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Chapter 10
Silence, indifference, and inaction were Hitler’s principal allies.
— Immanuel, Baron Jakobovits (1921–1999), rabbi
Officially, the office of Pendergast, Loughlin, and Fly
Unofficially, the phones start ringing at eight sharp. Which is why they need the receptionist there early, ready to transfer calls.
I’m in the fancy black leather swivel chair (with wheels on it) behind the reception desk, trying to grasp what Tiffany, the afternoon receptionist (no, really. That’s her name. I thought she was making it up, but when she got up to get us coffee from the high-tech kitchen in the back, I peeked in the drawers on either side of the desk, and I saw that, in addition to twenty different shades of fingernail polish and about thirty different samples of lipstick, she’s crammed all her pay stubs in there, and I read one, and it said, right there, in pink and black, “Tiffany Dawn Sawyer”), is explaining to me.
“Okay,” Tiffany says. She is supposed to be a model when she isn’t working behind the reception desk at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Fly
“So, like, when you get a call,” Tiffany explains, her carefully made-up eyes heavy-lidded, because, as she’s already explained to me, she drank “way too many mojitos” last night, and she’s “still wasted,” “you ask who’s calling, and then you tell them to hold, and then you press the transfer button, and then you put in the person’s extension, and then when that person picks up, you say who’s calling, and if the person says he’ll talk to whoever is calling, you press send, and if the person says he doesn’t want to talk to whoever is calling, or if he doesn’t pick up, you hit the line the caller is on, and you take a message.”
Tiffany takes a deep breath, then adds gravely, “I know it’s rilly complicated. That’s why they asked me to come in early today so I could sit here with you and make sure you get the hang of it. So don’t, like, panic, or anything.”
I look at the two-sided typed list of extensions that Roberta from human resources has helpfully shrunk down to palm size, then sealed in clear contact paper, so I can’t stain or tear it. There are over a hundred names on it.
“Transfer, extension, say who’s calling, send or take a message,” I say. “Right.”
Tiffany’s ocean-blue eyes widen in surprise. “Good. You got it. God. It took me like a week to get that.”
“Well,” I say, not wanting to hurt her feelings. Tiffany has already told me her life story—she left her home in North Dakota right after high school graduation to come to the big city to model; in the four years since, she’s done a lot of print work, including the a
“Ooooh, here’s a call,” Tiffany says, as the phone chirps softly. The ringers in the offices of Pendergast, Loughlin, and Fly
I pick up the receiver and say confidently, “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Fly
“Who the hell is this?” the man on the other end of the line demands.
“This is Lizzie,” I say, as pleasantly as I can, considering his tone.
“You the temp?”
“No, sir,” I say. “I’m the new morning receptionist. How may I direct your call?”
“Get me Jack” is the terse reply.
“Certainly,” I say, frantically sca
“Jesus Christ,” the man on the other end of the line yells. “This is Peter fucking Loughlin, for fuck’s sake!”
“Of course, sir,” I say. “Please hold.”
“Don’t you fucking—”
I press hold with trembling fingers, then turn toward Tiffany, who is dozing in her seat, her lusciously long black eyelashes perfectly curled against her high cheekbones.
“It’s Peter Loughlin,” I cry, waking her up. “He wants someone named Jack! He swore at me! I think he’s mad I put him on hold… ”
Tiffany is on it like a frat boy on a pizza, snatching the receiver from me and muttering, “Shit. Shit shit shit,” beneath her breath before leaning over me to press the hold button, then saying smoothly, “Hi, Mr. Loughlin, it’s me, Tiffany… Yes, I know. Well, she’s new… Yes, I will… Of course. Here he is.”
Then her long, manicured fingers fly over the keypad, and the call—and Peter fucking Loughlin—is gone.
“I’m sorry,” I say tremulously, as Tiffany hangs up. “I just couldn’t find anyone named Jack on the list!”
“Stupid bitch,” Tiffany says, pulling out a ballpoint pen and scribbling something on the list Roberta gave me. Passing the list back to me, she sees my alarmed expression, and laughs. “Not you. That whore, Roberta. She thinks she’s so great, because she went to an Ivy League college. Like, so what? All it got her was a job scheduling people’s vacations. A monkey could do that. Big fuckin’ whoop.”
I blink down at the change Tiffany’s made on my list. She’s crossed out the first name “John” in front of the last name “Fly
“John Fly
“No. It’s John. But he calls himself Jack, and so does everybody else,” Tiffany assures me. “I don’t know why Roberta put his real name instead of what people actually call him. Maybe because she wants to fuck with you. Roberta’s totally jealous of girls who are better looking than she is. You know, since she looks like a horse-faced troll.”
“Oh, there you are!” Roberta cries, as she pushes open the glass door from the elevator lobby and steps into the reception area. She’s wearing a trench coat—from the lining, I can tell it’s Burberry—and carrying a briefcase. For someone who only “schedules people’s vacations,” she looks superbusinesslike. “Everything all right? Tiffany showing you the ropes?”
“Yes,” I say, throwing Tiffany a panicky look. What if Roberta overheard her calling her a horse-faced troll?
But Tiffany doesn’t look the least bit worried. She’s fished a nail file from one of the many drawers into which she’s crammed her personal belongings, and is working on one of her gel tips.
“How are you this morning, Roberta?” Tiffany inquires sweetly as she files.
“I’m great, Tiffany.” Roberta, now that I look at her, does sort of resemble a horse. She has a really long face, and superbig teeth. And she’s kind of short and has terrible posture, making her, truth be told, a little bit troll-like. “Thanks so much for helping us out by pulling a double today in order to train Lizzie. We really appreciate it.”