BILLIONAIRE (Part 1)
Lila
I felt a cool sense of confidence as I rode the elevator skywards, not because I thought I was in the running for the job I was about to interview for, but for the opposite reason. It was a dream job, beyond the scope of my experience, and I knew I was unlikely to score a gig this good. Sure, I had an English degree from Princeton; I’d graduated near the top of my class; I’d brought along a portfolio of publishing credits. But I was hardly alone in those credentials. The small, neat ad for CEO’s assistant at Skyscraper would attract the best of the best. Every college graduate within a three-state radius would be clambering to get their résumés seen. Not because we had a lifelong dream to be a CEO’s assistant, but because an underling job like this one would lead to other opportunities within the company. And it was a company that every aspiring writer and journalist alike would have sold their teeth to work for. That rare combination of glamorous and highly acclaimed, Skyscraper was the It magazine of the year. I knew most of the other applicants would have more experience than I had, which happened to be exactly none, since I’d graduated only two weeks ago.
So it was with a sense of resigned defeat that I approached the meeting. Still, as I checked out my look in the glass reflection of the polished elevator walls, I couldn’t help but notice that my new makeover had definitely done wonders. At the insistence of my roommate, Eva, who’d orchestrated not only a shopping spree but also a pampering frenzy, I’d undergone a startling transformation. I had a stylish new haircut. I’d been massaged, waxed, trimmed, glossed and groomed to within an inch of my life. New city, new priorities, Eva had proclaimed. You’re no longer a student, you’re a hot young urban professional, she’d told me. Living the dream in New York City. I’d argued that I wasn’t a professional until I actually landed a job but she’d laughed that comment off as a technicality. Looking like you do, it’s only a matter of time, she said. Employers love hot, and you, my friend, are the total package. Time would tell if Eva’s estimations were at all accurate.
I tried to let her enthusiasm rub off on me as I studied my own reflection. My long, honey-blond hair fell in sleek, waving skeins; highlights of platinum caught the light. My incongruously dark eyelashes had been lengthened by some carefully-applied mascara. A light green wrap sweater over a short black skirt hugged my curves and emphasized the green of my eyes. I had wondered if the V of the neckline was too low for a job interview but Eva had laughed at my prudishness and ordered me to ‘get real’. She’d even insisted that I wear no bra or underwear. According to Eva, it was the secret to success. It gives you an added sensuality that no one can quite put their finger on, according to Eva. I’d protested, of course, but her mulishness had won me over. Just try it, she’d insisted. You’ll see. So here I was, clad from head to toe in exactly one layer of clothing. To-die-for black leather boots completed the outfit. The boots had cost a fortune, but Eva had reasoned that the cost would spur my impetus to get earning as quickly as possible. I didn’t bother telling her I had that impetus anyway, cringing every time I thought of my student loan. Anyway, I knew I’d never looked better. And it was true: my wanton secret made me feel bold and somehow risqué.
With that in mind, as the elevator binged and the doors slid open, I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and entered the lobby of Skyscraper . A lone receptionist sat behind a large mahogany desk with a massive print of the New York skyline mounted on the wall behind her. She watched me approach and took in my hair, my body and my boots with a somewhat critical eye. If I had worried that more than
Lila
I felt a cool sense of confidence as I rode the elevator skywards, not because I thought I was in the running for the job I was about to interview for, but for the opposite reason. It was a dream job, beyond the scope of my experience, and I knew I was unlikely to score a gig this good. Sure, I had an English degree from Princeton; I’d graduated near the top of my class; I’d brought along a portfolio of publishing credits. But I was hardly alone in those credentials. The small, neat ad for CEO’s assistant at Skyscraper would attract the best of the best. Every college graduate within a three-state radius would be clambering to get their résumés seen. Not because we had a lifelong dream to be a CEO’s assistant, but because an underling job like this one would lead to other opportunities within the company. And it was a company that every aspiring writer and journalist alike would have sold their teeth to work for. That rare combination of glamorous and highly acclaimed, Skyscraper was the It magazine of the year. I knew most of the other applicants would have more experience than I had, which happened to be exactly none, since I’d graduated only two weeks ago.
So it was with a sense of resigned defeat that I approached the meeting. Still, as I checked out my look in the glass reflection of the polished elevator walls, I couldn’t help but notice that my new makeover had definitely done wonders. At the insistence of my roommate, Eva, who’d orchestrated not only a shopping spree but also a pampering frenzy, I’d undergone a startling transformation. I had a stylish new haircut. I’d been massaged, waxed, trimmed, glossed and groomed to within an inch of my life. New city, new priorities, Eva had proclaimed. You’re no longer a student, you’re a hot young urban professional, she’d told me. Living the dream in New York City. I’d argued that I wasn’t a professional until I actually landed a job but she’d laughed that comment off as a technicality. Looking like you do, it’s only a matter of time, she said. Employers love hot, and you, my friend, are the total package. Time would tell if Eva’s estimations were at all accurate.
I tried to let her enthusiasm rub off on me as I studied my own reflection. My long, honey-blond hair fell in sleek, waving skeins; highlights of platinum caught the light. My incongruously dark eyelashes had been lengthened by some carefully-applied mascara. A light green wrap sweater over a short black skirt hugged my curves and emphasized the green of my eyes. I had wondered if the V of the neckline was too low for a job interview but Eva had laughed at my prudishness and ordered me to ‘get real’. She’d even insisted that I wear no bra or underwear. According to Eva, it was the secret to success. It gives you an added sensuality that no one can quite put their finger on, according to Eva. I’d protested, of course, but her mulishness had won me over. Just try it, she’d insisted. You’ll see. So here I was, clad from head to toe in exactly one layer of clothing. To-die-for black leather boots completed the outfit. The boots had cost a fortune, but Eva had reasoned that the cost would spur my impetus to get earning as quickly as possible. I didn’t bother telling her I had that impetus anyway, cringing every time I thought of my student loan. Anyway, I knew I’d never looked better. And it was true: my wanton secret made me feel bold and somehow risqué.
With that in mind, as the elevator binged and the doors slid open, I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and entered the lobby of Skyscraper . A lone receptionist sat behind a large mahogany desk with a massive print of the New York skyline mounted on the wall behind her. She watched me approach and took in my hair, my body and my boots with a somewhat critical eye. If I had worried that more than
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