I have nothing and even worse, this is painfully obvious to everyone in the room.
“Ivy,” Claudette says from across the table. “Do you need to grab anything?”
“Um, no.” I smile and tap my head. “I’ve got it all up here.”
I look self-consciously at the two men, but they don’t seem to be gloating quite as much about my lack of props as Claudette is.
Suck it up, Ivy. You’re smart, capable, and you have good ideas for this place.
I glance over at Nolan and find him smirking at me. He cocks his head and raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment.
“Mr. Miller,” Claudette says. “You can present first.”
“Thank you, Ms. Delaney. Mr. Delaney. As you know—”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Nolan says, interrupting him. “We haven’t all met. Let me introduce everyone for Ivy’s sake.”
Well, that was nice.
“Ivy, this is Bram Miller, current brand manager for Beachwood Resorts in the Caribbean. How many resorts do you oversee, Bram?”
“Ah, seventeen, Mr. Delaney.”
“Bram got his MBA at Harvard and specializes in golf course promotion. Our professional course will be competitive and we think it will be a major draw for Hundred Palms.”
“I have you covered, Nolan,” Mr. Miller says with a confident smile.
Bram? Nolan? Well, they got cozy fast.
“And this,” Nolan says, pointing to the second candidate, “is Daniel Davies. He got his MBA at Stanford and is the project marketing director for the Shell Island Luxury resorts in North Carolina.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Davies says. “I’m particularly interested in the high-end amenities. Aside from the golf course”—he chuckles as he trades a smile with Bram—“I think of the spa as a gold mine, Ivy. It’s usually the most expensive service, and the most lucrative, offered by luxury resorts. Who can’t resist some pampering on vacation?”
“Right,” Nolan says, pleased with his two options. “Well, Miss Ivy Rockwell just recently graduated with honors from the IE Brown Executive program.”
Wait. What? Did I just hear him correctly?
“Ivy might be inexperienced and young”—they all have a nice chuckle at my expense—“but she comes highly recommended from Weston Conrad.”
“Ahhhh,” the two other men say. As if that explains everything about my sudden presence here.
“He knows his stuff,” Bram says. “He chose me too, after all.”
Hahahaha from the gang of men.
Jesus Christ.
But I’m still wondering why Nolan Delaney thinks I have an MBA. I’m twenty-two. He knows this.
“Ivy worked on her MBA at Brown simultaneously as she completed her undergrad degree,” Claudette explains, like she’s reading my mind.
“Wow,” Davies says. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Impressive, Miss Rockwell.”
“Thank you?” I say weakly. But what the hell is going on?
“Ivy has no formal experience, of course,” Claudette adds. A sudden wave of fear threatens to overtake me. “But if Weston Conrad says she’s up for the job, well, we can’t just dismiss her outright, you both understand, right?”
What a bitch.
“Of course,” Bram says.
“Totally understand,” Daniel adds.
I smile through my humiliation and nod as the formal presentation about the golf course starts, headed up by Bram. But I can’t even begin to pay attention to what he’s saying, even though he’s got a full-on PowerPoint presentation on screen filled with data tables and projected profits for the next ten years.
Why the hell do the Delaneys think I have an MBA? And why would this Weston Conrad guy tell them this?
I look nervously at Nolan, who is sitting on the same side of the table as me, but two chairs forward. He’s asking Bram something about a slide. I glance down at three folders open on the table in front of him. One for each of us, I presume. Two are thick, like there are many documents inside them. But it’s the thin one I’m interested in. That has to be me. I crane my neck a little to get a glimpse of what’s in there and see a fancy letterhead on a résumé.
My résumé. But that’s not my letterhead. My letterhead is an elegant embossed gold script and this one is in bold black.
What is happening? Do they have me mixed up with someone else?
Someone else named Ivy Rockwell, Ivy? Don't be ridiculous.
But what other explanation is there?
Should I stop this? Should I tell them they’re mistaken?
I ponder that for a while as the meeting continues. Bram has all kinds of thoughts about the golf course that I’m not even remotely interested in. And then before I know it, Daniel is standing—not with a PowerPoint, thank God, but he’s got handouts. Full-color graphs and charts, documenting every detail of the most profitable spas around the world and what services they offer.
My hands start sweating as I volley my options back and forth. Tell them the truth? Or give it my best shot and walk out with my dignity intact?
I can’t stomach the thought of standing up and admitting that my meager accomplishment is a lie. Will they accuse me of lying? Of tricking them into this expensive meeting? How much did it cost to fly me across the country in that private jet?
Everything inside me is screaming to do the right thing and tell them the truth. My father’s words in my head, all growing up. Never lie, Ivy. Lying is the worst sin because it fosters undeserved trust and loyalty.
But… I didn’t do anything. I didn’t fake my résumé. And I don’t even know how they got a hold of it. Why should I have to humiliate myself because— “Miss Rockwell?” Nolan asks.
I look up and realize the room is silent. Daniel is seated again and all eyes are on me.
“Yes?” I ask, meeker than I’d care to admit. Suck it up, Ivy. Suck. It. Up.
“Are you ready?”
I nod and stand, smoothing out the wrinkles in my linen skirt as I walk to the front of the room. I’m out of here tonight anyway, right? I was a pity interview. I’m only part of this meeting at a friend’s suggestion. I don’t have a chance in hell of getting this job.