Wish Upon a Star. Olivia Goldsmith
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of executive offices, almost to Michael Wainwright’s, when Abigail turned to Claire. ‘You seem like a girl who keeps herself to herself,’ she said. ‘This is a job that I want to be kept exactly where it belongs.’
Claire nodded, and Abigail seemed to feel that was enough. They reached her office outside of Mr Crayden’s. ‘You’ll use the photocopier in the executive supply room.’ She lifted a pile of documents and handed them to Claire. ‘I’d prefer you don’t read them, but I don’t insist.’
Claire was shown through a door she had never noticed. The room was small but paneled, and leather-jacketed pads of paper, engraved personal letterhead and all manner of high-end office supplies were carefully placed on shelves behind glass cabinet doors. A photocopier, a shredder and a fax were built into mahogany cabinetry as well.
‘Do you know how the machine works?’ Abigail asked. Claire nodded. ‘It doesn’t have a collator and I’ll need two copies of everything. Can you keep them in order?’
‘Yes,’ Claire managed.
‘I thought you could.’ Abigail smiled. ‘If you have any questions, just call.’
Claire began the work. It was dull, but it made a break in her usual day. Anything that kept her away from Joan was a good thing, but she had a feeling that, just like in high school, there would be a price to pay for being singled out.
Feeding the first page in, she only glanced at the contents to make sure she wasn’t going to be a participant in grand larceny or fraud. Crayden Smithers was one of the few firms that hadn’t been involved in a nineties stock scandal but you couldn’t be too careful. Once she realized that the work was only employment contracts, and sensitive because of the salaries and bonuses involved, she didn’t look any further and simply did the job.
There was a certain repetitive comfort in lifting the flap of the copier, placing each page just so and removing the two copies and separating them. It was a task that required no thinking, but after she had organized it and gotten used to the robotic rhythm she had set for herself, having time to think was not necessarily a good thing. She didn’t want to remember the conversation at lunch, nor think about Michael Wainwright’s business trips or the companions he took on them. She wanted to get her work done, look out at the skyline on her ferry ride home and then finish her cable sweater. That idea pleased her. It was going to be a lovely garment and, though the purchase of the cashmere had been extravagant, she was glad she had done it. She was also glad that she was going to keep it for herself.
The small room was getting warm. Claire tucked her hair behind her ears and bent over the machine. She felt her face flush from the heat. She wondered if there was a fan, though she doubted anyone often used the room for this volume of copying. The noise of the machine and her concentration on the task kept her from hearing the door open and close behind her.
‘Hi, Claire,’ Mr Wonderful said.
‘Hello.’ Claire jerked her head up, trying to keep her surprise from showing and her tone cordial but nothing more.
‘I didn’t know you were in here.’ He looked her up and down and gave her an oddly shy smile. She didn’t know how becoming the color in her face and the new haircut looked. She was glad she had worn her mother’s dress again today, and hoped it wasn’t too tight across her backside. Then she told herself sternly that it didn’t matter how she looked. If she had any pride at all she would be, if not nasty, at least abrupt with him.
‘Why would you?’ Claire asked.
Michael Wainwright paused for a moment then shrugged. ‘No reason, I guess.’ He looked down at the paper he was carrying. ‘I have to fax these to Catwallider, Wickersham, and Taft right away.’
Claire looked at him calmly and didn’t offer to help. Abigail’s work for Mr Crayden, Senior out-ranked Michael Wainwright’s work. Not offering gave Claire a tiny bit of satisfaction. He moved over to the fax and, in passing her, had to sidle around her. She steeled herself to feel nothing, but she couldn’t help listening to him as he fumbled with punching in the fax number before loading the document he wanted to send. The machine whistled, asking for the start button to be pushed but he didn’t push it. Claire, though she knew what he needed to do, didn’t offer any guidance.
‘God, I’m a complete idiot. How the hell do you do this?’ he asked her at last.
She knew that was malespeak for ‘Do this for me’. Jerry used that all the time on Claire’s mother: ‘How do you turn the washing machine on? How do you stack the dishes in the racks? How do you boil an egg? How the hell do you do this?’ Claire shrugged and was grateful for the three stacks of paper in front of her. ‘Where’s Tina?’ she asked, by way of answer.
‘That’s what I’d like to know.’
He didn’t sound really irritated, but the idea that Tina might be loafing somewhere and getting in trouble was enough to force Claire to place the two copies on the appropriate stacks and leave off her task. ‘Here,’ she said, taking the sheets of paper from his hand. She didn’t bother to show him where to place them, or explain that the paper should be face down, or that you had to hit the start button once the connection with the receiving fax was made. What was the point? The Michael Wainwrights of the world were not born to spend time in little rooms like this. And now, looking down, she fed another sheet into the fax machine and watched it slowly be devoured. She could see Mr Wonderful’s loafers and felt certain they would move away. He’d leave her in here and go back to his wall of windows. Perhaps she’d get a thank you, because he was always polite. But instead of walking away his shoes stayed in front of her own feet until she was forced to look up.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Has something changed?’ he asked. And she wanted to answer ‘Yes. I hate you now.’ But of course she didn’t. ‘You’re really very pretty. Do you know that?’ he asked her. Claire couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d hit her in the face with a dead fish. She felt herself flush again, but it was with anger, not pleasure or embarrassment. Who did he think he was? Wainwright or not, he had no right to play with people’s feelings to no purpose but to kill a little time or gratify his overblown ego.
‘Do you want strangers to comment on your looks?’ she asked. ‘I’d be willing to if you want a summary.’ Her voice was steady, and there wasn’t a bit of the hurt or anger she felt in it. He blinked, then straightened up a little and looked at her, this time with something closer to real interest.
‘I’m sorry. Was that condescending?’ he asked.
She decided to ignore the question. She’d let him work out the math. ‘Is there something else you want me to do?’ she asked. ‘I’m working for Mr Crayden, Senior. It will take me another twenty minutes to finish this copying.’ She handed the originals to him and turned back to her job. ‘If you need help maybe you should ask Joan.’
He smiled. ‘Joan can’t help me. But maybe you will.’
She knew it. What grunt work was he going to grace her with? What tedious job was she to receive as if it were a land grant from a monarch? She fed another page into the copier then looked back at him, silent. She’d do the work, but she’d be damned if she’d be charmed or act grateful for it.
‘I wondered if you were free next Thursday?’ he asked.
She tried to register his question but couldn’t quite see what he was asking. ‘When on Thursday?’
‘All day, actually. Starting Wednesday night.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I just … I just wondered if you’d like to go to London with me for a long weekend. I have to leave Wednesday night and work Thursday and Friday, but there are the evenings and I’m staying the weekend.’
‘What?’ she asked. There