winded. Gertrude didn’t even glance back; she continued on with long strides down a plush carpet-lined hallway. It appeared to be a traditional brownstone-style lobby, but with a gleam and sparkle that only came with remodel.
Our heels clicked as we transferred from carpet to tile and at that point, Gertrude turned to me with a frown. “You look very familiar. Have we met before? Do you specialize in business news? Worked for the Wall Street Journal ?”
“Unlikely. I’ve been stationed overseas until just recently. I’ve always been based in New York, but I’m the Journal ’s main profiler in the Asia-Pacific region.”
“Hm.” Gertrude barely hid her snide expression.
I couldn’t care less.
We traveled the rest of the way in silence.
We finally arrived at our destination, a private elevator, and Gertrude tapped a card against the reader. The car slid down silently, and after we boarded, she hit a button and the doors closed.
As soon as we lurched up, Gertrude faced me with her hands on her hips and said, “I don’t like journalists.”
I arched an eyebrow and she took a step towards me, continuing, “This is a terrible idea and no good can come from it. Mr. Blair is far too busy as it is and doesn’t have time to play 60 Minutes with you.”
“I assure you, I’m not here to play.” I kept my voice steady. “Your company contacted my publication for this profile, so take your grievances up with whoever decided this on your end.”
Her expression communicated that she had already taken up her grievances with someone on her end, very much so, and was searching for another outlet in me.
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Blair Properties works within a highly competitive business environment, and Mr. Blair has the utmost respect for our clients’ privacy, as well as our own. We have neither the need nor the desire for your presence. The article would do nothing positive or constructive for the short-term or long-term goals of the company.” Gertrude spoke quickly, delivering her diatribe with crisp, bitter German-laced syllables. “If you’re hunting for a sordid tell-all, or some nasty drama, you will find yourself severely disappointed.”
I let out a loud sigh. I’d run across my fair share of employees who would try to force a complimentary fluff piece with either flattery or hostility. It seemed Gertrude was of the latter variety, although she appeared not to even enjoy the idea of the article, period.
You and me both, sister.
Then, just to mess with her, I reached into my clutch and extracted my notepad and a pen. I flipped open to a fresh page and began scribbling something down.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was harsh.
“Oh, you know, just taking notes.” I looked up with an exasperated expression. “Everything is always on the record—you know that, of course.”
Her lips thinned enough to disappear.
We mercifully reached the top floor shortly after our charming exchange. Gertrude stomped out before the doors even opened properly, and I trotted up behind, a small smile playing upon my own lips.
The top floor held a huge ballroom and must have been built with fundraisers and dinner galas in mind. A large stage dominated one side of the room, crystal chandeliers glittered above on the high ceilings, and at least forty large banquet tables were spread out in front of us.
The room was currently empty except for the staff setting up stemware and plates. Gertrude charged towards a group of waiters huddled near the kitchen door, half of whom scattered as they spotted her approach. After giving clipped directions and raising her voice, she returned to me and brusquely shoved a program in my hand.
“You are at table thirty-two,” she barked. “Mr. Blair is busy meeting with the hospital director, so you are to wait here until dinner starts. Introductions will occur after dinner.”
And before I could answer, she stormed off towards a set of panel doors, yanked them open,
Our heels clicked as we transferred from carpet to tile and at that point, Gertrude turned to me with a frown. “You look very familiar. Have we met before? Do you specialize in business news? Worked for the Wall Street Journal ?”
“Unlikely. I’ve been stationed overseas until just recently. I’ve always been based in New York, but I’m the Journal ’s main profiler in the Asia-Pacific region.”
“Hm.” Gertrude barely hid her snide expression.
I couldn’t care less.
We traveled the rest of the way in silence.
We finally arrived at our destination, a private elevator, and Gertrude tapped a card against the reader. The car slid down silently, and after we boarded, she hit a button and the doors closed.
As soon as we lurched up, Gertrude faced me with her hands on her hips and said, “I don’t like journalists.”
I arched an eyebrow and she took a step towards me, continuing, “This is a terrible idea and no good can come from it. Mr. Blair is far too busy as it is and doesn’t have time to play 60 Minutes with you.”
“I assure you, I’m not here to play.” I kept my voice steady. “Your company contacted my publication for this profile, so take your grievances up with whoever decided this on your end.”
Her expression communicated that she had already taken up her grievances with someone on her end, very much so, and was searching for another outlet in me.
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Blair Properties works within a highly competitive business environment, and Mr. Blair has the utmost respect for our clients’ privacy, as well as our own. We have neither the need nor the desire for your presence. The article would do nothing positive or constructive for the short-term or long-term goals of the company.” Gertrude spoke quickly, delivering her diatribe with crisp, bitter German-laced syllables. “If you’re hunting for a sordid tell-all, or some nasty drama, you will find yourself severely disappointed.”
I let out a loud sigh. I’d run across my fair share of employees who would try to force a complimentary fluff piece with either flattery or hostility. It seemed Gertrude was of the latter variety, although she appeared not to even enjoy the idea of the article, period.
You and me both, sister.
Then, just to mess with her, I reached into my clutch and extracted my notepad and a pen. I flipped open to a fresh page and began scribbling something down.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was harsh.
“Oh, you know, just taking notes.” I looked up with an exasperated expression. “Everything is always on the record—you know that, of course.”
Her lips thinned enough to disappear.
We mercifully reached the top floor shortly after our charming exchange. Gertrude stomped out before the doors even opened properly, and I trotted up behind, a small smile playing upon my own lips.
The top floor held a huge ballroom and must have been built with fundraisers and dinner galas in mind. A large stage dominated one side of the room, crystal chandeliers glittered above on the high ceilings, and at least forty large banquet tables were spread out in front of us.
The room was currently empty except for the staff setting up stemware and plates. Gertrude charged towards a group of waiters huddled near the kitchen door, half of whom scattered as they spotted her approach. After giving clipped directions and raising her voice, she returned to me and brusquely shoved a program in my hand.
“You are at table thirty-two,” she barked. “Mr. Blair is busy meeting with the hospital director, so you are to wait here until dinner starts. Introductions will occur after dinner.”
And before I could answer, she stormed off towards a set of panel doors, yanked them open,
Similar Books
