“Great,” I say brightly, setting the phone aside. Was that too easy? But hey, he’s cooperating, right?
We watch the rest of it, much of which is taken up by Antonio practicing a monologue. Jada definitely loves filming Antonio. I cut it off at exactly the end of his session, just to show him that I, too, am respecting the rules.
I hold his phone out to him and he takes it. Our fingers brush momentarily, sending a crazy charge of energy skittering over my skin, a sign of how jacked up I am—that’s what I tell myself.
He pockets his phone without so much as looking at me, because of course, he’s unaffected. He stands, resting his large, muscular hand upon his now-empty seat back.
Nervously, I put away my presentation stuff. Is he waiting for something?
His voice, when it comes, is a rumble of cool velvet. “Do I get my tick?”
Is he mocking me? I can’t tell.
“Well?” he asks.
“For today,” I say.
The plane lands and we’re whisked into a matching pair of SUV limos that ferry us to the Maybourne Hotel in the San Francisco Financial District.
The Maybourne Hotel is every bit as glorious as the New York Four Seasons, with marble pillars and marble floors and huge skylights flooding the area with natural light. The seating looks like it came straight out of a French palace. I turn around, slowly, taking it all in, because apparently my soul can’t consume the place from a stationary position. Maybe I’m embarrassing the team, I don’t know, but they should be thankful that I don’t drop my bags and twirl around and around, Sound of Music-style.
Once I’ve gotten my overall eyeful, I spot a table with drinking glasses arranged around a crystal bowl of water with bright green cucumbers floating in it. I put down my bags and go to get myself a glass of it, needing somehow to consume all of this luxury. The water is indeed very cucumbery. I close my eyes and let it fill me.
It tastes fresh and pure. It’s not like I can’t make cucumber water at home, but it’s weirdly special somehow. I sip and take another gander at the chandelier and potted palms. It’s like I’ve entered a storybook written in another century.
And then I look across the lobby and there’s Malcolm, coat slung over his arm, gazing at me. The beautiful devil.
But I know he’s not a devil, and I won’t give up hope. Yes, maybe I’m clinging too ferociously to that one little encounter that we had, to that one little flash of kindness in his eyes, my intuition of his heart. Well, cling I will.
Lawrence comes up with my key card. “You’re in 708. A few of us are meeting in the restaurant for dinner if you want to come.”
“Right, it’s way past our dinnertime, isn’t it?” I say. It’s nine at home but it’s only six in San Francisco.
“So? Save you a seat?” He’s waiting for an answer.
“Thanks. I’d love that.”
He heads for the elevator. I take one last look back at Malcolm, who’s heading for the elevators with Walt. I fuss with my water glass, letting everybody go ahead. I’m tired of being always on guard, of acting like I belong when I don’t. I just need to be alone for a little bit.
Yet again, I have a room to myself, and it’s beyond glorious. Right out the window I have a classic San Francisco panorama with trolley cars and steep streets and the Golden Gate Bridge beyond the rooftops.
I text Francine some pictures and then I call her with a quick update.
She can’t believe I took away his phone. “I can barely believe it myself,” I say.
“Maybe this can really work,” she exclaims.
A wave of doubt twists through my rib cage as I recall Malcolm’s dismissive attitude. Maybe this whole thing really is nuts. But then I hear myself say, “Yeah, maybe it can.”
I spot Lawrence, Coralee, Nisha, and Walt ensconced in a corner table in the plush, candlelit hotel restaurant.
Lawrence waves me over. Nisha stands up to get a chair for me; she’s in flowy pants that look like a skirt. Coralee wears a long black sweater over a brown tee that’s the exact same color as her brown bob.
I sit, fingering my butterfly tie, feeling like a dork for having come to dinner in my pantsuit.
The waiter hands me a piece of paper and asks if I want a drink. Do people on work trips have drinks? Three of them have beers, but they could be non-alcoholic, and I can’t tell what Walt is drinking. “What’s that?” I point to Nisha’s beer.
“A local ale. Really good.”
“I’ll have one of those, too,” I say to the waiter. I really can’t afford it; I don’t have much in my bank account—I’m still paying off credit cards from Mom’s illness, but drinking what other people drink is a good way to fit in. I noticed that when I first moved to the big city.
I study the paper, which seems to be the entire menu. It doesn’t even have prices—a definite bad sign.
“This is our favorite table when we’re here,” Lawrence says. “It’s good luck to get it the first night.”
“I hope I’m not taking Malcolm’s seat,” I say.
They all smile. “Not likely!” Nisha says. Is the idea of Malcolm sitting down with them and eating with them so amusing?
“Did you get the backgrounder and the schedule for the week?” Lawrence asks me.
“Yes,” I say, grateful for Willow’s computer magic. There was a lot of factual information in the backgrounder. “Looking to buy the second-largest logistics company in the nation,” I say, just to show I read it. I actually read it twice—and some of the more complicated parts three or four times.
Lawrence fills me in on the upcoming sessions that I’m to observe. From what I gather, part of my coaching duties involve watching him in negotiation sessions and offering tips. Right. I’ll offer Malcolm Blackberg negotiation suggestions, and after that, I’ll give Lady Gaga singing pointers and show Kylie Jenner how to use an eyebrow pencil.
The waiter brings two plates of steamed mussels in garlic sauce. It smells unbelievably good. We all place our dinner orders—I choose the vegetarian pasta, which should be the cheapest dinner.
“The firm’s not actually for sale,” Lawrence says as soon as the waiter leaves. “It’s a family-owned business and the father wants to pass it on to the son.”
