Addie Combo Page 2

  Deliciousness.

  The chardonnay is perfect with the flavorful food, crisp and cold and bracing.

  Quinton and Emily find an easy flow of conversation that promises good things to come. I was a little worried about Emily at the very first, but now I’m beginning to feel like we’ll find our stride and become, if not best friends, at least a pair of roommates who don’t want to tear each other’s heads off.

  Emily asks me, “You don’t have a boyfriend back in Wyoming?”

  “Colorado, but no. I dated a few boys, but didn’t find anybody really special.” I can feel Quinton’s gaze on me as I explain. I try not to make eye contact, knowing what may happen.

  Be smart, Addie, I tell myself, stay focused!

  But my line of sight finds Quinton’s all the same, just as I add, “If I’d found true love back home, I don’t think I could have torn myself away.”

  Emily says, “You’ll find love someday, Addie. Maybe if we do something with your hair.” I never really do anything with my hair. I mean, I keep it clean and brushed, of course. Other than that, I just sort of let it be. Emily adds, “And we’ll go shopping! I mean, of course you wanted to be comfortable for the trip, but you can’t go around L.A. hunting for jobs in ...” She looks over my denim jacket, Tshirt and blue jeans. She simply adds, “Shopping!” in an even happier, shriller tone, clapping a little from excitement.

  I say, “I don’t have any money to spend on -”

  “I’ll loan you. Trust me, Addie,” Emily rolls her eyes, “it’s worth it!”

  I say, “You’re an actress, right, Emily?”

  “Actor, actually,” Emily says, nodding and curling her nose up like an insulted chipmunk. “Actress is kind of a racist term here.”

  After a confused moment, Quinton clears his throat. “It is a little sexist, some would say.”

  “See?” Emily says, nodding and pointing at Quinton as if he’s just proven her point. “That too.”

  Quinton says to me, “Emily just got raves for her work in a local production of Little Shop of Horrors.”

  “Really?” I say, wanting to add, which one of the horrors did she play? Instead I add, “Have you done any TV?”

  “A nationwide spot for Vagasil,” she says, nodding and smiling with even greater excitement. “I was the girl who had feminine itch!”

  “Oh, well, um ... congratulations.” I return to my dinner, which is suddenly less appetizing. The wine’s still delicious though. I order another glass and turn to Quinton. “So, what kind of law are you interested in?”

  “Contracts!” Emily says excitedly. “Rock stars, athletes; hey, it’s all law, right?”

  I glance at Quinton and he barely manages to return it, offering half a smile for my trouble. He says, “Might try contract law for a while, see how it goes. But I’ve always pictured myself doing ... grittier stuff; civil rights, that kind of thing.”

  “So you can represent rap artists,” Emily says, rolling her eyes. “What-evs!” CHAPTER TWO

  The next day I start looking for work. My laptop is the only thing I bring from Colorado, except clothes and toiletries, of course. I also carry along a little framed photo of my mom and me when I was just a year old. We’re sitting on a park bench, I don’t even remember where. But it doesn’t matter; I remember who.

  I remember her.

  She was so kind and gentle, so loving. She used to call me angel, and she kissed me on the forehead every night before bed. I used to love when she’d smile at me, with those brown eyes sparkling; almost looking like she was ready to start crying at any moment, though she never did.

  She was so pretty, every time I look at the picture I can’t help but smile. And then I want to cry too.

  Mommy’s little girl, I think to myself with just a tinge of regret.

  But I don’t think about it for too long. She’d be much happier to know I’m busy getting things done and finding the job I need that will propel me further on this wondrous journey. It’ll also keep me from being chucked out into the street.

  So I spend the entire day making a list of possible leads. Emily forgets all about her plan to take me shopping, which is just as well; I’ve brought some decent Tommy Hilfiger skirts and blouses (among other affordable but perfectly suitable names) from Colorado.

  I didn’t much care for Emily’s tone when she suggested it anyway.

  So after another good night’s sleep I get up the next day, put on my red Anne Klein Jersey swing dress, Nine West Margot dress pumps, and get a jump on pounding the pavement.

