The Assistant: A gripping psychological thriller with a nerve-shredding ending Page 10

  She got up, pulled open the cabinet door under the sink, and dropped the fruit in the plastic-lined bin. She returned to the bar and pried the lid off the container of yogurt. She ate it slowly.

  When she couldn’t go running, her muscles twitched, not caring that the weather was awful. They turned on her, demanding she tax them into a state of weariness. Her blood felt like partially churned butter inside her veins. Every winter, she considered purchasing a treadmill. Running on a rubber platform was better than nothing on days like this.

  Neither was it the type of weather she wanted on the day of her interview. After another four days of waiting, observing Vanessa’s taunting smile, unable to elicit a straight answer about the timeline, she finally had an appointment with Hank at three this afternoon.

  She was as prepared as she was ever going to get. And in truth, she didn’t need any preparation, she’d been preparing for years, maybe her entire adult life. Her only mistake through the years had been thinking that good work alone would get her promoted up the chain. If she worked hard, delivered quality results, the recognition would come.

  At the beginning, she’d tried to avoid politics, but she should have played the game when she was younger, formed strategic friendships, just as Janelle and Brent had done. They also seemed to have a built-in savvy for managing up, putting more effort into getting executive attention rather than buying into the BS that teamwork was important. All teamwork did was get you lost in a sea of other players, all suited up in the same color, indistinguishable from one another.

  It wasn’t too late, it just meant she had to be more fierce and aggressive to make up for lost time.

  Interviewing candidates outside of Avalon was a formality required of Hank to demonstrate the company was following fair employment practices. There was no way any of those applicants had the expertise she brought to the table. Still, it was bitchy of Vanessa to wait until late yesterday to schedule Laura’s interview.

  She smiled at her watery reflection on the sliding glass door and finished her coffee.

  BY LUNCHTIME, SHE’D memorized, word-for-word, every success point on her résumé—from the three-million-dollar budget she’d managed when she ran the marketing focus groups, to the four product launches she’d orchestrated before she moved into Hank’s organization, as well as all the associated metrics for positive press, analyst quotes, and viewers at the online events. She had the highlights of how her pricing insights had driven increased sales, in case Hank’s past kudos to her had slipped his mind.

  She walked to the cafeteria alone. Rain sprayed under the covered walkway, forcing her to remain near the center. She wasn’t in the mood to talk to Brent. Discussing the interview would make her jumpy. She didn’t want to be nervous, she shouldn’t be nervous, but she was. Supposedly, a little tension was good—it would keep her alert, enable her brain cells to fire more rapidly.

  She arrived outside Hank’s office door at two minutes before three. The door was closed. Vanessa stood inside. Her hair was pulled over her left shoulder the way she liked to arrange it when she was talking to men, draped alongside her breast. She wore high-heeled boots—treacherous in the heavy rain. Her skirt was knee-length with a slit up the side to mid-thigh. It wasn’t particularly revealing, but still, who wore a skirt like that to work?

  Laura refused to knock. She had an appointment. Both of them should know what time it was. This was another attempt to exert meaningless power. There was absolutely nothing Vanessa had to talk about with Hank right this minute. He should be reviewing Laura’s résumé.

  The lack of respect was shocking. The admin should be deferring to candidates for this position. In addition to working for Hank, it was the job of all VP admins to provide a minimum level of clerical support for the directors on his staff. In a few weeks, Vanessa would essentially be working for Laura.

  It was three minutes after the hour before Vanessa stopped talking and glanced at the glass panel in the door. She lifted her hand and looked at her phone. She looked back across the office. Her mouth moved rapidly, her voice burbling like a small fountain. As she spoke to Hank, she raised her arm toward Laura and held up her index finger.

  Laura turned and walked down the hall. The break room smelled of fresh coffee. Right in front was a stain where someone had spilled coffee and not bothered to wipe it up. The liquid had dried, leaving a dark ring and the shadow of a puddle. She took a bottle of sparkling water out of the cooler. She took a sip. It bubbled up too fast and fizz landed on her upper lip. She yanked a paper towel out of the dispenser and patted it against her lips.

  “There you are.” Vanessa stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. “It’s time for your interview.”

  “It was time for my interview six minutes ago.”

  Vanessa disappeared around the corner. Laura ripped another paper towel out of the dispenser, put it under the faucet for a moment, and wiped up the coffee stain. She dropped the towel in the trash and used another to clean her fingers.

  As she approached Hank’s office, she heard Vanessa, out of sight but just inside his open door. “I told her you were ready. I don’t know what happened to her. I thought she was right behind me.”

  Laura stepped into the doorway. The focal point of Hank’s desk was a state of the art 24-inch computer display. Sitting nearby were all his other electronic gadgets. How many ways did one man need to access email that he chose to ignore more often than not? At the end of the desk were a leather datebook and a dark red Montblanc pen.

