He is a star. I can't tell you his name, that would be like betrayal. He's done the small screen, the big screen, daytime, and prime time. He's an actor, director, and a producer. You'd know his face if you saw him.
Since I can't tell you his name, and I have to call him something (it could be Thomas, Robert, Richard, or Michael) I'll pick Jimmy, because the first boy I truly loved, back in fourth grade, was Jimmy. Jimmy suits him well enough, although make no mistake, it is not his real name.
And my name shall be Annie.
My boss, who also wishes to remain anonymous, wants to be George, for he is in the telling of this story also. It is either for George Clooney, or George Harrison. It is most certainly not for George Michael, and he worried over this. I told him he was George, and that was that.
George is the senior partner in our accounting firm. I am a junior. He's kind-hearted, generous man, somewhat quiet and always professional. He rarely takes on new accounts anymore, passing the best ones on to me. He flatters me.
I am, mind you, always up to my eyeballs in work. I've been known to put my phone on "DND," but people still find ways to disturb me anyway.
The day this tale began was a Thursday, I remember, because it was a day I was trying to leave early as my son Tim had a soccer game in the evening. My disabled phone lay under a stack of ledgers. My face wore its "bother me and be killed" mask, and there were two half-empty cups of icy coffee on my desk. Disgusted, I picked them up and headed for the lunchroom.
At the sink, I halfheartedly wiped the coffee ring out of one cup with a wet paper towel then poured myself a fresh brew. I was leaning tiredly against the counter, dreading even the walk back to my desk, when the shrill call of a cellular phone startled me. My cell phone, hanging from my wrist on a strap. (Neurotic mother that I am, I always carry it around when my office phone is shut off.)
Coffee splashing, I fumbled to right the phone and find the green key while trying to read the caller's I.D. Didn't make sense; it was the office phone number.
George.
"Are you here?" he wanted to know.
I sighed. No, I'm at the beach. "Lunchroom," I said.
"Could you come to the main conference room? I have a client I'd like you to meet."
)
