#zearingnet

            “Mr. Masrani,” Claire greets him, smiling as professionally as she can, “what brings you here? Aren’t you supposed to be in, uh, Abu Dhabi?”

            “Masrani Energy is doing fine,” Masrani assures her cheerfully, “but I wanted to check in on my park. The move is going well?”

            Claire nods, smiling through her teeth. “Everything’s under control,” she says.

            “You will have a gorgeous view, once the fog clears up,” Masrani remarks, casting a glance out the window. Claire, not quite knowing what to say, nods again. “Well, good luck, Ms. Dearing.” He starts walking towards the door, hands in his pocket. “Oh, before I forget,” he adds, turning back around to face her, “here are some résumés for you to look over, when you have the time.” He places a stack of papers on her desk.

            “For what?” Claire asks, confused.

            “For a personal assistant,” Mr. Masrani replies, like that’s obvious. “Just pick a few you want to interview personally, they’re all Masrani employees, so they have security clearance. You can let the office secretary know,” he continues, turning back towards the door. “We’ll have them flown in at your earliest convenience.”

            “Oh,” Claire says, carefully. “Of course. Thank you,” she adds, at last minute, and Mr. Masrani gives her a quick smile, holding the door open for more movers with more boxes.

            “Where should I put this?” One of them asks, a lamp almost as tall as she is obscuring his face.

            “In the corner, please,” Claire says, swallows, and looks at the pile of résumés on her desk.

x.x

            It’s evening when she gets the chance to look at them. As she looks over her (finally) organized office, she vaguely remembers that she should really call Karen. It’s Zach’s birthday (he’s twelve today, Claire thinks, even though she’s not sure). She hasn’t seen them all in ages —three years? no, closer to four, Claire realizes, and feels guilty. It’s just been so busy with the deals they’re trying to make and the expansion they’re planning --getting the patent for the Gyrospheres was a nightmare, Claire remembers, and gets a headache just thinking about it—that she hasn’t found the time to jet up the Midwest for quite a while. Oh well. She’ll call later tonight and pick up a card on the way home, something nice from the gift shop with a dinosaur on it. Maybe she’ll include one of those stuffed animals from the Build-A-Dino shop, even though they haven’t officially opened that thing up to the public yet. Something like that. Kids like dinosaurs, right? Is Zach even still a kid? Maybe he doesn’t like stuffed animals anymore, even though he was thrilled the last time she brought him a plush pteranadon.

            Sighing, Claire settles down in her chair and picks up the first résumé. The headshot is professionally done, but still, a headshot? Claire rolls her eyes. A twenty-something year old man smiles cheekily up at her, something Claire would find charming if he weren’t trying to get a job. She glances at his experience; he majored in Management and Men’s Studies at Brown,—Claire’s never even heard of a Men’s Studies major and kind of fundamentally opposes the idea—and has been working for Masrani for three years. Under skills, he lists management, which Claire very much hopes is one of his skills considering he has a degree in it, and typing. He speaks French. He plays golf. She puts it to the side, into the ‘maybe’ pile.

            The second résumé she looks at seems a little bit more promising. There’s no headshot, just thick paper with neat, bold letters. This applicant went to Princeton, has a degree in Communication Studies, and spent two years abroad in China. Wait. She squints and sees that she saw correctly. He said year’s. Two year’s in China.

            Claire grits her teeth and looks at the rest. There are seven instances of incorrect apostrophes on the first page and no Oxford commas. Without hesitation, she puts the résumé into the ‘definitely not, never, ever’ pile.

            This will take a year if she keeps going at this pace. Claire shuffles through the rest of them fairly quickly, scanning for grammar, professionalism, people who’ve actually graduated from university—Claire’s not sure why, but there’s 19 year old kid in here, that’s a lawsuit waiting to happen—people who speak anything other than English (once, she suggested to a German investor that he could sponsor the Gyrosphere, and he thought she was talking about food), and people who have relevant degrees. It’s late when she gets towards the back of the pile, and she can tell: first, because her eyes are watering and drooping, and second because she almost puts a résumé (that really looks like a CV, now that she thinks about it) in the ‘definitely not, never, ever’ pile because she thought the extra u’s were just wrong as opposed to the British spelling.

