. We sent a note last week, but never received an answer.
My blood pressure hits the roof, and it takes a moment before my vision clears. Melanie.
The saddest thing is that if she were even the tiniest bit competent, I’d think she was just trying to extend her temp gig. But I know better. I look at her desk through the frosted glass. She’s probably eating cookies and clipping coupons and pictures of hot Hollywood stars. She doesn’t seem to understand that Sweet Darlings isn’t paying her to sit around drooling over Chris Hemsworth’s abs.
I pick up the desk phone and hit the extension for Nancy in HR.
“Nancy, this is Wyatt Westland. How quickly can you get Loren in for an interview?”
“How soon do you want it?”
“I wanted it last week.” I check my calendar. “How about this morning? If not, any time after three is fine.”
“I’ll check.”
“Call me on my cell or text me directly.”
“Sure. By the way, I feel like I should let you know something, even though I’m certain what your answer’s going to be.”
“What?” I ask, wondering why she’s giving me such a long preface.
“Melanie asked for a permanent position last week.”
“As what?” Not as a stocker for the break room, hopefully. We’ll be out of coffee in hours.
“As your assistant. She says you’re an easy boss to work for.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Of course I’m easy to work for. She doesn’t do shi— Excuse my French. She hardly does anything.”
Nancy sighs. “I thought as much. Anyway, I’ll contact you directly.”
I hang up, then glare at Melanie’s back. Now I’m thinking that she purposely hid the message from HR to ensure I’d be stuck with her.
Not gonna happen.
I attend two meetings, with memos and docs I prepared and printed because Melanie forgot again. The second one with the marketing team goes pretty well, considering I’m missing one of the presentation slides, which David apparently sent to everyone’s assistants last Friday.
As David and I are leaving the conference room, my phone pings with a text. I pull it out of my pocket faster than a gunslinger unholstering his iron.
–Kim: Lunch today?
I was expecting a response from HR, but still feel a smile coming on.
–Me: Sure. What are you in the mood for?
–Kim: Something simple. Burgers and fries?
A woman after my own heart. It’s like she knew exactly what I wanted at that restaurant where you couldn’t call tuna…well, tuna. My smile gets bigger.
–Me: Perfect.
David sidles up, trying to get a look at my screen. “You hook up with one of the bridesmaids? Sly.”
I shake my head. Only he would think that. “You know the wedding didn’t happen, right?”
“Of course. Saw the videos on Facebook because I just had to know about this particular ceremony. But that means there were some disappointed bridesmaids, am I right? I read the groom got caught humping one right before the ceremony.” He clasps my shoulder like I just invented a vaccine for prostate cancer. “I’m proud of you, son. You’re doing the right thing. Soon you’ll forget why you ever married that crazy bitch.” He pauses. “You did get digits for more than one maid, right?”