Chapter 5: Assistance

Mr. Neroni’s assistant, who introduced herself as Ms. Veselsky, leveled her gaze at Eliza, giving her the distinct impression that she already knew exactly where Eliza Latimer was.

“I’m looking for a Ms. Elizabeth Latimer?” she repeated.

Eliza contemplated, for the briefest of moments, throwing Kasey under the bus, even if it was an utterly futile gesture. She didn’t get the chance. The office had stopped. Silence dominated as gossip authored itself in Eliza’s coworkers’ brains, in her superiors’ e-mail drafts. Kasey audibly dropped a file folder in her office.

“That’s you,” Eliza heard Greg say. She hadn’t taken her eyes off of the assistant. She was gorgeous, primly dressed, but still so stylish that Eliza didn’t feel like this assistant would have recognized her apartment as a place habitable by human beings. She’d probably only ever heard of Brooklyn on the news. This woman was Manhattan, head to toe. Greg shook her back to reality with a verbal nudge, “Remember?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Eliza. “Yes. That’s me.”

“Are you sure,” said Ms. Veselsky.

“Yes, sorry, I was… distracted,” she replied. “And, in all honesty, a bit surprised. You’re Mr. Neroni’s assistant, right?”

“That’s correct. I’m assuming that you’re familiar with Green Canyon leadership retreats? Your former boss, Markus is on one right now,” she said to the employee in front of her, distracted by more important notifications from her tablet. Eliza was sure that she’d already forgotten her name and needed to look it up.

“Former boss?” said Eliza. Now, it was Ms. Veselsky’s turn to give her a quizzical look. “He’s still our boss, right? Just not as directly.”

“Of course,” replied Ms. Veselsky with a barely concealed eye roll.

Eliza felt that she needed to balance the power any way that she could, and that was probably the closest she was going to get. She could feel Greg’s eyes boring into her back. Kasey had to be choking back a scream. Eliza’s brand-new boss had to have stood up and sat back down four times in the last ninety seconds. A glass partition away, Markus’ replacement wore a look that might as well have been a howl of jealousy.

“Yes, they’re for… uh… managers, right?”

“Yes, they are. Normally. This comes from Mr. Neroni himself, and, yes, he wanted me to extend an invitation to you. I’ll admit that this,” she glanced around the copywriting desks for effect, “is a first, but your employer is a dynamic one. He has the privilege to do what he wants. Even, inviting someone to a company retreat at such short notice.”

It had to have been the e-mail. It could have been the patch. Maybe, he’d been struck by her black skirt and flats and just couldn’t live without knowing what it was like to date a woman whose annual wages were infinitesimal percentages of his own worth. Could he want her input on a new direction for the company? Had this stupid, desperate suicidal career move paid off in a way that Eliza had never predicted? Things like this didn’t happen, not to her. Not to anyone. It was the stuff of bad fiction, stupid movies. What was next?

“Is there anything that you need to wrap up before you go?” asked Ms. Veselsky.

“Aren’t people normally notified by, you know, e-mail?” asked Eliza, amazed that he’d had the presence of mind to ask something of that nature. She was stalling and didn’t know why. Something felt really, really wrong.

“Well, yes, but,” Ms. Veselsky said this as if it were the most elementary fact under the sun, “the retreat has already begun.”

“Wait, you mean this retreat? Not the next one? Not next time?”

“I thought I had made that clear when I said that this was short notice. Yes. Is there anything that you need to wrap up before you leave?”

Eliza looked at Greg, thunderstruck not because she wanted the opinion or permission of a guy whose favorite story to relate was that he had dated a Playboy bunny. She just needed to know that she wasn’t dreaming. That this was, in fact, happening and surprising. Greg reflected her shock. Kasey dropped something else in her office.

“We’ve already got a temp who will fill your position during your absence,” continued Ms. Veselsky.

“Um, I’ll need clothes, I guess. Can we stop by my apartment?” stammered Eliza.

“We have a lot of sizes of retreat gear. You won’t want for anything.” Silence descended as Ms. Veselsky waited. “Look, Ms. Latimer, I don’t know if you get some sort of charge out of dithering about whether you’re going to come on this trip, but I assure you that Mr. Neroni will absolutely rescind this invitation if you continue to waste my time, which is his time,” Ms. Veselsky punctuated this by looking up from her tablet.

“Okay, well, uh, I guess, yeah, let’s go?” asked Eliza. Greg was screaming at her with his eyes.

“Great. Let’s go.”

