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Francesca cleared her throat, her gaze traveling from the swaying gold crosses hanging from the woman's ears down over her polyester blouse, and then on to the black telephone sitting by her wrist. One call to Wynette and her immediate problems would be over. She would have food, a change of clothes, and a roof over her head. But the idea of running to Dallie for help had lost its old appeal. Despite her exhaustion and fear, something inside her had been unalterably changed back on that deserted dirt road.
She was sick of being a pretty ornament getting blown away by every ill wind that swept in her direction. For better or for worse, she was going to take control of her own life.
“I wonder if I might speak with the person in charge,” she said to the chipmunk. Francesca spoke carefully, trying her best to sound competent and professional, instead of like someone with a dirty face and dusty, sandaled feet who didn't have a dime in her pocket.
The combination of Francesca's bedraggled appearance and her upper-class British accent obviously interested the woman. “I'm Katie Cathcart, the office manager. Could you tell me what this is about?”
Could an office manager help her? Francesca had no idea, but decided she would be better off with the man at the top. She kept her tone friendly, but firm. “It's rather personal.”
The woman hesitated, then got up and went into the office behind her. She reappeared a moment later. “As long as you don't take too long, Miss Padgett'll see you. She's our station manager.”
Francesca's nervousness took a quantum leap. Why did the station manager have to be a woman? At least with a man, she would have stood half a chance. And then she reminded herself that this was an opportunity for a fresh beginning—a new Francesca, one who wasn't going to try to slide through life using the tired old tricks of her former self. Straightening her shoulders, she walked into the station manager's office.
A gold metal nameplate on the desk announced the presence of CLARE PADGETT, an elegant name for an inelegant woman. In her early forties, she had a masculine, square-jawed face, softened only by the remains of a dab of red lipstick. Her graying brown hair was medium-length and blunt-cut. It looked as though it received nothing more than shampooing by way of attention. She held a cigarette like a man, pushed into the crook between the index and middle finger of her right hand, and when she lifted the cigarette to her mouth she didn't so much inhale the smoke as swallow it.
“What is it?” Clare asked abruptly. She spoke in a professional broadcaster's voice, rich and resonant, but without the slightest trace of friendliness. From the wall speaker behind the desk came the faint sound of the announcer reading a local news report.
Even though she hadn't been offered it, Francesca took the room's single straight-backed chair, deciding in an instant that Clare Padgett didn't look like the sort of person who would respect anyone she could step all over. As she gave her name, she positioned herself on the edge of the seat. “I'm sorry to appear without an appointment, but I wanted to inquire about a possible job.” Her voice sounded tentative instead of assertive. What had happened to all that arrogance she used to carry around with her like a cloud of perfume?
After a brief inspection of Francesca's appearance, Clare Padgett returned her attention to her paperwork. “I don't have any jobs.”
It was nothing more than Francesca had expected, but she still felt as if she'd had the wind knocked out of her. She thought of that dusty ribbon of road stretching to the rim of the Texas horizon. Her tongue felt dry and swollen in her mouth. “Are you absolutely certain you don't have something? I'm willing to do anything.”
Padgett sucked in more smoke and tapped at the top sheet of paper with her pencil. “What kind of experience do you have?”
Francesca thought quickly. “I've done some acting. And I have lots of experience with—uh—fashion.” She crossed her ankles and tried to tuck the toes of her scuffed Bottega Veneta sandals behind the leg of the chair.
“That doesn't exactly qualify you for a job at a radio station, now, does it? Not even a rat-shit operation like this.” She tapped her pencil a little harder.
Francesca took a deep breath and prepared to jump into water much too deep for a nonswimmer. “Actually, Miss Padgett, I don't have any radio experience. But I'm a hard worker, and I'm willing to learn.” Hard worker? She'd never worked hard in her life.
In any case, Clare was unimpressed. She lifted her eyes and regarded Francesca with open hostility. “I was kicked off the air at a television station in Chicago because of someone like you—a cute little cheerleader who didn't know the difference between hard news and her panty size.” She leaned back in her chair, her eyes narrow with disenchantment. “We call women like you Twinkies—little fluff balls who don't know the first thing about broadcasting, but think it would be oh-so-exciting to have a career in radio.”
Six months before, Francesca would have swept from the room in a huff, but now she clamped her hands together in her lap and lifted her chin a shade higher. “I'm willing to do anything, Miss Padgett—answer the telephones, run errands...” She couldn't explain to this woman that it wasn't a career in broadcasting that attracted her. If this building had held a fertilizer factory, she would still have wanted a job.
“The only work I have is for someone to do the cleaning and odd jobs.”
“I'll take it!” Dear God, cleaning.
“I don't think you're right for it.”
Francesca ignored the sarcasm in her voice. “Oh, but I am. I'm a wonderful cleaner.”
She had Clare Padgett's attention again, and the woman seemed amused. “Actually, I'd wanted someone Mexican. Are you a citizen?” Francesca shook her head. “Do you have a green card?”
Again she shook her head. She had only the vaguest idea what a green card was, but she was absolutely certain she didn't have one and she refused to start her new life with a lie. Maybe frankness would impress this woman. “I don't even have a passport. It was stolen from me a few hours ago on the road.”
“How unfortunate.” Clare Padgett was no longer making the smallest effort to hide how much she was enjoying the situation. She reminded Francesca of a cat with a helpless bird clasped in its mouth. Obviously Francesca, despite her bedraggled state, was going to have to pay for all the slights the station manager had suffered over the years at the hands of beautiful women. “In that case, I'll put you on the payroll at sixty-five dollars a week. You'll have every other Saturday off. The rest of the time you'll be here from sunup to sundown, the same hours we're on the air. And you'll be paid in cash. We've got truckloads of Mexicans coming in every day, so the first time you screw up, you're out.”
The woman was paying slave wages. This was the sort of job illegal aliens took because they didn't have a choice. “All right,” Francesca said, because she didn't have a choice.
Clare Padgett smiled grimly and led Francesca out to the office manager. “Fresh meat, Katie. Give her a mop and show her the bathroom.”
Clare disappeared and Katie looked at Francesca with pity. “We haven't had anyone clean for a few weeks. It's pretty bad.”
Francesca swallowed hard. “That's all right.”
It wasn't all right, of course. She stood in front of a pantry in the station's tiny kitchenette, looking over a shelf full of cleaning products, none of which she had the slightest idea how to use. She knew how to play baccarat, and she could name the maître d's of the world's most famous restaurants, but she hadn't the faintest idea how to clean a bathroom. She read the labels as quickly as she could, and half an hour later Clare Padgett discovered her on her knees in front of a gruesomely stained toilet, pouring blue powdered cleanser on the seat.