            Because she feels a tiny bit bad about that, Claire actually looks at that one for a bit longer than the rest. Ms. Young, or Zara, she supposes, actually seems qualified, if not a little overqualified. She has a degree in Business and Management and a degree in Communication Studies from the University of Bath,—that’s where Jane Austen is from! the 17 year old British Literature freak that’s still stuck somewhere in Claire’s subconscious squeals, quickly suppressed. She’s the first applicant Claire’s seen that speaks Spanish, which is incredible considering they’re all applying for a position off the coast of Costa Rica. She’s attended a series of lectures held by Dr. Sattler, who must be in her forties by now, and had experience in administration before she even started at InGen.

            There’s knocking at the door, and Claire panics for a moment, because living on an island with dinosaurs does that to you. Then a head pokes into her office and it’s only the security guard, looking at her with a slightly worried expression. “Ma’am?” She asks, and Claire only blinks at her in response. “I’m locking down the building now,” she continues, “do you still want to go home tonight?”

            “Yes,” Claire replies and starts assembling her things, hastily stuffing Zara Young’s résumé and a few others from the ‘maybe’ pile into her bag. “Sorry, just give me a moment.”

            The security guard laughs a little. “Take your time, I’ll leave the front door for last.”

            “Thank you,” Claire says breathlessly, and hopes this won’t become a pattern.

x.x

            In her tiny apartment, Claire types up an email to the office secretary, requesting that these people, specified below, be flown to Isla Nublar for interviews at the start of the next week. She goes to bed without letting her hair down, knowing she’ll regret it in the morning when her hair is impossible to tame. It’s almost down to her mid-back now and curls in a girlish sort of way she would’ve killed for in high school, when Karen had hair down to the small of her back and Claire was stuck with bobs at an awkward length, too short to pull up and too long to be elegant. Sometimes Claire considers cutting it all off, but she just runs out of time, hasn’t gotten to it yet—

            Suddenly, she remembers that it’s Zach’s birthday, and that she didn’t call, but it’s much too late now. They were probably busy all day, anyways. Birthday party and whatnot. If he’s not too old for that by now.

            She’ll call tomorrow.

x.x

            The first of three PA interviews is scheduled for Tuesday at 9 A.M. The applicant—Thomson, Claire reminds herself, thinking of her third-grade music teacher—is early, and Claire is late, because she’s got three meetings scheduled back-to-back and the FCO has a tendency to ramble. She walks into her office, not quite expecting anyone to be there, and is more than a little surprised when there’s a man in a suit sitting in the chair across from her desk, impatiently tapping his foot against the floor.

            “Sorry—” she starts, but he stands and interrupts her.

            “No worries, darlin’,” he replies in an extremely fake-sounding Southern drawl. “Can you just get me a cup of coffee? I have a meeting with the Senior Assets Manager, he was supposed to be here five minutes ago—”

            “I’m the Senior Assets Manager,” Claire says coolly, and when Thomson recovers from his shock, it’s clearly sinking in how badly he messed up. “Please,” Claire motions towards the chair, “have a seat.”

            She tolerates him for a few questions, then sends him on his way with an “I’ll have my office contact you.” When he’s almost out the door, she calls out: “Mr. Thomson?”

            He turns around, half hopeful.

            “There’s a Starbucks on Main Street.”

            After he’s safely out the door, Claire snickers to herself for a good minute before quietly sobering and continuing her work. Still, there’s something she’s forgetting. Claire runs through appointments and deals in her head, paperwork she might’ve forgotten—

            Okay, Claire admits. I do need a personal assistant.  And she abruptly remembers that she totally forgot to call Karen last week, so before she forgets again, she pulls her phone out and dials her sister’s number. Voicemail. Claire clears her throat and tries to adopt a happy tone.

