Her phone vibrated again. She reached for it reflexively but caught herself, clenching her fist. The phone stilled, only to skitter across the top of the dresser a third time.
A Roger Ludermore classic: If at first you don’t get a response on Slack, even when there is an away message up, call your assistant again and again. A piece of wisdom that would not be included in his commencement speech this weekend.
Charlotte worked at The Front End Review, a business and technology magazine favored by the venture capital set. It was the kind of publication most folks in her generation had heard of but few actually read, an industry-specific dinosaur behind an expensive paywall. Her petulant boss sat at its helm as CEO and editor in chief. Roger fell into the amorphous professional category of “thought leader,” which as far as she could tell meant he was a rich white guy with endless opinions. Charlotte’s job, as his executive assistant, was to make sure he paid his ghostwriters, showed up sober enough at his speaking engagements, and didn’t murder anyone.
She performed a cost-benefit analysis of sending Roger to voicemail. If she ignored him now, she’d just have to clean up his mess later. Once upon a time she skipped answering a late-night call in an attempt to establish a healthy work-life balance. The next thing she knew, her boss was being detained by customs after trying to cross the Canadian border with his Amex instead of a passport.
With a sigh, she turned her phone over and accepted the call on speaker.
“How am I supposed to get any work done with a daycare in the kitchen?” he barked into the phone. “This is unacceptable, Charlotte. Unacceptable!”
Health insurance, she reminded herself. You need health insurance.
He continued: “Isn’t there a closet we can shove them in? What about the East Conference Room?”
Charlotte adopted her neutral work voice. “We can’t, sir.”
“Why not?”
“You converted the East Conference Room into your podcasting studio.”
Thin silence greeted her words. She poked at the worry lines etched into her forehead as she waited for Roger to realize that he was the one who displaced the interns.
“Are you saying this is my fault?” he finally hissed.
You need to pay your heating bill, Charlotte thought. And your electric bill.
“Of course not, sir. We just need to find a more permanent spot for them.”
Or they could cancel Roger’s vanity podcast and put the interns back in the conference room. But what did Charlotte know? She was just an assistant.
All the way in Manhattan, Roger muttered under his breath.
For the last three years, this was Charlotte’s life. It infuriated and suited her in equal measure. Her boss’s previous assistants hadn’t lasted more than a year, but she had a knack for organizing details and managing egos.
Her salary, while not great, could certainly be worse. She knew from experience.
The line went quiet as Roger shuffled around his chrome-and-glass office. She squinted at her reflection in the mirror while his attention wandered. If she needed evidence that she wasn’t a fresh-faced teenager arriving for orientation, the dead-eyed woman staring back at her offered ample proof. An early suggestion of silver started at her temples and wove through her blond hair. When she adjusted her part, she revealed an insurgent force of grays. Her skin was dull from sleep deprivation and too much time spent indoors.
Twenty-seven was still young, she knew. But she looked tired.
Charlotte pulled a tube of concealer from her purse and dabbed at the circles under her eyes.
A sharp snort burst from her cell phone speaker. She flinched and accidentally swiped the cream across her ear.
“Peter’s new draft makes me sound like a guidance counselor,” Roger snapped.
Charlotte sucked her teeth, fighting the urge to hang up on him.
Think of that direct deposit twice a month into your checking account. Think of how much bigger that direct deposit will be once Roger gives you his blessing to move to the art department.
“Is it too late to find a new speechwriter?” he asked. She hoped this was a rhetorical question—his commencement address was only three days away. Roger’s voice sank into a playful purr. “Charlotte, why did I agree to do this?”
Because you’re a narcissist who can’t say no to a microphone, she wished she could say. Because the universe is conspiring against me.
She found a tissue in her pocket and tried to wipe the concealer out of her ear. “You’ve been wanting to come back to campus for a while,” Charlotte reminded him gently as she turned to her duffle bag. What exactly did one wear to relive her not-so-glory days? She frowned at her mediocre packing job: a jumble of bland work clothes and clean underwear. Nothing that said I am a successful and interesting adult now, thank you very much.
“Hmm,” Roger granted. A rare win.
Charlotte picked up a pencil skirt she wore at the office. As an undergrad, she’d have thrown on a men’s button-down and a pair of ratty denim shorts. Her style as a Hein youth was lazy-’80s-movie-heartthrob-but-gay, combat boots and denim jackets with greasy hair and aviator sunglasses she stole from her mom. When they became friends their freshman year, Jackie called Charlotte’s look “thrift store dirtbag.” It was the coolest she had ever felt.
She dropped the skirt and put her blazer back on over her tank top. It smelled like sweat and Amtrak, but hopefully no one would stick their nose in her armpit. She could always take the blazer off and swing it over her shoulder like a finance bro on the subway during his evening commute.
“How’s the weather up there?” Roger asked.
“It’s New England in May,” she said.
“So, cold and withholding.”
Charlotte chuckled. An accurate description, she’d give him that. Roger could turn his charm on and off, and she fell for it more than she liked to admit.
“Aubrey will pick up your suit from the tailor tomorrow morning. It should be nice here on Sunday.”
“It better be. This speech is important. The podcast still hasn’t broken the charts.”
Sure, because a commencement address at a liberal arts college in Massachusetts would send subscriptions to The Ludermore Power Hour surging.
“Of course, sir.”
