I stood my ground.
“Ms. Bryant,” he stammered, “Alexa worked for me at IAG, and I’ve contracted with her to help us revamp the interface. She was the one who designed our new logo.”
I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. Not only was she a terrible designer, but she completely lacked any professionalism. She grabbed Mr. Greyson’s arm again, and it all made perfect sense. She was his “personal matters” and who he had mixed pleasure and business with at IAG. I thought he said that was a mistake, but yet here she stood in all of her buxom, blonde glory.
I spun on my heels, marched to my office, and slammed the door. I figured if he was no longer following professional boundaries, why should I?
Alexa?I kept thinking. He called her Alexa, not Ms. Manselle. Probably because she was going to be the next Mrs. Greyson. Suddenly, I felt nauseous. I sank into my chair. I even forgot to turn on my computer. I only came out of my stupor because Delfia knocked on my door, and before I could say come in, she was in, and the door was closing behind her.
She sat on one of the leather chairs in front of my desk and threw the Bergman file on my desk, seething.
“What’s wrong?” I inquired.
She kept shaking her head, and with every turn, her face turned a darker shade of red.
“Delfia?”
“That woman!” she finally spat out.
“What?” I asked.
“She came in here, all over Mr. Greyson, and with hardly an introduction, she began giving me orders. Everything from the kind ofbottled water she likes stocked to the temperature the conference room needed to be every day. And then she started spouting off how atrocious all the office furniture was and how we really needed an update. Then she and Mr. Greyson disappeared into his office to do heaven knows what.”
I put my hand up to stop her. I didn’t even want to think about what heaven knew about.
“I’ll talk to Mr. Greyson. She’s not an employee, and I still manage this office. She has no authority over you.”
Delfia gave me a half smile.
“Thank you for the file.”
A calmer Delfia walked out the door.
I finally managed to get my laptop on, and the first thing I pulled up were my new designs for the interface. They were amazing, and apparently absolutely useless. I closed out the file with a tear in my eye. I gazed at the adjoining door. The conversations we’d had over the last two weeks had made me think that maybe I should move the credenza and that maybe, just maybe, we could have the working relationship that would allow for open doors. Now I was thinking of hiring a contractor to permanently remove the door and make it a wall with no access.
It didn’t take too long before I had another visitor. He looked tentative when he walked in. To say he was stepping on eggshells was an understatement; landmines were more like it.
I didn’t stand on ceremony. “Am I still the manager of this office, Mr. Greyson?”
He stopped in front of my desk. “Of course.”
“So why is it that an independent contractor was hired without my knowledge or consent?”
He stood tall. “As Director, I don’t have to run that by you.”
I think my mouth may have dropped to the floor. I guess the whole team thing was big fat lie. “Fine! But you can tell your little plaything, I mean designer . . .”
His eyes widened to the size of saucers. “What did you just call her?”
“You heard me.”
“I believe, Ms. Bryant, you’re under the wrong impression,” he spluttered back.
I smirked and interrupted him. “Please, Mr. Greyson, don’t insult my intelligence. Just tell her that, as an independent contractor, she has no say about what goes on in this office beyond the purview of what she was hired to do, and that Delfia is not her personal assistant.”
I turned back to my laptop and ignored him as he continued to stand there. I had nothing more to say to him. He must have stood there for a good minute. I still didn’t look up. He finally stalked off and slammed my door. I heard his door slam a few seconds later.
Welcome to Monday. A tiny tear escaped and ran down my cheek. What was wrong with me?
