CHAPTER TWO
My fingers nervously trace the grains of the umber wooden armrest of the non-upholstered chair beneath me as I readjust myself to sit up as tall and upright—and as formal—as possible. Before me is a rectangular desk of matching umber wood the size of a refrigerator—the Big Desk. Behind the Big Desk is a figure so large, the brown leather backing of the swivel chair he sits on remains mostly unseen—Mr. Ashford, my boss's boss's boss's boss, only vaguely exists within my mind as a name I've never met before this present moment. The double windsor knot of his crimson paisley tie hangs loosely below the collar of his dress shirt, which matches the hue of freshly-spilt blood. An unbuttoned black blazer envelopes the roundness of his mass—the likes of which, I doubt can ever be fully buttoned to enclose him. Behind him, a framed—and, possibly, autographed—photo of the Beatles hangs as the sole decoration upon any of the lifeless gray walls of his office. The chair beneath him groans and creaks as he pulls himself forwards, leaning in towards me and slightly over the Big Desk. The glare of the fluorescent lights from the ceiling above shines across the front face of his thick glasses, obscuring his eyes. A faint hint of cigar smoke hangs in the smokeless air between us.
"Do you like your job, Avery?" The gold of his wedding ring glints as he reaches for a small wooden box atop the desk. He flicks open the hinged lid and removes a long, fat cigar as he leans back into his chair.
"Yes, sir. I've enjoyed it very much, sir," I answer promptly, attempting to keep any sign of the jitters out of my voice. His expressionless mouth and shielded eyes leave him completely unreadable. The sweat in my palms pools beneath my hands and squeaks against the armrests as I move to wipe them discreetly upon the legs of my black dress pants—I feel like one of those academically-challenged misanthropes called to the school principal's office—the fear of being fired creeps ever deeper into my thoughts. I shiver in the humid summer air of the barely air-conditioned room.
"Amongst all the production assistants, you've been the top performer we've had all year round," he says with a flat, monotone voice as he rolls his cigar back and forth between his thumb and finger. The words give me a small breath of relief, but I brace myself for what might come next—I'm still not sure of what this is all about. 'But, I'm sorry, you're position has been made redundant,' his voice says, but only within the space between my ears.
"Thank you, sir." My stomach is doing barrel rolls and somersaults, the acid threatening to make its way up my esophagus.
"How would you feel about taking on a little more responsibility?" His words are robotic—I suppose that's what happens when people in his position have asked these kinds of questions hundreds of times before.
"I am ready, willing, happy, and eager to take on more responsibilities, sir." I hope I didn't oversell that. Although, I wonder what he means and exactly what it might entail—I can't show any hesitation or doubt. I try to tell my body to stop trembling, since it no longer appears as if I'm going to be punished, but the uncertainty still rules my nerves—with any luck, perhaps I'll be given a backhanded promotion and be reassigned to an office in the cold silence of Siberia—that is, if we have an office there.
"Good," he says as he slides open an unseen drawer beneath the tabletop and within the desk. He hands me a thick manila folder as he continues, "this dossier explains your new project—should you accept. In summary, you will be assigned under a team, but you will be mostly independent whilst working directly with the talent. It's a hybrid assignment to meet the unique challenges of social media: part production assistant, part personal assistant—therefore, in addition to you're full-time work, you'll also be standing-by, on-call, 24/7. Although, he's part of a duo, you are to be contractually attached to him primarily, since the other member of the duo will have their own P.A. Do you have any questions?"
As I crack open the folder, my heart almost falls out of my mouth. On the first-page printout, the portrait of the person I am to be attached to—if I accept the project—is none other than Max, himself. I feel guilty for wanting to accept the assignment—surely, I have to decline on some sort of professional basis—surely, being a fan is a major conflict of interest. As I think about rejecting the assignment, my chest aches as I remember that day—almost two years ago, exactly—when he offered to give me a ride—and the night he read my message, but never replied. It may be selfish, but I want the chance to ask him why. I close the folder and return my gaze toward the expressionless Mr. Ashford, my eyes alight with my eagerness.
