Yesterday, I was able to tell myself that I have a pretty smile. It felt so great that my smile got even prettier.
People at work are starting to feel less uneasy around me, too. I actually had a conversation with Jamie from accounting about Kit Kat versus Twix in front of the vending machine the other day. Then he said, “Hey, I was wondering…” and I noticed when he leaned closer that he had horrible halitosis, so I pretended I heard my phone ringing and rushed out of there with my Kit Kat before he could finish his thought.
I straighten my wrap dress and tighten the tie-belt, being as objective as I can about how I look. It’s the first time I’ve had the guts to wear this dress since Lisa picked it out for me and persuaded me to buy it. It’s really pink. No matter. I don’t have time to find a different outfit and change, so here goes.
When I get to work, Lisa whistles at me. “See? I told you! You look hot.”
“Probably because I’m sweating,” I grouse, lifting my hair off my neck and fanning myself at my desk.
“You know you’re gorgeous, so shut up.”
I stick my tongue out at her and go into the break room, where I stand in front of the open refrigerator for a few seconds after setting my lunch on the crammed shelf.
“Libby,” I hear behind me.
Quickly, I close the fridge and turn around to face Gary, who’s standing there, cup of coffee in hand. I don’t know how he can drink that when it’s a hundred degrees outside.
“I need you to work with Jude today on his presentation for the art museum.”
“Okay,” I answer readily, perkily, and approachably. “When’s the presentation?”
“Monday. Clear your workload. Give any other work you have to Lisa, Leslie, and Zoe. This is priority one.” He sips his coffee, then pours the rest down the sink. “I’ll check on you guys later to see how it’s going.” He sets his dirty mug in the sink (which is right next to the dishwasher, by the way) and walks out.
Sighing, I rinse the cup and place it in the dishwasher for him. Then I head back to my desk.
I dump a few minor projects in Lisa’s and Zoe’s laps. A really unsavory job I was dreading goes to Leslie. When I tell her what needs to be done, she narrows her eyes at me. “What are you going to be doing all day, then?”
“I have to help Jude with his presentation for the Art Museum Board,” I declare, careful to keep the gloat I’m feeling out of my voice. “I’ll be in his office if you have any questions about that.” I point to the stack of spreadsheets she’s supposed to consolidate into one workbook.
I knock on Jude’s office door, which is open. He spins around from his drafting table. “Right. You’re here to help, I take it?”
It’s not the warmest greeting I’ve ever received, but I’m used to being treated like a piece of office equipment. “Take it or leave it,” I answer cheerfully. “What do you need help with?”
“Everything,” he says despairingly. “I’m crap at presentations. I design. I draft. I don’t do public speaking.”
“Show me what you have so far,” I say, going to his computer.
He follows me around his desk and opens a document titled, “Art Museum Presentation.” It’s blank.
“You’re kidding me, right?” I start minimizing things on his computer desktop, trying to find his real notes.
He gulps and scratches his head. “Nope. Not joking. I’ve got nothing.”
“Well, you have to have something!” I try to keep the panic at bay. Nothing will come of both of us breathing into paper bags all day.
“I don’t!” He crosses his office and closes the door so no one overhears us. “I don’t have a bloody, sodding word. Not even an idea.”
“But Gary’s going to come in here this morning for a run-through!”
“He is?” His pale face whitens further and takes on a green tinge. “Oh, blimey.”
“How long have you had to work on this?” I ask.
“Two weeks.”
“And you have nothing?”
“We’ve already established this,” he confirms, growing impatient. “I can get out the thesaurus and give you some synonyms if you don’t like the word ‘nothing.’”
I drop my hands from my forehead and tilt my head inquisitively, “You say ‘thesaurus’ funny. Say it again.”
“Thesaurus,” he says, putting the accent on the first syllable. “What’s wrong with that? You say it funny. TheSOREus. Bizarre. How do you say ‘aluminium’?”
“Not like that!” I crack up. “Al-yoo-MIN-ium? You put an extra ‘I’ in there!”
“What are we doing?” He grins hysterically. “We don’t have time to muck around!”
“No, it’s definitely not in our shedyule,” I crack.
“Bugger off.”
“Whatever that is, we probably don’t have time for that either,” I say. “Okay, let’s get serious. You’re in deep shit.”
“Whilst that’s very helpful information, it doesn’t actually solve the problem,” he replies.
“Show me your drawing.” I walk to the drafting board and stand over the huge blueprint draped over it. “This is bad-ass,” I breathe reverently after a few minutes of studying it.
He stands next to me. “Thanks. I mean… well, the thing is, it’s a wing that’s going to be dedicated to modern art collections. So, I thought it should look modern. But the trick was making a seamless transition from the traditional architecture of the original structure. That’s the purpose of this corridor here.” He points to a part of the drawing, and I notice for the first time how nice his hands are. Slim fingers, clean, short nails, but not girly.
“Also,” he continues intensely, oblivious to my study of his hands, “it’s not enough for it to look modern; it has to look timeless. I don’t want it to be dated in twenty years, for someone like me to walk past it and say, ‘Oy, that’s so retro-looking.’ That would defeat the purpose of having it look modern, if it only looked modern for a decade.
