Читать книгу Someone Like You - Timothy James Beck - Страница 12

Natasha Deere dropped the remainder of her microwaved waffle down the garbage disposal and listened to the grinding noise with a fleeting wish that bland people could be as easily discarded. She took her coffee with her to the bathroom, where she pulled back her long, dark hair and wound it into a tight bun. She put on her makeup, then dressed in a black suit with a red silk blouse. After downing the rest of her coffee, she swished some mouthwash and spit it into the sink with deliberate aim.

Today was going to be a good day. For her.

Mondays were always her favorite day. They were symbolic of new beginnings. Sundays were for sissies, total throwaway days. It also didn’t hurt that most people hated Mondays. That made Natasha love them all the more. The productive week began on Monday, and for as long as Natasha could remember, she’d been driven to conquer one Sunday after another.

As a little girl growing up in Los Angeles, she’d attended the finest private schools. Her parents, who could barely stand her—the feeling was mutual—surrendered to their true feelings about their daughter and sent her to boarding school when she was a teenager. Although never popular, she was invited to all the other girls’ parties for the simple reason that her parents always sent great presents, and word had gotten around. Most birthday girls’ only problem with accepting the present was having to put up with Natasha for a few hours at the party.

Natasha couldn’t have cared less. It wasn’t like she actually chose the present. She just told her mother during their weekly phone call that she’d been invited to a birthday party, and the present would arrive, already wrapped, with a card for her to sign and attach, in plenty of time for the festivities. It was always something expensive and tasteful, classic and timeless. The Perfect Gift. The birthday girl would coo, and her bimbo friends would make comments of admiration. Natasha could see the pupils of their eyes turn into dollar signs, as in a cartoon.

Natasha wasn’t bothered by the fact that they liked her gifts more than they liked her. She had a plan, and it didn’t allow for emotional attachments. People were a necessary evil, something to put up with while she worked toward her goal. Occasionally, one might serve as a vehicle to get what she wanted. More than anything, she wanted to be rich and free of her parents.

By the time Natasha started working, her ambition and drive were the most noticeable parts of her personality. The less noticeable part, by comparison, was her striking beauty. If she chose to leave it down, her bouncy, dark hair was full of body, and her watery blue eyes could have been mistaken for pools. She had high cheekbones and a strong but not too defined jaw. Her figure was mannequin-perfect; it always had been. Her legs were long, and she looked great in anything she wore.

Natasha had grown up in a world where beauty was bankable. Her mother belonged to a group of women whose lives were a futile quest to find the right cream, the right plastic surgeon, or the right drug to preserve beauty. Natasha refused to foolishly turn herself into a simpering female who traded on her looks. Beauty was brief. Financial freedom was forever.

She worked the whole time she was in college, not because she had to, but because it was part of the plan. She maneuvered her way through a number of departments in the Neiman’s on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills while she got her business degree at USC, then her MBA at UCLA. She could be found anywhere, from Cosmetics to Fine Jewelry, from Handbags to Furs.

After completing her MBA, Natasha told her parents, during a conversation at some holiday function that she had long since blocked out, that she didn’t need them or their money. The latter of the two declarations she would come to regret. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Natasha knew that she’d formed her only significant relationship with the retail world. It was the best vehicle to show off what she was capable of. She hadn’t wanted to stay in California, and she found herself going from place to place. She’d work her way up the ladder at one location, then move on to a more upscale store somewhere else.

As she climbed the ladder, and occasionally slept under it, she came to realize that it mattered even less than she’d thought whether people liked her. Business was not about making friends. What a useless endeavor that would be. Friends. Natasha scoffed at the thought.

But she also learned that it paid to make a few of the others think she was their friend. It didn’t have to be true, but if she pretended to bond with a couple of the people on her staff, it made life easier. The ones who hated her—and there were always plenty—would inevitably say something to one of the others who didn’t, and someone would at least try to make it seem like Natasha wasn’t entirely evil. Not that she cared if they thought she was evil. The payoff was in finding out who thought she was evil, and whether they could in any way threaten her, and if so, how to eliminate them.

She strode with purpose through the employee entrance of Drayden’s, and the graveyard shift security guard greeted her. “Good morning, Ms. Deere.”

“Good morning,” she replied with a nod and kept her pace steady as she continued down the hall.

