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“Would you think I was a terrible boss if I asked you to check if the coffee is on its way?”
“When has that ever stopped you?” I tease. Then I double check myself, wondering if I've overstepped the mark again. But no, that wasn't too cheeky, was it?
We spend the next ten minutes arranging the room, putting materials on the table and starting the multimedia screens. When the coffee arrives, I direct the catering staff to the side table, and Callum shoots a grateful look at me.
“This is a big deal, right?” I ask. He's nervous. I can tell by the way he keeps raking his fingers through his hair, and adjusting his tie as if it's strangling him. Maybe if I knew him better, or if I was a little bit bolder, I'd help him even up the knot. As it is I make a face and gesture at my neck. “It's a little off centre, I think.”
“Is that better?”
“A bit to the right,” I say, gesturing with my finger.
“That's left.” His brows pull down, and I smile at his confused expression.
“My left, not yours.”
A few minutes later, the rest of the project team file in. There are representatives from legal, finance, and three of Callum's direct reports. A couple of them wave at me, recognising my face from the office, and they come over to introduce themselves.
“Amy, right? I'm John Adair. This is Mike.” They both shake my hand and we make small talk about the department, all the while shooting nervous glances across the room.
When 3:00 p.m. arrives, reception calls up to let us know the potential clients are here. Being the most junior—and I suspect because I'm the only female—I'm dispatched to the ground floor to pick them up. The lift is mercifully empty and I lean against the wall, tapping on the handrail as I descend the floors.
As soon as I walk across the lobby I recognise the clients. Not because I've seen them before, or even because Callum's described them to me, but because of the easy-going, relaxed nature of their posture, coupled with the sharp tailoring of their suits. There are three of them—all men, sitting on the sofas in the waiting area—and as soon as I approach them, they turn to look at me.
“Mr Grant?” I turn my gaze on each man. I wait for the oldest to step forward, fully expecting him to be the CEO of Grant Industries.
But the older man hangs back, turning his gaze on the
younger, blonde-haired thirty-something who turns to smile at me. “Call me Daniel,” he says, reaching out his hand. I take it automatically.
“It's a pleasure to meet you, Daniel. I'm Amy Cartwright, Callum Ferguson's assistant.”
“Lucky Mr Ferguson.” He shakes vigorously. I wait for him to introduce me to his co-workers, but he doesn’t.
“Would you like to follow me?” I say, pointing towards the lifts. “Mr Ferguson's team are ready for you.”
“Sure, lead the way.”
Daniel Grant is chatty. In the course of a short elevator ride I discover he's a Harvard graduate who built his company from scratch, using hedge funds in the early days but bailing out long before the 2007 crash. Though he lives in Manhattan his heart is still in Chicago, where his beloved Bears play come rain or shine. I also learn—though not from them—that the two men accompanying him are his chief financial officer and chief counsel. When Daniel says their names they raise their hands in salute but say nothing. I get the impression that Daniel talks enough for the three of them.
The lift arrives at the tenth floor, and we step out, Daniel walking beside me as I lead them to the main conference room. It's here that he undergoes a transformation, a straightening of the back and a roll of the neck that signals a metamorphosis. It's like watching an actor slip into the skin of a well-rehearsed role; even his face takes on the expression of someone older. Someone with gravitas.
I wonder if this is what we all do. Step into clothes that aren't our own and talk with voices an octave lower than we should. It's like wearing armour, protecting ourselves, because if somebody rejects that skin we are wearing they aren't rejecting us.
“Let's go.” Daniel's tone is clipped, but when he catches my eye I swear I see something of the lift version there. I wonder why he didn't feel the need to hide his talkative side from me. Is it because I look new, or because I'm unimportant enough to be sent down to pick him up?
When I push the heavy door open, the team stand. Callum walks forward, introducing himself, shaking each man's hand in turn. He has the ease of someone who knows where he's come from and where he's going. It hits me as strikingly attractive.
My only destination has always been “not here”. Until now my life has been less of a journey and more of an escape. I wonder what it must feel like to be so sure of yourself, so comfortable with who you are. Maybe it's something the rich feed their children, along with their daily vitamins and silver spoonfuls of castor oil, giving them a sense of self-worth along with their shiny hair.
“Coffee?” Callum asks, his voice breaking through my thoughts. I immediately flush, my pink cheeks matching the scarf I wound around my neck this morning.
“I'm sorry, what can I get you?”
He shakes his head slowly. “I was offering you a coffee, Amy. Would you like one?”
Beside me, Daniel says nothing. The others place their orders, as Callum walks over to the flasks the catering service brought in earlier. Pressing down on the lever, he fills four china cups with steaming black coffee. It's so strong the acrid smell fills the room.
“I'll take mine black.” Daniel takes the proffered cup. “Thank you.”