  Artfully displayed on the shelves behind his desk were framed industry magazine covers with stories about Avalon, a diamond-shaped chunk of glass engraved with Hank’s name, and other awards for sales excellence and the successful introduction of new products. Alone on the bottom shelf was an enormous silver Japanese sword with a jewel-encrusted handle. Two of the office walls were floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the bay. Even though the sky was cloudy and the bay water a murky gray, it was a calming view. In front of the south-facing window was a conference table with four chairs.

  Vanessa left without speaking, hopefully embarrassed that she’d been caught sniping at Laura when the reason they were starting late was entirely her fault.

  Laura smiled. Once she had the job, she’d never have to fight for respect again. From anyone. It came with the territory. And this interview was only a formality. She pulled out one of the chairs and sat down.

  “I know I don’t need to describe the position for you,” Hank said.

  “Why don’t you anyway, so I can get a clear picture of your expectations.”

  He stood and went to the window. He looked out at the bay as he explained the role, the number of direct reports, how success would be measured, and the overall areas of responsibility. It was nothing she didn’t know, but she needed to force him to take this seriously.

  The cloudy sky made his shirt look whiter and his hair darker, the shadow of his beard more prominent. There was something about his always visible growth of hair, never satisfied to be shaved off, always pushing through the skin again, demanding to make itself seen, insisting everyone notice this was a man, not just an institutional figure defined by white shirts and education and experience. Underneath all those things was muscle and bone, skin that was tender in parts, desires that were never evident but must be simmering there like they did with every human being on the planet.

  She wondered when it emerged. Only on the weekends when he was with his wife and son? In the evenings? When he traveled and spent long nights alone in luxury hotel rooms?

  She was alarmed at the direction her thoughts were taking. She didn’t need this kind of distraction. On the other hand, he was a man and maybe she hadn’t used that fact to her advantage. It worked for Vanessa. Maybe Laura needed to connect with him on a more personal level. He really was good looking and…okay, sexy. She’d be lying to herself if she believed she’d never noticed. She shifted in the chair, pressing her spine against the back.

 
; Without facing her, he said, “Tell me why you’re the best candidate for this job.”

  It was not the question she’d expected. This was a concluding, summarize-your-strengths question. He hadn’t asked about the highlights of her career, the challenges she’d faced, her accomplishments. He hadn’t asked about her management style. He hadn’t asked the tricky questions about how she handled conflict or failure or pressure. Maybe he was going to proceed backwards?

  He turned. He folded his arms across his chest, and as the shirt pulled at his shoulders, she thought again about his raw maleness. If she didn’t get a grip, she was on the precipice of fucking this up. She crossed her legs so she looked less prim. “I think we both know why.”

  His expression didn’t change, as if he’d expected this answer. The silence continued.

  She uncrossed her legs and crossed the left over the right. Her answer had been too flip. She should be treating him like a stranger, it was beginning to seem that’s how he wanted to approach this. But if that was the case, he should have started with her résumé. It was completely unfair, as if he wanted to sabotage her. Or maybe this was a test. She wouldn’t acknowledge the awkward pause. “I have an MBA from Santa Clara University. I’ve worked at Avalon for eleven years doing product marketing, product management, and business analysis. I have experience managing people and I know the product line better than any other candidate.”

  “How do you know that’s true?”

  “Are there other internal candidates?”

  “That’s not important. I’m curious how you can make an assertion like that without having all the facts.”

  So he was testing her. He didn’t want her prepared, he wanted to make her squirm so he could see how she responded in the face of conflict instead of listening to her rattle off a planned spiel that made her look good. Fair enough.

  She smiled. “You’re correct. I don’t know all the facts. It was an educated guess. I’ve been in this department for the introduction of every product we have in the portfolio right now except for the AX series. I know the specs, I know the positioning in the marketplace, I understand the competitive landscape, and I know the price structure and the revenue run rate.”

  He nodded.

  “I—”

  “Why did you stop managing the product marketing team for the AL series?”

  He’d read her résumé after all. He went on without letting her answer. “The Ops Director will have eight direct reports, and for the past four years, you haven’t been a manager.”

  She’d been prepared for this question. She’d known it didn’t look good to be a manager and then return to individual contributor status. It implied failure. It hinted at incompetence. Hank had been running the Western Region sales team at the time. He’d come on board shortly after she left the management job, and she’d thought someone might have told him what had happened. Maybe they had and this was another test.

  Pressure was building in her temples, the hint of a headache accompanied by a distant tone—a high-pitched, piercing sound. All she had to do was act the part, show confidence. It was all in your attitude.

  “I received positive reviews from my team,” she said. “Three of them left the company, and before I could hire replacements, we had a hiring freeze.” She shivered as if the euphemism for a pause in hiring were real. “Right after, there was a small reduction in force and the rest of my team was impacted by that.”

  “Did you fight the decision to eliminate your team?”

  Why did she sense that he already knew the answer? It could be his flat tone, as if he wasn’t really asking a question, but leading her into a trap of some kind.

  “At the senior manager level, you don’t get to fight, you execute.”

  “Why did the first three leave? And why did they target the rest of your team? You must have been given an explanation. Was there a lack of results at some point prior to that?”

  “My team did great work. I received a lot of kudos for our contribution. I was rated a one, two years in a row.”

