by Claire Adams
“I think I’ve heard about enough,” I tell him. “I’ll let you know.”
“Is that it?” the man asks. “I understood that it was going to be a much bigger project than what you’ve described.”
“It is,” I tell him, “but I just don’t think it’s going to be the right fit.”
“I think we got off on the wrong foot here,” the man says. “I’m Billy, by the way, it’s nice to meet you.”
Yeah, now he wants to shake my hand.
“Jessica,” I say again, and being the benevolent woman I am, I shake his gross, sweaty hand. “So, all right,” I continue. “I also wanted to see what you think we could do about having a lowered section right through the middle here. I saw this shop up in Greenwich, and it had a space like—”
“You do know this isn’t Greenwich, right?” the man asks.
“I’m perfectly aware of my store’s location,” I tell him, “and I think we’ve really come to an impasse here. I don’t think it’s going to work out. Thank you for coming in.”
“You haven’t heard my bid yet,” the man says.
“Fine,” I say, rolling my eyes. “What do you think it would cost for what I’ve asked?”
“Well, I’d need to know the measurements you’re looking at for everything,” he says.
“Yeah, I was getting to that, but you decided it was appropriate to inform me that I’m not in Greenwich right now, an observation that I can only assume was made because you think I’m stupid or naïve about my design ideas, but I’ll have you know—”
“Calm down, sweetheart,” the man says. “We’ll get this worked out, I’m sure.”
“Sweetheart?”
I wonder if I’m within my legal rights to kick this guy between the legs yet. If not, I’m sure I could come up with a pretty convincing story to tell the cops.
It’s something to think about.
But, being the shrewd businesswoman I am, I just put on a smile and say, “Get the hell out of my store.”
His face morphs into a disgusting smile, but when he realizes I’m not joking and that I really am quite on the verge of showing him what it’s like to have the business end of a stiletto end up somewhere he really doesn’t want it, he quickly turns and hurries out of the store.
I walk back to my office, more frustrated than ever.
My computer’s still on my schedule screen and I make a quick note under IRP Construction, saying, “Absolutely not.”
Ivanna, one of my sales associates, knocks on my door.
“Hey, sorry to bug you,” she says.
“No worries,” I tell her. “What’s up?”
“There’s a man here, he says he’s here to bid on the job.”
“I really don’t know that I can handle another jerk who’s going to try to overcharge me while mocking everything I want to do,” I tell her.
“Oh, I think you’re going to want to take this appointment,” Ivanna says.
“I really don’t know that I do,” I tell her.
“Do you want me to get rid of him?” she asks.
I take a deep breath.
“No,” I tell her. “Let’s just get this over with.”
I get out of my office chair and walk with Ivanna until she gets to Shoes and turns off.
When I make it to the front of the store, I ask my cashier, Linda, where the contractor is.
“Oh,” she says, looking up from her smartphone, “he wanted to know where you wanted the work done, so I just sent him over to Plus.” She leans over the counter and motions for me to come closer. “I think you should hire him,” she says.
“Yeah?” I ask. “Why’s that?”
“Just go over there and talk to him,” she says. “I have a feeling you’ll figure it out pretty quick.”
“No screwing the construction workers,” I tell her.
Usually, that would be a faux pas, but with Linda, that sort of thing actually has to be pointed out. There’s a bit of precedent here.
“You know I can’t promise that,” she says.
“At least try not to do it on my time, will you?” I ask.
She sighs. “Fine.”
I walk over to Plus, but it takes me a minute before I can find the man. He’s crouched down, measuring the storage room wall.
“Hi, I’m Jessica Davis, and you are?”
He looks up at me, then stands, and for a moment, I’m stunned.
He’s tall and well-built; as he smiles, he’s got all of his teeth, and they’re clean and straight, too. His hair is mid-length, chestnut, and gorgeous. Don’t forget about the tattoos going down his toned arms. I don’t know if it’s just that I’ve dealt with people like the guy from IRP so much over the past few days that I’d forgotten that contractors can be very attractive.
Jesus.
“Hey there,” he says, smiling and putting his hand out, “I’m Eric Dawson from Dawson Contracting. I’ve just been taking a look at your area over here, and I think I’ve got some ideas that might help you open up this space.”
“That’s great,” I tell him, “but I already have some things in mind.”
“Okay,” he says, and actually seems to be eager to hear what I have to say. This is amazing.
I run through what I told the douche nozzle from IRP, and the only time Eric responds is to go over some finer details for his own clarification. This might just be someone I could live with—working on my store, I mean.
“I like the way you think,” he says. “Beauty and brains: my favorite combination. I was wondering, though, you said you wanted a sunken area here, and that you wanted it to go down at least 18 inches. Now, that does sound like a really cool plan, but I’m wondering if it might be easier on your clientele to have it a little less deep. I know that a lot of women prefer high heels and that sort of thing, and I can just see a lawsuit from someone tripping over themselves as they’re walking down the steps.”
