The table is clear but for a single tablet and a bottle of premium water. The chair is better than any chair I’ve sat in, and I sink into it gratefully. I glance at my reflection in the glass—my hair is already untangling from its half-bun, little pieces sticking out like antennae. I try to smooth them, then realize it’s hopeless.
Camille sits across from me, opens the tablet, and taps it a few times. “Thank you for completing the NDA,” she says. “I appreciate your responsiveness, and of course, that means we can proceed to the next phase. As I said, the client demands absolute discretion, making it difficult even to interview sometimes.”
I nod, suddenly thirsty. I open the water bottle and take a sip.
“Do you have any questions about the position?” Camille asks, eyes never leaving the screen.
“Yes,” I say, because if there’s ever a time to ask, it’s now. “The ad said ‘personal assistant,’ but I just want to make sure. Is this, like, a… companionship thing? Or just professional?” My face is flaming, and I instantly feel stupid.
Camille lifts her eyes, but her expression is smooth and unbothered. “The position is professional, of course. But the client is particular about aesthetics as a working artist, and you were selected for your fit with those preferences.”
I almost laugh. “You mean because I look like a failed e-girl?”
“On the contrary,” Camille says, and this time there’s the faintest hint of a smile. “You present as vibrant, approachable, and youthful. The client finds that appealing. However, there are some conditions before we proceed.”
I brace myself.
She taps the screen again. “First: your hair. We believe that your natural color suits you best, and prefer that you return to it. You’re a blonde, no? We can recommend a salon, or reimburse costs.”
I look down at my hands. My hair is my one visible act of rebellion, and it’s about to get erased for a paycheck. “Is that negotiable?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
Camille shakes her head, not unkindly. “It is not.”
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek. “Yes, I’m a natural blonde and I can go back.”
“Excellent. Thank you. Second,” she continues, “we’ll need to take some photos once your hair is blonde again.”
I pause.
“But why?”
She shrugs.
“All employers do this. For security purposes, so that we have your face in the system, that kind of thing.”
I take a long drink of water, stalling for time.
Camille watches me, hands folded on the table, posture flawless. “Is this a problem?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I just want to know what I’m getting into.”
She closes the tablet and leans in, elbows on the glass. “You’re getting into a very lucrative arrangement, Ms. Vreeland. The client is a literary figure of international renown, and if you’re hired, you will be very well compensated. If not, there are many applicants waiting.”
The power dynamic is suddenly so clear, it makes my skin hot.
I force a smile. “Sure, photos,” I say, and I mean it. Or at least, I want to. “For security purposes.”
Camille seems satisfied. She stands, smoothing her skirt. “Perfect. I’ll have the receptionist send some salon recommendations to you, and then please return tomorrow once your hair is done. We’ll take the photos then.”
I nod and swallow, my fingers numb. “That’s it?”
She nods. “That’s it. I’m sorry you’ve had to come in so many times already, Ms. Vreeland, but as you can see, our vetting procedures are arduous for a reason. We want the best, and it takes many rounds to winnow the candidate pool. Please, let me know when you’re ready for your photos.”
I manage to smile and nod, before exiting the building.
I walk out into the cold, bright city, the sun like a searchlight. In the reflection of the glass, I see myself: a pink-haired girl with a future she can’t quite believe in yet. But I don’t want to get rid of the pink hair! It’s me!
A ping sounds on my phone then, and sure enough, another one thousand dollars was just deposited in my account. It seems that rich people can do, and will do anything, to get what they want. There’s simply no stopping the train.