Mr. Neroni’s pristine assistant marched off without looking behind her until she reached the doorway. Eliza stood, almost warily, as if she might wake up or be struck by a meteor. Either felt more likely than this. With a mock bow to Greg and everyone else who was watching, Eliza grabbed her bag and followed the stiletto-heeled woman into the hallway. She was surprised that Ms. Veselsky didn’t summon the elevator and even more surprised when she moved toward the right side and the ascending stairs.

“Up?” Eliza asked, dumbly.

“Helicopters don’t park well on the street, Ms. Latimer.”

She had never been in a helicopter. Stupid Eliza. Of course, it was a helicopter. Did she think Ms. Veselksy had pulled up outside in a Prius or something?

The Green Canyon retreat was already underway in some area of upstate. Eliza didn’t know where. It was on company property, but she had heard that it was remote. Monte Salute owned real estate all over the place, like some sort of contemporary British Empire. Eliza decided she’d have to remember that quip. It was clever.

Eliza’s consciousness acclimated to the dream she had suddenly inhabited. Noise from the rotor of the machine. Sunglasses on the pilot. Nods. Perfunctory mouthing of pleasantries lost to the world. She sat in the back with Ms. Veselsky and watched the helipad, the building, and the skyline recede behind White Plains. Then, there was a lot of repetition: prop noise, treetops, suburban towns, strip malls, and a vast unmemorable web of roads. Ms. Veselsky offered her a bottle of water, which she politely declined and wished she hadn’t. This was an evil corporation. She should be costing them every dime that they had. After all, if she was going to Green Canyon, she was going to be in management or something, right? When Markus saw her there, he was going to lose it, absolutely *lose* it. Eliza grinned to herself for the first time that day.

Ms. Veselsky did not attempt to speak to her for the rest of the trip. Her attempts to engage this professionally put together woman were met with nods and blank stares. Eliza gave up quickly. She tried to imagine herself changing the direction of the company: sustainability, shared ownership, a company that you didn’t work for, one you worked *with*.

And then, they had arrived.

“You’ll want to follow me,” said Ms. Veselsky. The words dissolved into her brain like butter, and Eliza felt distracted, unable to resist. How could words affect like that? This was an assistant. She wasn’t even the real power here.

The helipad where they had landed was adjacent to a mansion that brought her English major brain to F Scott Fitzgerald. She followed Ms. Veselsky toward a very large patio just off of the main building. In the distance, the stately white façade gazed down upon them, its many windows, the kaleidoscopic eyes of a spider. Eliza felt like prey. Why was she here? Why? She hadn’t sent anything to Mr. Neroni that wasn’t available on the internet. He had to know what was happening when they cut costs, when they offshored production, when they lobbied congress. Her heart jumped into her throat. Why *was* she here?

Part of Eliza wanted to flee, but ever since Ms. Veselsky had spoken, she felt like a velvety gloved hand had wrapped itself around her brain. There was a warm kind of comfort surrounding her, provided that she didn’t disobey that voice. Still, she couldn’t ignore the frightening reality of where she was physically.

If no one in Eliza’s office ever saw her again, they’d all assume that she’d gone on to bigger and better things. What? Was Greg going to check in on her if she disappeared into a lime filled trench in upstate New York? Eliza’s pulse quickened as she walked. The helicopter ride had been a sensory smorgasbord, and her brain had been filled with an optimistic future where she reformed the company, became the conscience it lacked. Now… there was a nagging voice in the back of her head that asked if the timer of her life was counting down to the single digits. Surely, Mr. Neroni wasn’t going to invite some second-rate copywriter to tell him how to run a multinational corporation.

And then, beyond the second set of stairs on the walkway, she saw over Ms. Veselsky’s perfectly groomed hair where they were headed: a raised patio with one large on it. A few figures were visible there, but Eliza could see that most of them were attendants of some sort. They were shuffling off like people who worked to serve always did. Faceless help of every gender and race. One man in a stylish, tailored sport coat remained. He wore black sunglasses, but Eliza recognized his angular shape, his style, his aspect. Mr. Neroni, *the* Mr. Neroni, was sitting next to a bottle of wine and two glasses. His left elbow rested on his lower torso, and in his hand was a small book.

At the sound of Ms. Veselsky’s heels on the flagstones, the billionaire looked up. He did not remove his sunglasses. He watched them approach but did not stand. When they were close enough that there was no way to avoid being heard, he said, “Ah, well, it’s our resident Upton Sinclair.”

ResEEdent. SEEnclair. This beautiful man with an incredibly seductive accent was going to kill her. Eliza was going to die, but propriety – of all things, *propriety* – kept her from running. Right? Or was it the fact that she didn’t quite believe that she was in danger? After all, he didn’t know everything that there was to know about her. Surely, not *everything*.