The hostess, who had already gained my respect, wisely escorted us off to the side, away from the ears of standing customers. I flashed her a look of understanding. She promised a table and scampered off.
“Maris, what’s with you? That was embarrassing.”
“What’s with you?” she asked. “You didn’t have to throw the secretary bit at me. And don’t you dare ever say that name again.”
“What? Mary Christine?”
She glared at me.
“Maris, I feel for you. I really do. You’re afraid to be with Leslie, and you’re afraid to leave him alone because you don’t trust him. You’re afraid to act civil to people because you think Leslie will take it as a sign of weakness.” I was on a roll and couldn’t shut up. “You’re just frightened. You built yourself one fine mess that you can’t get out of.” I wasn’t sure to whom I was directing my lecture.
She waited till we were seated, and then spoke. “Look, Leslie is worth a ga-zillion dollars. The stakes are high. I didn’t hang in there through his divorce for nothing. I might have been a secretary once, but that’s not fitting for the wife of Leslie Archer. So I’m not doing it. And why should I be nice to people who are serving me? How does that make any sense?”
She looked around, stretching her long neck like a cormorant in swamp. “Speaking of not being ourselves, what’s going on with you? Leslie said you tried to quit twice last week. Why do you want to leave us?” She fixed her heavily made-up eyes on me. “Aren’t you happy?”
“Just drop it.”
“Do you really expect Leslie to let you go?”
The waitress arrived.
“I’ll have an iced tea,” I said with a pleasant smile.
“I’ll have your driest white wine.”
Maris drummed the table with her fingers, her French-manicured nails tapping. “Why are you avoiding my questions?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I was thinking, you know, if you could meet a man with money, wouldn’t it be nice? Then we could do more things together.”
“I’m not interested in money. If money brought happiness, you wouldn’t be so bloody miserable. It would have been the answer you were looking for when you trapped Leslie.”
“I’m just trying to find a way to keep everybody happy. You’re asking for a lot of trouble if you try to leave Leslie. He’ll sue you silly.”
“Sue me? He’s the one who’s standing on slippery sand.”
Maris shrugged her skinny shoulders. “He can do much worse than drag you into court.”
She looked right and left as if someone might be listening. “Can I tell you something? I know you can keep a secret and I need to tell someone.”
“You tell me too many secrets. Why don’t you just keep this one?”
“Fine, but I need some advice.”
Her tears started flowing and her nose started dripping. She dabbed at her face with her cloth napkin creating pinky-red smears that she folded out of sight.
“I’m going to tell you anyway.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Leslie’s seeing a shrink. He has CDR — Control Domination Response”
“You mean he’s a control freak.”
“And you’re destroying my sex life.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Last night I was in a horny mood and all Leslie wanted to do was play back the tape of his latest conversation with you. The only thing he’s interested in is you.”
Leslie had taken to recording all his conversations. It was part of his obsession. He carried a hi-tech pocket recorder and clicked it on, frequently. I knew every word I said to him was preserved for his listening enjoyment. He was nuts and Maris was a dimwit, of that I was positive.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“What’s wrong with YOU?” she shot back. “Why do you want to leave us? I need you.”
I shivered.
3:30 p.m. I knocked on Leslie’s open office door and walked in. He studied every step I took. Avoiding his short-legged guest chairs, I stood over his desk and looked down. He was into playing all sorts of psychological tricks.
“Leslie, here’s my resignation in writing.” I handed him a one page letter. “I don’t have to tell you why I leaving. There’s way too much going on here that I didn’t sign on for.”
He took the paper and laid it on his desk, then got up quietly and walked across the room. Archer had a spineless way of walking — like a chameleon on a greasy floor. He kept his thinning grey hair in a small pony tail at the base of his skull. His huge colorless eyes enhanced the reptile affect.
“They’re getting better at eating each other.” He spoke softly as he plucked an orange striped fish from the wall-to-wall tank in his office. He stroked its head. The fish gasped, fighting for breath.
