Everything is working against me. Loreen is finally sure of this thought as she slots the telephone which was previously pressed by her ear back in place. She is vaguely aware of her name on Alice Walker's lips as she slides to the floor. After some minutes, she comes to, blinking into the wide eyes of her secretary.
"Loreen," Alice is soft with it, unaware of the drop in formalities. That slip does not escape Loreen but her surprise is choked off by an abrupt, hacking cough.
Assistant slash secretary, but next in line to Loreen, hurries to a sterile drawer and chucks out a bottle of water. She pours it into a glass cup and hastily brings it to her madam. After Loreen has taken enough, she raises her eyebrows.
"What?" Alice asks.
Loreen fortunately, still has it in her to smile, "You called me by my name." Then, she chuckles dryly at the ooh and widening eyes. If she did not have her ass on a sling, she might have mulled over the marvel of Alice's eyes growing even bigger.
Gosh, Loreen thinks as she looks around, gaze sweeping across the milky blue walls and a visual illustration of a sanded beach appended on all that blue like a dull-coloured button. Her ass is still on the floor and she lifts herself as it clicks, aided by Alice.
"Let's pretend you did not hear that," Alice whispers. Of course, their formalities ends at the gate of the Scott enterprises. The two had quickly formed a strong friendship months after her uncle had brought her into the business. An astonishing wonder as Alice is a galliard under all that cover which surprisingly manages to subsist in Loreen's world of gray.
Alice helps Loreen to dusk her skirts as she returns to her desk, and proceeds to slump into the chair which swivels slightly at the impact. Loreen props her elbow on the brown, plain desk and lets her face fall into outspread palms.
Up there in her small mind, is bedlam. Where has she gone wrong? What is she doing differently? How does one still get up from a dead knot of failures? How does one know the next step is not again a failure?
Her thoughts rage until they are a vise round her neck. This situation is threateningly familiar. The memories flash - another woman in her matrimonial bed, mangled screams and a smash-to-smithereens divorce. Pain slices through her scalp and a faint, surprised yelp tumbles out.
Alice pronounces a small "Loreen," in apprehension and pulls her hands away from her hair. Loreen has no memory of her fingers creeping in but must have pulled too hard and blurted out the sound of pain. Loreen meets Alice' eyes for a moment and there is pity. Great, the last thing she needs.
Her thought process winds back to the cause of her distress. Simeon Walton. Her last hope had informed her, no, he did not - had relayed a big no to his assistant to pass on to her. She had not even gotten the chance to speak to him, not once, not even in the insistence of an exigency.
Might he be one of those sexists in the closet, hiding behind all that power? In her predicament, it dares her to think. And those rumours about him making headlines… As she ponders, her suspicion solidifies. This man, she has never done business with him. But, if this is how he really is - not the sunshine ball of kindness that he is portrayed to be on the media, with his legions of reinforcements of sickening praise lauders all over the world, the man thus should be cast out and flayed.
That arrogant, egotistic, overpampered brat. She doesn't know him but this display towards her pretty sums it up. Would he act the same way if she was a man asking him for favours?
That assistant, only if she knows his face, in that brusque tone that had informed her that the last batch of convertible shares had been given to someone else just some days before. God help them when she finally shows up to Walton Holdings and her notion is confirmed. She makes it a personal marker and if she is going down, the world will feel the burn of her anger.
That award belongs to her family - belonged to them alone until the legacy had been broken and stayed with a certain man that makes sure to drink five bottles of arrogance before he starts his day.
If Loreen Scott had known that things would turn out this way, she wouldn't have told Alice to hold on with Walton. After all, it might have been the delay that accrued this misfortune.
After a long while of internal wailing and plotting, Loreen sits up straighter. "Please, arrange a private meeting with Mr. Walton."
"What?" Alice is taken aback, "that will take weeks."
"I know." And after a pause, she adds, "I really need this." First, she needs to know who Simeon had given those shares to. Does that person really need it? Considering that Simeon is also a contender for the awards, he wouldn't have much to give out anyways.
Gradually, she is beginning to lose her patience. But she's here now, at the one of most important stages. This process is called the 'elite shareholder requirement'. Quoting from the long newsletter on the application form she had procured for an exorbitant sum, "To be considered, applicants must demonstrate significant ownership stakes in at least 10 of the country's top elite companies, owning a minimum of 5% shares in each company and must demonstrate continuos ownership of these shares for at least nine months prior to the award show."
The prerequisites changes each season and the newsletter had been quite a read. The only group such list can fit are the elite companies which are practically the eligible team to run for the awards.
Alice later leaves her be after a number of strategic planning that Loreen almost can sniff out the mist of doom hanging over it. It's evening before Loreen walks out at last and into the light of the setting sun.
She flings her bag into the sideseat of her red Audi without looking and gets into the driver's seat. She drives straight to the airport where she is received by familiar faces. She boards a helicopter on her way to a meeting, a socialité club that she joined after some time as the CEO. Adhering to the advice of her uncle to build connections, she accepted one of the numerous invitations sitting in her mailbox and ended up with a group of snobby women that she has no idea how she copes with them.
The helicopter whizzes its way above the steep hills and colorful Victorian homes dotting the distance. The change from San Francisco to Silicon Valley is a bit dramatic, the steepness beginning to fall, the urban metropolis sprawling across flat plains in a seamless blend.
They land in an open runway some blocks away from the venue of the meeting, and a driver, her usual black man Joe is there to pick her up with a smile which she returns indulgently. They arrive in front of a large, grey hotel. Choosing to linger in the car, she pulls out a small mirror from her purse. Subsequently, she touches her appearance up, dashes a stunning red unto her lips and a light matching eyeshadow. Brushing her red bouncy curls, she lets it shadow the left side of her face. Then, she double checks herself, straightens the blue checkered suit, fumbles with the red heels and slings the purse. Confident enough that she's good to go, she opens the car door and steps out.
