“I mean . . .” A long gust of air escapes my mouth. “I guess not, I was just hoping—”
“I know. Listen, We all make mistakes. Bridge, what did you expect?” I want to object. I want to say that I’ve worked my ass off to get this far, and it’s not fair that I’m being compared to her mistakes. Olivia was not one to give lectures. Not too long ago she had overdosed on cocaine and ended up in rehab. I’ve tried so hard to not live in the shadows my sisters have cast from their own discretions, but no matter how hard I try it still hovers over me.
“Are you listening to me?” I give my head a little shake and realize that I had, in fact, drifted off into my own mind. “What did you say?”
“I said I would handle it. Let me talk to Spencer, Bridge.”
“No. No way. I’m not working for your boyfriend.” I know I’m being petty, but all my life everything has been about her. I wanted something that was mine. Just mine. Not scraps she gave me. And that’s what working for her boyfriend would be—scraps.
“You wouldn’t have to work with him.”
“I just . . . I just can’t work for The Lancasters. I appreciate you even thinking about it, but no. It’s fine. I’m fucked, but it’s fine,” I groan.
“What if you didn’t have to work for him? What if I could get you a job somewhere else?”
“Olivia, there is no way anyone is hiring this late in the game. I appreciate it, but unless a miracle happens . . .”
Olivia chuckles on the phone. “Oh ye of little faith. Tell me now, do you have faith in me?”
“Of course I have faith in you. You’re my sister. But how is having faith in you going to help my situation? Unless your modeling agency suddenly opened without you telling me, and even then, I wouldn’t work for you anyway.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers but no. I haven’t opened yet, obviously. But I do think I have a job for you. One that will give you good experience to use toward something else.”
“You do? How? I already told you that me becoming your slave will not help with my life.” I chuckle, but there is no mistaking the sarcasm in my voice. That very option is something I could very well see Olivia suggesting.
“What if I told you I just heard that this fantastic temp agency is looking for some new blood?”
“I’d say tell me more.”
She laughs at my comment. “When I was looking for an assistant to start getting my agency in gear, I worked with the Karen Michelle Temp Agency, and the owner mentioned she is looking for new staff. They are extremely picky and very hard to get into, but she owes Spencer a favor or two. I bet I can get you in with them.”
“Are you sure?” My voice has taken on a slightly higher pitch as it always does when I try to contain my excitement.
“Yes.”
“That’s amazing. Although, I doubt they’ll take me. There are probably millions of people trying to apply.” My voice dips again as reality drops down on me. Just because she has a contact, doesn’t mean I’ll get a position. “But if I get it, I’d love you forever.”
“I will warn you, she’s not warm and fuzzy. She’s a shark. The kind that sniffs for blood and pounces at the first sign of weakness. If anything, she’ll make you want to drink, but she does have the best clients.”
“That’s not a problem, I don’t need warm and fuzzy. I just need a job.”
“You know Mom and Dad won’t—”
“I rented an apartment. I moved out. I’m not taking money from them, so I can put up with a shark as long as I’m getting paid. Make the call. Please.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She chuckles.
“Duly noted.”
“Okay, I’ll text you the details a bit later.”
“Thanks and again, I fucking love you!”
“Forever?”
“Forever.”
An hour later and I’ve already received a text from Olivia telling me to be at the temp agency she and Spencer have been working with at eleven. My lips part and a strangled gasp escapes.
Shit. It’s already ten.
I only have an hour. Where did the time go? Peering down, a slew of curses pour out of my mouth in rapid succession. I’m still in my goddamn pajamas. Of all the mornings I could have chosen to be lazy, this isn’t the best one. Or maybe it’s for the best. The less time I have to prepare, the less I can stress about it.
Without a minute to spare, I’m running through my apartment, pulling clothes over my head until I’m naked and in the shower. Once out, I dry off and dress into what I can only hope is something presentable—in other words, something I don’t have to iron. Before long I’m running out the door and making my way to the agency. When I finally arrive, it’s five minutes to eleven.
Breathe.
I can finally breathe.
I give my name to the receptionist and sit down in the lobby to wait. It’s only then that I realize I know almost nothing about the agency. How am I supposed to seem serious and prove to them that they want me when I don’t know anything about who they could potentially place me with?
I queue up trusty Google from my phone and learn they have the coolest clients ever. Placements are usually in fashion, TV, or luxury hotels. My mouth hits the floor when I see they work with Marie Claire, Vogue, and Gucci, and my lips part into a large smile at the idea of landing a job doing marketing for a fashion house. That would be a dream come true. I’m going to owe Olivia big time.
“Karen is ready to see you now,” the receptionist says while standing. “Let me show you to her office.”
A few seconds later, I’m walking into a brightly lit corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows facing Park Avenue. The room is sterile and void of all emotion, with white walls and white furniture. The focal point is a large Lucite desk, and sitting behind it is a middle-aged brunette with a tight smile. It’s so small I wonder if she’s had too much work done on her pristine face to even crack the surface.
“You must be Bridget,” she grits out, and it’s obvious she’s not happy to have me here.
So it’s not just the effects of too much filler and Botox.
“Spencer Lancaster gave me little information about your credentials.” There’s no dismissing the complete disdain in her voice.
A war starts to wage inside me. I want to tell her where she can stick her pretentious ass, and that I don’t need her job or her handout, but I know that’s just my pride talking. So I can grin and bear it and tolerate this woman’s abuse or . . .
This is the lesser of the two evils.
Sucking in my cheeks, I respond, “That’s probably because I don’t have any. I was supposed to work at—”