I. O. U.

Accruing Interest

Whelp this is a fucked up situation. Here I am sitting behind an extremely nice desk with a brand spanking new laptop and access to who knows how much money playing at puppetmaster of an incredibly handsome, presumably powerful, businessman's life. How did we get here again?

Oh yeah, I spilt hot chocolate (fucking hot chocolate!) on his $1000 bespoke shirt and ruined it. 

I've never been an assistant before. I don't really know the requirements of the job just an approximate something, something schedules, something something photocopy documents. It can't be that hard...?

The laptop whirs to life and displays the desktop. First things first, he mentioned a schedule in that spitfire dialogue. I click the calendar on the laptop and also find a document labelled weekly schedule which I open in another window, arranging them both neatly beside each other on the screen.  Susan: multi-tasker extraordinaire! 

Jesus the definition of anal retentive should just read Magnus Axton. This guy has has scheduled everything down to his sleeping hours and his relaxation time. His hours are definitely 'odd'. Based on this schedule he works mostly between noon and midnight. Morning classes are going to suck if I'm in the office till midnight every day. A melodious sequence of dings and a small coloured window informs me that a client is expected just as the lift doors open. I stand, doing my best impression of professional poise. It comes off a little impressionist I suspect. 

"Good afternoon sir, I will inform Mr Axton of your arrival if you would just wait here." I walk quickly along the hallway and knock on the impeccably polished dark wood door, taking the muffled sound as an invitation. "Your 4 o'clock is here... sir?"

He stands without a word, brushing past me. I try not to react as his hand briefly catches at mine, that unique scent of sandalwood and spice billowing in his wake. I snap to attention and hurry after him. The men greet each other with a stoic, manly handshake. "Good to see you again Axton," rollicks the client.

"Likewise Michael, it is always a pleasure to do business with your company." The two men start walking towards the office. Shit, should I be doing something? Taking notes? Printing something?

"Can I get you guys... gentlemen anything? Tea..." I finish lamely, drifting into a ponderous absence of speech. Mr Axton impales me on his gaze.

"No, thank you Susan. For future reference, there is an intercom on your desk." He turns and follows Michael into his office, closing the door behind them. I slump into my chair, cheeks burning with the heat of a thousand wasp stings. My gaze wavers over the phone and intercom. I turn to the laptop and open Chrome, then proceed to google how to use an intercom.

~~~

I fall into bed like a sex starved socialite, only I'm completely alone and my room would fit in a real housewife's closet. Without standing I flop over, unzip my skirt and proceed to wriggle out of my clothes, flopping like an eel out of water. This probably uses more energy but it feels dramatically appropriate. I tumble into a bralette and my saggy pajama t-shirt and shorts before hurling myself upright. The shoulder bag containing my new laptop, company credit card and folder of documents leers at me from beside the door. Note to self: google what an assistant does, because I will not be asking that snooty receptionist.

I swipe my phone from the bag and open Youtube as I head down to the communal kitchen. It's 10pm and I want my instant noodles. It's sort of nice eating this late - I can treat my shabby diet like a secret shame. I flick through some banal content on Youtube whilst the water boils and then do more of the same as I wait the advertised "2 minutes" for everything to "cook". I lift the cover and literally inhale the aroma; just as I'm about to figuratively inhale my 'food', my phone starts dancing across the counter top flashing. The caller ID is unknown but I have a sinking feeling in the deep dark empty pit that is my stomach. I swipe right to answer the call and before I can utter a syllable: