I can't deny that technology has done miraculous things for human beings in every aspect of our lives. Living in the twenty-first century has given me an unimaginable advantage over my ancestors (with the small exception of getting on the property ladder without the assistance of my parents) and I accept that I live a life that my relatives, with their humble beginnings, would hardly believe. But even as I start my day in my beautiful West Village apartment, I can't escape the bone-deep jealousy of those family members who never had to wake up to twelve different people texting them "Have you seen this?!" And four missed calls from their father. It's a shock to the system that not even a cold plunge could achieve, and the twisted sense of terror that coiled in my gut when I saw three different social media platform links in my inbox lingers as I head into the boardroom at Davenport Innovation Creative headquarters. Monday is my least favorite day for a work crisis, but a Monday crisis on only my second week back in my role? The stuff of nightmares.
I drop myself into a chair in the back corner of the room facing the window and place one of two coffee cups on the table in front of me and the second to my left. The overhead lights glare off the glass stretching from one side of the room to the other. My reflection sits to the right of the Empire State Building, the rest of the city lit up around it beneath the gloomy November sky.
The rest of the team with their morning schedule ruined by this impromptu meeting pile into the room, taking their seats and muttering among themselves. The floor shakes as an overstuffed Birkin lands in the empty space beside my pumps. I smile at Sahara as she sits in the chair next to me and practically lunges at the coffee I bought her on my way into the office. She takes a sip and sighs contently: "I love you, Clara Davenport." "You love coffee," I respond, dodging her hand as she tries to playfully ruffle my hair. My dad finally enters with Roger, the VP of publicity, and takes his usual spot at the head of the table, which, thankfully, keeps me out of his eyeline. After the world's fastest debrief, Roger clears his throat and draws attention to the buffering screen behind him. "Good morning, everyone," he says, his deep voice bellowing around the room with ease. The face of an older woman appears behind him with a large play button covering her nose and lips, a face I've seen a dozen times this morning. Her blond hair is so icy it's practically silver; a wide, voluminous lock frames her face and sits behind her ear, the rest looks like it's tied up in a French twist. I can't assign an age to her, not accurately, at least. Sixties, maybe? Her skin is white but lightly tanned, with a glow that speaks to a foreign vacation somewhere a hell of a lot hotter than here. Her eyes are bright behind thick brown cat-eye glasses; the telltale lines of time gather at the edges, in contrast to her suspiciously smooth and wrinkle-free forehead.