Page 2 of Van Cort

RIVER

I brush my hands down the front of my skirt for the seventh time since leaving the house. Force of habit.

A bad one.

The elevator bings, indicating my arrival at the twenty-seventh floor, and I step out into a polished entryway with the company logo emblazoned behind the curved desk.

My heels tap a satisfying rhythm as I walk towards the woman behind the strategically artistic flower arrangement on the desk.

“Hello, I’m here to interview at four with Mr Pierson.”

She barely acknowledges me.

“Pierson, Walter, Smith, can I help you? If you hold, I’ll transfer you.

Pierson, Walter, Smith, can I help you? Please hold.

Pierson, Walter, Smith, you’ll need to call that department directly.

Thank you.” I listen to the woman’s stream of words and wonder if she’s paid by the call or the word.

She still hasn’t looked up from her screen.

First impressions are important, and she’s ignoring me. It sets my annoyance running.

“Pierson, Walter, Smith, can I help you? Of course, one moment. Pierson, Walter, Smith—”

I hold up my hand, trying to get her attention. “If you could just take a moment, I’m here for a four o’clock with Mr Pierson.” I have a couple of minutes, but I’d hate to be late because the woman can’t look up from her screen.

There isn’t anything wrong with the job I have at the moment.

Except I’ve been there for two years, and there are zero career prospects.

At least, not for me, it feels. I’m a finance analyst in a big city firm.

I have a great degree from a prestigious university, I’ve completed my CPA, and have the experience, but I’ve been overlooked for the last two promotions I went for. So, what’s the harm in looking outside?

Pierson, Walter, Smith is a bigger accountancy firm, and this position would certainly be a step up.

I smooth my skirt down. Again. And then smile at the receptionist. Again.

“Excuse me. I have an appointment, and I really don’t want to be late.” I put a little bite behind my words.

It finally works, and the lady looks up at me, a glare in her eye that I’m happy to hold.

“Mr Pierson is still in a meeting. I suggest you go and wait. He may be some time.”

“Thank you.” I smile and take a seat on one of the plain but chic chairs just down from the desk.

And wait.

And wait.

Until it’s past five.

“River-Spring Anderson?” I can see the slight smirk on his lips as he calls my name.

I stand and hold my hand out to him. “Please, call me Andie.”

I keep my face neutral and hold his gaze, but he seems less than bothered about running his over me from head to foot. Great.

He shakes my hand. “Shall we?” He leads the way to his office and holds the door open for me. Nothing about keeping me waiting for over an hour.

As I step into his office, it’s clear he’s got an ego or is overcompensating for something. The big glass windows, the bar in the corner, the desk that looks hand-carved and completely out of keeping with the rest of the room. And nobody else is in here.

He settles on the leather sectional to the side and indicates for me to take a seat. I smile, of course I do, and perch with my knees and ankles closed.

Mr Pierson must be in his mid-to-late fifties, wearing a well-fitting suit; the leather of his shoes shines as he crosses his ankle to his knee.

And I wait for the interview to begin.

“That’s an interesting name there,” he says. It’s not an original start, but one I’m well practised in handling.

“Well, yes. To some. I blame my parents. But I prefer Andie, please. Especially at work.” Smile. Don’t get annoyed.

“Right, right. Andie. And what makes you think you’ll be a good fit for me here?”

The way he asks the question makes me squirm, but I shove the feeling down and answer him, ensuring all of my rehearsed lines hit.

“Thank you, okay. And what attributes would you say you have? What skills are you versed with over someone, say, already under me?” He shifts in his seat. Again, the way he asks his questions makes it hard to feel like he’s being professional, but I smile and refuse to show him my disgust.

System finance modelling, attention to detail, company growth.

I keep my head focused on everything I’ve done in the last year.

Yet he seems to show no interest in what I’m saying.

He’s just staring at me and nodding, occasionally, in the right places.

He’s resting his arm across the back of the chair as if posing, and even though my shirt is buttoned high and tied with a bow, and my skirt falls below my knees, his look makes me feel like I’m wearing a dress that leaves nothing to the imagination.

I should get up and walk out.

“You must be good. You wouldn’t have made it this far without that. What would you ask me, though? Your future boss?” His smirk is repellent.

