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As if she already hadn’t.
No. Why think like a defeatist? She wouldn’t lose her job. She’d put in too much time and effort at Tremont, Burnside and Macomb to let that happen. She would not let the decision made by The King of All He Surveyed ruin her career. There’d be other big accounts, other career-changing clients.
Of course there would.
If only her worm of a boss hadn’t waited until today to break the news.
She’d come in early, eight o’clock, to make sure she was ready for the meeting with the sheikh. She’d even checked with the caterer to make sure he’d be coming on time, bringing little sandwiches and pastries, the brand of coffee the sheikh was known to favor, the champagne and the juice. Fresh juice,
she’d reminded the caterer, and vintage champagne.
By 8:10, she knew everything was ready. The caterer. The boardroom. The manager of this Los Angeles branch of Tremont, Burnside and Macomb, Jerry Simpson.
Quarter past eight, Jerry had stepped into her office, a smile on his pudgy face and a Starbucks’ container in his outstretched hand.
“For you,” he’d said.
She almost said Thanks, but I’ve been drinking coffee for two hours straight…But why turn down the friendly gesture? Jerry never came in early. He never brought her coffee. Mostly he never smiled. He never sat down beside her desk, either, the way he did as she took the container from him.
With the benefit of hindsight, Megan realized that warning bells should have gone off right there and then. Fool that she was, she’d simply figured Jerry was there early so they could get ready for the important meeting together.
“How was your weekend?” Jerry said.
She’d spent it on Nantucket Island at her brother’s wedding, so it was easy to smile and say “Great,” because it had been. He smiled back, said that was good to hear and didn’t she look wonderful and oh, by the way, he was giving the Suliyam account to Frank Fisher.
Megan blinked. She told herself she’d misunderstood. How could he give her client to somebody else? Maybe she’d had too much champagne at Cullen’s wedding, too little sleep, too many cups of coffee to try to get her brain in gear after the alarm went off this morning.
Simpson couldn’t have said what she’d thought he’d said, so she gave a little laugh.
“For a minute there, Jerry, I thought you said—”
“I did,” Simpson replied, and she looked beyond his smarmy smile and saw that he was telling the truth.
“But that’s impossible,” she said slowly, while she tried to make sense of what was happening. “Suliyam commissioned a study—’’
“The sheikh commissioned it.”
“Whatever. The point is—’’
“It’s an important detail, Megan.” Simpson smoothed his hand over the pinstripes straining across his tiny potbelly. “His Highness speaks for his country.”
“I don’t see what that—’’
“To all intents and purposes, he is Suliyam.”
“The point is,” Megan said impatiently, “I did all the work on this report. I did it because you said the king would be my client, if he signed on—”
“I never told you that. I simply asked you to prepare the proposal.”
Megan narrowed her eyes. “It’s standard practice in this firm that the person who works up the data for a client gets that client.”
“You are not a partner, Megan.”
“A formality, Jerry. You know that.”
“His Highness wants someone with authority.”
“Well, that’s easily resolved. Make me a partner now instead of waiting until July.”
