Page 8 of Hard Limits

“Make a dinner reservation—a table for six—on Thursday evening at the place I like on North Cannon Drive. I forget the name… The one with the blue sign outside. A private table, nothing near the window. Send a bouquet to my mother, and get Herve Weisberger on the phone.”

“How do you spell—”

“And find me strawberries. I fancy having strawberries. Don’t forget to ensure they’re organic.”

Croissant, shoes, moisturiser… Crap, what was the fourth thing? This was like one of those game shows where you had to memorise the items on the conveyor, except I wouldn’t be going home with any prizes at the end of the day. If I was lucky—or perhaps unlucky, depending on how you looked at it—I’d manage to keep my job. I should have brought a notepad and pen with me. Or better yet, recorded my new boss, although that would probably be in contravention of the NDA I’d signed.

“Could you just—”

Mr. Vale turned his chair away from me. “That’s all, Meena.”

“Actually, it’s Meera.”

He didn’t bother to answer, and I stood there like a fool until I finally realised I’d been dismissed and ran for the door. Not the heavy set of double doors I’d come in yesterday, but the regular door to the left of Mr. Vale’s giant desk—another sign of tiny-dick syndrome. My own workstation was in a smaller anteroom that came with a luxurious couch, a kitchenette, and a large closet. According to the manual, I should put Mr. Vale’s dry cleaning and any new clothes he purchased into the closet, and he’d take them upstairs later. Apparently, he lived on the fourth floor, but I wasn’t to enter his apartment unless specifically requested. That suited me just fine. He’d probably modelled his penthouse on a dungeon, and it wouldn’t have surprised me if he had a refrigerator full of blood bags and slept in a coffin.

A notepad, I needed a notepad. And a pen. My desk was a smaller version of Mr. Vale’s, an ornate thing carved from dark wood, and I pulled open the top drawer. It was empty except for a greeting card decorated with a shiny four-leaf clover. Curiosity got the better of me.

To his new PA,

Good luck—you’ll need it.

Monique (#26)

Was the message meant for me? Was Monique my predecessor? What did the number twenty-six mean? Was I the twenty-seventh assistant? Surely not—Mr. Vale couldn’t have been more than thirty, and even my father had only gotten through nine assistants in the last decade. I knew that because I’d spent more time talking with them than I had with him. He, on the other hand, barely remembered their names—when I’d tried to include them all on my wedding guest list, he’d asked who they were and then vetoed that plan.

I opened the second drawer and hit pay dirt—a brand-new Moleskine notebook and an expensive-looking silver pen nestled in a velvet-lined box. I turned to the first page and began scribbling frantically.

Croissant.

Shoes.

Moisturiser.

Dinner.

Bouquet.

Had he asked for strawberries or raspberries? And bhains ki aankh, who was that person he’d wanted me to call?

I thumbed through the manual, looking for key words. Where should I buy the croissant from? Did it matter? Mr. Vale had a favourite brand for everything, it seemed—what about pastries? The “food” section gave me my answer. Pastries came from the kitchen downstairs or the patisserie half a mile along the road. Guess I’d better get used to walking. At least the exercise might help me to shift the six pounds I’d gained during my time at Clifton Packaging. Boredom had given me a cookie habit.

Since I didn’t know how to call the kitchen, I took twenty dollars from the petty cash box (located in bottom desk drawer, keep receipts, email spreadsheet to finance department monthly detailing expenditure) and headed to Bakeology. Croissants came plain, garnished with almonds, or filled with ham and Gruyère. I sucked in a calming breath. Just ask for one of each, Indi. If Mr. Vale had a problem with that, then he should have been more specific, shouldn’t he?

A grocery store nearby sold organic fruit, so I bought strawberries and raspberries to cover all bases. Back in the office, I arranged three croissants on a china plate I found in the kitchenette, put the fruit in a matching bowl, and knocked on the connecting door.

“Come in.”

“Here’s your breakfast.”

Should I have added a “sir” at the end? The manual didn’t specify.

“Put it on the desk. Why haven’t I spoken with Herve Weisberger yet?”

Herve Weisberger. That was the name I’d forgotten.

“I’ll get right onto that. Would you like more coffee?”

“No, but I’ll have water.”

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