  My first interview is at a small customer relationship management company. CRM companies like these trace email campaigns for their client companies, tracking what works and what doesn’t for that company’s clients and/or customers. If you ever get an email from any service provider or retail chain, they probably have either a CRM software platform, or a company on their payroll that provides it.

  But as I walk into the reception room at SalesPace, I’m floored by how many other applicants there are. The room is literally filled with them, and I arrive at just twenty minutes past the hour. These people must have been lined up waiting when the office opened, I presume, or else came in at a rate of one per minute. While I’m standing thinking about it, another applicant enters the office behind me.

  They’re all very good looking, well dressed; both men and women, some younger than me and some older, though none by very much. I begin to regret not reminding Emily about her promise to take me shopping, but I put it out of my head and start filling out the application. The woman at the desk takes it and my resumé, thanks me, then reassures me that they’ll be in touch.

  “Oh, I see,” I say in a very demure voice, “I thought I might get an interview today.”

  The receptionist, a pouchy woman in her thirties (I’d guess) and a blonde bob that makes her look a little like a woman golfer, offers me a curt and insincere smile. “Honey, if you waited your turn and we started interviewing right now, you’d be here for six hours.”

  “Right, of course,” I say, hoping I don’t reveal too much ignorance right off the bat. “I was wondering how you were going to manage,” I add, trying to do a little damage control. “Good, good thinking, you’ve got it all worked out.”

  I fill out five more forms that morning, all of them in packed reception areas like the first. By lunch I’m exhausted, and I sit on a bench at a small park near downtown and try to relax. It’s just the first day, I tell myself. You didn’t think you were gonna walk into a job on your first day, did you? This could take weeks or even months.

  Months? By now I’ m ready to punch myself in the mouth. Why didn’t you tell me?

  I did. But you just had to get out of Colorado, genius.

  I take a deep breath. It’s summer in Los Angeles, and it’s warmer than I thought it’d be. It gets fairly warm in Boulder, but it’s a different kind of heat. Now my shirt sticks to my back, my stockings are itchy on my legs (which of course I just have to tolerate unless I want ripped up, running stockings). Even my hairdo (piled up in a very conservative but slightly sexy way, with ringlets that fall over the sides of my face) is coming undone.

  But I press on for the rest of the day, somewhat proud to hit four more leads before finally calling it a day around three-thirty in the afternoon. Sitting on the bus ride home, I get a call on my cell from SalesPace to come in for an interview.

  Ha ha! I chide my skeptical self. Callback for an interview! Now who’s the dummy and who’s the genius? Now who made the right decision?

  Okay, okay, I answer back in the echo of my imagination,don’t get carried away, Martha Stewart. It’s just a callback, it doesn’t mean that much.

  I hate how I can be so realistic sometimes, but I guess it’s a blessing as long as I don’t ignore it (which I try to do as often as I can). This time, I answer with, It’s better than nothing!

  Great, my lesser self says to me in return, you didn’t get nothing. Congratulations. Ignoring my own grati
ng sarcasm, I offer myself a pert and self-satisfied, Thank you, before getting off the bus and walking up Sycamore to my new apartment.

  My interview at SalesPace is set for three o’clock the following afternoon, which gives me a lot of time to make other appointments and follow-up other leads, maybe even surf the internet again. I find a few more want-ads, one or two that are decent possibilities. So I plan a route, make sure I’ve got the right change for the buses (four in total), and begin to daydream of the time I can buy myself a car and be able to insure it; this town is murder without a car.

  I arrive at Brookshire Estates, a land development company with tracts in Florida, Montana, Arizona, and New Mexico. The office is in a cluster of bungalows, about ten in all, with a lovely English garden in the courtyard. I fill out the application and hand it to the receptionist, a man this time. He’s a bit pudgy, his hair thinning fast, his complexion shiny with oil. He takes the application, smiling. “We’ll call you.”

  Not again! I think, coming up with a fairly reliable way of changing his mind. I subtly bring my hand up to undo the top button of my blouse, then lean forward the reception desk just a bit. I brush one ringlet behind my ear like the sexiest librarian he’s never seen.

