Page 14 of Good Days Bad Days
“She’s Hollinger’s secretary,” he whispered, his eyebrows waggling. “Betty Wilkens. I was in there for a meeting this morning, and she was perched outside like a little bird. You should stop by and say hi. Make her feel welcome, if you know what I mean.”
I did know what he meant, and though I wanted to reconnect with her, I hadn’t forgotten Mark’s other warning. There’s no doubt in my mind that she likely has lines of men ready to make their move. It makes my stomach turn thinking about it. It’s not like I know her any better than they do, but I’d at least spent a few minutes in the same room, felt the brightness of her personality, held her Parisian key chain dreams in my hand. The last thing I wanted was to be one of those drooling cads. So, I stayed away. I avoided Mr. Hollinger’s office and the whole third floor to be safe.
But today, I have a legitimate reason to be here, on the third floor, in Don Hollinger’s office, to talk to Betty. I could barely choke down my toast and jam this morning, and suddenly, my nerves about the presentation were overshadowed by my excitement and anxiety at seeing Betty again.
I step into the office, my arms full of supplies for the presentation. I keep my eyes down, knowing how ridiculous I must look, but once inside it’s clear she’s too distracted to notice my clumsy entry. She’s on the phone frantically scribbling notes, her back to me. Being Mr. Hollinger’s secretary can’t be easy. In the short time he’s been here, he’s caused many controversies. Betty is the front line. I understand why. She’s charismatic, warm, and genial. She knows how to bring calm to a tense situation. I heard that when Mick Olmstead got laid off, he nearly skipped out of the office after he spent a few minutes chatting with her. Perhaps this is part of the role she plays here. Perhaps there is nothing special about our interactions.
Today, she wears a Kelly-green dress. Her hair is stick straight with a white headband wedged in front of a stylish bump, giving volume to the back of her head. She’s wearing the same perfume from the day we met; it’s a light floral scent that tickles the back of my throat in a pleasant way that reminds me of walking under a crabapple tree’s white blossoms in April.
I sit awkwardly in one of the upholstered chairs with exposed wooden armrests. Nothing much has changed in here since I was hired as a new college grad. The biggest change is Betty, and I only allow myself little glances at her as I arrange the supplies Martha left behind.
I haven’t heard Betty’s voice since our first interaction, so listening to her talk on the phone makes me smile, even though she’s discussing the number of pencils and the size of paperweights to order. I’ve read and reread the same line of my proposal without understanding it for the seventh or eighth time when she hangs up the phone.
“What are you smiling at over there?” she asks, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s talking to me. “How is that reading, Mr. Hero Man?”
My neck is hot and I wish I could loosen my tie. She remembers our encounter in the diner. I’ve felt like such a schoolboy at how often that interaction replayed in my mind, but Betty’s comment confirmsshe remembers it, too, and the rush of hearing her call me a hero is as delightful as it was in the diner.
Don’t act like an idiot,I scold myself, knowing my nerves have a way of getting the best of me. I scooch back in my chair, straighten my spine, fighting against my natural inclination to slouch.
I clear my throat.
“I ... I’m trying to memorize this thing, that’s all.”
“And that’s humorous?”
“Not humorous, per se, but I sometimes laugh at myself and my inability to remember anything significant.” I clear my throat again, my airway tightening. I cover my struggle with a breathy chuckle. “Insignificant, sure. But give me something important to remember and it’ll drop right out of my mind like there’s a hole in it.”
“Oh no. Well then, perhaps you forgot who I am. I remember your name—do you remember mine?”
I peek up from the page. Playful blue eyes stare back at me. Her lips are a pale coral today, and her smile makes her look like a master comedian, holding in all of her punch lines. This delightful creature remembers my name? Impossible.
“Well, I think I do remember.” Her name hovers on the tip of my tongue, but I hold back. It could be unsettling for her if my memory is too good, so I glance at the nameplate on her desk. “I don’t think I’ve given you a proper welcome to WQRX, Miss—” I almost say her last name, Wilkens, as to not be too familiar, but she scolds me.
“Betty, Greg. My name is Betty.” She wiggles her red-nailed fingers at me. “It’s OK you forgot. Lots of new faces around these days.”
I want to tell her I remembered her name, but before I can explain, the hall door opens and Martha bursts in holding a stack of cards. The frizz to her curly hair has pumped up the volume so much that the ends stick to her sweat-dotted face.
“You weren’t called in yet. Thank goodness!”
“No, no. Not yet,” I say as she sits in the seat next to me, organizing her notes.
“Should I let Mr. Hollinger know you’re here?” Betty asks, her grin just as vivid as before but with a tautness that reminds me this is part of her job.
“Yes, please,” Martha says, using the cards as a fan. She raises her eyebrows at me as Betty buzzes through to the back office. “Are you ready?”
“I think so.”
“That doesn’t sound very confident.”
I shrug, as I always do. I’m not confident. I might not have a job after this meeting, or at least that’s what Mark said. I could move forward in my career or get kicked out of it. I believe in Martha, she’s hardworking and so innovative, but Don Hollinger doesn’t seem like an easy-to-please kind of a guy. He seems like a man’s man. Like a commanding officer who wants to be lauded by his superiors but wants to scare the shit out of the new recruits. I’m no Mark. I’m not gregarious, I’m not into sports or the Playboy Club. Beautiful women make me nearly as frightened as when I had to climb the rope in the gym, and my closest friends are plants and a piano.
“He’ll see you now,” Betty says, standing with a notepad and gesturing to Hollinger’s office. Martha and I collect our presentation supplies. She swings the door open, and I let Martha enter first. She’s the brains behind our presentation, and beyond that, my mama taught me that gentlemen let ladies go first.
As I pass Betty on my way into Don’s smoke-filled office, where I can hear him greeting Martha with a booming “Hello,” I get one last sniff of her perfume as she whispers, “You got this.”
Her reassurance lifts my spirits.
I shake Don Hollinger’s hand, not intimidated by his dry-clean-only suit and Pepsodent smile. I sit tall and proud in my seat as Martha and I present our proposal, and I only need to glance at the papers in front of me once. Martha is the shining star of theJanesville Presents ...production team, but I can sense Betty’s gaze from where she’s been taking notes in the chair to the left of Don’s desk.