Having spent the previous year trying to get out of Leslie’s grip, I felt for the little creature. It was always a death dance with Archer — an uber-control freak.
“Put that poor thing back in the tank, you melodramatic putz. You’ve made your point. But I’m still out of here. And I want all the commissions you owe me.”
My heart raced and my neck throbbed. I managed to execute a neat spin on my tan suede pumps. I headed for the door, flipping my hair in an effort at attitude. After being grabbed by Sunglasses and catapulted into heaven-knows-what, all I could see was the red “EXIT” sign.
I heard a tiny plunk in the background. The exotic fish had escaped his grasp, but I had not.
“This is the third time in less than a week you’ve pulled your resigning stunt. You try quitting again and I’ll sue you so fast your head will fall off.” Leslie yell-whispered. “No one dares leave me unless I say they can. You can’t break your contract with me and live to talk about it. I own you.”
He pointed to his wall of trophies — photos of lawsuit victims he had screwed, sued, and tattooed with judgments against them. He could underwrite a small nation with the court-ordered payments he collected from litigation-losers each month. He smirked. His expression hung loose on his face just like his expensive clothes sagged on his skeletal frame.
“I’ve learned a lot about you, Leslie. All of it bad. It’s time for me to move on.”
“I’ll get my lawyers on you,” he yelled.
“Go ahead. Nothing I can’t handle. I’m going to take the next few weeks to wind down my clients; you get ready to pay me what you owe me and sue me.”
I marched past the offices of Archer Resorts, where every person sat exposed in a glass cubicle. “It’s a giant fishbowl. Leslie can reach in and grab one of us at any moment,” I muttered as I put my hand in the pocket of my pale green suit jacket and pulled out a tiny pink pill. I bit off half and tucked the remains back in my pocket for later.
I was trapped and cracking. I lost my social life once I started working for Leslie. I was expected to attend all Archer parties like some sort of lure. If I tried to beg off, Leslie held up my monthly draws against commissions. I couldn’t quit and I wouldn’t get paid unless I cooperated with him.
Leslie Archer was all about power, the litigious kind, and the violent kind when necessary. And litigation was the one thing I feared, not to mention beheading. Leslie’s threats echoed after me. I hit the corridor at a near run. The elevator doors closed behind me with a whoosh.
The floors slipped past, I smiled at my reflection in the steel doors. Escape was near — all I had to do was keep my head.
~ Wednesday January 6
“Somehow it seems to fill my head with ideas — only I don’t know exactly what they are! However, somebody killed something; that’s clear at any rate.”
9:45 a.m. I sat in the glass conference room pretending I needed the space to spread out some aerial maps and apartment renderings. What I was really doing was spying on Leslie because I was afraid of Sunglasses. I could see the corner of Leslie’s office and his huge aquarium. If he had files and he didn’t want me to see them where would he keep them? I angled my seat so
I could see the mirror in the foyer of his office. Maybe I could catch a glimpse of… He looked up and caught my eye in the reflection.
Back to fussing with the oversized papers, I hated to confess to myself that I couldn’t figure it out at all. Was Leslie really a beheader or just a jet-set jerk?
Within minutes Maris was on me like a flea. “Leslie wants to know what you’re up to.”
“I’m up to trying to finish at least one sale before I leave here. It’s a new building concept. Nothing he would be interested in.” I pushed her aside. “Give me some space.”
She stamped her foot and left the room.
I could feel Archer watching me. A migraine inched its way up my neck. My arms suddenly felt way too short and my legs became shaky. What was that weird shrinking feeling?
11:10 a.m. “Dallas Little on line one,” Salli said.
Leslie used that five foot tall, pint-sized lawyer Dallas Little for the real dirty work. My heart thudded to a near stop. I sat at my desk, pushed aside a packing box, and pulled a notebook in front of me.
“Ms. Harte, I’m an attorney and I represent Leslie Archer.”
“Yes?” I scribbled down his words exactly as he said them in case I remembered them wrong.