Don't give them anything to talk about, she mutters aloud. Those women. Nitpickers.
About to slam the door close, she remembers that she hasn't renewed her baccarat rouge so she leans down to find it and sprays it carefully.
A deep breath, then two. The car door slams. The clacking of locks and the clicking of heels are heard simultaneously in the quiet parking lot. Black man Joe disappears behind her, still going to hang around until she's back.
Leisurely, Loreen sets down the path like a model on a catwalk. She offers a perfunctory nod at the receptionist as she passes, weaves her way through glass, gold crested doors and gets into the elevator heading to the fifth floor which led into their coven.
Women's Power Team, they call themselves. Very enticing, until you are one of them.
The last, glass door slides open after her security card scanned successfully and she crosses the threshold. A big space reveals, reeking of influence, affluence, glitter and glamour. The women, their voices carrying with the wind; and she is certain that they're all present and seated, prim and proper. True that. She rounds a corner and enters another space, more like a comparted corner and the click of her heels is suddenly the only thing heard.
A total of twenty women from all angles of the higher class, bourgeois, the upper echelons, and the lot of them. Very much like the women in power team rather, wives of powerful men, madams.
They are in regal chairs, seated round a glossy, triangular table and at the apex, the highest person in power amongst them. Loreen rounds the base and walks forward until she's before the only empty seat, three seats away by the side and from the apex.
"Good afternoon, women power." As routine, she bows first to the woman at the apex and offers another to the rest of the group.
Then, she takes her place and pushes her purse onto the dark wood stool beside her. To her right, she already knows who is there before she turns but the smile freezes on her visage when the face is different.
Lightning fast, she turns to her left and is met with the face she is looking for. They must have exchanged seats or has she been absent for too long that she has mixed up the seating arrangement?
"Do you see that?" A high voice perks up smoothly from across the table. It belongs to Mrs. Ashton, wife to Irwin who is Chief Commander of the military personnel in America. "She must be befuddled," the woman continues and the women burst into a flurry of giggles.
Loreen smiles, or tries to.
The head of the table clears her throat and the mouths fall silent. Mrs. Willow Blake, the First Lady. She is a world class model and was the most beautiful woman in the world the previous year.
For one to get invited into this society follows a pattern and is reserved for the highest in position in their affairs. That's one of the mere reasons Loreen Scott is working her butt off as she had replaced a certain Melanie James that is beginning to claw her way up again.
In the three years of being a part of the group, a few faces have changed, losing power to their replacement. Loreen didn't want to be an ex - woman in power - woman power team. She wants to be here until her prime is over. If Mrs. Sanders can do it and is still doing it, she steals a glance at the petite woman four seats opposite from her; then, she can.
"You see, Loreen Scott. Mrs. Hudson's husband right here won the seat of excellence, " the First Lady explains and woman in question smiles smugly at her, "and the board decided to up her seat in celebration."
"Oh-" Up her seat or seats? It takes her strange glances to remember that she missed something. "Congratulations!" she hurriedly gushes.
Mrs. Hudson gives her an indiscernible expression and responds with an infused polite but flattered pomp. "Thank you."
"How impeccable that must be," someone chitters and the women fall into the yatter that Loreen had met them in. It's the usual. Brains dropped by the door. Aimless gossip and anon, a casual break of, "I bought a car"; "and, we were thinking of donating to the poor", and the likes of this and that.
"…husband won the seat of excellence." Loreen peeks at Mrs. Hudson. Her husband is a senator of the States. That award possibly means that he is the best senator. Perhaps, something that should not be far from that. Loreen does not really know what goes on in politics.
She turns to Mrs. Klas on her left who meets her gaze with a subtle smile. The woman seems unfazed but Loreen Scott knows that deep within and in every single woman who sits on this table, they all plot on how to move their stakes higher.
Reflexively, her head snaps up at the sudden mention of her rival. "Melanie would have said bollocks to you". It's Sanders' wife to Mrs. Hudson. The men above Mr. Sanders in the business industry are all unmarried which justifies her presence. Sometimes, she wonders the First Lady thoughts in sending out the envelopes of invitation. But Loreen is almost never here and the conversations merely floated over her.
Turns out that the mention of Melanie is because of her birthday party which from bits and pieces she manages to grab will be coming up the next month. They are arguing about the possibility of receiving invitations. She holds the scoff that almost breaks out from her chest scoffs and coyly, pulls out her phone. Next thing, they start discussing Soirees.
This charade is surprisingly going too well, that's if the constant jabs and barbed mockery are ignored. The meeting graciously comes to an end, and Loreen escapes with quick steps. Black man Joe quickly pulls away as always before she's stopped in the false similitude that is socialization.
Back in San Francisco, she fights off the urge of a drink as she looks through the documents that her uncle had sent for review. It's all ledgers that illustrated the annual revenue of both wings of the Scott's enterprise. The Mogul award requires a minimal annual revenue of $1 million dollars.
Thank goodness, the American economy is stable enough this year.
"I really need to do something, put my name on the papers for good merit for a while," she soliloquizes aloud in the emptiness of her room.
In the wee hours of the morning, shivering and barfing in the toilet is Loreen. She cannot fathom for the life of her why she picked up her phone that moment. She is supposed to be over this, done, dusted. Why?
Retches start anew, with her insides wringing up a wash of vomit. Her fair skin fades and a pale green lurks beneath the surface and stays as if one touch can erupt the volcano of green deep-seated..
After a long time, Loreen stumbles out of the bathroom, jittery. On sighting the shelf, always been a losing game anyway, she finally succumbs to the temptation of rich wine.