Page 19 of Mistaken Identity

I can feel myself blush and I want to bury my head… or better still, my entire body.

“I’m so sorry. That was really stupid of me.”

“Hey… don’t apologize,” he says, as he leans in a little closer to the screen. “And don’t dismiss the idea, either.”

I’m not sure how to reply to that. I’m not even remotely interested in him… not in that way. But I can’t say anything to put him off, having been responsible for the misunderstanding in the first place.

“I’m happy to fit in with whatever Mr. Bennett needs.” That sounds like a reasonable response, keeping it professional, and about his boss, not him.

“Okay. I’ll check his schedule and get back to you.”

We end the call and I wait until the application has closed before I let myself fall sideways onto the bed, my head hitting the mattress as I groan out loud.

Could that have gone any worse? Probably. Although I can’t think how. And the job sounds so perfect for me, too. Not only is the package incredible, but Mr. Bennett seems like someone who really cares about his employees.

It’s just a shame I won’t be one of them, because even though Miles said he’d get back to me, after that little performance, I seriously doubt I’ll ever hear from him again.

***

Hunter

I know it’s only been a couple of days since I tasked Miles with finding me a new PA, and I’m probably jumping the gun in expecting him to have achieved anything yet, but I’ve heard nothing from him and I’m getting anxious. In reality, I know my anxiety doesn’t stem entirely from Miles’s silence. It stems mostly from the fact that I’ve just finished a meeting with my team of account execs, and it could have gone a lot better than it did… in all kinds of ways.

First and foremost, Doreen proved how invaluable she is, and how much I’m going to miss her, by correcting Preston Tucker, when he claimed he’d heard one of our competitors is going out of business. That would have been great news for us, if it had been true, because their clients would have been looking for a new agency, and we’d have had the chance to step in. However, it seemed Preston had his wires crossed. That’s unusual for him. He’s usually on the ball, but I guess we all have bad days.

“They’re not going out of business. They’re looking to merge with Banks, French and Stanley,” Doreen said, before Preston had even finished his explanation.

“Really?” I turned to her. “I hadn’t heard that.”

“I only found out about it myself an hour ago. I was going to tell you after the meeting.”

“But if the merger goes ahead, it’ll make them the biggest agency in the city.”

“Yes, it will. Although I have to stress, nothing’s been agreed yet. The word is, the board at Banks, French and Stanley are still looking through the financials. It could all come to nothing.”

She must have been able to see the worry written on my face, and was doing her best to appease me. Not that it helped, especially considering the men and women sitting around the table had just given me their poor appraisal of the next three months’ projections. I called the meeting to a close then, feeling the need to think things through.

Revenues are down, and while the business isn’t exactly in trouble, we need to get creative. That shouldn’t be a problem. Getting creative is what we do. But like I said to Drew the other day, a lot of the people around me date back to our father’s time. They’ve worked for the company for years, and I think they resent me coming in and taking over. Naturally, it doesn’t help that I worked for the opposition for a while, and poached a few of Dad’s clients from under his nose when I left TBA. I did that just to spite him, and although I know I could probably poach them back again, given the right incentives, I’m not going to. I’m trying to do things differently now… trying to be a better man, if I can.

On the bright side, it’s Friday. It’s the weekend, and I’m spending it at our property in Rhode Island. That’s not unusual for me, and I packed a bag this morning and left it in the trunk of my car, ready to start the drive.

It doesn’t take me long. I’m familiar with the roads and I pull through the gates at just after seven, feeling myself relax already. There’s something about this place that has always made me feel at home. Maybe it’s the fact that our father rarely came here. As a very young child, I don’t remember being bothered by his absence. Our mother was still here then, and she was all we needed, so I didn’t mind when he missed birthdays and Christmases.

I remember the arguments between him and Mom, though, when he occasionally remembered he was supposed to be a husband and father, and not just a businessman.

It was after she left, I suppose, that his absences became more noticeable. That was when he employed Patricia and Michael Ferguson to look after us and the house, and although they never tried to take the place of our parents, they became like a beloved uncle and aunt… known to all three of us as Pat and Mick.

I park in front of the double garage and get out of the car, retrieving my bag from the trunk and wandering over to the front door, although it opens before I get there.

“Good evening, Hunter.” Pat smiles at me, tilting her head to one side. I’ve got no idea how old she is, and I’ve never dared ask, but if I had to guess, I’d say she’s in her early-sixties now. She’s slim and diminutive, wearing a plain skirt and blouse, with silver streaks in her auburn hair, and green eyes that can see right through me.

“Hello, Pat. How are you?”

“I’m very well, thank you.”

She holds the door open while I step inside, and then closes it, reaching for my bag, although I pull it away, keeping hold of it. We don’t have this confrontation every time I come here… just every other time.

“Are you trying to make me feel old?” she says, narrowing her eyes at me. This is a different response from her usual one, which is to tell me it’s her job to take my bag.

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