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Charlotte shrugged. “Just can’t think of a good introduction for this piece.”
“Ha. I don’t believe that for a second. I read some of your stuff online, from college,” Randy said.
“That shit?” Charlotte said, her heart warming. Why had he looked into it? Was he really so kind?
“I just wanted to see where a little Midwestern thing like you came from,” Randy said, not unkindly. “But you have some damn snappy ideas, Charlotte. And I know the big man, Q, can see it, too.”
Charlotte’s cheeks reddened with sudden panic. Was Randy alluding to something? Could everyone tell? Jesus. This was why the no-fraternization policy was in place.
“Oh, no. He still thinks I’m a know-nothing intern. Trust me on that one.”
“I don’t know. Seems he’s showing a bit of favoritism,” Randy said, his eyes glinting. “Of course, I’m happy for you. I really am.”
“It’s not like that,” Charlotte began. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, really.”
Pamela marched past, flipping her red hair. Listening to their conversation, she suddenly leaned toward her, almost conspiratorially. “Now, all you have to do is get him to sleep with you. Then, you can work your way up to some of the top writing positions at the magazine. Who wouldn’t want such a coveted seat?” Her eyes glinted evilly.
Charlotte’s lips parted with sudden panic.
“Hey,” Randy said, smacking his palm against the desk, just beneath Pamela’s brooding face. “That is uncalled for, girl. One hundred percent uncalled for.”
“I have to get home, anyway,” Charlotte said, bursting from her seat. It was nearly five in the afternoon, the time when the interns were freed. She’d seen Maggie leave about twenty minutes earlier, ducking from the office like a spy. With Charlotte’s mind revving at a million miles an hour, she wished for a safe space, for a walk to clear her head.
“Bye, Char,” Randy said as she packed up, rising from his chair as well. “And, kiddo…”
Charlotte spun around, her eyes holding light tears. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry if I irritated you with what I said. I really do think you’re a great writer. And I know you wouldn’t do anything like sleep with the boss, or whatever.” He turned and glared at Pamela, who scurried away, like a rat.
“Thanks, Randy,” Charlotte murmured, her heart falling into the acid of her stomach. “That means a lot.”
She sped into the sunshine of mid-September, a sunshine that spoke of lost summers and of the approaching coziness of winter. She couldn’t shake the scent of Quentin, nor the thought that some of the interns were “catching on” to their affair. She’d known Quentin just one day of her life and already it seemed he’d tipped it upside down. Nothing she’d assumed about herself the previous day—regarding her approach to her career, to professionalism—was correct any longer.
Charlotte took the long route home, gliding through the park, taking in as much of the sun as she could before it nestled beneath the trees. The tug of her apartment, waiting for her to unpack her clothes and other things she’d lugged from Ohio, was palpable. But she ignored it, knowing that if she waited alone in her apartment, she’d yearn for Quentin even more.
He was just down the hall. And he was all but irresistible. Even though she knew that every time she slept with him, she was literally detracting from her professional development.
She was whoring herself out.
Her phone began to buzz. She lifted it, discovering it was her aunt, down in Florida.
After three rings, Charlotte answered brightly, trying to sweep away her sense of melancholy.
“Hey, there, Auntie.”
“Darling Charlotte, it’s so good to hear your voice. How is the apartment holding up for you? Your mother said you got the keys all right from my lawyer.”
“I did, yes. And the apartment, well, it’s too good to be true,” Charlotte said. She stared at a child on a swing set, swooping in a wild arc through the air, his legs flailing. “How’s Florida?”
“Florida is quite swell,” her aunt answered, speaking the language of a woman over seventy years of age. “I’m getting quite a bit of writing done, and I’ve been flirting with the pool boy almost constantly. Such a hunk, Charlotte. That’s what you call them? Hunks?”
“Ha. I’m not sure, Auntie,” Charlotte said, grinning. “Hey, Auntie, do you happen to know many of your neighbors on the ninth floor?”
“Oh, yes. Of course. I’ve lived there over twenty years, now. Have you met any of them?”
“Just a few. One man and a daughter. Morgan.”
“Morgan. That little thing. She used to come water my plants in the wintertime. Once, she broke a vase, and her father—a hunk of a man, to say the least—bought me a delightful new one in its place. It was made in Paris, of all places. He really knew how to charm this old lady’s heart.”
