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2
ELSIE
What is that pounding? Oh, right. My head.
Another tension headache from focusing too hard on my monitor. Not that it matters. The only thing that matters right now is the drawing on the screen. It’s perfect. Truly perfect. Well, it’s perfect for a soulless corporate Manhattan location for Apple, but it’smysoulless corporate Manhattan location for Apple, and it’s absolutely perfect.
Except for one tiny flaw that stands out now that everything else is in order.
One of the front windows could stand to be moved left by a quarter inch. It’s not a fatal flaw and no one would notice it but me, but that’s the point. I’ll be walking past it every day. If I walk past myalmostperfect storefront with the window that’s off by a quarter of an inch, I’d have to abandon my life in Manhattan and live under an assumed name on the West Coast, purely out of shame.
No one else would know it’s wrong but me, and that’s enough.
After tweaking the window, I sit back. Not with a flourish or a sense of pride. My past dictates such things are not allowed. There is always something I can do better. No matter how many times my boss, colleagues, and clients tell me they love my work. No matter how many awards I have. It’s never enough. Nothing could ever be enough.
It has to be perfect.
I’ve worked on this Apple store for weeks now, and I’m set to meet with the clients Friday, so I’ll need my boss to look over the design again before that happens. It’s tempting to pop over to his calendar and pen myself in, but I can’t stop staring at the moment. I cannot afford to get this wrong, and a few more minutes of studying the drawing won’t hurt anything except my head.
It’s like when I was a kid and I messed up coloring in my Muppet coloring book, but I couldn’t see what was wrong at first. Days after Mom stuck the picture on the refrigerator, I saw it. That slight misstep of green, just outside the thick black line of Kermit’s eye. That eye, staring back at me, judging me each time I walked into the kitchen.
Every drawing as a professional architect has been full of Kermit’s eyes. Staring back at me, judging me.
Silly to think the mistakes of youth haunt me decades after, I guess. But it’s also the reason my work is sharp and why I’ve risen in the ranks beyond my colleagues as fast as I have. I’ve earned a reputation for being exacting and cordial, or at least, those are the words people say to my face.
But I’ve heard the other words when I was in the bathroom and my coworkers think I can’t hear them. Picky. Bitchy. Bossy. Each one makes me smile almost as much as when I flushed and left the stall to look the gossips in the eye while I washed my hands. I never mentioned the bathroom incident to anyone, not even when the gossips were put on my team for a couple of projects. As far as I was concerned, their grievances were free advertising.
A reputation like that takes a woman far in my industry.
Unfortunately though, not far enough. One day, I’ll run my own firm. So, I can’t afford to be the woman who brings in brownies or the one who is an outstanding architect who also pours everyone coffee in the meeting. Softness, of any kind, is not allowed in this male-dominated industry. Which is fine by me. I’ve never been all that soft.
The problem is, I’m not great at balancing the expectations of a woman in my industry and playing the politics of it at the same time. I don’t care about who likes me, and that has, on occasion, bitten me on the ass. Thankfully, my boss likes me. He’s the one who made sure I got the Apple job in the first place. He’s also the reason I have a glorious corner office on the forty-second floor, with a stellar view of the park and the city I love.
That I never look at because I’m too busy working.
Doesn’t matter, though. Right now, I’m looking at the only sliver of the city that I care about. The one with my name on it. Soon, everyone in Manhattan will know the name Elsie Braudel, and as everyone knows, if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. Okay, the saying is from Broadway, but it’s in Manhattan, so the idea holds.
A soft knock makes me jump, but I know who it is. “Come in.”
My boss, Walter Klein, ambles in, but there’s an uncertainty in his face that leaves me unsettled as he closes the door behind himself. My guest chairs aren’t comfortable by design. I don’t want people to stay for a chat and a cup of tea. I want them to get in and get out so I can work. But I always feel bad when it’s Walter in the jump seat. He could use some comfort for his arthritis.
He gives me an apologetic smile, and I know I’m going to hate this conversation. “Elsie.”
“Walter.”
As the owner of the firm, he is within his rights to do whatever he sees fit, so seeing him on edge is disconcerting in the extreme. He clears his throat. “If we had the time, I’d butter you up—"
“For what, exactly?”
A heavy sigh rolls out of him. “You’re not going to like it.”
“Oh, I can tell. Out with it.”
“I need you to send me whatever you have for Apple and switch gears to a new project. Immediately.”
My throat goes dry. All that work. Out of my hands. This isn’t right. “I’m getting reassigned?”
