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When it’s over, I wait for everyone to leave before I deal with the suitcase again.
Sylvester J. Pussycat and Pepe Le Pew are among the last to leave, with Beavis and Butt-Head on their tails.
Only Sandra is left now, and she’s clearly stayed back on purpose.
Whatever her reason, I decide to seize the moment before I chicken out. “Hi, Sandra. There’s something important I wanted to talk to you about.”
She pales. I bet she thinks I’m about to flake on the testing project.
Before she can have a heart attack, I hit her with my real agenda, and as she listens, some color returns to her cheeks.
“Do you have any experience coding?” she asks when I’m done making my case. “This is the first thing they’ll ask me when I bring this up.”
I tell her about my app and offer to share a link to the source control database, so she can pass it on to whoever wants to see what I’m capable of.
“Please,” she says. “I’ll get that over to everyone on the development team, along with a glowing recommendation from me.”
I beam at her. “I’m sorry to leave your team. Testing isn’t—”
She waves this off. “It will be a shame to lose you, but you have to think about your career first and foremost.” She darts a furtive glance at the door and unplugs the conference room phone. “I wanted to talk to you about something as well. I know you always do a great job, but please do your best when it comes to the Belka project. I’m worried that if something were to go wrong, both our jobs would be on the line.”
Great.
I’ll either get the position I want, or lose my job altogether.
“I got it,” I say with a confidence I wish I felt. “Leave it to me.”
Sandra plugs the phone back in. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“I’ll do that.” I smile and hope she’ll leave.
She stands there.
“Bye,” I say.
She frowns. “You’re not leaving yet?”
“Have to check on an email,” I lie.
Though she’s in the loop on the sex toy testing, I still don’t want her to see the suitcase.
“Good luck,” she says and finally leaves.
I wait another minute for everyone to disperse to their cubicles, then snatch the sex toy carry-on from under the table and sprint out of the meeting room—and nearly tackle Britney, who’s lurking in the corridor on the way to the elevators.
“Fanny.” Her voice is laced with poisoned honey. “I’m glad I bumped into you.”
She is? Is hell experiencing climate change?
“I wanted to ask you about the Belka project,” she says.
Ah. There it is.
“Please direct all your inquiries to Mr. Chortsky,” I say politely.
I can see she’s unhappy with that answer, so I clutch the suitcase and step forward, hoping to quickly get past her.
She doesn’t move.