“For the effect I want,” I tell him, “I really do think that it should be 18 inches at least, though I probably wouldn’t want it any more than two feet. We could always make the stairs wider to better facilitate foot traffic.”
“All right,” he says, “I’m sure I could work with something like that. I do have to tell you, though, that with those stairs, you’re going to lose a lot of the space you’ll otherwise gain from knocking out that old storage room. Is that all right?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I know it’s a bit of a trade-off, but I think it’ll be worth it in the end.” I walk him over to the window, saying, “The last guy that was in here said that, in order to reinforce the wall on the far side of the new window area, he’d suggest using titanium to make sure it’s solid. Do you think that’s necessary, or what would you suggest?”
“I don’t think you’re going to need titanium,” he says. “Yeah, it’s stronger, but really it’s way above and beyond anything you’re really going to have to have in order to make sure the structure is stable.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” I tell him.
Just looking at him, I’m ready to hand him the job, but he hasn’t dropped the hammer yet.
“What are you thinking this is all going to cost?” I ask.
“Well,” he says, “let me do some more measurements, and I should have a quote for you here in a couple of minutes. Does that work for you?”
“Yeah,” I smile. “That sounds great.”
He’s actually bothering to measure stuff. This is great.
I make my way back to the front and wait for Linda to help the last customer in her line. When her lane is free, I lean over the counter and whisper, “I think I’m going to hire him. You know, as long as he doesn’t walk over here telling me it’s going to cost a couple of mil for the job.”
“You’re not going to regret this,” Linda says as if she’s just managed to talk me into letting her take my Mercedes for the weekend. “He is so fucking cute.”
“Not when customers are around,” I whisper.
“What?” she asks.
“You know exactly what,” I tell her.
“No,” she says, “I really don’t.”
For whatever reason, Linda’s got it in her head that hearing me say the word “fuck” would be the most hilarious thing ever.
Now, I’m not a word prude, if there is such a term, but I don’t feel like that’s the kind of language that’s appropriate when on the job.
“No,” I tell her.
“Aw, come on,” she says. “I thought you were about to say it when you kicked that last guy out of the store.”
“How did you even hear me?” I ask.
“Shh, he’s coming over here,” Linda says, and I turn around.
“So, what do you think?”
“Well,” he says, “it’s not going to be cheap. I can tell you that much right now.”
Great. That’s the exact same line everyone before Eric has told me. My budget cap for renovations is $150,000. It’s ridiculous that it’s that high, but this is New York, after all.
“Oh,” he says, “all things figured--materials, labor, all that—I’d say we should be able to do it for about 145.”
“Thousand?” Linda asks. “Seriously? For that?”
With the smile still on my face, I turn toward Linda and mouth the words, “Shut up.”
“I know it sounds like a lot, but for a space like this, you know, this really doesn’t come all that cheap,” he explains. “I’d be willing to whittle the price down a bit depending on how fast you want this done, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to go any lower than 142 in the best conditions.”
“What kind of accommodations are you looking for in regard to the price drop?” I ask.
“Well,” he says, “most of the jobs people give nowadays are rush jobs, and they always want it done in a week or so. Now, I can certainly do that, but it would mean bringing on a couple of guys to help fill out the crew, and that’s going to cost a bit extra.”
“Well, I would like for this to be done quickly,” I tell him, “but as long as it’s done right and for the right price, I’m sure we could work with an extra week or two.”
“Great,” he says, “so, does that mean we’ve got the job?”
I smile and put my hand out.
“Welcome aboard,” I tell him.
I try not to notice how grateful he seems to have gotten the work, even though he just underbid his next closest competitor by nearly $100,000. I’m sure he’s this happy when he gets any job, and it’s not a signal of something else.
“All right,” he says. “If you want, we can clear that area so we can get started, or, if you prefer, we can wait for you and your staff to do it—it’s really up to you.”
“If you wouldn’t mind,” I start.
“Not at all,” he says, beaming. “We’ll take care of that. When were you looking for us to start working?”
“As soon as possible,” I tell him. “I’m sure you and your crew are very busy, but—”
“How’s the beginning of next week?” he asks.
The warning lights, flashing the words “too good to be true” are blazing in my head, but I ignore them. I tell myself it’s because he’s the right guy with the right price, but the truth of the matter is that Linda and I are a lot more alike than I’d ever admit.
Chapter Two
Every Beginning
Eric
Today’s a good day, although I think I almost blew it there at the end when I underquoted and didn’t really hide the fact that I really needed the job.
The construction bust is still going on, and while things are starting to improve, in a place like New York where everything’s so competitive, it’s been hell trying to keep things going.
That’s all right, though. Everything is going great.
I got a job that’s going to put food on the table and money in the landlord’s hand, and tonight is my one-year anniversary with Amy. We’re going to L’Orlais for dinner and after landing the job today, I’m not too worried about how I’m going to make ends meet for the month after such an extravagant dinner.
I get back to the apartment, but something’s wrong.
The door is open.