“Had a good day yesterday, did we?” the guard persisted.

“We always do,” Natasha said.

She turned the corner and set her handbag on her desk, then went to the sales floor. Her first task was always making sure that those who’d closed the night before had left things ready for the start of a new day.

She stopped short when her vantage point allowed her to see that a shoe on the wall display had not been properly replaced. “Idiots,” she said aloud. She marched over and replaced the shoe on its shelf.

She then moved from table to table with an imaginary white glove, making mental notes of who’d worked the night before. Finally, she went back to her computer and checked the previous evening’s sales figures for each person who’d been scheduled, comparing those figures to what that person was expected to sell per hour. As she looked at the sales figure for Jonquil, she frowned.

How could someone be here for a full seven working hours and sell only $152, when everyone else sold over $1,000 during their shifts? she wondered. What the hell was she doing the whole time she was here? Giving blow jobs in the men’s room?

The door pushed open from the back hallway, and two of her sales associates walked in. They were laughing and joking—until they saw who was waiting for them.

“Which one of you closed last night?” Natasha demanded.

“Um, I did,” Erik volunteered, and Missy looked sheepish.

“Who was the senior person in charge of closing last night?”

“I was,” Erik answered.

“Can you give me a good reason why the displays look so awful this morning?” Natasha asked, folding her arms across her chest.

“Well,” Erik began, “each person was in charge of their own area. That’s the way we always do it.”

“So in other words, you’re not supposed to have any responsibility for this, even though you were in charge of making sure it was done properly. Even though you’re the senior person on the schedule, I’m not supposed to hold you or anyone else accountable, because you all stick up for each other, right?”

“The company does promote teamwork,” Missy volunteered.

“Missy? Did anyone ever tell you that perfume you’re wearing smells like bug repellant?” Natasha paused, and Missy blushed. “Would you like to wash it off, or have me call the Orkin Man to see if he wants a date?”

Missy fled, and Erik said, “You know, you don’t have to—”

“What?” Natasha interrupted. “Let her know that she smells like she should be wearing a fumigation tent instead of that horrible Kmart blouse?”

“Oh, you recognize it?” Erik got one dig in.

“Not as well as I recognize someone who pictures himself as an assistant manager but clearly isn’t qualified,” Natasha snarled.

Erik turned crimson at the mention of his submitting his name for the cross-department promotion as the assistant manager of Men’s Shoes. He obviously hadn’t realized that she knew about it. She’d never stand in the way of a valuable employee succeeding, but if the employee simply wasn’t up to the task of managing a department in a large, successful business, it was her duty to thwart him. Valuable was certainly in the eye of the beholder.

The door to the stockroom opened again. Natasha heard footsteps, which seemed to hesitate, turn around, then stop completely. “Hello?” a voice called.

“Can I help you?” Natasha answered.

“I’m looking for Natasha?” The voice spoke again with a note of uncertainty.

Natasha rose from her desk and stood tall, as though an invisible hand pulled her up by the crown of her head. “I’m Natasha,” she said.

She scrutinized the young man in front of her, first noting his expensive suit. Either he had money, or he’d been taking advantage of deep discounts as a retail employee. Other than his clothes, he was nothing special. He was shorter than she was, with mousy brown hair cut short, clear skin, brown eyes that watched her with apprehension, and a hesitant smile. Her split-second judgment categorized him as the warm and fuzzy type.

“I’m Derek Anderson. I was told to report here for work this morning,” he said tentatively as the silence stretched between them.

Great, Natasha thought bitterly, noticing the way Erik hovered protectively near Derek, as if eager to absorb him into the little group of friends who plagued her department. Why couldn’t she ever get an employee who had her drive, her vision, her devotion to hard work?

“I don’t remember asking for additional help,” she finally said. “I guess calling HR is just one more thing I have to do now. Erik, take him to the floor and show him around.”

After they left, she tapped her fingernails on her desk while she thought it over. Drayden’s procedure was to screen prospects, then let the department manager interview them and make the hiring decision. Since the usual channels had been subverted, Derek must have been placed with her by someone with clout. She’d have to find out who before she decided on her next move.

Natasha smiled. The only thing better than a normal Monday was a Monday that held the promise of a new power struggle for her to win. She brushed Derek aside as nothing more than a little bug who had whetted her appetite for larger prey.