You’ve got this, she says, giving herself a thumbs-up.
Maggie has reminded Eric at least a dozen times that she needs a ride to the TV station. But when she comes downstairs for breakfast, instead of finding him at the breakfast table, she discovers a note in his tidy print beside the Keurig machine. Sorry, Mags. Last minute trip to North Carolina. Uber to your interview, and I’ll make it up to you when I get home tomorrow.
Last minute? Eric warned her he would be making frequent trips to Charlotte to meet with his team of architects, but when exactly did he find out about it? He didn’t mention the trip at dinner yesterday. Did he get a text message or email during the night?
She leans against the counter while she waits for her coffee to brew. Focus, Maggie. You can’t let this interfere with your performance. So what? He had to go to Charlotte on business. It’s no big deal. Or is it?
Removing her phone from her purse, she requests an Uber, connecting with one only five minutes away.
Al, a retired high school chemistry teacher, wants to chat. Maggie thinks maybe he’s had too much caffeine. She politely tells him she has an important job interview and buries her face in her notes.
Arriving at the station without a minute to spare, she gives her name to the receptionist, an attractive woman wearing a headset and tortoiseshell reading glasses. “I have an appointment with Raymond Clarke.”
The receptionist’s fingers dance across the keyboard. “Hmm. Your name is not on his calendar for today. Are you sure you have the right date?”
This interview is Maggie’s big chance. There’s no way she got the date wrong. “I’m positive. I have a job interview with him at nine o’clock. Maybe he forgot to put it on his calendar. We’ve been emailing back and forth for weeks about the news reporter position.”
A sympathetic expression crossing her face, the woman shakes her head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that position has been filled.”
Maggie’s body temperature rises, and she imagines sweat soaking the armpits of her silk blouse. “There must be some mistake.” She points at the phone on the woman’s desk. “Call Mr. Clarke. He’ll verify our appointment.” Her voice is raised, but she doesn’t care. The waiting room is empty.
Punching four numbers on her phone’s keypad, the receptionist swivels around in her chair and carries on a conversation with her mouthpiece in a volume too low for Maggie to hear. When she finally spins back around, she gestures at the waiting room. “Mr. Clarke is in a meeting. If you don’t mind waiting, he’ll be free in a few minutes.”
“I’ll wait all day if necessary,” Maggie says and takes the seat nearest the receptionist’s desk.
Twenty-five minutes pass before the receptionist tells Maggie that Mr. Clarke is ready for her. Gesturing toward the elevator, she says, “Second floor. Take a left off the elevator. His office is at the end of the hall on the right.”
“Thank you.” Standing, Maggie smooths the wrinkles from her slacks and approaches the elevator.
When she enters his office, Raymond Clarke rises from his chair, but he doesn’t come forward to greet her. He’s in his fifties, fit and handsome, dark hair graying at the temples.
Maggie marches across the room and extends her hand to him. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Clarke.”
Clarke gives her hand a firm shake. “And you as well, Mrs. Jones. Although, I’m confused as to why you’re here when you canceled our meeting for today.”
The bottom falls out of her stomach, and she has to work hard to retain her composure. “I’m confused as well, Mr. Clarke. I never canceled our meeting. I’ve been looking forward to this interview.”
Without offering her a seat, he sits down at his computer and begins typing. Seconds later, the printer beside him spits out a single sheet of paper. Back on his feet, he hands the paper to her. “This is a copy of the email you sent me at 11:07 Eastern Standard Time on Monday morning, withdrawing your application for the job.”
Her mind races as she scans the email. At 11:07 Eastern Standard Time on Monday morning, she was on a plane traveling across the country. She spent much of that time studying the Richmond city and Virginia state travel guides she’d purchased. She may have dozed off for a while. But at no point during her flight did she sign into the airline’s Wi-Fi and send an email to Raymond Clarke.
She smells a rat. Eric! How does he even know my email password?
She considers what to say. She can’t very well tell him her husband canceled the interview because he doesn’t want his wife to have a job that might put her life in danger. “I know what must have happened,” she says, as though an explanation for the confusion has suddenly come to her. “You see, I was traveling on Monday, from Oregon to Virginia. I asked my husband to send several emails for me, one of them to you confirming our meeting for today. He must have somehow gotten confused. Believe me, Mr. Clarke, I’m extremely interested in this job.”
Clarke doesn’t miss a beat. “Unfortunately, the position has been filled. Too bad, too. With your professional good looks and impressive resume, you would’ve been the ideal candidate. I’ll keep you in mind if anything else becomes available.”
She sees through his lie, just as he’d seen through hers. He has no intention of keeping her in mind for anything. Her resume is headed for his shredder.
“Good day, Mrs. Jones.” He sweeps his hand in the direction of the door, dismissing her.
She stares at the floor, avoiding eye contact with everyone she encounters in the hallway, the elevator, and the lobby. Despite the biting wind and subfreezing temperature, Maggie waits for her Uber outside the building. She isn’t wearing a coat—she doesn’t own one that complements her suit—and she’s shivering, her teeth chattering, by the time Rebecca arrives twenty minutes later. If the stains on the upholstered seats and crumbs littering the floorboard of her minivan are any indication, Rebecca is a mother moonlighting as an Uber driver while her children are in school. She must sense Maggie’s ill mood because she says nothing during the fifteen-minute drive back to Stork Alley. Maggie grips her phone as she taps on Eric’s number. When he doesn’t answer, she tries again. Over and over and over again.
At home, she takes her laptop to her bedroom and locks the door. She signs into her Gmail account where she finds the email in her trash folder, sent at 11:07 Eastern Standard Time on Monday morning, canceling the interview and Clarke’s disappointed response to her.
She changes her password, signs out of Gmail, and accesses her online bank account. After their wedding, Maggie and Eric agreed to combine their separate accounts into one, and she’s shocked to see the balance in that joint account is only $343.52. Why is the balance so low when Eric has plenty of money? Or so he says.
Eric also convinced Maggie to put her meager savings in his brokerage account for his wealth manager to invest.
“You’ll get more return on your money than you would in your standard savings account,” he said.
She readily agreed, trusting him with every dime she’d scrimped and saved after paying off her student loans. But she neglected to ask him how to access that money if she should ever need it. Stupid.
She taps her bank’s customer service toll-free number into her phone and is informed by an automated voice that the current wait time for a representative is ten minutes. Putting the phone on speaker, she sets it on the bureau while she changes out of her suit into jeans and a turtleneck. The automated voice interrupts the elevator music to announce she has six more minutes to wait. Snatching up the phone, she goes to the window. The street below is deserted. It’s too cold for anyone to be out on a day like today.