What is it with Chase Parker and made-up stories?

***

On Thursday, I had an interview in the morning and a second scheduled for the afternoon. The subway was jam-packed, and the air conditioning wasn’t working. So, of course, that also meant the only train running was a local, not an express.

Beads of sweat trickled down my back as I stood sandwiched between other sweating commuters. The large guy to my right wore a T-shirt with cut-off sleeves and held on to the pole above him. My face was perfectly aligned with his hairy armpit, and his deodorant wasn’t working. My left side wasn’t exactly all sunshine and roses either. While I was pretty sure the woman didn’t smell as bad, she was sneezing and coughing without covering her mouth. I need to get off this train.

Fortunately, I arrived at my interview a few minutes early and could make a quick stop in the ladies’ room to fix myself up. The sweat and humidity had smeared my makeup, and my hair was a frizzy mess. July in New York City. It seemed like the heat got stuck between all the tall buildings.

Digging into my pocketbook, I fished out some hairpins and a brush and was able to pull my auburn locks back into a neat twist. The makeup would have to do with only a baby wipe as cleanup since I hadn’t thought to bring any eyeliner. I took off my suit jacket and realized I’d sweated through my silk shirt. Shit. I’d have to keep the hot jacket on for the entire interview.

A woman walked in while I was arm-deep inside my shirt with a damp paper towel, wiping sweat from my body. She caught what I was doing in the mirror.

“Sorry. It was so hot on the subway, and I have an interview,” I offered as explanation. “I don’t want to be a sweaty, smelly mess.”

She smiled. “Been there. Gotta break down and take a cab in July when it’s this humid and you have an interview for a job you really want.”

“Yeah. I’m definitely going to do that for my afternoon interview. It’s across town, and that’s the job I really want, so I might go all out—even stop in at Duane Reade for some deodorant, too.”

After I rushed to clean myself up, my morning appointment left me sitting in the lobby for over an hour before calling me in for the interview. It gave me some time to fully cool down and also check out their latest product catalogs. They were definitely in need of a new marketing campaign. I jotted down some notes on what I would change, in case the opportunity presented itself.

“Ms. Annesley?” a smiling woman called from the door leading to the inner office. I slipped on my suit jacket and followed her inside. “Sorry to keep you waiting. We had a small emergency this morning with one of our biggest vendors, and it had to be dealt with right away.” She stepped aside as we arrived at a large corner office. “Have a seat. Ms. Donnelly will be right in.”

“Oh. Okay. Thank you.” I had thought she was my interviewer.

A few minutes later the vice president of Flora Cosmetics walked in. It was the woman from the hallway bathroom—the one who’d seen me washing my armpits. Great.

I was glad I’d at least done it without unbuttoning my shirt. I tried to recall what we’d spoken about, other than the weather. I didn’t think there was much.

“I see you’ve cooled off.” Her tone was very business-like, not at all friendly like it had been in the bathroom.

“Yes. Sorry about that. The heat really hit me hard today.”

She shuffled some papers on her desk into a pile and fired off her first question without any further small talk. “So, Ms. Annesley, why are you in search of a new job? It says here you’re currently employed.”

“I am. I’ve been with Fresh Look Cosmetics for seven years. I started there right out of college, actually. I worked my way up from marketing intern to director of marketing during that time. I’ll be honest, I’ve been happy there for my entire career. But I feel like I’ve hit a ceiling at Fresh Look, and it’s time I started to look for other opportunities.”

“A ceiling? How so?”

“Well, Fresh Look is still a family-owned company, and although I admire and respect Scott Eikman, the founder and president, most of the executive-level positions are taken by members of the Eikman family—one of whom, Derek Eikman, was just promoted over me to vice president.” Saying it out loud still left a bitter taste in my mouth.

“So, people less deserving than you are promoted because of kinship? And that’s why you’re leaving?”

“I suppose that’s a big part of it, yes. But it’s also just time for me to move on.”

“Isn’t it possible that members of the Eikman family know the business better, having grown up in that world? Perhaps they are actually more qualified than other employees?”

What’s the bug up this woman’s ass? None of this nepotism is new. Hell, half of the Walmart execs are still blood-related to Sam Walton, and he’s been gone for two decades.

It was definitely not the time to add that I’d had too much to drink at last year’s company holiday party and slept with the then-director of sales, Derek Eikman. It was a one-time thing, a drunken mistake with a co-worker after a year-long dry spell. I’d known it was a mistake ten minutes after it was over. I just didn’t know how big of a mistake until two days later, when the asshole announced his engagement to his girlfriend of seven years. He’d told me he was single and unattached. When I’d marched into his office and told him off, he’d explained that we could still fuck even though he was engaged.

The man was a sleazebag, and there was no way I could work for him now that he’d been promoted to vice president. Aside from being a cheating pig, he also knew nothing about marketing.

“In my case, I’m relatively confident that I was the better candidate.”

She gave me a completely fake smile and folded her hands on her desk. Did I say something to upset her in the bathroom earlier? I didn’t think so... But her next question certainly jogged my memory.

“So tell me, what is it about your afternoon interview that makes the company seem superior? I mean, as a marketing expert, they must be doing something right to make you consider paying for a cab?”

Oh. Shit. I’d completely forgotten that I’d told her I was going to take a cab to my next interview—since that was the job I really wanted.

There was no digging myself out of the hole I was in after that. Even though, in spite of things, I thought I handled myself professionally, I could tell her mind was made up about me.