Tilia

Ever notice how loud noises somehow justify intense emotion? Usually negative emotion, but all the same, slamming a door as hard as possible, or chunking something heavy and ceramic across a room might not solve anything, but it sure makes us feel a hell of a lot better.

Right now, the only thing available to me is my car, so I resist digging my three inch heel into the door to karate kick it shut from the outside, and settle for using arm momentum to send it reeling back into the vehicle body from whence it came.

Everything sucks.

I'm not crying. Yet. But as I trudge up the stairs to my third floor apartment (I never use the elevator. Calf muscles, you know?), the emotion that's been threatening to spill over the edges of my carefully constructed composure begins to bubble threateningly.

Dane should be here soon. He's always good for a vent. Dammit, what's taking him so long? I can't even get the key into the door properly for the frustration of it all. Usually I'd just call Kristen, but considering she's what's caused this mess . . . no, don't think about it. Just don't think about it.

My briefcase goes reeling across the room, skidding to a dramatic halt a few inches from the kitty litter. That'd have just topped my day off, if it'd collided. The cat is nowhere to be seen. Hopefully she's rummaging around in Kristen's expensive bras.

Bitch.

Dane will be bringing coffee, so there's
no need to brew any. I should just make myself comfortable, maybe pull on some sweats, but somehow, changing out of the red suit, the one I wear to feel powerful, will just make things worse. As if they could get any worse.

I do let my hair down, though that turns out to be a mistake, since going into my room to lay down the shell comb brings me face to face with part one of my disaster. Doesn't help that it takes up half of my wall either.

I hear footsteps on the stairs. Dane. As soon as he opens the door, I tell myself, I'll tear my eyes away from the project I've worked on for six weeks. My masterpiece, I'd lovingly called it. To myself, of course. Maybe once or twice to Kristen. She'd better not come home tonight.

Bitch.

It's an advertisement, for a brand
called Tilia. It's a feminine product company. One has to be sensitive with this type of advertisement. I'd used purple tones, smooth curves and lines. It was kind of a flower, since Tilia is the name of a flower, but not really...not really.

The door slams shut, snapping me out of
my reverie. Ah, there he is. My would-be knight, in scuffed and rusting armor.

“Dane!” I walk out of my room, clipping the door shut so he won't be tempted to look inside. He's attractive in a scruffy sort of way. Not dirty or unwashed or anything, but never quite clean either.

He brought me a macchiato. I can smell it. I said coffee. Coffee. Does he realize how many calories are in a macchiato? That's all I need, to be fat and a laughing stock.

“What took me so long?” He demands, looking for all the world as if he's absolutely serious as he hands me the drink.

I open my mouth to thank him, but he cuts me off with, “It's just a tall, you won't get fat.”

Okay, so I don't have to talk. Yet. I walk over to that damned bamboo table Kristen just had to have, and crumple into one of the seats.

“What happened?” he asks, sliding in across from me. “Is it the Jamestown letter?”

Ah, part two. If the advertisement was the dynamite, this was the fuse. I'd gotten a letter a few weeks ago from a competitive company that I'd applied to way before I got my present job. They'd finally gotten around to reviewing my work. They'd loved it. This was a job offer, with a significant salary raise and some pretty perky benefits that I'd never intended to take. It was an ego boost, to be sure. I'd even joked about framing it to remind myself that no matter how badly Mr. Cober got on my case, I did have talent.

Apparently Kristen missed the part where I wasn't taking the job. All she saw was the letter.

“She told everyone,” I mutter, twisting the coffee in my hands. “Everyone.”

“Cober?”

“Was pissed, naturally.” I glance up, once again possessed with the urge to break something. “She made it sound like I was flitting around waiting to drop the bomb on him.”

Dane winced. “She doesn't realize--.”

“Don't you dare defend her. Anyway, we had the board meeting today to review our pitches. I showed the Tilia project, had even toned it down a lot for Cober's less adventurous side. He ... uh, didn't like it.”

He'd laughed at me. I won't tell Dane that. No one will ever hear that from my mouth. He'd seen the project and laughed. Not a bitter, vengeful laugh either. Honest amusement. My work amused him. Half the board had been there to witness it too. And join in.

“Now, it looks like I have no choice but to go to Jamestown.”

Dane looks genuinely surprised. “Why's that? You can always just change the project.”

Oh yes, change the project. “Because. I won't go back after that spectacle.” I won't be laughed at.

He sighs. “You've changed jobs four times in the past three years because of drama like this. I thought you loved it here.”

“I do! Did...” before they laughed at me. “I thought they loved me back. Apparently I was wrong.”

“Stop that,” he snaps. “Let me see the project.”

I groan. “Don't make me relive this nonsense.” Still, I'm getting out of my chair and leaning over the litter for my case. The miniaturized, slightly abridged, tweaked for the company standards ... my project. And I hand it to him.

Dane looks like he's holding back something. Laughter? He looks up at me, and indeed, that's what he appears to be stifling.

“You did this?” he asks, with a suspicious scratch at the corner of his mouth. Some knight he's turning out to be.

“Yes!” to my horror, my voice cracks. He sobers immediately.

