First day
Charlotte
"So, when you answer the phone, say: 'Anderson Holdings, how can I help you?' No matter what happens, Mr. Anderson doesn't want us to just say 'Hello.'" Sarah says, holding the phone receiver to her ear, the dial tone sounding quietly in the earpiece. "We need to be professional at all times."
"Right." I say, nodding while tucking my hair behind my ear. "I can do that."
"These are billion-dollar people," she says, hanging up the phone. "They don't live in reality like the rest of the world. They expect billion-dollar service."
"Yes." I agree, the butterflies in my stomach fluttering. It's a lot of pressure to get everything right for these people.
"You can say whatever you want in the break room," she says in a low voice, leaning forward, her nose almost touching mine. "But never anywhere clients have access."
"I don't think I'll have to worry about that," I say, giving a soft laugh.
Sarah smiles, narrowing her eyes slightly.
"You're so cute, you know that?" she says.
She stands up from her seat behind the reception desk and walks, waving her hand and asking me to follow.
"Do you like stationery?" she asks, spinning to walk backward as we go down the corridor.
"I think so," I say, following quickly.
"I can't wait to show you the supply room," she exclaims, clapping her hands excitedly before turning around.
She stops in front of a large wooden door, much too big for its function, but matching all the others, and opens it to reveal a small room. We enter, closing the door behind us. She isn't wrong; this is a magnificent supply room. Shelf after shelf, containing boxes and boxes of pens and paper, inks and staples, folders and sticky notes. I'm not much into stationery, but this reminds me of the materials and accessories room at fashion school, full of all the little details and pieces you might need for your outfit.
"Ugh..." she groans, placing her hands against her chest. "It gives you a thrill, doesn't it?"
I blush, wrinkling my nose slightly as I watch Sarah grab a box of pens.
"Mr. Anderson lets me splurge when I place the order," she says, opening the box and handing me a heavy blue pen. "It feels good for clients to use something nice."
She winks at me before going to a large cabinet, opening it, and taking out a brown leather notebook.
"No matter what happens, Charlotte..." she says, handing it to me. "We need to exude the fantasy of success. We are usually the first impression these people have of the company, and we want them to hand over their money because they think we'll do good things with it."
Sarah gives a little jump when her cell phone rings.
"They need you in conference room two," she says, pursing her lips while tapping the screen. "Do you have your notebook?"
"Uh, yes." I stammer, looking at the leather book in my arms.
"Great," she says, opening the tall, heavy door to let us out. "I'll show you where it is."
I follow her, making a little run as she walks quickly down the corridor.
"Wait!" I say, catching up to her as she stops in front of a frosted door with a black matte Roman numeral two on a plaque beside it.
I catch my breath, my chest heaving as I try not to make too much noise.
"I don't know what I'm doing!" I say, clutching the book against me.
"You're just fine and taking notes," she says, brushing my hair from my face. "Whatever they say, you write it down, and I'll show you how to write a meeting report later."
"Everything they say?" I ask, my hands trembling a little.
"Everything. All the details," she says, tapping her fingers together as she starts to list. "Dates, times, names, countries, dollars. As fast as you can, it doesn't matter if it's messy, we'll write that report later. Just capture as many details as you can."
"Just taking notes," I reassure myself.
"Just taking notes and looking sexy!" she says, shaking her head. "Remember, we are all richer beyond our wildest dreams, even if we had to take the bus to work today."
I nod, giving her a little laugh as I open the door and step inside.
My heart pounds in my chest as I look around the room. Two men are seated at a long table next to Mr. Anderson, who is sitting alone. One of them has a notebook, bound in leather like mine. He must be this businessman's assistant, just like I am.
I wonder how many meetings he's attended...
"Here, Charlotte," Mr. Anderson says, standing up and adjusting his tie before pointing to a chair to his left.
I nod and quickly head to the chair before sitting down and opening my notebook. I click my pen and hold it against the paper.
"It's the 27th," Mr. Anderson leans in to whisper to me. "This is a meeting with Cormac Incorporated."
"Thank you," I whisper back, writing it down.
I look at the clock in the middle of the wall and note the time as they begin to talk.
"I think we should see a profit in the third quarter of this year," says Mr. Anderson, taking a deep breath as he leans back in his chair.
"Third quarter..." I whisper to myself as I write it down.
"At this point, I suggest we reinvest and increase production..."
My eyes move to the men on the other side of the table. The one in the navy blue suit has an accent, just slightly, from somewhere I can't identify. His hair is blond and slightly curly, and I can't help but wonder how much money he has, how much he started with, and how long it took to get to a meeting with Mr. Anderson of Anderson Holdings and not one of the dozens of people who work for him.
My heart stops when I notice his assistant writing quickly on the page, and I look at my own notes, almost blank.
The silence almost echoes when I realize Mr. Anderson has stopped talking, and I look at him with embarrassment, his eyes cold, but his expression blank as he looks back at me.
"Please read our budget, Mr. Norberg," he says, his head slowly moving away from me and nodding gently toward the assistant. "Just to make sure everything is recorded."
"Five hundred and forty-eight million," he says, with a heavier accent than the investors, but still loud and clear.
"Five hundred and forty-eight million dollars," Mr. Anderson repeats, looking at me.
My face burns as I write the number, a number I could never even dream of.
I can barely focus on the rest of the meeting, the words entering my ears without meaning as I write them on the page in front of me, the pressure of half a billion dollars on my shoulders crushing.
I sigh with relief when Mr. Anderson stands up, laughing as he shakes the man's hand and leads the two to the door. But I know it's not over yet. My performance today means the worst is yet to come.
He returns to the table silently and sits next to me, breathing softly through his nose as he looks at me. The silence is killing me; I almost wish he would shout.
"We can have them send the notes they took," he says calmly, looking at my page. "Ideally, we would have our own because who knows what they wrote."
"I'm sorry," I stammer quickly.
Mr. Anderson shrugs and leans back in his chair.
"It's not the most professional," he says, his voice low and breathy.
"I'll do better next time, I promise," I say, eyes wide as I look at him.
"Mhmm." He nods, tilting his head to the side to look at me.
"I hope I didn't ruin the deal," I whisper, looking at my half-filled page.
"No, no," he says, letting out a laugh. "There's a lot of history between us and Cormac; this was just a small check-in meeting. An excuse to go to their favorite lunch spot a block away every month."
"Still..." I say, closing the cover of my leather-bound book.
"I wouldn't start someone with something that really mattered," he says quickly. "You can see what happens."
His words are painful, and I watch him stand from his chair and head towards the door.
"Excuse me, I have some phone calls to make," Mr. Anderson says over his shoulder as he reaches for the large wooden door handle.
I nod, grabbing my notebook from the table, my eyes filling with tears as the door slowly closes, leaving me alone with just half a page of notes in conference room two.