This is just my luck: today would be the day that I get robbed.
I’m about to turn the corner, run into the apartment, and try to take out whoever’s trying to gank all my shit when I see Amy.
“Hey!” I tell her. “I’ve got some great news. Are we still on for dinner?”
She’s startled seeing me, her blue eyes going wide. “Eric,” she says, brushing a strand of flaxen hair out of her face, “what are you doing home? I thought you were meeting with a potential client?”
“Yeah, I headed to the appointment a little early,” I tell her. “That’s what I wanted to tell you—”
“Eric, it’s over. I’m moving out,” she interrupts.
“What? Why?”
“We’ve just been treading water here for a long time, and I don’t think that’s the way I want to spend my life,” she says. “You’ve been out of work, and I know you’ve been trying to land something, but maybe it’s time to realize that you’re just not going to make it in this town. I mean, when was the last time you got a job without egregiously underbidding?” she asks.
“I got a job today,” I tell her. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Look, I know things have been a bit rough for a while, but that’s all going to turn around. I got a job with just my base crew, and it’s really going to…” I trail off as a man comes out of my bedroom carrying a box.
“Who’s this?” I ask.
The man sets down his box and walks over to her. She puts her arm around him and says, “This is Cort. He and I, well, we’re moving in together.”
“Hi,” the fuckhead says, and even tries to shake my hand.
“Yeah, go fuck yourself,” I tell him, and turn back to Amy. “What the hell is this? I thought we were going to try to work things out and now you’re moving in with some little bitch? What the fuck?”
“Eric,” she says, “we grew apart a long time ago.”
“What are you talking about? You don’t even know this guy! How long have you two even been seeing each other and you’re moving in with him?”
Dickhead thinks it’s a good idea to take a step toward me, and I’m hoping he takes another.
“You’re going to want to step the fuck back or you’re going to be breathing through your fucking eyelids,” I threaten.
He’s apparently smart enough to realize I’m not joking, so he takes a step back. He’s apparently stupid enough to think it’s okay for him to still be in my apartment.
“We’ve been together for a while,” Amy says. “You know I like to have a backup plan when things are going rough, and well, Cortland and I are—”
“I’m sorry, hold on a second,” I interrupt. “You’re leaving me for someone named fucking Cortland?”
“Just calm down, buddy,” he says, and tries to pat me on the shoulder.
That’s a mistake.
I swat his hand away and put my finger in his stupid fucking face, saying, “You try to touch me or come near me one more time and they’re going to be scraping your ass of the pavement with a shovel, do you understand me? Amy, what the fuck?”
“Look,” she says, “you’re great and everything, but Cort is someone I can see myself growing old with.”
“You said that exact same thing to me last night,” I told her, and I turn to Cort, adding, “yeah, when we were fucking.”
“Have some class, man,” Cort says, though this time the only movement he makes is backward.
“So this is it, then?” I ask. “You’re moving out, just like that?”
“I’m not moving out,” she says. “Cort’s moving in here.”
“Well, I’m not going anywhere, so it looks like we’re going to have a fun little situation, aren’t we. I sure hope no one strangles you in your
sleep, Cort, that’d be a bummer.”
“No, you’re moving out,” Amy says.
“I’m on the lease,” I argue. “You can’t just kick me out like this.”
“You haven’t paid the rent in two months!” Amy says. “We had to go month-to-month six months ago, and Chris,” our landlord, “was happy to put Cort’s name in your place when he not only paid for this next month’s rent, but the last two months when you were sitting on the couch crying like a little bitch that you couldn’t find anyone that wanted to hire you. Jesus, have some self-respect.”
“I’m not going,” I tell her. “This is bullshit, and I don’t know how you think you can just take over my apartment when it was mine before we ever even knew each other. I just got a job, Amy,” I tell her. “It doesn’t have to go this way.”
“Yeah,” she says, “it does. I think it’s time to say goodbye, now, Eric.”
“At least let me grab some of my shit,” I tell her. “You’re not just going to throw me out and take all my stuff in the process.”
“It’s already packed up,” Amy says. “The movers will be here any minute and they’ll take your stuff wherever you want them to, although I’m not sure how much room that’s going to leave you in whatever shitty hotel you end up staying.”
“You know what?” I ask, but quickly realize that I have nothing to follow the question.
“What?” Amy asks.
“Forget it,” I say, making the motion of washing my hands. “I’m done.”
“Yeah, you’re done,” she says. “Nice of you to pretend like it’s your idea. I’m sure that’ll help you through your lonely nights where you only have a box of tissues and your left hand to keep you company.”
With that, she slams the door in my face and locks it.
I should at least be able to grab my stuff, so I pull out my keys and try to unlock the door. Instead, I end up pounding on it, shouting, “You changed the fucking locks?”
“Will you keep it down?” Mrs. Hathaway from down the hall asks, poking her head out of the door. “Some of us are trying to watch our shows.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hathaway,” I tell her, but go right back to knocking on the door.