            “Hi, Karen,” she says cheerfully. “I just wanted to wish Zach a happy belated birthday, I know I’m a few days late, but—”

            Karen picks the phone up, and Claire’s voice falters. Karen clears her throat on the other end of the line. “Claire? Where have you been? I haven’t heard from you in a month.”

            “Real busy,” Claire tries to explain. “I got a promotion, and I had to move, and I’m interviewing for a PA—it’s been a rough couple of weeks, I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t worry about it,” Karen says, but her voice sounds subdued. “I’ll tell him you called, he’s at school right now.”

            “I’ll be there next year, I promise.” Claire chews her bottom lip. “Maybe even Christmas? I’ll have to see how much time they give me off.”

            “Alright!” At least Karen sounds marginally less disappointed. Claire is suddenly painfully aware that she is a very bad little sister, and a very bad aunt to boot. There’s a muffled voice in the background of the call. “Scott says hi,” Karen starts, then is interrupted by childish, cheerful shouting. “And Gray! He’s home sick today, he has the flu.”  

            Claire smiles. “Tell them hi back. And tell Gray to get better soon.” She looks around, suddenly uneasy. “I should probably get back to work, Karen. I’ll call you later, okay?”

            There’s a murmur on the other end of the line that Claire assumes to be her sister’s response. She hangs up.

x.x

Zara steps off the ferry, clutching her purse in one hand and her suitcase in the other. She silently thanks whatever higher powers that she’s got a strong stomach, because there were at least three puking kids on that trip and she has no desire to show up for a job interview with nothing in her stomach and the faint taste of bile in her mouth.

            Anyway.         

            Her suitcase clicking behind her, Zara weaves her way through the crowd. The park is packed, and seems to be running well—the prices are ridiculously inflated, of course, which Zara realizes when she stops at Starbucks to buy a cup of coffee and finds that it’s at least double the normal price. Oh well. InGen is paying for this, aren’t they? Zara smirks, just a tiny bit. It’s a nice vacationing spot here, definitely in style for the upper middle class. Besides, she has two full days, and there’s no reason why she shouldn’t look at the dinosaurs, or even play golf if she wants to feel like her father. Still, every time she thinks about the interview, she feels kind of ill, nervous. The email Ms. Dearing’s office sent her was short and almost too polite, like an invitation to come and embarrass herself.  Zara reminds herself why she’s here—she needs distance. She needs space. She needs something she can throw herself into wholeheartedly without having to worry about people nagging at her all the time. Assistant positions are good for that, at least Zara hopes they are. And she’s good at this—Zara can get coffee, fetch groceries, and she’s certainly organized enough to keep a calendar straight and schedule appointments and the like.

            I can do this, she reminds herself, and, oddly encouraged, walks with her head the tiniest bit higher, enjoying the way her heels sound on concrete.

x.x

            The next applicant, as Claire unwillingly has to admit, is late.

            Really, it shouldn’t be that hard to get to an interview on time. Especially if it’s for a job. Especially if it’s an interview for a job with the Senior Assets Manager of one of the most successful theme parks in the world. Claire doesn’t like to brag, or to elevate herself, but she’s not unimportant enough to be kept sitting around like this.

            Okay, maybe he is only two minutes late. And maybe Claire herself has to run into meetings breathless and a little disheveled sometimes, but that’s only when she has a truly good excuse—fireworks gone awry—and it’s only happened once or twice.

            And not when she still had to make a good impression.

            After another two minutes, Claire walks up to the secretary and leans over the desk. “Has Mr. Cruthers contacted the office?”

            “No,” the secretary says, shaking her head and pulling up her email. “He’s on the island, though.”

            “Yes, I’d hope so,” Claire says as neutrally as possible and tries to breathe calmly. It’s not like she has better things to do. It’s not like—

            “Sorry I’m late!” A man calls, presumably Mr. Lowery Cruthers. He rushes in the door, clutching at a shoulder bag. “Sorry, sorry—”

            Claire notes, with slight amusement, that he has a custom made dinosaur keychain on his bag, the kind they only sell at Jurassic World. “That’s quite alright,” she tells him, making sure that her tone is icy enough that the message gets across. “I’m Ms. Dearing, we’ll be conducting the interview in my office?”

