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administrative assistant,” I say, sitting up as straight as I can and trying to conjure up an administrative air about me. “I’m a legal secretary. Project manager. Um—consultant.” I flick out job titles and spit them across her desk like a casino dealer plucking aces from a deck of cards. “Once. Once I was a hospitality agent—for Estee Lauder—but that’s just because you were really stuck, remember? And even then you paid my rate. Because she loved me. Estee Lauder loved me,” I say, slapping the desk with my hand for emphasis. (To tell you the truth, I’m still not sure if the elderly lady I met in the elevator that day was really Estee Lauder, but she was her age, had an E embroidered on her sweater, and smelled like baby powder and dried roses, so it might as well have been her.)
    â€œI’ve never been a file clerk. Ever. I type ninety-four words a minute, Jane. How many file clerks can do that?” I sit back and fold my arms across my chest. I don’t like to brag about my speedy fingers—but a file clerk! Come on!
    â€œI’m sorry. I don’t have anything else right now,” Jane says, turning away from me again and going back to her computer screen.
    â€œI see,” I say, stalling for leverage.
    â€œMaybe if you do well on this assignment,” Jane says, letting the thought hang in the air like stale cigarette smoke.
    â€œJane. Please. Please. I promise you. My best behavior.” I clasp my hands in front of her. I’ve only been here fifteen minutes and she’s already reduced me to begging.
    â€œI really need this job filled, Melanie,” she says, her jaw set in a stubborn line. I eye the roses and consider taking them back.
    â€œCome on,” I say, instead hoping that logic will be the thread that sews this up. “There are a hundred temps who would jump at the chance to do this. Someone less qualified. Send them.”
    â€œI’ve sent four temps already.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œThis position has proven challenging.”
    â€œI can’t believe this is happening.”
    â€œI’ll take you off it as soon as something better comes in.”
    â€œOne week. And you pay my rate.”
    â€œTwo weeks and I’ll pay you as a receptionist.” I sink in the chair and nod. “They want you there by nine,” Jane says.
    â€œNine o’clock tomorrow,” I say. “No problem.”
    â€œNine o’clock today, Melanie.” She looks me up and down, and I’m thankful I’m wearing cashmere. “Be sure and dress a little more corporate tomorrow, Melanie,” she says, turning back to her computer. Our “little talk” was over. “Don’t forget,” she says as I am just about out the door, “you have two strikes against you—”
    â€œAnd you play baseball,” I finish. Two weeks as a file clerk. She isn’t just playing “baseball,” she’s choking me financially. But what choice do I have? If she wants me to suck it up and be a file clerk for a few weeks, I’ll suck it up. “No worries, I’ll be perfect.”
    â€œI don’t doubt it. Especially with Trina there to watch over you.”
    I freeze in the doorway. “Trina who?” I say, trying not to betray the fear in my voice. Not Trina Wilcox. Not Trina Wilcox. Please, please, please not Trina Wilcox. I hold my breath. I cross my fingers. I pray to the Saint of People With the Same Names. Please, please, please don’t let it be Trina Wilcox.
    â€œTrina Wilcox,” Jane says smiling at me. I’ve sent four temps. Filling the position has been challenging. Oh, God. “Do you know Trina?” Jane asks sweetly. I smile and nod but avert my eyes. Jane hates dissension in the ranks. “Is there a problem?” she asks. See what I mean? The woman is a bloodhound.
    â€œNo, no. Trina’s great,” I say with forced