Read Hardly Working for Free Online

said Cleo.
    We all shoved and jostled and pushed ourselves out through the window frame to get a look at Ash looking at Ian Trutch. She was leaning out above us, her glasses dangling from her hand, her dark eyes wide.
    â€œThat,” said Lisa, “is the first time I have ever seen her without those bottle bottoms covering her face.”
    â€œWe should hold a press conference,” said Cleo.
    Ash, otherwise known as Aishwarya Patel, was our entire accounting department. Thin and sallow, of undetermined age and wearing a dull black frump suit intended to be a power suit, Ash seemed to think she was the most important person in our organization because the donation money was processed by her. She was allergic to the human race and ate her daily lunch of sour grapes at her desk in her office. Her door was always closed. All communication from Ash came through e-mail directives, usually capital letters, which came across like cyber-screaming. Even though her office was upstairs, right next to the lunchroom, where all of us made at least ten stops a day at the fridge full of goodies, Ash found it too socially challenging to get up andwalk those few feet into the lunchroom to tell us anything in person, to give us, for example, her last earth-shaking directive, TO ALL OFFICE STAFF: DO NOT STIR COFFEE THEN PUT WET SPOON BACK IN SUGAR BOWL. LUMPS FORM.
    And I heard that Jake, in a rare moment of unprofessionalism, sent an e-mail back to Ash, “Well, hey, Ash, sweetheart, that’s life. LUMPS FORM.”
    Ian Trutch frowned up at all of us, then walked toward the main entrance.
    Ida’s voice burst in. “Code Blue advancing. Code Blue advancing…oh baby…”
    We all pulled ourselves back into the room.
    â€œSo that’s the big mucky-muck, eh? The new CEO. Like them apples,” said Lisa.
    â€œIt’s him,” said Cleo. “And thank goodness for that. Can’t have a morning’s makeup wasted.”
    Fran, the secretary, said, “He’s had work. I’d put money on it.” Since her husband had dumped her and her three children for Silicon Chick, Fran had been wearing her forty-nine years, crow’s feet, double chin, limp gray hair and extra hip-padding with pride. Her favorite game these days was Spot The Cosmetic Surgery. “He’s a careful piece of work, I’ll bet. Expensive work.”
    â€œFran.” Cleo laughed. “He’s only in his thirties. Why would he need work?”
    â€œWake up, sister. This is the Age of Perfection. And perfection can be bought,” she snorted. “But I just want to add the footnote that I’d let this one warm my bed on a cold night, nose job and all, just as long as he’s out of it by morning.”
    I was reserving judgment. I got myself a cup of coffee and went back into my office to think about what I’d just seen. Ian Trutch was everything we were not. He was trouble in a fancy package. And it was going to be very bad for ourimage to have a CEO who whizzed around town in a black Ferrari. But then the frisson of nervousness kicked in and for the next few minutes I fantasized about meeting the enemy halfway and riding around in a fast car with an even faster man. Something I’d never done.
    The ringing phone interrupted my reverie. I picked it up and said, “Dinah Nichols.”
    The voice on the other end was incoherent. It took me a minute to realize it was Joey. He was crying and stuttering.
    I said, “Joey, Joey, calm down. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
    All I could make out was “hoia…coy…hoia…glop…oodle” between the gasps and the tears.
    I tried again. “What’s happened? Get a grip on yourself.”
    â€œIt’s too horrible….” sobbed Joey.
    â€œJust take a few deep breaths then tell me slowly.”
    There was a wet silence and then he started. “You know I walk dogs for Mrs.