“I understand from Mr. Archer that you are thinking of breaking your employment
contract with Archer Resorts?”
“I am ending my contract prior to the termination date for good cause. Leslie knows all the reasons.” I heard my voice getting higher, my throat tightened.
There was a smirk in Little’s voice, “Ms. Harte, I suggest you reevaluate the situation. The terms and conditions of your contract do not permit you to cancel the contract. Only Mr. Archer can terminate an Archer contract and only he gets to chose how it ends.”
Fear and anger jammed my heart.
“It will be my pleasure to handle the suit against you.”
I wished, at that moment, that I had taken acting classes. It was easy to tell I was scared. “Tell your client to go stuff himself.” I smashed the receiver for effect, grabbed up my things and dashed out of the office.
The walk to my car cooled me off. I threw my briefcase in the front seat with a quick glance in the back. I needed a fix — junk food.
1:30 p.m. How the devil was I going to get anything on Archer that would save me from Sunglasses? Sitting at the table in my Country French kitchen that looked like a cook might actually use it, I opened the white Steak N Shake bag and took out a double steak burger. I put a straw in the frothy pink milkshake and sucked. Soul-food.
8:30 p.m. I clicked on the Internet. And there he was. I felt a tingle. A letter from Nigel Channing. He asked about my day and told me about his. He filled me in on his life to date, which he made sound exciting and lacking at the same time. Perhaps he was also looking for someone special?
Nigel said he graduated Cambridge and toured Europe and Africa with a bunch of friends. He and his wife Margaret divorced seven years ago. They have a son and a daughter who attend college in England.
He sounded quite normal. I started to imagine interacting with his children and how he might fit into my life. He said he dealt in brokering caviar, internationally. Nothing dangerous there, I thought. He said he was Captain of the ESSO Europe chess team, enjoyed tennis and was a good swimmer, but a hopeless dart player. He sounded both proud and modest, a great combination. He stood a fraction under six feet, weighed slightly less than thirteen stones, was a Taurus and had turned forty-five last May.
He chatted on about his mother, “I have a widowed mother who appears to be getting romantically involved with a long time friend also recently widowed. I can’t help but notice the new clothes, change of hairdresser, and her recent tendency to giggle at his every remark. I hope they find peace and happiness together.”
He offered to email me a photo and asked about my business and hobbies.
I printed out the email, thereby making it real. His name was magic on my tongue. Nchanning. I wrote across the bottom of the page in magic marker: He Might Be The One; and carried the message with me reading and re-reading it, and wondering how the pieces would come together.
A door was opening and I was starting to see a romantic escape in my future. I might be able to pull this caper off. Deciding to play hard to get, I waited an hour to respond to his email.
9:05 p.m.
From: AliceUSA
To: NChanning
I enjoyed your letter. I like the fact that you are so open. I am too and it usually gets me in a lot of hot water.
Tinkle. A box appeared on my computer screen, and words began to type themselves.
Message Alice
There. That’s better. I’m ever so much more comfortable this way.
Startled, I sat watching the words.
Message Alice
Are you there? It’s me Nigel.
I guessed he wanted me to type in the little box.
Message Nigel
How did you do that? That little bell sound?
Message Alice
I’m just full of magic. Did you like it?
Instant messaging? I clicked.
Message Alice
No. Pixie dust. Much more personal.
Message Nigel
Well, this is neat. I’ve not used it before. I rarely use the internet personally and my clients are pretty old-fashioned. They still don’t trust the Internet.
Message Alice
You make me chuckle. Tell me about yourself. What do you do for a living or are you part of the American idle rich?
Message Nigel
I broker investment grade properties. It can be very tense. To lighten up I do things that terrify me. I can’t swim and I am afraid of heights. So I play in white water and hot air balloons. That way I appreciate the business stress more. Make any sense???
I sipped my wine and waited while the faceless Brit typed his response. I could suddenly see how people got hooked on this IM stuff. It was like tennis only you flip written words back and forth. I wondered if I should be careful, perhaps Leslie or Sunglasses could read my IM’s.
