50 Shades of Davie Chapter 1 – Part 2
I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet, and falling head first into the office. Double crap – me and my two left feet! I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to Ms Davies office, and gentle hands are around me helping me to stand. I am so embarrassed, damn my clumsiness. I have to steel myself to glance up. Holy cow – she's so young.
"Miss Duarte." She extends a perfectly manicured had to me once I'm upright. "I'm Ashley Davies. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?"
So young - and attractive, very attractive. She's not very tall, but slim and evident from the way her clothes cling to her body she definitely works out. She's dressed in a grey pencil skirt, white blouse and a lose black tie around her neck. The ensemble would look odd on most but she looks like she's just walked off a catwalk somewhere. This outfit along with straight dark copper colored hair and intense bright green eyes momentarily still my voice in my throat.
"Um. Actually" I finally mutter. If this woman is over thirty then I'm a monkey's uncle. In a daze, I place my hand in hers and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate.
"Miss Duarte is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind, Ms Davies."
"And you are?" Her voice is warm, possibly amused, but its difficult to tell from her impassive expression. She looks mildly interested but above all, polite.
"Spencer Carlin. I'm studying English Literature with Maddy, um… Madison… Um Miss Duarte at USF."
"I see," She says simply. I think I see the ghost of smile in her expression, but I'm not sure. "Would you like to sit?" She waves me toward a white leather-buttoned L-shaped couch.
Her office is way too big for just one woman. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there's a huge modern dark-wood desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is white - ceiling, floors and walls, except on the wall by the door where a mosaic of small paintings hang, thirty-six of them arranged in a square. They are exquisite - a series of mundane, forgotten objects painted in such precise detail they look like photographs. Displayed together, they are breathtaking.
"A local artist. Chelsea Lewis," says Davies when she catches my gaze.
"They're lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary," I murmur distracted both by her and the paintings. She cocks her head to one side and regards me intently.
"I couldn't agree more with you Miss Carlin," she replies, her voice soft and for some inexplicable reason I find myself blushing.
Apart from the paintings, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the Goddess who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite me. I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, and retrieve Maddy's questions from my satchel. Next, I set up the mini-disc recorder and am all fingers and thumbs, dropping it twice on the coffee table in front of me. Ms Davies says nothing, waiting patiently – I hope – as I become increasingly embarrassed and flustered. When I pluck up the courage to look at her, she's watching me, one hand relaxed in her lap and the other cupping her chin and trailing her polished index finger across her lips. I think she's trying to suppress a smile.
"Sorry," I stutter. "I'm not used to this."
"Take all the time you need, Miss Carlin," she says.
"Do you mind if I record your answers?" mumbles hesitantly from my voice. What if she says no?
"After you've taken so much trouble to set up the recorder – you ask me now?"
I flush. She's teasing me? I hope. I blink at her, unsure what to say, and I think she takes pity on me because she relents. "No I don't mind."
"Did Maddy, I mean, Miss Duarte, explain what the interview was for?" I ask
"Yes. To appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year's graduation ceremony."
Oh! This is news to me, and I'm temporarily preoccupied by the though that someone not much older than me – okay, maybe 4 years or so, and okay, mega-successful, but still – is going to present me with my degree. I frown, dragging my wayward attention back to the task at hand.
"Good," I swallow nervously. "I have some questions, Ms. Davies." I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
"I thought you might," she says, deadpan. She's laughing at me. My cheeks heat at the realization, and I sit up and square my shoulders in an attempt to look taller and more intimidating. Pressing the start button on the recorder, I try to look professional.
"You're very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?" I glance up at her. Her smile is rueful, but she looks vaguely disappointed.
"Business is all about people, Miss Carlin, and I'm very good at judging people. I know how they tick, what makes them flourish, what doesn't, what inspires them and how to incentivize them. I employ an exceptional team and I reward them well." She pauses and fixes me with her stare. "My belief is to achieve success in any scheme one has to make oneself master of that scheme, know it inside and out, know every detail. I work hard, very hard to do that. I make decision based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut instinct that can spot and nurture a good solid idea and good people. The bottom line is, it's always down to good people."
"Maybe you're just lucky." This isn't on Maddy's list – but she's so arrogant. Her eyes flare momentarily in surprise.
"I don't subscribe to luck or chance, Miss Carlin. The harder I work the more luck I seem to have. It really is all about having the right people on your team and directing their energies accordingly. I think it was Harvey Firestone who said 'the growth and development of people is the highest calling of leadership."
"You sound like a control freak." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
"Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Carlin," she says without a trace of humour in her smile. I look at her, and she holds my gaze steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickens, and my face flushes again.