"I know who he is and I want the assignment." Right after I say it, I hope that it isn't too forward of me and I hope he isn't taken aback. The air stands still, motionless like the figure sitting before me, and I seem to wait an eternity in the seconds of silence passing by. The same wooden box atop his desk that produced his cigar ticks away—apparently, it's also a clock—as he unfreezes only to roll his cigar between his thumb and fingers. I jump as the clock dings aloud, announcing noon.
"Lunch time!" Mr. Ashford cheers, almost tempting me to laugh at how seemingly out of character it is. He stands as he points the back-end of his cigar at me. "It's yours."
"Thank you, sir," I say as I rise to my feet. It's as if a huge stack of invisible bricks falls from off my shoulders as I stand. My vision blurs white around the edges momentarily and I still feel light-headed even as it returns to normal.
"If you'll excuse me, I have a date with a Dominican," he says as he waves his cigar up and down. I smile as I catch a glint of text on the gold band around the neck of his cigar: 'Imported from the Dominican Republic.' He motions with his hands in a sweeping gesture towards the palatial double doors just behind me, signalling that it's time for us to go. As I exit, he mutters to himself, "and I've seemed to have misplaced my matches."
~ ~ ~
A week later, I take a seat on an executive-style chair, the high backing of smooth black leather cooling the moist sweat at my nape. I swivel the chair forward as I roll it an inch closer to the edge of the black rectangular table before me—my seat is at the corner end of the longer side of the conference table that's as big as a cargo van. The walls enclosing the table of the conference room are reminiscent of bone that's been seared in the desert sun, sparsely decorated except for the horde of framed photographs arrayed in a loose collage on the back wall behind the desk. Most of the photographs are of a hodgepodge of contemporary musicians with a few social media personalities—all of which appear to be autographed.
At the farthest end of the table, the unmoving statue of Mr. Ashford sits with his hands gently folded and resting atop the roundness of his protruding abdomen. The slight glint of a gold pen catches in my eye from the breast pocket of his white dress shirt, the buttons of which strain to contain his shapely figure. Next to the pen, the butt of a thick cigar protrudes several inches above the edge of his pocket which bulges with the outline of an obvious, rectangular box—I suppose that he won't be forgetting his matches today.
Near Mr. Ashford, on the opposite corner mirroring my own position at the desk, sits a slim young man I have yet to meet. His jet-black hair jelled into a combover, a silver pen adorns his breast pocket while a matching silver tie bar clips his slim black tie firmly to his gray dress shirt. One hand rests against one of the perfectly pressed pleats of his black dress pants, while his other hand gently clutches a black leather portfolio resting atop the table in front of him. His upright posture is so perfect that it makes me readjust my own. I am separated from him on our side of the table by two empty chairs tucked firmly against the edge of the table. Being seated almost right next to Mr. Ashford, it gives me the impression that he's perhaps Mr. Ashford's assistant.
At the opposite end of the table from Mr. Ashford, and sitting nearest to me, a wiry woman taps on the screen of her smart phone—Mrs. Richards, or Agatha as I've heard she prefers. Strands of gray mingle generously amongst the black hair tied neatly into a ball on the back of her head—she reminds me of Mother, whom I've hardly spoken to in over a year.
At the central position of the table's longer side opposite of mine, a nearly-middle-aged woman with fiery curls also taps away at her phone—my direct supervisor, Mrs. Blakefield, or rather, Jen, as she prefers for me to call her by.
From behind me, a light knock—polite, but firm—breaks the silence. Jen rises to her feet and I quickly follow her lead, which seems to prompt everyone else in the room to follow suit, with Mr. Ashford being the last to rise rather slowly from his chair—perhaps begrudgingly. The double doors of ash wood swing open to reveal two familiar figures as they step forward just past the doorway and into the conference room.
Caramel blond hair styled to appear windswept rests atop a blindingly-white dress suit tailored to fit securely across his slim figure. I suppress a knowing giggle as I consider his loud, bright pink tie—I've never personally met him, but the flamboyant flair is fitting for Harvey.
