Reputation(25)

But will I get to stay here? What am I going to do?

As I turn a corner, I get that prickly feeling again. Someone is watching me. I stop short and glance over my shoulder, but the sidewalk is empty.

I pull my hood down. No one sees you. No one knows what you know. You have to believe that.

Around the corner from the hospital is a coffee shop called Becky’s. I push through the door, relishing the darkness and dankness. Greg and I used to meet here a lot, actually. We sat at one of the back tables, looking around to make sure no one we knew came in. I had as much to lose as he did, after all—it’s one thing for an Aldrich girl to be seen with an upperclassman, even a grad student. But a man old enough to be her father? I had an image to uphold as a good, dutiful coed. I’d told Greg I wanted the whole Aldrich shebang: dorm life, an editorial position on the literary magazine, maybe even student government. I wanted to go to football games, fencing matches, rallies. I had three purple Aldrich sweatshirts hanging in my closet, and I wore them with pride. I loved the appreciative nods I sometimes got from people on the street when they saw the school’s name. That’s right, people, I go here. I’m smarter than you.

I think of the first time I met Greg. Ironically, it had been in passing. I’d been at my interview at President Manning’s office; he was looking for a new executive assistant because his last girl, Tara, unexpectedly quit. I might have had something to do with that. Some careful spying on Tara’s weekend activities and drug use, a strategically worded e-mail telling Tara that she resign as Manning’s assistant or else I spill the beans—it was that easy.

I’d called his office the day she quit, before he’d even had time to post the job online. Naturally, I was the very first interviewee. I knew Manning would choose me. Not because he needed someone immediately—he was the type of man who seemed to flounder without an assistant—but because I’m just that enticing, that good.

I was sitting in the waiting room outside his office, staring at the paintings on the walls. They were of presidents of Aldrich Past. All men, of course, sitting on their tufted chairs with their pipes and their smug smiles. I’d read online that the president of a top-notch college made more than three million dollars a year. With that kind of cash, I’d be pretty damn smug, too.

The door to the back office opened. “Raina Hammond?”

It wasn’t Manning but a haggard, fake-smiley blond woman. She introduced herself as Marilyn O’Leary, Manning’s deputy. “He and I work very closely together,” she said. She looked me up and down, and I thought I caught a little disapproval in her gaze. “Whatever gets to Manning goes through me first.”

I didn’t like the sound of that, and I also didn’t like that she followed me into Manning’s office. There, at his desk, was Alfred Manning in the flesh: that golden skin, those sparkling, dancing eyes, those expressive eyebrows I’d seen rise so comically in the many interviews he’d given on CNN or 60 Minutes as the leader of a progressive, esteemed university. He wore a button-down shirt and well-fitting wool trousers, and he seemed to ooze superiority. Instead of feeling insignificant—or off my game—I was proud. I’d infiltrated a top school’s inner sanctum. I knew I was going to get this job. That’s right, all you assholes who thought I was going nowhere, a voice taunted in my head. Look at me now.

A look of delight crossed Manning’s features when he saw me. He was coy about it, but I knew he was taking in my face, the size of my breasts, and my long, shapely legs. “Why don’t you come in?” he said, gesturing to the door. Then he turned to Craggy Blonde: “Marilyn, we’re all set here. Thank you.” Craggy O’Leary made a pinched face and left the room.

Alfred Manning’s office was kitted out in warm cherry bookshelves, a low-slung leather couch, and a grand desk that spanned the width of the room. Upon the desk was, among other things: a bust of William Shakespeare, a photo of a younger Alfred Manning and Robert De Niro, who’d received an honorary Aldrich doctorate, and a gold Rolex that was flung so haphazardly you’d think it was a Swatch.

My fingers crept toward it. Maybe I could just steal it, sell it, and not have to go through the rest of this bullshit. But then Manning sat down, and my hand snapped back.

“So.” Manning said, looking at his notes. “Miss . . . Raina.”

I reached into my oversize purse and handed him a résumé. “I heard you weren’t a fan of e-mail, so I figured I’d better print this for you to read again.”

“You heard I didn’t like e-mail?”

There was something challenging about the man’s smile, like he found this all a game. That was okay. I liked games. “I mean, I know you use it. I just knew it wasn’t your preferred mode of communication. And in fact, I’m very tech-savvy—I can do all of your computer responsibilities, if you want. Social media and all that.” I lowered my lashes in the way I’d practiced in the mirror. “If I get the job, I mean.”

“I like people who show some initiative,” Manning said in praise. Was he flirting? I decided yes.

Manning glanced at the paper in front of him. “You studied at Columbia’s Summer Creative Writing Program. Who’d you work with?”

My mind scrambled. “Professor Cordon. Among others.”

“Ah. Yes, I know Gerald.”