            “Pleasure,” he says enthusiastically and shakes her hand, which means he’s already doing better than the last guy simply by virtue of not assuming Claire is male. “Your island is incredible, the dinosaurs are—they’re amazing,” he finishes, looking at the view of the island out of Claire’s window in awe.

            “Thank you,” Claire replies evenly. “Please, take a seat.”

            He does alright for a few questions—obviously enthusiastic, though Claire’s not sure what he’s enthusiastic about. He just doesn’t seem very educated on what she does, honestly, and as he keeps talking about the wonders of dinosaurs and technology and science, Claire loses faith in him, at least as an assistant.

            “Mr. Cruthers.” Claire tries to interrupt him as gently as possible. It doesn’t really work. He still stops mid-sentence and looks at her like she’s kicked a puppy. “In my level of management, I work very rarely with the assets themselves—”

            “Assets?” Lowery asks, but he seems so genuine that Claire can’t bring herself to be annoyed.

            “Dinosaurs,” Claire elaborates. “It’s mostly very—well. I do management. I oversee personnel, make deals with potential investors—more of that sort of thing, you understand?”

            Cruthers, knowing what’s good for him, just nods.

            Claire purses her lips and leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “Are you interested in that kind of work? And please, don’t lie.”

            The look in his eyes gives him away before he even moves, and when he slowly shakes his head no, Claire is aware that it’s a lost cause.

            “I see you have a background in tech,” Claire remarks, looking back at his résumé. “How about this, Mr. Cruthers.”

            He perks up.

            “I’ll send your information to the control room,” she says. Lowery’s expression turns from slightly confused to overtly hopeful. “I am not making a promise,” Claire clarifies. “I’m simply writing you a recommendation—they generally always have intern positions open, and I believe a person with your—” she looks down at his résumé and then back up at him “—credentials can always be used.”

            “Thank you so much,” Lowery replies, truly grateful. “Really, I can’t thank you enough, if there’s anything I can—”

            Claire sighs quickly. “Please just be on time.”

x.x

            The baby triceratops is, quite frankly, charming.

            Zara watches it toddle around the petting zoo, occasionally bumping its head against the fence. It’s tiny, but so cute, and Zara is trying hard to remain stoic, but it’s difficult when there’s a grin tugging at her lips every time it moves or does something endearing. She realizes she’s standing in front of a little boy and is probably blocking his view, but she’s waited longer than him for this, damnit, and he can afford wait for another five minutes.

            She really needs to learn how to control herself. The scary British lady in three-inch heels can not be squealing at the baby dinosaur. She has a reputation to uphold, or at least to build up, and a blank, slightly apathetic facial expression is crucial. Men don’t try to hit on her when she looks irritated—something Zara is infinitely thankful for. People tend to nod, look down, and say, “yes, Ms. Young,” when she asks them to do something, in a tone so carefully neutral it’s almost unsettling. The baby triceratops falls over. A bright grin breaks out on Zara’s face. She contains it after a moment and puts her sunglasses back on, clearing her throat.

            After watching the petting zoo for a few moments more, Zara composes herself and walks away. She has twenty minutes before the car is picking her up for the interview—security, something about the main roads of the park not going back there—and she wants a dinosaur shirt, something to that she’s “bringing back for the boyfriend” in case anyone asks, but in her size, of course.

x.x

            Zara Young is, as Claire is pleased to note, three minutes early. The secretary buzzes her in, and apparently she asked for Ms. Dearing—so she’s doing better than the other two already. However, as Claire is not pleased to note, the highly impressive Senior Assets Manager of Jurassic World has just spilled coffee all over her desk. Thankfully it’s free of papers, but trying to wipe it up as fast as possible without getting any of it on her cream colored skirt is proving to be quite the challenge.

            Knock. The door is half open. “Come in,” Claire calls half-heartedly, grabbing another tissue.