  “I was really hoping to be able to interview today. I’m taking a meeting at three and I’m pretty sure they’re going to make an offer.” I lean forward just a bit more, arching my back. “But I think I’d much rather work here. Everybody seems so ... nice.” I breathe out the last word, sexy and seductive (I hope). I’m not sure if this would work on a more confident or socially successful person, but I’m not too surprised when this chubby receptionist smiles and clears his throat, pulling at his neck tie.

  “I ... I don’t know ... we have certain protocols in place to, um ... ” I lift one leg to rest it on the desk as I lean a bit further in. “... To keep things running ... smoothly ...” His eyes trace the lines of my calves, my thighs. “So smooth.”

  Then, as if he knows he’s being watched (by God if by nobody else) he clears his throat again and leans back, taking another look at my application. “Oh, I see here you don’t have any real estate experience, um -”

  “Addison Compo,” I say, leaning forward again, more desperate than cunning. “Sometimes they call be Combo ... because I want it all.”

  “Well, Miss ... um, you seem like a fine young woman, I know you’re very bright and very talented, but I also know that they’re gonna wanna see at least two years experience in real estate. I’m sorry you came all the way down.”

  “Yes, but -”

  “But if you meant what you said, I’m free for lunch in about an hour.” He smiles, raising his eyebrows and grinning. “I wouldn’t mind ordering ... the combo platter.”

  “Oh, gee, that’s really nice of you ... to hit on me in this workplace situation -”

  “No, I wasn't -”

  A little louder, I go on, “I suppose a girl has to compromise herself sexually to get a job around here, is that it? I may not have any real estate experience, but I do have some legal experience -”

  “I didn’t see any of that on your resumé.”

  “Well, I ... ” Nice improvising, dummy, I chide myself. “It was volunteer work, at a law firm. The biggest one in Colorado!”

  Now bereft of any of his sexual hunger and getting fed up withmy aggression, he says, “And which law firm was that?”

  Rats! I think to myself. No way to lie your way out of this! Pick one like Jacoby & Meyers and he may call. Make one up and he’ll check the directory anyway.

  Well, I tell myself, at least you won’t be in the room when he does.

  But I decide to say, “You’ll find out when they serve you with the papers. You won’t be hard to spot; I’ll just name the lost Hungry Hungry Hippo as one of the defendants.”

  With my head held high and my shoulders back, I cross the reception area and pull the door open, putting the office and the entire event behind me as quickly as possible.

  I walk through the courtyard a bit faster than I should. Some of it is righteous indignation, but most is simple embarrassment and a fervent hope to get out of there before anyone in the office comes out and calls me on my strictly empty threats.

  I turn the corner, stepping out of the courtyard and into the entrance area, a kind of bricklined outdoor reception patio. But I don’t see the man in front of me until it’s too late. It happens in a flash; the bump, the gape, the pause, the splash, and suddenly I’m standing in a coffee-soaked Anne Klein and he with an empty Styrofoam cup.

  “Oh, I am so sorry,” he says, looking around and finding nothing to clean it off. “Are you okay? I didn’t burn you or anything?”

  Nope, I’m happy to discover, just soiled and soaked!

  “I’m fine,” I say, taking in the damage. If the suit isn’t ruined, it’s certainly a history lesson as far as today’s interview is concerned. I check my watch. “Two o’clock, no time to get home before the interview.”

  “Interview?”

  “Yes, at ... well, it doesn’t really matter now.”

  “What kind of position, what do you do?”

  “Business management,” I say.

  He nods. “I see. That’s why you’re here, a job interview?” I nod, and he adds, “How’d it go?”

  I can only shake my head. “If you’re interviewing, I’d say you’ve got an open door.”

  “In more ways than one. I own this building actually, here to see one of the tenants about renewing their lease.”

  “Really? You ... wow, you own the building, that’s ... wow.”

  We stand in an awkward silence for a moment or two before he suddenly says, “I’m sorry, where are my manners? I’m Randolph, Randolph MacLeish.”

