how?
CHAPTER 10
Talia
Though I’d spent forty minutes wielding a blow dryer and a round brush, I was crowned with a halo of frizz: I looked like the love child of Botticelli’s Venus and Tom Wolfe. The morning was, as my father might say, as hot as a Hasid in Haifa. My white linen suit was losing starch with each limping step.
In June Rittenhouse’s waiting area, every chair was slick and uncomfortable; even the tall French tulips on the desk wore wires up their ass. Almost half an hour ticked away before I was ushered into a conference room fitted with a black marble table and two glass bottles of Evian.
Let the inquisition begin. I’m guilty, Detective. I confess to being here under false pretenses
.
Yet when the headhunter entered the room, she was apologetic for the delay as well as refreshingly wrinkled. With more sense than I had, June Rittenhouse had pulled her hair into a chignon, although I could see the real deal was as kinked as my own. This made me like her. “Happy to meet you, Ms. Fisher-Wells,” she said, shaking my hand. “Have a chair. I’ve looked over your résumé, and you’ve accomplished quite a lot.”
I wondered if at this point I was expected to display humble gratitude for a compliment or was supposed to brag about my incomparable qualifications. I stuck with “Thank you.”
“All right, let’s start. What do you consider your greatest accomplishment?” She stared into my eyes so intently I would have backed away if it wouldn’t have suggested that her breath might be less than minty fresh. Faking sanity at work when Henry hadn’t slept through the previous night? Getting my mother-in-law, Abigail Wells, the great-great-great-granddaughter of austere New England preachers, to tolerate me? Those were accomplishments. But what I said was, “It had to be the time we had only twenty-four hours to pitch Odor-Eaters and my approach nailed a multimillion-dollar account.” I narrated my story with beguiling anecdotes augmented with numerical flourishes, and watched the woman take notes as I silently lamented that my life’s work had been dedicated to training people to be spendthrifts.
“Do you prefer to work alone or as part of a team?”
Tricky. Was the job in question—if there was a real job at stake—for freelance consulting (“I work best independently, preferably on the tundra for months on end”) or a traditional inside position (“I’m a team player and love to brainstorm endlessly with witless morons who grab credit for my ideas”)? “Actually, I’m one of those people who swings both ways,” I said, and gave examples of star performances on both the autonomous and Ms. Congeniality fronts.
She offered a cryptic “Aha,” asked a few more easy questions, and then said, “For the right position, Ms. Fisher-Wells—”
“Talia.”
“Talia, would you relocate?”
“I wish I could tell you the answer is yes,” I admitted, “but my husband’s a teacher and we’re committed to staying here because of his job, although I could imagine a position in, say, New Jersey or Westchester.”
“Where does your husband teach?”
“James Madison in Brooklyn.”
“No!” She beamed. “I can’t believe it. My housekeeper’s son is a student there. What’s your husband’s name?”
“Thomas Wells.”
“You’re Mr.
Wells
’ wife?” she said, as awed as if I’d just revealed that Tom was in line for the English throne.
“That would be me.”
“I can’t begin to tell you what a godsend Mr. Wells is, the way he’s been tutoring José for the SATs and how he started that basketball team. He’s all I heard about last year.”
Me too.
“It would be a crime if your family left Brooklyn,” she said, and once again beamed her freakish astral stare in my direction.
This interview is over
, I thought, but she seemed to be revved up for more. “I wanted to see you about two different positions. Obviously, the Cincinnati job isn’t right for you,
CHAPTER 10
Talia
Though I’d spent forty minutes wielding a blow dryer and a round brush, I was crowned with a halo of frizz: I looked like the love child of Botticelli’s Venus and Tom Wolfe. The morning was, as my father might say, as hot as a Hasid in Haifa. My white linen suit was losing starch with each limping step.
In June Rittenhouse’s waiting area, every chair was slick and uncomfortable; even the tall French tulips on the desk wore wires up their ass. Almost half an hour ticked away before I was ushered into a conference room fitted with a black marble table and two glass bottles of Evian.
Let the inquisition begin. I’m guilty, Detective. I confess to being here under false pretenses
.
Yet when the headhunter entered the room, she was apologetic for the delay as well as refreshingly wrinkled. With more sense than I had, June Rittenhouse had pulled her hair into a chignon, although I could see the real deal was as kinked as my own. This made me like her. “Happy to meet you, Ms. Fisher-Wells,” she said, shaking my hand. “Have a chair. I’ve looked over your résumé, and you’ve accomplished quite a lot.”
I wondered if at this point I was expected to display humble gratitude for a compliment or was supposed to brag about my incomparable qualifications. I stuck with “Thank you.”
“All right, let’s start. What do you consider your greatest accomplishment?” She stared into my eyes so intently I would have backed away if it wouldn’t have suggested that her breath might be less than minty fresh. Faking sanity at work when Henry hadn’t slept through the previous night? Getting my mother-in-law, Abigail Wells, the great-great-great-granddaughter of austere New England preachers, to tolerate me? Those were accomplishments. But what I said was, “It had to be the time we had only twenty-four hours to pitch Odor-Eaters and my approach nailed a multimillion-dollar account.” I narrated my story with beguiling anecdotes augmented with numerical flourishes, and watched the woman take notes as I silently lamented that my life’s work had been dedicated to training people to be spendthrifts.
“Do you prefer to work alone or as part of a team?”
Tricky. Was the job in question—if there was a real job at stake—for freelance consulting (“I work best independently, preferably on the tundra for months on end”) or a traditional inside position (“I’m a team player and love to brainstorm endlessly with witless morons who grab credit for my ideas”)? “Actually, I’m one of those people who swings both ways,” I said, and gave examples of star performances on both the autonomous and Ms. Congeniality fronts.
She offered a cryptic “Aha,” asked a few more easy questions, and then said, “For the right position, Ms. Fisher-Wells—”
“Talia.”
“Talia, would you relocate?”
“I wish I could tell you the answer is yes,” I admitted, “but my husband’s a teacher and we’re committed to staying here because of his job, although I could imagine a position in, say, New Jersey or Westchester.”
“Where does your husband teach?”
“James Madison in Brooklyn.”
“No!” She beamed. “I can’t believe it. My housekeeper’s son is a student there. What’s your husband’s name?”
“Thomas Wells.”
“You’re Mr.
Wells
’ wife?” she said, as awed as if I’d just revealed that Tom was in line for the English throne.
“That would be me.”
“I can’t begin to tell you what a godsend Mr. Wells is, the way he’s been tutoring José for the SATs and how he started that basketball team. He’s all I heard about last year.”
Me too.
“It would be a crime if your family left Brooklyn,” she said, and once again beamed her freakish astral stare in my direction.
This interview is over
, I thought, but she seemed to be revved up for more. “I wanted to see you about two different positions. Obviously, the Cincinnati job isn’t right for you,
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