Standing next to Harvey is an all too familiar face, his twin, Max. Wearing a tightly tailored suit of smoke so dark that it verges on black, Max's royal blue tie contrasts sharply against the pure black void of his dress shirt. The pulse in my neck beats faster as I peruse Max's chestnut hair—it's shorter than Harvey's hair and swept to the side in the opposite direction but it's in a similar style of fashion. Max's smile seems different now, perhaps more mature, polished, refined, and professional, but it appears as if it's a little too rehearsed—robotic, and cold.
"Harvey, Max, this is Mr. Ashford. Media Branch Director," Jen says as she gestures towards her left with an open palm and outstretched arm. Her gesturing arm flows to her right as she quickly introduces the room. "Next to him, Dalton Liang. Harvey's new production assistant." Harvey and Dalton share a brief smile and a nod as Jen's arm carries over towards me and I realize that Dalton is now staring at me—perhaps he's wondering who I am, unless he's already figured it out. "Avery Burke. Max's new P.A." I smirk at the sound of my name together with Max—but out of the corner of my eye, Max seems to gloss right over me without so much as a nod of acknowledgement as Jen continues with hardly a pause. "Agatha Richards. Social Media Brand Strategist." She pauses as she lowers her hand. "And we've already met through email, but I'm Jen Blakefield, the Senior Production Manager."
After Jen motions for the twins to take a seat, Max sits in the seat nearest to me, but doesn't even look at me. A hint of smoky cedarwood brushes my nose, sending me lost in a vision of wandering through an old-growth forest thick with smoke—that's rather new—I don't recall Max wearing cologne that last time we met. I'm close enough to practically confuse the warm summer stuffiness for Max's body heat, yet he still hasn't even given me much more than a cursory glance since he's walked in. As I consider the notion that perhaps he's forgotten me—which is entirely possible, especially considering how ever more famous they've become since even the last time we've met—the center of my chest aches with that same unknown emptiness from before.
"First off, I want to congratulate you two on more than doubling your total audience in the past few months alone. It's a tremendous feat of accomplishment and you two deserve some recognition," Agatha says as she begins applauding. As I join the room in applause for the twins, Harvey's lips mouth silent thanks, while Max smiles and nods towards everyone but me—surely, I'm not imagining things, because that's got to be intentional. Although I continue to plaster my face with a smile, I can't help but drop my eyes to the lifeless gray industrial carpet beneath my black dress shoes.
"I'm sure the recent success of your new album has helped massively, and—not that you've heard it from me, but—word is that there is possibly at least one big award with your names on it," Mr. Ashford says, his voice rumbling like distant thunder, sparking a new round of applause for the pair.
"The increase in both the quantity and the quality of your video assets also deserves recognition—congratulations to you two on your fine work," Jen says, prompting a third, consecutive round of applause for the duo.
~ ~ ~
After reviewing the basic overview and framework for the campaign production and strategy, less than an hour later, the meeting winds down. What really vexes me is the fact that Max still won't acknowledge me even after all the time we've spent acknowledging the both of them. Harvey gave me a few nods and smiles here and there—even that Dalton guy threw me a few smiles—but I got nothing from Max and I'm supposed to work with him from here on out. As we prepare to end the meeting, Jen tells us to help ourselves to some refreshments that are waiting for us down the hallway. Mr. Ashford is the first to get up to leave—perhaps eager to smoke his cigar, I suppose. Before Mr. Ashford leaves, he pats Harvey on the back—chuckling like a viking as Harvey lurches forward with a slight wince—and says something to Harvey, but I can't make out a single word of it as Jen takes me to one side and makes a point of congratulating me for "quickly moving up."