  “What ratings did your team members receive?”

  “Aren’t we getting a little off course into details that aren’t relevant anymore?”

  Hank sat down. “Management is a big part of this role—driving a team to deliver. When three staff members leave at once, it suggests a problem.”

  “There were already rumors about the job cuts. I think they saw a chance to jump to other companies and they did. It had nothing to do with the success of our group.”

  “I see.”

  She sensed he didn’t believe a word she was saying. The tone resumed its shrieking in her left ear, louder this time. There was no reason to doubt her word, to imply she’d failed or done something wrong to make a good portion of her team scurry out the door. “Unfortunately, my manager from that time isn’t with Avalon anymore, so you can’t check. I could give you his number. He’s at Google now.”

  “No, that’s fine. Just getting a sense of your perspective on what happened.”

  The rest of his questions covered a mixture of topics that she’d never considered, mingled with the interview standards.

  He informed her she would be interviewing with Sandeep, two members of his staff, and several other engineering and product management directors. He mentioned there was a large pool of highly qualified candidates. He told her Vanessa would set up her next interviews and once he had feedback from the others, he’d narrow his list, and then he’d meet with the finalists again.

  She couldn’t imagine what he might ask in a second interview. She was exhausted.

  She stood. The back of her shirt was damp. She wished she hadn’t worn her jacket. On the other hand, if she hadn’t, and she’d still perspired, the moisture would show when she walked to the door. She tugged the hem of her jacket to make it hang more symmetrically and extended her hand. “Thanks for the opportunity. I’m confident you’ll be thrilled with my performance.”

  “I haven’t made a final decision.” He took her hand. His fingers were firm and dry. His grip wasn’t as tight as she remembered. As quickly as he’d taken her hand, he dropped it and stepped back. “I need the forecast by four.”

  She felt as if she’d been slapped. He put her through all that, treating her like a stranger, and now, in the breath of a phony handshake, he reverted to being her manager’s boss? For half a second, when their hands were touching, she’d felt genuine warmth, as if he recognized her as a person, as if he felt she had qualities beyond what would come out in any interview, that he knew she’d be an asset to his direct staff. If it wasn’t taking things to an extreme, she’d felt like the two of them were simply a man and woman who appreciated each other on many levels.

  “No problem.” Her voice was hoarse. It sounded weak and had a slight quaver that she hoped he didn’t notice.

  11

  Vanessa

  WHEN SHE ENTERED the living room, Matt was sitting in the armchair drinking a whiskey with ice. The TV was off, a solid sheet of black that seemed to have captured his attention. He put his drink on the table and spoke without looking at her. “Are you okay?”

  She took off her coat. “I’m a little hungry. I was thinking mac and cheese. Maybe some sausages. Sound good?”

  He picked up his drink and worked an ice cube into his mouth. It rattled against his teeth and made his lips wet. Matt loved mac and cheese. Usually his face erupted into a huge grin when she suggested it, but he continued sucking on the ice cube, staring at the empty screen.

  “Don’t you want mac and cheese?”

  “I wasn’t talking about food.”

  She combed her fingers through her hair, bringing it over her shoulder, inspecting the strands as they threaded around her knuckles. “What did you mean?” She leaned one hip on the back of the couch. “I’d rather have wine, did you open any?”

  “I needed a drink after what I saw.”

  “What?” She pulled her hair up and held it in a pile on top of her head.
“It’s warm in here.”

  “I was in the hall bathroom looking for a band-aid.” He held up his finger to show a piece of damp toilet paper stuck to the cuticle. A small spot of blood had soaked through.

  “The band-aids are in the other bathroom.”

  “We’re out. I thought there might be some in the hall bath.”

  “I don’t think there are.”

  “That’s why I had to resort to toilet paper.” He squeezed his tissue-covered finger with the index finger and thumb of his other hand.

  “What did you do?”

  “Just a hangnail.” He took a sip of his drink. “There’s a lot of nail polish in that closet.”

  “So?” She held her breath, not wanting to hear what was coming next.

  “It’s breeding like rabbits in there. The pink mates with the blue and you have twenty mauve babies or something? I’ve never seen so many bottles in my life. Why do you need all that?”

  “I like variety.” She let her hair fall to the side.

  “Well, it’s not variety you’re going for. There must be thirty bottles of cherry red alone.”

  “They aren’t all cherry. There are differences.”

  “It’s a little scary.”

  “I like to do my nails every night. You know that.”

  “You have enough polish to open your own Walmart. It seems kind of sick, to be honest. How much did all that cost?”

  “It’s not sick. You spend money on baseball tickets and other stuff. I like nail polish.”

  Ice rattled against the glass as he lifted the drink to his lips. “Why so much?”

  “I told you.” There was no way he would guess she’d stolen it. His mind would never go there. He thought she’d spent too much money, that was all. Despite his crime-oriented entertainment tastes, Matt was the most honest guy she’d ever encountered. If a clerk left a pack of gum or a box of dried soup off his receipt, he’d return to the store and wait in line to make sure the additional charge was added.