Chapter 33: 32. Your regular career woman

NOTE: I started this book before my break from writing, so it's set in 2018

NOTE 2: In this chapter there is a crossover that may spoil one of my stories for you, if you wish to avoid that, on my wall you find a reading order

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32. Your regular career woman

"Hello, may I help you?"

I swallowed. I couldn't have her repeat the question a third time, she'd call security thinking I'm just another nut job come to spy on her employer. "H-Hi ..." You can do this, you can, Joanna, you can.

The woman at the reception nodded, albeit annoyed. "Are you here for a reason?"

"Yes, I ..." Come on. I swallowed my anxiety, and spoke clearly: "I'm here for the interview."

The receptionist sent me an exhausted look, clearly thinking my IQ was way less than what she's used to in this marvelous building. My cheeks did redden, but I had a small needle hidden in my pocket, meant to stab me every time I thought I should give up. "What interview?" The woman asked in a sigh.

"Uh ..."

"This building hosts the offices of one of the biggest companies in the country, Ms. Brooks, there are job interviews every day for different positions. You need to be more specific." The receptionist spat, clearly sick of me.

Gulping down my fears again, after having stabbed my thigh with the needle for the 12th time in 5 minutes, I nodded. "The publishing house. I ... I am here for the interview as ... editor." I don't know whether she looked at me with bewilderment mixed with mockery, as I thought she did, but I'd have probably deserved it. However, all she did was press a button on her phone, and start talking to someone about interviews, giving my name.

Being dressed decently – black pants, white shirt, black jacket, very business-like, even perfect makeup thanks to Valerie as usual – didn't take away the feeling of being in the wrong place.

What was someone like me doing all the way to Manhattan, seeking an interview in one of the most exclusive buildings? I said I would still try to get my things moving for my future, but I should have started way smaller than this.

"You can go up." The receptionist said in a flat tone. "27th floor, you'll find someone greeting you to escort you to her office."

Swallowing my saliva for the umpteenth time, I nodded. She pointed me to an elevator, and I headed there. All the way up, I kept thinking I should just run away.

Stabbing myself over and over again with the needle served to nothing: the closer I got to my floor, the more I felt like a fraud and a fool. I have little to no experience as editor. It's true that this is a fairly new publishing house, but the name of the company it belongs to ...

"Good morning." A guy in his early twenties greeted. He was dressed somewhat informal – jeans and shirt – but still looked highly professional.

"Hi."

"Are you're here to see Ms. Benedetti?"

I nodded without a word, and he gestured for me to follow him, which I did quietly. It was a pretty large place, but not many people around. The job offer did say it was a freshly founded publishing house: they literally started a couple of months ago.

That's why I went for it, thinking maybe they wouldn't be as picky as others would, but then I googled the address ... I don't read magazines and I don't watch TV other than movies and shows, so it took me a bit of research to understand who would I be dealing with.

The well dressed 20-year-old guided me along a somewhat long corridor, until we reached the last door in the corner, pretty much the last office on the floor. He knocked lightly, and a soft female voice said to come in, which he did, with me on tow. "Joanna Brooks, she's here for the editor position."

The woman sitting at the desk nodded, so the guy gestured for me to go sit across from her. Hesitantly, I did, and he left us alone. I didn't dare speak for a few moments, because she seemed busy with some papers – she hadn't even looked up from them yet. All I could see was a messy braid, a pencil lost in it as if to keep it from falling apart, while a pen was in her hands, and thick rimmed glasses on her nose.

I don't know what was I expecting, but certainly not this. I mean, I don't know anything about rich people and their world, but you'd assume that the guy they call the "Golden Bachelor" would be marrying someone uh less normal?

You'd think his future wife would be a Blake Lively that's perfect in every instant of her life, not a regular woman with her tics – like biting on her nails as she reads, which she was doing now – and disheveled moments. I read about his ex – because obviously magazines interviewed her when word about the marriage got out –, and ... she's completely different.

It made me catch a breath, though. I was expecting some soul-sucking, man-eating vampire, instead I found the most regular career woman you could ever expect.

"I'm sorry, just a sec ..." Ms. Benedetti said, holding up a finger while still intent on reading and editing not sure what on those papers before her.

Her one second lasted another minute, and I had time to take a look at the office, which was in fact what you'd expect from Manhattan: windows covering the whole wall behind her back – with a breathtaking view on New York's best skyline, may I add –, huge desk made of who knows what expensive wood and that yet still wasn't enough to contain all the paperwork, laptop, tablet and everything else she kept on it; on the side walls, huge shelves still half empty – in fact there were boxes scattered around, most of which were labeled books.

The only thing that really stood out in perfect order were the photos in a corner of her desk: despite the mayhem, that only corner was immaculate. No wonder, those photos displayed the happy family that the Grants are forming, as pretty much every single magazine I found mentioned.

"Okay." Ms. Benedetti finally said in a sigh, slamming the pen down on a paper to finally look at me. She gave me a polite smile, and fixed the glasses on her nose. "I'm sorry about the mess, we're still uh ... working things out around here."

"It's ok," I murmured, because what else could I say?

"Ok, so, I'm Samantha," she introduced for some reason, "yes it's Benedetti not Grant, and it will remain Benedetti after the wedding; yes, he works in this same building but no, he has nothing to do with the publishing house; yes, you may see him every once in a while because we do have lunch together like a normal couple, but no, he doesn't like signing autographs, so don't ask or I'll have to listen to him complain about how people don't understand he's not a rock star, he's just a regular guy that's worked hard for what he achieved." She blurted out all at once, in a tone that gave away just how many times she had to repeat the same things. Ms. Benedetti sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Any questions?" She sent me a side look. "About the job you are interviewing for, not about my fiancé, please."