After we exit, halfway down the end of the hallway, we enter a banquet hall. Directly ahead of us is a huddle of nameless faces hovering around glass stemware with faintly yellowish liquid that sits atop a rectangular table draped with very formal and very garishly white tablecloth. Thanks to Jen's chattering, I'm the last person to reach the table of champagne. As I grab a waiting glass from the table, the remaining bosses say their polite goodbyes to everyone as they skip out on the refreshments but insist that the rest of us enjoy ourselves and get acquainted. Max and Harvey have their backs towards me as they exchange greetings and introductions with all of the other support staff as I do the same, myself—many of whom, I've only briefly met, or seen but never spoken with. After the introductions and contrived pleasantries, Max and Harvey gradually filter away from the crowd to rejoin and converse with Harvey's new P.A., and to pick out some food from a nearby long table that's also draped with a white tablecloth.
As I go to check the offerings atop the second table, I hesitate at the mere thought of joining them—reluctant, that is, to join Max, after how he's been ignoring me. On the white tablecloth, an array of silver platters have an assortment of various sandwiches. Each platter offers several different varieties of sandwiches which are all cut into triangles with the crusts removed. I approach the trio—now, back at the far end of the champagne table—the trio share a laugh at something entirely unheard.
"...Asian; my father's originally from Surrey, but he's half Chinese," Dalton says as I go to join their group. While I take a bit of a bite of a cucumber sandwich—I note how he speaks with an accent similar to my own—a west coast, California accent. I do my best to casually join the group, though it seems like they're getting along quite well without me—especially Max, who keeps his back towards me even as Dalton and Harvey turn to acknowledge my existence.
"So you'll be Max's P.A.?" Harvey seems to ask rhetorically as he smoothly continues, "I don't know if I should congratulate you, or feel sorry for you."
"Well, either way, my response will be the same—thank you, Harvey," I say and we all share a chuckle, save for Max. If he's going to ignore me then I'll ignore him—I can play that game, too. I turn to Dalton and raise my champagne glass slightly up and toward him to cue his attention. "I noticed you don't have a British accent."
"Yes, I've noticed yours has gone missing as well." Dalton says as we all chuckle—again save for Max, who seems to roll his eyes as he downs his second—or , perhaps, third—full glass of champagne, but I can't be certain. "My family moved here from the states several years ago," Dalton pauses and raises an eyebrow and his pointing finger towards the ceiling, gesturing for us to wait a second. He flashes me a seemingly knowing smile, which I find quite charming. I quickly return him a smile of my own as he asks, "Are you from California as well?"
"Was it that obvious?" I ask, rhetorically. We all share a laugh, except Max, who instead busies himself with quickly acquiring and downing his third—or, perhaps, fourth—full glass of champagne in one go, before he rather abruptly excuses himself for the restroom.
"Maybe just to me," Dalton says—the two of us sharing another smile before he turns to Harvey. "I'm curious, Harv, did you pick out California in Avery's accent?"
"Yes, but I thought I heard Midwest as well," Harvey replies as I consider how Dalton is already casually abbreviating Harvey's name.
"Well done, Harvey—remnants of my father's influence. I suppose being a musician means you have quite an ear for that sort of thing." Even as I give kudos to Harvey for displaying an unexpectedly expansive awareness for American accents, my mind lingers on Max—I get the nagging suspicion that it wasn't just his bladder that urged him to leave. I wonder if he even wants to work with me at all—it's feeling intensely personal—it's as if he truly can't stand me. I change the subject in order to perhaps coax Harvey for a tell. "Is Max feeling all right?"
"Oh, he's fine. Why do you ask?" Harvey responds—perhaps a little too quickly.
"Never mind, it's nothing," I lie. Either Harvey really didn't notice Max's behavior towards me—which I find slightly unlikely—or he knows something and isn't spilling. It's time I go ask Max about it myself. "Excuse me, I have to use the restroom," I say, before leaving as abruptly as Max had done moments ago.
The restrooms are quite a walk away, but at least I already know there is only one set on this floor of the building. As I exit the long hallway and turn the corner into the atrium, I nearly bump my head into a blur of brown hair—Max jumps back, narrowly averting the collision between my head with his own, his royal blue tie rising into the air. I inhale the puff of smoky cedarwood blown forth into the air between our bodies—well, perhaps now he can't ignore me.
