Protocol. “Sure. Certainly, Yes, I will, Ms Clarkson.”
“Please, call me Linda.”
“I’m very excited. Thank you, Linda, I won’t let you down.”
“No you won’t. If you do, I’ll fire you.”
“Right.” I prayed my reply sounded hearty.
“Kiddo, My assistant will contact you with the details, including a jam-packed training session. I’ll see you out here in New York in two weeks. You’re a natural.” I wish, I thought to myself. Always to myself.
A beauty industry position with a New York City home office, strong salary, company car, and corporate credit card thrilled Ethan in Arizona. Less than twelve hours after handing in my resignation, my own thrill drained. Feverish flushes and palpitations in nightmare proportions startled me awake.
My grammar was faulty; my spelling atrocious. Too often I spoke before I thought or took offense where none was meant. I looked at the ceiling short of breath. Could I rescind my resignation? Ethan and I could do well and live comfortably on my current situation, couldn’t we?
Coulda, woulda, shoulda. I’d be lucky if Linda kept me for a month. And then what? Sweat turned my skin and pajamas clammy. I closed my eyes but blurry gold circles swam in and out of black tunnels behind my lids.
I didn’t know anyone in my building well enough to call, no one who’d sit and talk me through the anxiety fuelling my panic.
Instead panic rekindled my anxiety in a cycle that continued till dawn. Flushes finally trickled away as grey daylight seeped through the blinds.
When I trusted my rubbery legs, I used the bathroom, crawled back into bed and called Andrew. “I’ve worked like a maniac for this but I’m a clammy assed, walking panic attack. Linda Clarkson’ll see right through me. Olympia will eat me alive.”
“Emma, you’re New York’s idea of perfection. you’ve got street smarts, massive innate ability, and a spine of steel. Who wouldn’t be nervous? Play it smart. This Fag in Fragrance knows panic. When you find you’re in hostile territory or being judged? When you know you’re out of your league? Mouth shut; eyes open. Look attentive and they’ll think you’re taking it in. Ask your own questions and they’ll think you’re brilliant.”
“I guess I can do that.”
“Of course you can do that. Have I mentioned you’re perfection in a cone bra?”
Our laughter soothed my nerves. I dressed, went to work and prescribed myself retail therapy.
“Anything I can help you find?” came over my shoulder as I slid blouses along the rack after work at my St. Louis Saks.
“Confidence,” I blurted, before I’d thought about it.
The sales woman smiled. “Like you were born with it?”
“Exactly.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“I’ve been hired by Olympia Beauty. I have an orientation and training program in New York City. Work sessions all day plus dinners and some evening events.”
“We can do this.” She pulled out a silk, padded shoulder blouse. I found a hip length charcoal blazer. She gathered a box pleated skirt and a second blouse.
The 747 touched down at LaGuardia with the sun setting. I exited into hoards running, napping, eating, talking, and dodging me with the occasional glare. I found the baggage claim; I found an airport worker directing us to the taxi area as he sang New York, New York. The interminable line inched its way forward until I reached a hulking driver, cigar between his teeth. He cocked his chin. “Var to, Meese?”
“New York, please.”
“You’re there.” He poked the air with his cigar. “Here eez Queens. Brooklyn, there. Bronx up, Manhattan down.” He grinned at himself. “Staten Island also down.”
“Manhattan but I’m not exactly sure where. Let me find the address of my hotel.” I rooted through my briefcase. “The Essex Hotel on Fifty-ninth Street.”
“Stop searching. Is Midtown.”
“No, I was told it’s in Manhattan.”
This immigrant with a limited command of the language, knit his brow and shook his head at the total rube he’s gotten for a passenger. He also grinned. “I show you.”
I survived the road rage, near misses, raised third fingers and blaring horns. Andrew had been right. The energy and directness in the atmosphere matched my own. By the time we crossed the Queensboro Bridge, Mikhail and I were on a first name basis. My anxiety dissipated as he had me memorise the five boroughs and boundaries of Midtown. By the time we hit East Fifty-Ninth Street I was laughing at his accent-laden advice.
He pulled my luggage from the trunk as I figured the tip and I marvelled at the grandeur. He gestured with his cigar again. “Here is Essex House.” He swivelled. “There is Central Park. You call family and tell them you made it safe and sound.” I left a message for Ethan.
The next morning I walked down Fifth Avenue to Olympia corporate headquarters, buoyed by blending into the sea of black-suits. After signing in at security, I rode the glass elevator to the forty-fourth floor. I stood against the brass handrail imagining I was the representative for the entire Midwestern branch not the gawking combo of Mary Tyler Moore tossing her beret in Minneapolis, and Annie dancing backwards up Daddy Warbucks’ grand staircase.
The receptionist provided me with folders filled with agendas, general information about Olympia, and social activities from dinners to a coveted Broadway ticket to Sunset Boulevard. The sessions stayed professional, procedural and on time, exactly how I like them. I listened; I commented. Andrew’s advice was exactly what I needed.
To complete my orientation a driver as personable as Mikhail transported me to the Long Island manufacturing facility. We traded Manhattan polish and for an industrial park cheek-by-jowl with logistics companies and distribution centres. Their operations manager played tour guide beginning with the sector’s piece de resistance. We tucked our hair into net caps, pulled on lab coats and gloves, slipped covers on our shoes and entered a large glass room gleaming with stainless steel equipment. In front of me nearly fifty women, wrapped as we were, sat on barstools and pulled single tubes of freshly made lipsticks off a conveyor belt. The Flaming Room.
With a flash of wrist, each one waved her lipstick over the constant blue glow shooting from apparatus in front of her. I walked through six identical sections as the women produced perfect sheens on six shades then fit each tube into an egg carton style container, ready for final assembly. Visually intoxicating. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’s candy production meets I Love Lucy at the conveyor belt.
From there my guide led me into the Customer and Client Services building. Middle aged women of every stripe filled wall-to-wall cubicles. They pecked on new-fangled computers while taking and placing customers’ orders. Women in the second, nearly identical room helped sales field and retailers process large orders and trouble shoot issues.
No sterile, stainless equipment here. As far as the eye could see, posters of puppies and kittens, family photos, and memorabilia competed for space with troll dolls, mini-fans and giant containers of coffee, water and sports drinks. The spaces buzzed with Long Island accents and boisterous enthusiasm; one customer service rep more eager than the next to explain procedures I’d soon use be for my St. Louis sales.
Next my guide and I crossed to the high-tech building. Stacked cardboard boxes lined walls and conveyor belts, overseen by uniformed workers in bobs or hairnets processing retail requests. They had me track a Macy’s purchase order from inception at the phone out to the loading docks where the guys gave me the once-over.
All-to-familiar covert female scrutiny followed me too. The nape of my neck tingled as they sized me up for future reference in case this green, twenty-something evolved into a bossy know it-all from the St. Louis office. They’d never know had I held onto the cards I was dealt, I would have barely qualified for any of their jobs. Emma Paige’s Most Likely? Pole dancer more likely than fragrance industry field executive.
