“That’s where I’d say you’re being shortsighted,” I’d replied. Ralph choked on his coffee; I’m guessing not too many people argue with Mark. I went on to explain how the artist I’d named had yet to show the world all he had to offer, while the more well-known ones he’d named had already reached their peaks.
Mark looked amused at that answer and maybe a little surprised. I’m not sure. Reading that man is pretty impossible. We went on to debate several artists he named and then just like that, he pushed off the counter and said, “You start tomorrow, Ms. Mason.”
And then he just left.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
I worked both jobs today and I don’t know how I have the energy to write this, but my head is spinning and I can’t possibly sleep. I like the restaurant so much more than the bar, and I made double the tips that I’m used to in one night. That’s wonderful and all, but it’s the gallery I am in love with, the place I yearn to make my life.
Today was sensory overload, with the art I adore and my man-candy boss. He’s arrogant and demanding, and he intimidates everyone but me. I can’t explain it, but I feel challenged and excited around him, not like a wilting little flower. But then, I’ve never been a wilting flower. I guess being raised by a single mother who was tough as nails helped, even if she was as bitter as lemons at times about the father who deserted us. Of course, that was a lie, but I’m not ruining today by going down that path.
Back to Mark . . . Mr. Compton, that is. I think it’s kind of sexy, the way he calls me Ms. Mason, though I wonder why he calls the front desk intern, Amanda, by her first name. How many times did he say Ms. Mason today and send a shiver straight down my spine?
“Good morning, Ms. Mason.”
“This is your office, Ms. Mason.”
“Ms. Mason, you have homework and there will be testing. You must be cultured and able to talk about anything and everything your customer base might find of interest.”
And to that one I had thought, Oh, please, yes. Test me. Hey, a girl can fantasize. It’s almost safer when you know the man has some ridiculously sexy woman in his life, so it’s just innocent dreaming.
And finally, the point I’m getting to, the big-one whopper he threw me that sent my pulse into overdrive. “Ms. Mason, I expect you to attend a party at Ricco Alvarez’s house with me tomorrow night.”
Ricco Alvarez, as in the fabulous, talented, and famous artist. I can’t believe I’m not only going to his party, but I’m going with Mark! It’s business, I know, but the funny thing is that this sixth sense told me not to mention the party to the rest of the staff. Instead, I discreetly asked around and no one else is going to the party. Not even Mary, the sales rep I had the issue with the first night I visited the gallery. She and I are not off to a grand start as it is. Mentioning the party might have been the last straw for our working relationship.
So, hmmm . . . why isn’t Mary invited to the party? Maybe she’s on her way out the door and that’s why Mark hired me? But why not tell me to keep the party hush-hush if he wants to replace her? Then again, I can’t see Mark caring if Mary feels nervous or upset over what he does. He seems to box business into business with nothing personal involved. I’m an investment to Mark, I think. I can’t explain why, but it’s another gut feeling I have. Mary might have once been, too, but not now. He seems to almost ignore her. I feel kind of sad for her. Though I want the job, there’s no appeal in hurting someone else to get to the top. It kind of makes the idea of worrying about having nothing to wear to the party seem shallow, when her job could be on the line.
Saturday, January 1, 2011