  He extends his hand and I take it. “Addie Compo ... with a P.”

  Randolph looks around, spotting a waste paper basket and chucking the Styrofoam cup. “Well, Addie Compo with a P, let me make it up to you. You said your appointment’s in an hour? How far from here?”

  “It’s just up on Melrose, actually. But my clothes -”

  He takes my hand. “C’mon, there’s a nice shop close by. I’ll buy you something and we’ll get you to your interview on time.”

  I hesitate; not because I don’t deserve to have my clothes replaced (I do) and not because I don’t want to make it to the interview (I do and I must). But I’m not in the habit of getting into cars with strange men who promise to buy me fancy clothes.

  I take my first good, long look at Randolph MacLeish. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, in his late thirties I would guess by his slightly graying hair. He’s got a distinguished quality in a charcoal Haggar herringbone suit.

  I say, “I really shouldn’t. It’s kind of you to offer, but -”

  “No, I insist, really. My car’s right over here.” He points out a stunning silver Mercedes Benz SL-Class roadster.

  I look at him again. He seems nice enough, I surmise. A little clumsy maybe, but I don’t think he’s going to hurt me. And I really need that job; if I’m going to get it, I do need some new clothes.

  I giveit a little thought, but only enough so that it doesn’t look like I’m jumping on his offer, which is what I am doing.

  “Um, okay, sure,” I say. He steps back and holds his hand out to the Benz. He unlocks and opens the car door and waits. It’s a frightening moment, one I may not be able to walk away from.

  Oh, get over yourself, I hear my little voice ridicule from within, you’re not exactly Kate Middleton. Now just smile and nod and get in the car or kiss that job at SalesPace goodbye!

  Ten minutes later, we’re in an Anne Taylor. I feel very girlish and almost giggly as I try on a red crepe peplum jacket and a pencil skirt, a glen plaid jacket and a tropical wool pinstripe skirt. I look at myself in the mirror, a bit surprised but happily so.

  I’m really rather passable, I have to admit. Maybe even a bit more than that. Are my legs this long, or is it the mirror? Hey, from the side my boobs
really stand up, I didn’t realize.

  I go in and out of the changing room a bunch of times, Randolph sitting nearby. He nods when he sees something he likes. And though it’s not like I’m going to be wearing these clothes for him (he’s just paying me back for soiling my own clothes after all), I do value his opinion. His own clothes hang so nicely on his tall, muscular frame; his broad shoulders, his steely chest, his flat stomach and narrow waist.

  I shake my head and get back to the business at hand.

  Business!

  I check my watch; a nasty tremor passing through my body, shaking me down to my core. “It’s ten after three, I missed my appointment!”

  Randolph checks his own watch, which looks to be silver or even platinum. He smiles and shrugs. “There’ll be other opportunities. Try the pencil skirt again.”

  “Other -?” I almost want to snap at him a little, but of course I don’t. No point in winding up jobless and with no shirt on my back. Neither are very great, but together they are an especially unattractive proposition; definitely not the kind of combo I’m looking for. I clear my throat and smile. “I’m sure you’re right.” I look down at the skirts and jackets, each with silk blouses and shoes and matching accessories. “Whaddaya think? For the next interview, I mean.”

  Randolph looks me over and smiles, a bit amused and, if I do say so, a bit hungrily as well. He turns to the sales girl and says, “We’ll take the last three outfits, two each in different shades. Can you deliver them?”

  “Six -?” I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I add, “No, I can’t possibly -”

  “Addie, please, it’s not charity -”

  “Well, I didn’t take it for charity -”

  “It’s not that either, whatever you’re thinking.” He looks at me with a roguish smile, his head bobbing just a touch. “After all, I can’t have my new junior associate going around without the right kind of clothes.”

  I have to shake my head to wrap my brain around it. But lacking time and a place to digest his offer, I can only say, “What? I -?”

  “I just lost mine and I haven’t been able to find anyone good enough to replace her,” Randolph says, looking almost sheepish. “I hope you don’t think I’ve been trying to trick you, but I did want to see if we got along well together.”