Chapter Three

The address Taylor was looking for was on East 45 th Street.

She walked past a little pizza place, trying not to appear too hungry as her eyes fell on the pictures in the windows that featured the various pies from their menu. The aroma of baking crust wafted in the air, and even though it wasn't lunchtime yet, she figured the staff was hard at work, getting ready for the upcoming rush.

It sure smelled wonderful.

Forget about it. Just see about this job. Maybe you'll have money later. They said this was a quick gig.

She kept going a few yards before coming to the correct address.

Her jaw dropped as she looked up at the towering hotel.

This place is fancy! she thought. There's no way they're going to even let me in!

She stepped closer and appraised her image in one of the tall windows. Her pants were too baggy. Her shirt was too small. They had been nice at one time, but they didn't really go together. It was the best she had, though, and the closest thing to professional attire she owned. She wore them when looking for work, which was nearly every day.

She grew self-conscious as people came in and out of the hotel. They were dressed crazy nice! Even the ones dressed casually still clearly had a lot more money than she did. The doorman gave her a glare. Or was that just her imagination?

Pedestrians milled about on the sidewalk—women dressed in skirts and pantsuits and men in suits with briefcases—and she wondered what she was doing in this world.

She thought of turning around and going back home. Or, where she lived, to be more accurate. The derelict building was far from a place of safety and comfort. But it was the closest thing to a home that she had.

She really needed this job, though. Even if it turned out to be a bust, she still needed to see. What if it was her big break? She couldn't let it slip through her fingers simply because she was nervous.

She was depending on it.

They were depending on it.

Taylor inhaled and then let the breath out slowly, willing her body to calm down. She'd been in tougher situations before. So, people would judge her clothing and appearance? It wouldn't be the first time. She survived those other instances, and she'd survive this one.

She put on the best smile she could muster and walked toward the hotel's door.

***

"Good morning. Thank you so much for coming."

The woman who spoke looked to be about 50. She possessed a professional, capable demeanor. She was dressed in a black pencil skirt, a crisp white blouse, and a tailored blazer. Her pumps were so high that Taylor wasn't sure how she walked in them. But somehow, the woman not only did so but made it look effortless.

Her jewelry was elegant but not showy. Maybe even a tad understated.

In short, she looked like the woman Taylor one day hoped to be.

She wouldn't have problems finding a job then. She'd probably run a whole company! This woman appeared as if she did.

"Thank you for giving me this opportunity," Taylor said demurely.

She told herself to be confident, but it was tough. It grew even harder when she saw the man—in a suit and Italian shoes that cost more than Taylor made in a year—sitting at a nearby table. His laptop was open. A couple of file folders were stacked neatly to one side with some loose papers resting near them.

There was an open bottle of bourbon, too, along with two glasses that contained melting ice cubes. They shifted loudly as they lost some of their volume. Taylor thought it was a bit early to already be drinking, but then again, maybe these people had a very stressful job. Who was she to judge?

The man briefly looked up from his computer but then went right back to pounding away on the keyboard. Evidently, whatever he was working on was far more important than Taylor's arrival.

"My name is Amanda Carey. This is my associate, Bill Faust."

"Taylor Jane," she said, holding out her hand.

Shake with confidence. Make eye contact. Let her know you're capable and eager to do the job. A go-getter.

"Pleasure meeting you. Please, have a seat. Can I offer you something to drink?" the woman said.

"No, thank you, Ms. Carey."

She smiled. "Please. Call me Amanda."

Taylor smiled, too, and offered a nod.

"How did you hear of us?" Amanda asked, as she took a seat in one of the provided chairs across from the couch. A bland coffee table separated them. There was the hotel's corporate magazine lying on its top. Taylor assumed it was only there for decoration. No one reads magazines anymore. At least, she didn't think so.

"From one of the temp organizations I use," Taylor explained. "I check in with several daily. I've been having a hard time finding work, so I like to keep multiple options."

"That's smart," Amanda said. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. She wore a caring smile. "I'm sorry you've been having trouble. Times are tough right now."

"Yes, ma'am," Taylor said.