“I would have expected the interview to be with HR. Can I ask why you, as a partner, conduct your own interviews?” It’s a rash question, but one I can’t keep from asking.

“Well, that’s simple. I personally approve all of my hires. That’s the benefit of owning the company. So, if we don’t get along, if I can’t imagine us working closely together, then you won’t make it to the next stage.”

“I see. And how much would we be working together? I’m hoping to have my own client list here.”

“Well, again, Andie, that will depend. Our clients are important to us, so you’d have to prove yourself.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Pierson. Can I confirm that I’m interviewing for the senior financial analyst position? I’d be responsible for the financial planning and strategy development for my accounts, and I’d work with others within the client senior leadership team to further develop components for growth?”

“Yes, you’re correct. Miss Anderson. It is Miss, correct?” I nod. “But like I said prior. We’re a close team. And I need to be able to trust all of those who work for me.”

“I assure you, I’m a more than trustworthy employee, Mr Pierson. I’d just appreciate some clear boundaries and expectations relating to the role, specifically.”

“We can discuss… expectations. Don’t you worry yourself about that.” His smile widens and his eyes trail over me, no mask of professionalism in sight.

“I’m sorry, Mr Pierson. This isn’t the format of the interview I was anticipating. Perhaps this isn’t going to be the right place for me after all.” I stand and curse to myself as I run my hands down my skirt to smooth out the wrinkles.

He sits there, looking up at me from his position on the couch and still just smirks. “Very well. That’s your decision. And here I was looking forward to what you’d be willing to do for me.”

No. I can’t. There are other offices. Other firms. Even staying where I am would be better than coping with his innuendos and creepy remarks, which would clearly lead to an inappropriate proposition that will likely get me fired when I turn him down.

Without saying anything outwardly inappropriate, everything out of his mouth has been laced with sexual intent. He clearly just wants to be the boss and manipulate me. Well, screw him.

I turn to leave. “Thank you for your time.”

How? How can a man like this be in charge of such a reputable firm?

Marching out, I force myself not to say anything at reception and call the elevator. I want to shower, to wash all of those veiled comments away. Instead, I settle on going for a drink. Because I fucking deserve it after sitting through that.

Seattle isn’t the biggest city. I like that it has Elliott Bay and isn’t just filled with buildings of glass and concrete.

The Four Seasons is a short walk, a few blocks away, and I’ve been there once or twice before.

The bar has a nice view. But as I walk in the entrance and head for the bar, I grow more and more uneasy about going further.

Floral arrangements line the entranceway, growing in size and splendour.

There are a few people, all wearing over-the-top dresses and even a few tuxes.

Clearly, the hotel is playing host to a wedding, and a very big, very lavish one at that.

Nobody stops me, though, so I continue until I perch on one of the barstools.

I untie the silken bow at my collar and undo the first button, in an attempt to look less corporate and more like someone who might be celebrating at a wedding, before slipping my hair from the formal chignon.

The weight of it spilling loose eases the tension in my head, and I shake it until it falls to the bottom of my spine.

Many times over, I’ve been tempted to cut it, to be more formal in my appearance and stop people only seeing me as a blonde bimbo.

It’s better than it used to be when I was at school, but people still judge me for the colour of my hair before anything else.

Being a natural blonde and a woman puts me at a distinct disadvantage, today being the perfect example.

I raise my hand to the waiter. “A white wine. Anything but chardonnay, please.”

The bar is mercifully quiet, with just a few people, and I wonder if this is the lull before the evening celebrations. Well, nobody has asked me to leave, so I take a sip of the wine the waiter delivers and let it cleanse my experience of Mr Pierson.

I check my phone and see Mom has sent me a good luck message. She’ll phone later, a regular occurrence through the week, checking in on me. I know it’s only because she wants to be involved in my life, but I’m 27 years old. It’s not like I’m a child anymore. Still, I know it makes her happy.

While the wine fortifies me, I run over my next steps professionally. Look for another position, or hope that something may change where I am. There aren’t a lot of options. I empty my glass before I decide on my predicament and get set to leave.

“So, bride or groom?”

I turn to see a guy leaning over the bar, his body angled towards me. “Excuse me?”

“Which side? I’m with the groom. We were at school together, but that was years ago.”