Eloquent. Brilliant. And uncomfortably knowledgeable…That last observation had lodged itself in chief executive Carl Dunney’s brain barely fifteen minutes into the interview and refused to let go. The video screen in front of him displayed the photo and the curriculum vitae of an attractive young woman applying for a position at TheVault, Inc., a rising star in the marketing industry that specialized in social media and predictive behavioral analysis. The UFO, as Carl had taken to calling the conference telephone, poured the pleasant voice of said applicant into the room, as she answered Carl’s questions. She clearly tried to engage. She had done her homework.

Ms. Anna Parker — so far the only applicant for the job — hailed from the London School of Economics, the same institution from which he obtained his masters’ degree thirty years ago. Ideally, such a happy coincidence should have smoothed the hiring process, which he hoped would silence his partner’s pleas for an extra brain in the R&D lab. Yet, despite their shared pedigree, something about this young woman didn’t tally with his idea of a candidate for this particular position.

For starters, she was extremely eloquent. Old fashionably eloquent even, although she would sometimes, in the middle of a sentence, switch to slang. A weird combination. Secondly, the young lady answered all his questions with unusual precision, the way a scientist would. She did it even in fields outside her area of competence. He couldn’t think of anyone nowadays who could honestly boast such multiple expertise. He knew another exceptionally smart woman, but as smart as his business partner was – where was she anyway? Isabella was never late – , she wasn’t a walking encyclopedia, and she never ever pretended to be an authority on anything outside her field of expertise. You must be a pretty smart cookie, or you have your brain directly wired into the internet, he puzzled.

He looked at the screen again. No wires seemed to be coming out of the back of his interviewee. But then again, it was just a photo. It hadn’t been a serious thought anyway.

Where the hell was Isabella? He needed someone to take over the interview, so he could sit back and observe. It wasn’t exactly his style to silently observe, but this little lady had him intrigued, and he somehow knew he wasn’t going to find out what was nagging him by continuing talking to her. She owned him and he needed to step aside. He handed the file to his assistant. “Steve, please take over for a minute, will you?”

Like a snail seeking refuge from the sun, he dove into his phone and pretended to have lost interest. He had to fight the impulse to glance back at the pretty face on the wall monitor. Anna had happily resumed her conversation with Steve, her voice clear and reverberating.

Carl wished he was cleverer. The truth of the matter was that Anna’s imponderability fogged up his mind so much he was ready to throw up his arms in despair. Riddles never turned him on as much as they did Isabella. And when the riddle assumed human shape, he had a hard time reining in his deep distrust, however pretty the candidate’s looks may be.

Shifting listlessly in his chair, he looked around the table. He swiveled his head toward Rostam, TheVault’s resident poet, as Carl called Isabella’s Iranian-born lab wiz. He sat with quiet eyes and a hint of a smile contemplating a shiny coin he kept flipping through his fingers. He seemed absent, but Carl knew better; Rostam was recording every single second of this interview and would later be able to reproduce most of it. Either that, or he was chewing on a haiku.

He turned to his own assistant, who was doing remarkably well and seemed to be really enjoying his conversation with Miss Parker. He made a mental note never to conduct interviews again.

Let’s see now. Eloquent and a little too knowledgeable. He corrected himself emphatically: Too eloquent, too knowledgeable! She was what, twenty-four, thirty tops?

He suddenly had a hunch, and he had learned to act on them. He strongly believed it had made him the successful man he was today. Straightening his back, he eyed the mysterious job applicant that everyone in the room was watching so adoringly.

“Excuse me, Miss Parker, what is your cup size?” his loud voice interrupting Steve’s next question. The guys in the room sat dumbstruck in astonishment. They stared at him in utter disbelief.

“I don’t know, really” she said firmly.

No hesitation. No anger. No emotion at all. This piece of information fell nicely into place. Puffing, he let the pen hanging next to the side of his face slip from his fingers and bounce on the hard surface of the table. The room was still staring at him.

“You’re really something, Miss Anna,” he said, putting an accent on her name.

“Why, thank you, sir…I mean Mr. Dunney,” she replied with the intonation of a question mark.

He responded with a dismissive wave of the hand. He noticed that her eyes followed this gesture from beginning to end. “Gotcha” he complacently thought.

Without warning, he placed both fists on the edge of the table in front of him and gently rolled himself on the wheeled chair backward. He leaned over heavily to collect the few papers strewn on the table, slipped them into a light green folder, then stood up, grabbed his tone-on-tone suit jacket dangling from the back of his chair, and reached for the door.

At the last minute, he twisted himself smugly back to Miss Parker and to the still astonished looks of everyone in the room.

“Or should I call you, Miss Thorne?” he hoarsely whispered. His eyes wandered around the room, feigning inner serenity after catching her red-handed, then swayed his head from left to right in amazement. “I think we can stop here for now. I suggest we continue our conversation tomorrow—eight o’clock in my office,” he said, adding triumphantly, “We have a Board meeting in the morning—so, eight o’clock sharp, please! I don’t think my assistant needs to give you the details —Doctor Thorne.”

Feeling vindicated, he reached for the door handle and, without bothering to put on his jacket, twisted it triumphantly and signed off.

—

From the safety of a workstation located somewhere else in the building, Anna’s puppeteer cringed at his gloating. Embarrassed. Humiliated. Honestly, Carl, you can be such a jerk!

Doctor Isabella Thorne wrenched the old fashioned headphones from around her head and flung it across the room in a small rage. To her regret, because she truly loved her vintage headphones.

It had also turned the head of the technician on duty. He threw her an empathetic glimpse and rose to his feet to pick up the headphones off the floor.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Thorne,” he offered.

It had taken Carl exactly thirty-seven minutes to discover Anna’s secret. His last question had been both outrageous and brilliant. Anna’s answer had been a dead giveaway. Any woman would know her cup size. And any woman would have at least threatened him with a battery of sexual harassment lawyers and make him beg not to pursue.

Now, Dr. Isabella Thorne knew that rather than letting this go, he would milk it for what it was worth for a good dressing down. Carl never liked being taken for a ride. He was right, of course. It was just that Isabella had wanted to test her creation in a real life conversation. It was clear Anna wasn’t ready for it yet.