Nigel’s writing was pretty nifty. I imagined I had a kindred brain on the other end of the computer. He could turn a phrase and he did sound proper British. I threw out another line or two, testing.
Message Nigel
Other bits and pieces: I have red/blond hair cut in a longish bob and green eyes that are sort of almond shape. I am 118 lbs. and 5′6″. I alternate between Borodin and the Beatles. I can’t do anything that takes coordination. And I live in Miami.
Message Alice
Curious. I have a villa in Coral Springs, north of Miami. Although I rarely visit it, I cannot bring myself to sell it. I wonder if fate had some reason for my holding onto the property. Perhaps we should be neighbors? Regarding your love for hot air balloons, I’m sure you will never get me up in one of those. I do have a splendid hot air balloon tie. What do you love the most?
Oh… that seemed a forward question. I thought about how best to answer.
Message Nigel
I love England, especially the Cotswolds. I hope to return soon.
I nibbled on my lower lip, wondering if that might be too much, too soon.
Message Alice
Please consider sending me your phone numbers. It would be fun to chat. Good night sweet Alice
And with a sprinkle of pixie dust and a tinkle of bells, he was gone.
~ Thursday January 7
After a time she heard a little pattering of feet in the distance, and she hastily
dried her eyes to see what was coming. It was the White Rabbit returning.
4:30 p.m. My daughter, Dana and I were in her car carrying a load of groceries back to her house.
“I met someone on the Internet.” I let my sentence sit.
Dana rolled her eyes. “You?” she said, sounding incredulous and worried at the same time.
Having tested the waters and finding them unsafe, I backed off. �
�I was just looking for a vacation home to trade. An exchange of residences… with someone in England… you know.” My words hung heavy in the air between the front seat and back.
“You and England.” My daughter smiled. “My mother the anglophile. You never got over your first love, did you?”
I laughed. By the age of eleven, I was seriously, permanently smitten with Cary Grant, a result of too many hours spent watching old black and white movies when I should have been out enjoying the New Jersey smog.
“Okay, tell me once more, who was Cary Grant?” Dana asked.
“Sweetie,” I said, “he was the Hugh Grant of your grandmother’s era.”
“Were they related?”
“Only by accent.”
“The man was magic compared to the men I grew up with in New Jersey. I imagined listening to him speak to me in that classy way, I dreamed of gazing into his eyes as he quoted Oscar Wilde at his most ridiculous. The thought of Cary in a tuxedo during the day or a smoking robe at night would drive me into a —”
Dana cut me off. “You didn’t give out your real name, did you?”
“Uh… not exactly.” I looked at my granddaughter Lily snoozing in her car seat. At twenty-four months, she was too wise to get between us.
“Mom, you’ve got to be careful. You’re way too trusting.”
“What’s the worst that could happen? If I get into trouble, I’ll find my way out. You know me.”
6:00 p.m. Lily and I played magic ball, a game I created to make her giggle. I sent a ball ricocheting off the walls and ducked in mock panic. Lily doubled over with laughter that sounded like pixies at play. Grandparents are the keepers of silly. We have a license to be goofy. I was the custodian of quality silly-time. I didn’t want my granddaughter to remember me as a stressed out lady, but rather someone who laughed at life. And so we frequently put aside her Fisher Price bells and doodles and just got silly.
Dodging a soft pink and white rubber ball as it careened off the living room walls, Lily and I fell into fits of laughter. A little glob of rubber had us at its mercy. It became the Magic Ball — able to leap a tall credenza in a single bound. We yelped with delight, clutching our sides at my hammed-up klutziness. If a grown-up could act silly, then it was officially okay for a toddler to let go. Lily followed my antics with her own clowning. Low tech buckets of fun continued. I hoped I had created a place for Lily where she could go to in the future when perhaps the real world might be temporarily too much to handle.
Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories Page 52