"Sorry. Excuse me," he says as he quickly regains himself and—even more quickly—sidesteps me.
"Max, wait," I say to the back of his chestnut hair. He stops but doesn't turn to look at me and it's really bothering me—that unknown emptiness returns, consuming my chest while I stand before him. All kinds of words and nameless emotions flood into my being and I don't know what I really want to say, but I part my lips and hope something comes before he can decide to walk away. I want to ask him about that night—about why he didn't reply—about why he's ignoring me—about why he seems to hate me—but those are all too personal to ask right now, especially considering my job and the current setting. I need to stay professional, but between my fully flooded thoughts and the vast void in my chest, I don't know that I can. What then flows from my lips, I am in scarce control of, and I hear my voice say, "I can try to request a transfer if you hate me so much."
"I don't—" Max sighs. My vision unfocuses white around the edges and it feels like someone is dunking my face into ice—all the blood rushing away in a hurry. I brace myself for what feels like a break-up—although I wouldn't know anything about that sort of thing—and we've, of course, never had anything of the sort, but it still feels as if that is what this is. "I don't want you to risk your job—you're already under contract."
"Whatever it is I've done—" I stifle back a silent sob as I fight back against the pools blurring my view of him. "I'm sorry." My voice cracks, making it sound obvious to my own ears that I'm trying not to cry—internally, I fight desperately to hold it all back. Max turns around to swiftly face me, perhaps in response to the obvious crack in my voice. His eyes are soft and slightly crinkled, and I'm not sure what else I'm sensing, but he regards me with obvious concern. His arms quickly tick upwards and towards me, but he slowly lowers them again. "I'm—"
"You don't have anything to apologize for. I'm the one who—" Max lowers his gaze to the floor, seemingly pensive. "I'm sorry for ignoring you."
As our silence fills the atrium and narrow hallway, I feel as if the distance between us is oscillating back and forth, near and far. His words playback on repeat within the space between my ears—I'm not sure if he means he's apologizing for ignoring me for today, or if he's apologizing for having ignored me two years ago. At least I'm right that he is ignoring me—that it isn't just all in my head.
"Why were—" I pause after a bell chimes from the atrium and a middle-aged man with a balding head appears from behind the brushed aluminum doors of the nearby elevator. Even as I give the man a polite smile as he scoots around us, Max continues to stare at the floor. I wait for the man to leave before I finish my question, the wrinkles on the tail of the man's navy blue suit flaps as he walks away before he disappears through a distant doorway down the hall. Taking full advantage of the moment's distraction to rethink my question, I rephrase it slightly. "Why did you ignore me?"
"Because I'm an idiot," he replies simply, his gaze still upon the floor, his lips remain parted. He groans as he swipes his hand through his delicate, chestnut hair. His soft, hazel eyes glint with the light of the overhead fluorescents as they rise to meet my gaze. "I waited all night for you to call me—for you to text me—I spent the whole night awake in my bed, staring at my ceiling, thinking about driving around all night to find you. When I read your text, I was happy you were home safely, but it made me feel like an idiot. I didn't even stop to consider my career—all the conference calls I'd missed—I can't allow myself get so involved with anyone—not like that—not then—not now—not ever. I can't let anything keep me from duties—too many people depend on me—I don't have the luxury, or the freedom, to put everything on hold."
"Are you saying you have feelings for me?" I search his eyes and an odd feeling of desperation overcomes me. His eyes narrow for a flash of a second before returning back to normal as his shoulders cock back and he straightens himself tall. Just as I think I catch a slight tinge of pink creep across his cheeks, he turns to face away from me, staring down the narrow corridor of the hallway.
"Whatever I may or may not have felt is in the past—it doesn't matter anymore. I can't risk my career. And I can't let you risk yours, either. For whatever reason—by chance—random chance—we're stuck with each other for at least a year." He walks off, down the long hallway towards rejoining the banquet. As his figure shrinks into the distance, I can't help but remember that night when I watched him drive away.
My gut wrenches—it's time I go home.