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You have got to be kidding me.
“Yes,” I practically shout, waving her the rest of the way into office with a wild arm. “I need you to run to the law library and get the—”
She purses her lips, frowns, and hums a noise that has to be the equivalent of water torture to anyone in the universe with ears. It’s dry and phlegmy at the same time, and—maybe the worst part—it’s not even structured in the affirmative. “Yeahhh, I don’t think I can make it.” She pauses her nail filing to glance down at her shiny gold watch, and my brain attempts to hemorrhage. “It’s already four, and I’m meeting the girls in SoHo for margs at four thirty.”
Margs.
I clench my teeth to keep myself from yelling so loud I shatter my floor-to-ceiling windows—unlike Milo’s eardrum, I give a shit about them. “We keep long hours here. Surely Liz told you that.”
A small wrinkle forms between her eyebrows. “Liz?”
“The woman who hired you to temporarily replace her!” I snap. I can’t help it. This chick has pushed me over the edge.
Milo laughs in my ear so hard I hang up on him.
No goodbye, no see ya later, asshole. Just a poignant slam of the phone onto its base. I’m pretty sure he’ll get the message.
Hillary jumps at the sound, drops her nail file, and grabs at her right breast. I’d normally feel a great fondness for such a fondle, but all I can feel right now is the throb of a vein in my forehead. “I’m from a temp agency. I didn’t speak to a Lizzy or whatever.”
What the fuck? Liz didn’t even interview her?
“Whatever. Forget Liz. Forget the margs. I need you to stay—”
She’s shaking her head before I can even finish my sentence.
“I can’t back out on the girls. Tonight, our girls’ night is Sex and the City-themed, and I’m Samantha. I wanted to be Carrie, but Leslie said I don’t have the bone structure for her.” She makes a show of gesturing toward her skimpy outfit like it will all make sense to me, and I have to blink three times before I can even find words that don’t include f-u-c-k to respond.
“Do you realize I’m your boss? And that the reason you’re here is to work a job, and that sometimes that job requires you to work past four?” I ask with a calmness I most certainly do not feel. The Huffman case is the kind of thing CNN covers. Not a divorce proceeding in county court. And I sure as shit need things to be in order in my office so I can continue to be the powerhouse lawyer every one of my clients knows me to be. It’s why they seek me out. It’s why billion-dollar CEOs want me on their team.
“I’m sorry, but I have plans. The girls can’t be short a Samantha tonight. I mean, it wouldn’t make any sense if it’s just Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda.” She shrugs, completely unaffected. “Maybe I’ll be able to stay later another day?”
Good God. No wonder she’s getting work out of a temp agency.
She doesn’t wait for my response. Instead, she bends over to pick up her fucking nail file and steps back out of my office, closing the door behind herself.
Blind with rage, I pick up the phone and dial the only woman’s number I know by heart. Up until this point in my life, she’s been steady. Constant. Dependable.
It rings three times before her voice mail picks up, and I wait dutifully for the beep to prompt me to talk.
Beep.
“Liz, what the ever-loving hell? The assistant I’ve ended up with in your absence—if you can even call her that—is completely unacceptable. She’s filing her fucking nails and talking about Sexy City and women I’ve never heard of, and instead of working, she keeps taking pictures of her coffee cup and tits, and I need you to come back in for a few days until you can find a replacement for her. Call me back, call me back, call me back.”
I’ll deliver her baby myself if it means I don’t have to deal with the woman who’s been taking duck-face selfies all day behind her desk.
I glance at the clock to get an update on the time now that Hillary isn’t here to remind me of it and her goddamn margaritas, and its numbers glow their evil red truth like a demon’s eyes.
It’s five after four, and the law library closes at four thirty.
Fucking hell.
I jump up, swing my suit jacket off the coat hook and over my shoulders, and grab my keys, wallet, and phone, and charge toward my office door. When I step outside, what should be Liz’s desk is devoid of the vapid, margarita-loving nail-filer. Apparently, after our encounter, quitting time came even earlier for Hillary.
