Page 3 of Van Cort
“Well, yes. To some. I blame my parents. But I prefer Andie, please. Especially at work.” Smile. Don’t get annoyed.
“Right, right. Andie. And what makes you think you’ll be a good fit for me here?”
The way he asks the question makes me squirm, but I shove the feeling down and answer him, ensuring all of my rehearsed lines hit.
“Thank you, okay. And what attributes would you say you have? What skills are you versed with over someone, say, alreadyunder me?” He shifts in his seat. Again, the way he asks his questions makes it hard to feel like he’s being professional, but I smile and refuse to show him my disgust.
System finance modelling, attention to detail, company growth. I keep my head focused on everything I’ve done in the last year. Yet he seems to show no interest in what I’m saying. He’s just staring at me and nodding, occasionally, in the right places. He’s resting his arm across the back of the chair as if posing, and even though my shirt is buttoned high and tied with a bow, and my skirt falls below my knees, his look makes me feel like I’m wearing a dress that leaves nothing to the imagination.
I should get up and walk out.
“You must be good. You wouldn’t have made it this far without that. What would you ask me, though? Your future boss?” His smirk is repellent.
“I would have expected the interview to be with HR. Can I ask why you, as a partner, conduct your own interviews?” It’s a rash question, but one I can’t keep from asking.
“Well, that’s simple. I personally approve all of my hires. That’s the benefit of owning the company. So, if we don’t get along, if I can’t imagine us working closely together, then you won’t make it to the next stage.”
“I see. And how much would we be working together? I’m hoping to have my own client list here.”
“Well, again, Andie, that will depend. Our clients are important to us, so you’d have to prove yourself.”
“I’m sorry, Mr Pierson. Can I confirm that I’m interviewing for the senior financial analyst position? I’d be responsible for the financial planning and strategy development for my accounts, and I’d work with others within the client senior leadership team to further develop components for growth?”
“Yes, you’re correct. Miss Anderson. It is Miss, correct?” I nod.“But like I said prior. We’re a close team. And I need to be able to trust all of those who work for me.”
“I assure you, I’m a more than trustworthy employee, Mr Pierson. I’d just appreciate some clear boundaries and expectations relating to the role, specifically.”
“We can discuss… expectations. Don’t you worry yourself about that.” His smile widens and his eyes trail over me, no mask of professionalism in sight.
“I’m sorry, Mr Pierson. This isn’t the format of the interview I was anticipating. Perhaps this isn’t going to be the right place for me after all.” I stand and curse to myself as I run my hands down my skirt to smooth out the wrinkles.
He sits there, looking up at me from his position on the couch and still just smirks. “Very well. That’s your decision. And here I was looking forward to what you’d be willing to do for me.”
No. I can’t. There are other offices. Other firms. Even staying where I am would be better than coping with his innuendos and creepy remarks, which would clearly lead to an inappropriate proposition that will likely get me fired when I turn him down.
Without saying anything outwardly inappropriate, everything out of his mouth has been laced with sexual intent. He clearly just wants to be the boss and manipulate me. Well, screw him.
I turn to leave. “Thank you for your time.”
How?How can a man like this be in charge of such a reputable firm?
Marching out, I force myself not to say anything at reception and call the elevator. I want to shower, to wash all of those veiled comments away. Instead, I settle on going for a drink. Because I fucking deserve it after sitting through that.
Seattle isn’t the biggest city. I like that it has Elliott Bay and isn’t just filled with buildings of glass and concrete. The Four Seasons is a short walk, a few blocks away, and I’ve been thereonce or twice before. The bar has a nice view. But as I walk in the entrance and head for the bar, I grow more and more uneasy about going further. Floral arrangements line the entranceway, growing in size and splendour. There are a few people, all wearing over-the-top dresses and even a few tuxes. Clearly, the hotel is playing host to a wedding, and a very big, very lavish one at that. Nobody stops me, though, so I continue until I perch on one of the barstools.
I untie the silken bow at my collar and undo the first button, in an attempt to look less corporate and more like someone who might be celebrating at a wedding, before slipping my hair from the formal chignon. The weight of it spilling loose eases the tension in my head, and I shake it until it falls to the bottom of my spine.
Many times over, I’ve been tempted to cut it, to be more formal in my appearance and stop people only seeing me as a blonde bimbo. It’s better than it used to be when I was at school, but people still judge me for the colour of my hair before anything else. Being a natural blonde and a woman puts me at a distinct disadvantage, today being the perfect example.
I raise my hand to the waiter. “A white wine. Anything but chardonnay, please.”
The bar is mercifully quiet, with just a few people, and I wonder if this is the lull before the evening celebrations. Well, nobody has asked me to leave, so I take a sip of the wine the waiter delivers and let it cleanse my experience of Mr Pierson.
I check my phone and see Mom has sent me a good luck message. She’ll phone later, a regular occurrence through the week, checking in on me. I know it’s only because she wants to be involved in my life, but I’m 27 years old. It’s not like I’m a child anymore. Still, I know it makes her happy.
While the wine fortifies me, I run over my next steps professionally. Look for another position, or hope thatsomething may change where I am. There aren’t a lot of options. I empty my glass before I decide on my predicament and get set to leave.
“So, bride or groom?”
