I shook my head, but I was smiling at her persistence, even though I knew I couldn’t take chances, whether anyone was looking or not. I had too much at stake, most of all my own bruised heart.
Chapter Six
I knocked on Professor Oliver’s door, but it was wide open. He was that kind of a teacher. The door was never closed.
“Come in, Ms. Harper,” he said, and gestured to the chair near his desk. “I’m delighted about the assignments this semester, and I hope you are too.”
“That’s why I’m here, actually. While I have the utmost admiration for Mr. Leighton and all that he’s achieved as a chief executive at his company, I’d very much prefer a mentor in the retail sector,” I said.
Professor Oliver cocked his head to the side. “But Mr. Leighton is a perfect match for you.” I winced at the words perfect match. Sure, I knew Professor Oliver didn’t intend anything by them, because he wasn’t talking match in the romantic sense. In fact, entanglements were expressly forbidden. He’d posted an image of a stop sign on his class Web site and the sign read: “No Mentor-Protege hanky-panky. Or else an F.” That was how he wrote, with words like hanky-panky. But it was the or else an F directive that scared me.
I pressed forward. “I had really hoped Lacey Haybourne, who founded the skateboard line, would be the best pair-up for me. We’re both, essentially, in the fashion industry,” I said, adding more details on why the change made sense.
Professor Oliver nodded thoughtfully as if he were considering my request, and I felt like I could exhale for the first time since Bryan had walked into the classroom yesterday. That I wasn’t going to spend the next three months encased in some sort of dormant anger. Professor Oliver picked up a fountain pen that reminded me of one I’d seen at the upscale Elizabeth’s department store recently. He twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. “Let me shed some light on why I made the match. For My Favorite Mistakes to grow and become a powerful jewelry brand, you’ll need to learn about scale. About production. About manufacturing. That’s the field Mr. Leighton is in. And what I think your business needs most is this sort of —” Professor Oliver paused as if to consider the words, “— horizontal learning.”
Horizontal learning.
Damn.
I knew he meant our businesses had shared attributes, though Bryan’s was, of course, multinational. Still, I issued a warning to my brain. Don’t go there. Don’t imagine anything else horizontal with Bryan Leighton. Don’t picture him laying you down on a hotel bed and taking off all your clothes. Don’t even think about his lips on you.
“I understand sir. I just think —”
“Ms. Harper,” Professor Oliver said gently, but firmly closing a door on my final effort. “Bryan Leighton will be your mentor, and it will be great for you. Thank you for your understanding.”
I was clearly dismissed. I turned to leave, deflated that my negotiation skills were sorely lacking, and frustrated that I’d have to spend three months with someone I’d spent five years trying to forget.
“Oh, one more thing.”
I looked back, and he handed me a business card with a phone number. “My wife wants to give one of your necklaces to a friend. They’re going to be huge, your jewelry. Can you give her a call?”
“Thank you, sir.”
On the way out, I called Professor Oliver’s wife, who promptly informed me that she didn’t just want my necklace for a friend. She had much bigger plans, and wanted to discuss them over lunch so we agreed to meet later in the week. After I hung up, I Googled her to see if I could prepare in advance, but when I entered her full name into the browser on my phone — Claire Oliver — I found nothing to connect her to the retail jewelry business.
I’d have to wing it.
Then, I bit the bullet and emailed Bryan to let him know that Friday would work to visit his factory. I stuffed my phone, which I kept in a sparkly Hello Kitty case, underneath my eReader, my wallet, and some tissues at the bottom of my purse, hoping out of sight, out of mind would rule the rest of my day.
Not that I was waiting for his reply. Not that I wanted to see him again. Not at all.
*****
I’d picked out the perfect outfit to meet Professor Oliver’s wife.
I zipped up my A-line skirt, slid into a pair of black pumps and adjusted my purple scoop neck top one more time. I’d snagged the shirt from a shop in Brooklyn that always had amazing deals on clothes so I could look sharp at the occasional business meeting without blowing my budget. My dark hair was blown straight, and I had just the right amount of makeup on. Lipstick and some mascara. I grabbed my electric blue purse, a cute retro number, because it was large enough to hold more necklace samples in different styles, lengths and colors, as well as an assortment of charms.
I left the apartment and caught the subway to my meeting on the Upper East Side. I hadn’t looked at my phone for an entire hour, so I allowed myself a quick peek on the train. I’d been on a once-an-hour diet since I sent Bryan the note yesterday so I figured I deserved many pats on the back. That was good restraint, right?
When his name appeared in my email now, I squeaked out an excited oh.
I wanted to smack myself. What was wrong with me? I didn’t even like him.
Control. I had to stay in control, so I didn’t open the email right away. Instead, I triple-quadruple checked the charms in the inside pocket of my purse, I appraised my lipstick in the train window, and I peered at the time on my watch. Then, as if I’d proven myself to the judge and jury of me, I took a breath, and calmly tapped on the note.
Kat — I trust we’re still on for tomorrow? I’ll send my car to pick you up at 9 a.m. if that works for you. Are you one of those rare breeds who can manage the morning without caffeinated assistance? (By the way, if I was an emoticon guy I’d insert one here, but I’m not a practitioner of smiley face symbols and/or Internet abbreviations.) If not, please let me know your caffeine preferences these days and whether you like coffee, tea or one of those fluffy drinks with lots of milk and made-up sounding names.
My best,
Bryan
I re-read the note several times, always stopping at the same spot — these days. Had he truly forgotten my tastes? He knew well and good that I worshipped at the altar of fluffy drinks with frothy flavors. Maybe he was simply playing along with the whole “we just met routine” he’d tried on the other day in Washington Square Park. Or maybe he’d forgotten the details of me since I’d never really mattered to him. Fine, it was just a coffee preference we were taking about. Still, if he couldn’t remember, then I didn’t want him to know I marked time on my calendar by counting down the days until Starbucks added salted caramel hot chocolate to its menu for those delirious few weeks near the holidays. I didn’t want to confess I’d try any drink with an -ino ending.