“I’ve been there, done that. Then I met Jackson,” she says. “Listen, as for the interview, Peter’s harmless. Just be yourself. If you have the talent, drive, skill, most of all the passion, and he likes what you show him in that portfolio of yours”—she juts her chin to the black case—“you’re hired.”
“I hope it’s enough,” I mumble under my breath. “It’s such a lengthy process to get a job here. It makes me wonder why I have to jump through all the hoops. If my work was good enough during the first interview, why go to the next?”
“Listen, a while ago, I pitched an account that could land me a promotion I wanted so badly. Initially, I thought it would be a disaster. Only because he, the competition, stole my graphics, my files, and used my pitch. But that’s a story to tell another day.” She shakes her head slightly and rolls her eyes.
“What a creep!” I squeal. “What did you do?”
“Oh, I wasn’t giving up without a fight. I held my head up high and told myself that my skills and talents would nail the account.” She clears her throat. “The thing is, I did my research and knew the account like the back of my hand. Looked at every angle, checked out the targeted audience and what the company needed.”
“And did you get the account? And the promotion?”
Kitty nods with a proud smile. “I got the account. But I didn’t get the promotion right away. I had to prove myself.”
For the next few minutes, Kitty tells me about Peter and the trigger words that will get me on his good side.
Feeling more at ease, I tell her a little about me and how I love designing, then tell her about Jenna’s perfume ads, my parents’ farm and how they’re the sole distributor to one of the leading grocers in Kansas and all the work I did for our small town to gain revenue.
I glance at my watch again and realize I have fifteen minutes to spare. “Well, I gotta get in there . . . my dad once told me ten minutes early is ten minutes late.”
“Smart man. It was a pleasure meeting you, Delilah. And good luck.”
“And thank you again for the advice.”
“You’re gonna do great, Delilah. Just go in there with confidence.” She waves and leaves me in the stillness of the bathroom.
I turn and look in the mirror one more time. I take in a breath, hold my head up high, and here goes nothing! Chase your sunset.
After giving my name to the receptionist, letting her know I am Peter Grisham’s ten o’clock appointment, I follow her into an office with a large window.
The panoramic view of the 405 Freeway and the skies of Los Angeles greet me.
The man, I assume is Peter Grisham, is on the phone, the cord twisted around his chair, his back facing me.
“We can’t lose this account. The fashion show is in several weeks,” he snaps and continues listening to whoever is on the end of the line.
The receptionist gestures for me to sit in the chair in front of his glass desk as nerves crawl up my spine once again. My palms sweat and I rub them on my skirt. My throat goes dry as I watch the receptionist close the door behind her.
“She stopped by and she’s not pleased with the draft . . . since Liz left, it’s almost impossible to meet the deadline . . .” he rambles. “She leaves for New York in two weeks.”
I remain quiet and survey my surroundings.
There are mock-ups and graphs strewn all over a long table on the other side of his office. I can’t help but notice the mock-up with the picture of an eye-catching woman wearing a bathing suit. It’s Avery Saints. Then I see the fonts on another mock-up, and I cringe, only because it’s not something I would use for a bathing suit ad.
“Uh-huh. I like that idea . . . she’s gonna love it. Yes, get it done,” he says then turns to face me as he hangs up the phone. “Sorry about that. Deadlines.”
“I understand.” I quickly survey his face and although he’s smiling at me, I see the stress overwhelming him. His salt and pepper hair, fine lines at the corners of his brown eyes, the prominent brow ridge scrunched together as if he’s in deep thought while he stares at the paper in his hands.
The longer we sit here in silence, the tension builds. And I pray my stomach will not growl while I’m waiting for him to fire off his questions. I knew I should have eaten at least a piece of cracker or maybe the granola in my purse.
He looks up at me, then at the paper. He clears his throat as he slips the paper in a folder.
Is he testing me? Does he want me to speak up?
I clear my throat. “Here is my resume, Mr. Grisham. You’ll see I have the skills and talent to take on this role.” I hand him my resume, then place my leather portfolio on the other chair. “Let me show you my projects.”
“So, are you just going to stare at the ocean? Or are you going to tell me about your interview today?” Sydney asks, handing me a glass of wine then sits next to me on the lounge chair.
She’s been my best friend since we started crawling along with Jenna, who still lives in Kansas. We were the trio that stuck together through thick and thin. The endless sleepovers, borrowing of each other’s clothes, and have seen each other’s first crushes and never-ending heartbreaks.
Sydney and her high school sweetheart, Levi Tennyson, moved out to California three years ago. He landed a role on a television drama series, Silver Badge, playing a detective. The tabloids got the best of Sydney when she saw a picture of Levi and his very sexy co-star having dinner at a sushi restaurant in Los Angeles resulting in a breakup I never thought would happen.
Although Sydney seems to be enjoying the single life, I think differently only because the picture of her and Levi still sits prominently on her dresser after six months of their breakup.
I always thought those two would get married and live that Hollywood life. But I guess life seems to take the driver’s seat, steering us down a path we sometimes don’t want to end up.
“Hello, Earth to Dee,” Sydney singsongs.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I take a sip of the sweet wine. I close my eyes, sink further into my chaise, and ignore her, hoping she takes the hint. I just don’t feel like talking about how everything went south at my interview.
“Not talk about it?” Sydney challenges. “You have been preparing for this interview. And now you don’t want to talk about it? Suit yourself, I’ll just chat about my day. Bore you with lesson plans and the parent-teacher conference I had.”
I relish the warmth of the spring sun on my face as she continues to rant about who knows what. The sound of the crashing waves is soothing as I watch the birds fly in their V formation to the horizon when Mama’s quirky and cryptic words of wisdom, and the mantra I live by, pops into my mind.
Don’t follow the end of the rainbow to find a pot of gold. They only come after the rain ends and then it disappears. Instead chase the sunsets, Lulu . . . they come every day and the sun is made of gold.
“Okay, that was my day . . .” Sydney levels her glare, letting me know it’s my turn to talk. How does she look so amazing and not tired after dealing with boys all day? She’s an English and drama teacher at St. Joseph’s, an all-boys school in Palos Verdes. “I can continue talking your ear off. You know there’s always some kind of drama at work.”