on the left, and you’ll see two terrified assistants sitting out front.”
Oh, goodie.
“Thanks, Ruth.”
“Good luck! I’ll see you at lunch.”
If I survived that long.
I found the office—and the two assistants, only one of whom looked terrified—without needing to ask for directions. Which was good because everyone I passed in the hallway looked like they were running off to war. There was an urgency that permeated the entire floor. People seemed on edge.
Or I was overanalyzing everything, and this was a typical office environment. Label was a big business, and that meant a lot of money, power, and influence. Also, probably a high instance of stomach ulcers.
“Hi. I’m Ally,” I said, startling the closest assistant into nearly falling out of his chair. He caught himself but sent a pen cup flying.
He clutched at his chest. “Holy macaroni.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Johan,” the second assistant complained. “You knew the front desk was sending someone back here.” She stood while the Jumpy McJumperson scrambled to pick up his pens.
“I’m Gina,” she said. “You can come with me.”
She led the way into the glass-walled inner sanctum behind her.
Dalessandra Russo stood behind a sleek worktable with bowed metal legs in a blue so deep it was almost black. The walls were papered in some exquisite fern and leaf pattern in soft creams and greens. Silver framed photos of the woman in question with celebrities and other important-looking people were hung in a pattern too pleasing to the eye to be accidental.
She and a thin, bespectacled man were studying something on her desk.
Dalessandra looked up over delicate reading glasses. Her dress was an ivory and sterling knit wrap dress with long sleeves that played off her gray hair. Her necklace was what someone more educated in fashion would probably call a statement piece, a thick gold bar with tiny gemstones sprinkled over it.
If I wore something like that, I’d chip a tooth hitting myself in the face the first time I bent over.
“Ally. So happy you could join us today,” she said.
“I’m happy to be here,” I said warily.
I was still waiting for the “I’ve changed my mind” conversation.
“Ally—what is your last name?” she asked.
That got the attention of the man beside her. He looked up, puzzled.
“Morales,” I said.
“Ally Morales, meet our production manager, Linus Feldman.”
Linus gave me the once-over, and I knew he was wondering what the chick in the thrift store skirt was doing in Dalessandra Russo’s office.
“Hi,” I said.
Linus was short, slight, black, and—from the heights his cute, furry eyebrows climbed—a teensy bit on the judgmental side.
I couldn’t fault him. I had no idea what I was doing here either.
“Hello.” He drew out the word like he was waiting for an explanation.
“Ally is joining our admin pool,” Dalessandra said.
Whew. Okay. There really was a job after all.
Linus looked relieved by that explanation too.
“Best of luck to you,” he said, briskly stacking the papers. “I’ll get these over to the editorial team.”
“Thank you, Linus. Please close the door on your way out,” Dalessandra said, sinking into the chair behind her desk.
She gestured at one of the ivory armchairs opposite her.
Linus’s eyebrows were nearing his hairline again when he did as he was told. The look he shot me as he closed the glass doors was more “beware” than “good luck.”
I sat, gluing my knees together. It had been a while since I’d donned a skirt. I felt like I was mid-crash course relearning how to sit like an adult.
“So, Ally,” Dalessandra said, interlacing her fingers. “Welcome to Label.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Why am I here?”
She didn’t laugh, but her smile was warm.
“That is why,” she said, pointing at me.
My hair? My charming confusion? Maybe I reminded her of a long-lost best friend from summer camp?
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”
She did laugh then, and I could hear the assistants’ chairs outside spinning in our direction.
“I’m hiring you for our admin pool. You’ll have new administrative tasks every day. You might help with research or fact-checking. You might be called upon to take notes in meetings or run scheduling on a specific project. You could liaise with a designer’s team to help coordinate photo shoots. You may fill in for personal assistants or you may be asked to organize catering, pick-up coffee, et cetera.”
“Okay.” That sounded reasonably doable.
“But.” She let the word hang in the air between us.
I waited for the very luxurious stiletto that was about to impale me from above.
“I’m interested to know what you noticed about our offices so far,”