How do I tell her I don't really care about who her fiancé is? "I-uh ... the ad said you need an editor?" Oh, really smart question, Joanna, congrats.

Ms. Benedetti nodded, squinting her eyes – clearly all that reading hurt them –, "we are just starting," she said as she reached for something in the mess that was her desk, "the people you saw outside work in different departments, but what I need is an editor that will literally edit manuscripts as they come. That means correcting grammar, punctuation, run-on sentences, yes, but also fixing the content if needed. We are a small publisher, and as such we wouldn't expect famous authors, but ... well," she pointed at the ceiling, "big name on the building door, so we've gotten a lot of inquiries and manuscripts."

She uncapped the eye drops bottle, then took off her glasses. I didn't need an explanation, but she said it anyway: "I had some problems with my eyes a few years ago, so now when I tire them too much, I need this," she pointed at the bottle, then she applied a couple of eye drops. Ms. Benedetti blinked slowly, then put the bottle down, and wore the glasses again. "Do you have experience with editing? Writing? I didn't see much on your resumé."

Ah. The question I was dreading. I could lie and say I've done this and that, but how fast do you think it would take her to find out? "Not ... really ..." I cleared my throat nervously, "I-uh ... did some editing for our newspaper back in high school, and I wrote articles for the one in college."

"But you wouldn't really know where to start if I gave you a book to edit?" Her voice didn't sound judgmental, just surprised – surprised I would even apply for the job if I didn't know how to do it.

"I followed a course on content editing in college," I mentioned, trying to save whatever I could, even though it was futile.

"What have you been up to since you graduated?"

"I worked at a diner," I mentioned, a bit ashamed, lowering my glance.

"So nothing related to your studies?"

"No ..."

"Is it because you couldn't find anything or you didn't like what you found?"

How about, it's because I got tired of rejection letters, and decided I could just rot in that hellhole called a diner? "It's ..." I sighed, wondering whether I should just leave now before making a fool of myself.

But then I thought of the odds: I don't have a job, I counted on those gigs with Ben to keep the money flowing while I worked on my plan for the future, but ... that's gone now. That means I don't have a choice: it's either I find a good job now, or I move back home, as my mother repeated over and over when I called her after Paris' visit.

"Miss Brooks ... Joanna, if I may," Ms. Benedetti started, "there's nothing shameful about accepting whatever job out of necessity." Said by the future wife of a billionaire, it does sound funny. The woman took a deep breath, pondering, then, finally, she said: "Would you consider an internship, instead of the job you applied for?"

I blinked my eyes, marveled. "What ... do you mean?"

"Well," she bit on her lips, "unfortunately, because the work load may be heavier than you might be able to bear, this being your first experience, I cannot hire you as editor," I knew it, "however ..." what? "I do believe you have potential," she eyed a paper beside her – my curriculum, I realized –, "and given the opportunity, you could become way more than even you think you're capable of." How did she ... "If there's one thing I've learnt from my fiancé, Joanna, is to believe in your abilities. Confidence is key."

I'd love an internship, especially here, but ... "will I-uh ... is it paid?"

Ms. Benedetti offered me an understanding smile, so that I didn't need to explain anything. "Yes, of course." She roamed her desk with her eyes, then grabbed a folder with written 'expenses'. "Let's see ..." she curled her lips as she read, "between me and you, Joanna, I'm trying to make this work without my fiancé's help, so money's a bit ... tight," she looked up at me, "he provides the name that granted me the bank's loan – pun unintended –," she chuckled to herself, "and the offices, but everything else is on me."

"I understand."

"Of course, if we were to fall, Grant Enterprises would soften our landing," she laughed, "but I'd hate to be his damsel in distress once again." Again?

"I appreciate your help." I mentioned, because she was literally giving me an offer I couldn't refuse: a chance to have a job that reflects my studies, one that at the same time would give me experience I could use in the future, and even get paid for it, which is something internships don't always give.

Ms. Benedetti smiled candidly, "don't thank me yet, Joanna ... even as intern, your workload will be rough."

"It can't be worse than slaving away in a diner 12 hours a day." I blurted out without thinking, which caused her to laugh.

"Well, it's only 8 hours here. I won't ask you to bring your work home, unless we really are on tight deadlines and I need everyone to pull their weight." Something tells me she almost never leaves this office, working way more than everyone else. Ms. Benedetti scanned a paper that looked to be some financial statement, then exclaimed: "Ah-ha! I knew I could squeeze it in." For some reason that made her happy. "

Ok, so, I need to draft a quick contract, and ..." she glanced around, "ugh, where did I put it ..." Maybe she needs an assistant, more than an editor. "This was for an editor, but I guess I can tweak it a bit ..." she bit on her lips, "but I'll need Lucas' lawyers to take a look at it ..." she sighed. "Okay, uh ..." she looked up at me, "can you start ... tomorrow? You'll find the contract to sign first thing in the morning, I promise." Ms. Benedetti offered me a gentle smile I couldn't help but mimic.

Feeling a huge load off my chest, yet at the same time another one adding onto my shoulders when I realized just what was I getting into, I nodded. Fingers crossed, things will go well for once in my life.