She could have elaborated. "Tough" was an understatement. And it wasn't just the current times. Life had been beyond tough for Taylor. But she kept all that to herself. She didn't want sympathy. She wanted a job.

"Do you know anything about what we do?" Amanda asked.

"No, ma'am."

"Not many people do. We're a small operation. We don't keep much staff year-round, but when General Assembly is in session, we have to beef up to support all our endeavors." She smiled, tugged at the hem of her skirt, shifted in the chair, and then said, "I guess you know the UN is in town."

"Yes, ma'am. The subway was so busy." Taylor chuckled. "I mean, it's always busy, but as I got closer to Turtle Bay…"

"It got even crazier," Amanda finished for her, nodding. "The FDR was a nightmare this morning. Even more so than usual."

Taylor only nodded. She didn't drive, so she couldn't relate to traffic conditions.

Maybe one day she'd have a car. Or maybe she'd have a driver who took her everywhere she needed to go. The thought made her smile. She'd get a big van or something. State of the art. And then the driver could take them wherever they wanted to go. They'd see sights they'd never seen. They'd get out of New York and go to Boston. Or maybe they'd head south and see the beach. A real beach that was sunny. Like North Carolina or something. Maybe even as far away as Florida.

One day.

"Basically, we support the United Nations. I know that sounds simple. But it is," Amanda said. "This many diplomats and leaders need extra hands on deck. It could be as basic as fetching them coffee. Or running diplomatic pouches back and forth. It's boring but necessary."

"Lot of food running," the man called out, still typing and not taking his eyes off the laptop. "And some late nights. Tell her about the weird schedule."

"Ah, yes. The hours," Amanda said. She uncrossed her legs and sat up straighter. "That's the hard part sometimes. You see, some of these people stay up late, wheeling and dealing into the early morning hours. Some of them have way different schedules because they're not here long enough to adjust to American time. So, say a diplomat is from…Turkey…it's three in the morning here but to them it's ten. They might be ready to work or eat or something like that."

"I can handle that," Taylor said.

Amanda appraised her for a moment, as if to see if she thought Taylor could. Finally, she smiled. "Good. And the temporary nature wouldn't bother you?"

"No, ma'am."

"It could turn into something longer. But we don't keep a large full-time staff. And we have others doing what you do, so the competition to stay on can be competitive."

Taylor nodded, not knowing what else to say.

"Do you have a driver's license and car?" Amanda asked.

"No, ma'am." Taylor's heart sank. Would this take her out of the running?

"We can match you up with ones who stay local instead of the ones who go everywhere ," Amanda said. "Some of our diplomats and leaders treat this as a vacation. They want to see everything in New York and do it all. On their country's dime. Of course, that's none of our business." She chuckled.

Taylor did, too, but it was more from excitement than what Amanda was saying. It sounded as if she had the job.

"We provide a clothing allowance," Amanda said. "Because we're at the UN and around so many high-profile people, professional dress is required. Some of our clients can be sticklers about this."

Taylor grew even more uneasy about her current outfit. She appreciated the tactful way in which Amanda was handling it, though.

"We would get you set up right away. We need you to start as soon as possible, if you're available."

Taylor perked up, now unable to hide her excitement. "Yes, ma'am! I can start immediately if you need me to."

"Perfect," Amanda said. "You can—"

A knock on the door interrupted. Once again, Bill didn't even look away from his laptop. He simply said, "Come in," but never broke his typing stride.

A young woman about Taylor's age entered the suite. She was wearing smart, professional clothes and carried herself with confidence.

Bill kept his eyes trained on his screen but held up a file folder. "Put this in a pouch. Goes to Balough of Hungary."

"On my way," the young woman said.

She went to a nearby cabinet, picked up a leather satchel, and slid the folder in it. She was out the door in less than a minute.

Taylor smiled. She could do that. She'd be so efficient and productive that maybe someone would notice and want to hire her full-time. What if she even got invited to live in a different country, working for some leader? Or maybe she could work for the UN directly! This was a great opportunity and a foot in the door.

It was what she'd been looking for.

And she was going to make the most of it.