            “Hello, is this Ms. Dearing’s office?”

            Claire looks up.

Crisp accent, presumably British. Features that remind Claire of the illustration of Snow White she had in her favorite picture book as a kid, lips as red as blood and skin as white as snow and hair as black as—Claire doesn’t remember what the hair was. Coal, maybe? Or ebony. Something like that. Well, this girl has it.

            Snow White shifts in the doorway awkwardly, and Claire realizes she’s kind of been staring, and even if she hadn’t been, prolonged silence probably isn’t acceptable anyway. “Can I help you?” Claire clears her throat, shoves the coffee-soaked tissue to the side, and tries to regain some kind of poise.

            “In a manner of speaking? I’m, well—” for a second, she looks nervous. “I’m Zara Young, I’m here for the interview?” Claire blinks. Zara Young looks like a goddamned princess, and Claire is being unprofessional. “This is Claire Dearing’s office, right?”

            “Yes,” Claire assures her hastily, and stands up and holds out her hand. “Please, have a seat. I’m sorry, I’m still getting used to my new office.” Her voice has taken on the light, breezy tone that she hates hearing executives use. Internally, she sighs. She’s becoming just like them.

            “Oh, don’t worry about it,” Zara Young says and smiles charmingly. She’s wearing heels that rival Claire’s. “It’s lovely to meet you, Ms. Dearing.”

            Claire nods, remembers to say “You, too,” at the last minute. “Please, have a seat.” She motions towards the chair in front of her desk. Zara Young sits down and crosses her legs, gracefully. “Are you enjoying the park?” Without looking down, she throws the sopping tissues into the wastebin under her desk.

            Zara Young just doesn’t mess up, at least not too badly. She’s a little blunt, perhaps. Prone to a slightly snobbish air, but maybe that’s a good thing. It’s actually probably a good thing, now that Claire thinks about it. Ms. Young—Claire can’t start calling her Zara in her head, or it’ll actually happen—always answers professionally. She’s very eloquent, speaks well, and smiles charmingly, does everything charmingly. Claire needs to concentrate. The other people she interviewed are forgettable, though she’s pretty sure Lowery is already working in Control, and Ms. Young actually seems competent, not to mention that she’s so ice cold people will automatically take Claire more serious as well.

            And then there’s mooing from her bag, and Zara Young turns a brilliant shade of red. “That’s my phone,” she realizes, panicked, and goes digging through the elegant leather purse to turn it off. Claire’s never seen anyone flush so hard. “I’m so sorry,” Zara—no, Ms. Young, Claire reminds herself—breathes, and rejects the call. Almost immediately, it starts ringing again. The mooing is pretty loud. Claire has to suppress a smirk, because that would be unprofessional but also not very nice. “My brother thinks he’s funny,” Zara sighs, and turns the phone off. The blush has faded to a light pink color.  

            Claire looks down at Zara’s résumé, then back up at the girl. Claire is being stared at with a worried, apprehensive expression, and she gives herself a mental kick and smiles thinly. “Don’t worry, Ms. Young,” she says, and shrugs. “It happens to the best of us.”

            Relaxed, just a tiny bit, Zara brushes her hair back from her face. “So sorry,” she repeats, and clears her throat. “Anyway, where were we?”

            It’s remarkable how quickly Zara regains her composure. A blink and the moment would have never happened; all traces of red have disappeared from her cheeks. Still, Claire saw it; Claire knows Zara Young is human and it’s oddly comforting. She wraps up the interview after another fifteen minutes; there’s little point in continuing, seeing as Claire’s not interested in diving back into the pile of résumés and searching out yet more people to fly to Costa Rica for an interview and Zara—Ms. Young, damnit—seems to have her life together. They shake hands when Ms. Young stands up to leave. Her hands are dry and cool, and she’s got a proper grip. Claire thanks her for coming to the island and starts to say I’ll have the office contact you, but when her mouths opens what comes out instead is, “When do you think you can start?”

            If Zara Young truly is surprised, there’s only a moment in which some semblance of emotion dashes across her face. “I—”