Fran Lee: Jillian’s Job

Jillian’s Job Copyright © 2009 Fran Lee

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Barbie: Mattel, Inc.

Bowflex: Bow-flex of America, Inc.

Cristal: Champagne Louis Roederer

Dior: Christian Dior Couture, S.A.

Dom Perignon: Schieffelin & Co.

Evian: Societe Anonyme Des Eauz Minerales D’Evian Corporation

Gucci: Gucci America, Inc.

Learjet-85: Lear Corporation

Manolo Blahnik: Blahnik, Manolo

Mercedes: DaimlerChrysler AG Corporation

Rolex: Rolex Watch U.S.A., Inc.

Rolls Silver Shadow: Rolls-Royce Limited

Tiffany’s: Tiffany & Company

“Does the bastard ever tell you he appreciates your work?” Tim’s voice was like a small irritating gnat buzzing around Jillian Turner’s head, bothering her as she frowned down at the schedule she was working on on her laptop.

“No, and he pays me enough I don’t have to hear it.” She ignored his sarcasm, and added the recording studio date for Tuesday the 23rd, before hitting the save button and closing the window on her screen.

“Bullshit, Jill. Everyone has to hear it once in a while. Why the hell you insist on killing yourself for that thankless prick, I’ll never understand!” Her brother ran a hand through his already-mussed blond hair, and frowned down at her. “You haven’t had a real vacation in the entire seven years you’ve worked for him, and now the son of a bitch expects you to give up the one weekend we had planned a special family party for your birthday as well?”

Jill sighed, and looked up into Tim’s blue eyes. “I’ll be back in time for the party. I promise. It shouldn’t take more than one day. The party is set for Sunday evening, right? So I just won’t have the full weekend off, that’s all. That’s no big deal.” But it was a big deal, and she damn well knew it.

Tim frowned at her pale face. “You don’t even have a set schedule-the bastard expects you to drop everything and run whenever he decides he needs you. When’s the last time you had a decent night’s sleep?” He glared at the computer screen as if it were a nasty bug. “You aren’t eating right. You look like shit. Mom’s worried sick about you. Have I missed any of the other great perks you have in this job-of-a-lifetime?” Jill had no intention of openly agreeing with him. Even if he were right. Too humiliating-

She smiled at him and put one hand over his lean fingers where they rested on the edge of her desk. “Thanks for worrying about me. But I love my job. I don’t need a nine-to-five schedule. I love the variety. I love the rush. I never get bored.” But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to quit when she saw her boss this evening.

His eyes bored into her. “Your boss treats you like shit. The son of a bitch walks all over you like you don’t even exist, and you just follow him around and clean up his fucking messes. Quit, and get your life back. The money isn’t worth it.”

Yeah. Right on. Tim’s words sawed through her like a dull knife. Her breath caught in her throat. She knew he didn’t intend to be cruel. He was just worried about her. He cared about her. Her entire family cared. And they all pitied her. Pity-just what she needed for her thirtieth birthday. She swallowed hard and bit the corner of her lower lip. No way was she going to admit that she was going to get her life back as early as tomorrow morning. To admit defeat was to accept it.

“I like my job. I may not have the most thoughtful or considerate boss on earth, but he pays me exceptionally well, I have great insurance and benefits, and I get to go places and see things I would never have been able to as a professional assistant in some corporate office on Wall Street. I travel first class in a private jet. I have an expense account. And if I don’t get all my weekends free, that is just one of the drawbacks to being indispensable.” For one more frigging day, anyway.

Tim bent and kissed her forehead, and growled something about working for selfish pricks who thought money was the remedy for everything in life, and he left her to brood about her job and her life alone.

She shut down her laptop and rested her forehead in her hands. He was right, of course. They all were. And she was pitiful, utterly pathetic. She sighed. She truly didn’t mind working for a man like Michael Furie, as long as he genuinely appreciated and needed her. She gave a sharp, unamused laugh.

Fat chance of that. Michael Furie didn’t need anyone-or appreciate anything.

Michael Furie was an all-powerful, hard-nosed, shoulder-to-the-wheel, totally misogynistic male chauvinist. She stretched and closed her laptop with a groan. And she often wondered if he even knew she existed, beyond her capacity as steadfast, efficient, easygoing doormat and babysitter. Oh yeah. And the most important aspect of her cushy job-professional disaster cleanup.

She knew why Furie wanted her to fly to Aspen at the drop of a hat. As if being treated like she was wallpaper weren’t bad enough. He needed her to “run interference” for him once again. Did she look like a fucking linebacker? She growled and rose from her chair and unplugged the computer cords and cables, stuffing them irritably into the carry bag. She shoved a flyaway curl out of her face and glared at her reflection in the bezel-cut antique mirror over her fireplace mantle.

She did look like shit, just as Tim had said. Okay, so she wasn’t getting any younger. Okay, so she never got a chance to meet decent men who saw her as something more than Mike Furie’s tag-along. Okay, so the only reason she tolerated the jerk was because she had been pathetic enough to fall for him somewhere along the way. As if he would ever notice.

She stared at her flushed face. Was that another frigging wrinkle?

Closing her eyes, she counted slowly to fifty. Twenty wasn’t long enough anymore to regain her composure. It was definitely past time. Of course, she’d had this conversation with her reflection many times before, but she really meant it this time.

It was time to grow up. Become her own person again. Cut and run. As her mom had once so succinctly put it, “stop being a kitchen carpet”. She drew a deep breath and glared at herself. Okay. She would go bail him out again. But he was going to have to find himself another babysitter in the future. Her life was flying past at record speed, and it would be just plain stupid to be following Mr. Hunk-Of-The-Century around like a drooling puppy for another seven years of her life. It was way past time to cut the umbilical that ran from his fine, tight ass to her navel, and get a job that might pay far less, but that would give her some measure of pride back.

Pride? What the hell was that? Oh yeah, she remembered now. She’d always taken great pride in her management capability. In her competence. In her skills as a public relations expert. That’s what had gotten her this job in the first place. And those skills would get her another job that might not pay as much, but would give her back some measure of herself. Some sense of being a real person again, instead of a gofer-escape-artist-interference-runner par excellence . Yes. Keep it up. Repetition was good. She had to keep up the momentum.

Tearing her eyes from her unhappy reflection, she crossed to the sofa and set her computer bag down beside her suitcase. She hadn’t packed much. Just an overnight case with cosmetics, toothbrush, nightgown and robe, and a change for the return flight Sunday morning. The usual hit-and-run assortment of necessities she would require.