“This just isn't your usual par. It looks like you did one really good corporate project, and one really good artistic project, then attempted to put them together.”

My mouth drops in outrage. Mostly, because that's exactly what I'd done. While I soundlessly mouth lots of really good retorts at him, his amusement returns.

“Let me see the original project.”

“There is no--!”

“Right. Show me the project.”

“It's in my room.” I turn my back on him to sulk into my coffee. No not sulk, to ... is there a dignified word for pouting? I'm stewing. That's what I'm doing. I stew while he flounces off to my bedroom to laugh some more.

Bitch.

I giggle to myself, just for a moment, before remembering that the entire earth is in shards around my feet.

He comes back in looking, as I'd expected, properly amused. “Why didn't you show that?”

“I can't show that,” I tell him, truthfully. “It's not the type of design that the company advocates. It was meant to be a palette, but it didn't adjust well.”

“Right, well, you're not advertising the company, you're advertising Tilia. It's them you're trying to sell. Even if it bombed, and you lost your job, you do have the back-up of Jamestown. So why not go through with the presentation, just to see what happens?”

Because I'm concerned with facing the people at work on Monday. “Because I have to respond to Jamestown by Tuesday.”

“Jules, you have to stop doing this. When we were in college you changed your major five times. Five times! That's a lot.”

“And I had good reasons every single time.”

“They were just like this, though. They
always had more to do with what the people in your major thought of you, rather than how much you enjoyed what you were doing. That fifth change, was right back to the first major.”

“I know.”

He takes the coffee out of my hands and grips me by the shoulders. “Just this once, try to face the problem. See how it works out. Then, if you still feel horrible, you've got one last day to answer Jamestown.”

“The project...”

He shakes his head. “The project you showed is horrible. Show him the real thing.”

I start to respond and he talks over me. “Just try it.”



Monday is a day most people hate. I hate it too. I wear flats, so I can karate kick the door for good measure. Just to show Monday how much I hate it.

My original project is tucked firmly under my arm. I'm wearing the black suit, since the red one is at the cleaners, but the cut of it is snug enough to still allow some feeling of female power.

Maybe I'll be nice to Kristen today, since she did stay away all weekend, and ... since it was her new satin sheets the cat got, not her underwear.

No one giggles when I walk in. That's good. A few people stare, but I chalk that up to my alluring outfit, or the scene I just made in the parking lot when I showed my car door who was boss.

Kristen avoids me cleanly. Her duck away really was quite graceful.

My fax machine is churning when I lay down my things. But before the mystery document fully comes out, Cober is standing in the opening of my station.

“Miss Foster.”

I force a smile. A dashing smile. “Good morning. Are the Tilia representatives here yet?”

“Miss Foster, I thought you were leaving us. For more prestigious opportunities, if my memory serves.”

My stomach drops. He hates me.

“I'd never dream of leaving,” I attempt, though I hear my voice quiver.

He shoots me one of those school-marm looks reserved for liars and that kid who sticks gum-balls up his nose, then reaches over my shoulder to pluck the fax out of its tray.

It's from Jamestown.

Damn.

He reads it, his expression perfectly unreadable. I hold my breath.

“Jamestown has a meeting with Tilia as well. Did you know that?” he asks me after a moment.

“No sir.” They what?

“They are aware of your membership in our board today. Though, they seem blissfully unaware of the product.”

I literally bite down on my tongue to keep from responding to this.

He continues, “This fax is to alert you that you may either join their board of presentation, or decline to show you work at ours. Otherwise your job offer is void.”

My stomach takes the rest of the plummet. It drags a couple of other vital organs down with it. It seems a mistake that I can still stand.

Mr. Cober is looking at me expectantly. Oh, God. Oh, God.

“I told you,” someone is speaking. Is that me? Yep. Lovely. “I don't plan to leave.”

Cober's face relaxes somewhat. It's almost fatherly. Well, for him. “Did you adjust your project?”

No relieved thank you, no we're glad you're staying. Well, fine, then.

“Yes, I did.”

He nods curtly. He doesn't ask me to see it. Typical. Then he's gone.

I take a shaky breath and collapse into my chair. Its cool swivel feature does not bring the joy it usually does.

I clutch the covered project like a life line and take a composing breath. Might as well set up.

I head across the office avoiding the gazes of my colleagues. If I'm staying, and this falls through, I need to get used to ignoring people. It'll turn into a useful skill, I'm sure.

Ugh, I can't take it. I sneak a glance in cubicle forty something.

Oh, he's cute. He smiles.

Let's put ignoring people on plan B.

I almost reach the door without running into Kristen. Almost.

I can't bring myself to smile at her, but I'm not giving her the steely stare-down she deserves either. It turns into a jerky sort of nod to let her know that she can safely come home tonight. Hope she has a sleeping bag.

The Tilia reps are setting up, adjusting into their little private table. My colleagues give me queasy looks, each avoiding my eyes, even Kristen as she takes her seat.

I straighten my project on the podium, and offer what I hope is a confidant smile to the board. There's no need to introduce myself. My name is projected onto the board behind me.

“Good morning,” I manage, then with one last gasp at the air from my stable career, I pull down the canvas cover.