“I don’t understand. I thought these were negotiations to buy it.” I pass on the mussels, even though I desperately want to try them. But if this is a split check and I don’t eat any, maybe I’ll get out cheaper. How did I not think of the expense of being here? What will I do when I run out of money? I know that my friends would help me out if I asked, but I really don’t want to do that. They’ve given me so much already.
“The father says he’s open to selling but he’s not at all open to it, and everybody in the world knows it,” Nisha says, pink hoops swinging. “He just wants to sit down with Malcolm and educate his son what a negotiation looks like. Basically, it’s a free consultation session that the owner is trying to pass off as a series of purchase negotiations. We think he also wants to see what Malcolm might do with the company. Spoiler alert: Malcolm would break it apart, fire everybody, and use the infrastructure for his own purposes.”
“And all the people would lose their jobs?” I ask.
“Yeah. But that’s what the owner will have to do, eventually, too,” Nisha says. “Trucking is dead. Most of those people will be out of work in five to ten years either way.”
“Why is Malcolm wasting his time with this whole thing if he knows the man’s just using the sessions to educate the son and pick his brain?” I ask. “Malcolm doesn’t strike me as somebody who would be into…”
“Charitable acts?” Lawrence offers with his trademark impish grin.
Coralee chuckles.
“He’s not,” Walt says. “Malcolm thinks he can change the guy’s mind. Pretty unlikely.”
Coralee raises a fork. “Malcolm has done the impossible before.”
Walt leans in and says, “Malcolm is an expert at getting people to do things
that they never intended to do. Let that be a warning to you.”
I nod.
A bread basket comes. It smells amazing. People pass it around without taking any, but I go for it, slathering on a creamy layer of butter and chomping right in like a barracuda. It’s pure heaven.
“Malcolm negotiating is a thing of beauty,” Nisha tells me. “He’ll try and reshape the man’s thinking about the situation. Get it so that it’s him and this guy collaborating together against the realities of modern trucking.”
“Wow,” I say. “He just doesn’t strike me as a people person.”
Nisha shrugs. “You know how some comedians and actors and musicians can be really shy, but when they get up on stage it’s like they’re a completely different person? It’s like that.”
“My advice to you, though?” Coralee says. “In terms of your work with him? Keep him out of your head. Once he starts repeating things you say and asking how and what questions, that’s how he gets into your head. And then he reshapes your thinking and makes you his bitch.”
“Oh,” I say. “Yikes.”
“Elle will be fine,” Nisha declares confidently. “Don’t forget—she’s a master of emotional intelligence. He won’t be able to reshape her thinking.”
“Do you have actual lessons you’re teaching him?” Walt asks. “Emotional intelligence type things?”
“Yes,” I say. “I am definitely trying to raise his emotional intelligence…in a way…”
They’re all looking at me, waiting for more.
“Malcolm Blackberg. Probably not the most eager student you’ll encounter,” Coralee says.
Walt snorts. “There’s nothing wrong with his emotional intelligence. He just hates everybody.”
Lawrence does that jokey thing people do when they put their hand to their mouth and cough and say some words really fast. “Cough-understatementoftheyear-Cough,” he says.
Nisha smiles. “You have quite the job ahead of you.”
It’s subtle, but they’re all letting me know that I can speak freely.
I put down my knife. “I know what I am,” I say. I’m thinking here about what the real Stella said to me in the elevator. “There are the coaches who help executives who want to build their skills, to guide leaders who are excited to learn and grow. And then there are the coaches who are sent in as a slap on the wrist. A punishment.” I close one eye and tilt my head, giving them a fun smile—I’m channeling my friend Tabitha here. “Am I that second kind of coach? Yes. Yes, I am.”
I can feel the group relax now that I’m talking real.
Nisha laughs. She has an easy, bell-like laugh that I love. “Erp!” she exclaims.
“Right?” I say. “So, yeah. I think Malcolm would rather have his skin flayed than endure my coaching.”
“No doubt,” Lawrence says.
“But even so,” I continue, “my goal is that he comes away with increased empathy for the people who his business touches.”
Coralee is grinning at me with great anticipation, like she’s waiting for a punchline.
“Yeah, good luck with that.” Nisha takes some bread. “Though you have to respect a man who fully is what he is. People expect Malcolm to be totally misanthropic, and he delivers, which is a weird form of integrity, but integrity all the same. He’ll always be what he is. But, your empathy goals? Not in a million years. But you’ve probably figured that out by now.”
I nod politely. I’ve figured out that that’s what the world thinks. Am I crazy for thinking different based on nothing but my gut? My initial intuition of him?
“So let me ask you, why do you guys work for him?” I ask.
“Our resumes. He’s the absolute best, hands down,” Lawrence says. “Nobody can touch him. When they see the name Blackberg, Inc. on your resume, they know you can handle any type of personality.”
“Yeah,” Nisha agrees. “It’s not easy to work for him, but on a professional level? They know you’ve had a front row seat to a master at work. We live for the after-session roundup where he asks us what we’ve noticed.”
Walt nods. “He’s trying to get information from us, like if we caught things he might not have caught. You always want to pay attention to the kinds of questions that he asks. If he responds to something that you noticed with a word like indeed or interesting, that’s huge.”
Coralee says, “One time when I made an observation, he just looked at me and he goes, Helpful. One word, but it was everything.”
“I remember that,” Lawrence says, nodding.
“Right? Helpful!” Coralee says. “But it’s an opportunity to see what he thinks. What he’s reading in the room and what he does with it. If he says Hmm, that’s a good sign too, it shows it’s worth thinking about.”
“I’ll always take a hmm over a nod,” Walt says.
“Me, too,” Nisha says.
“Isn’t that turnover bad for a company? As soon as you get expertise, you leave?” I ask.
“Malcolm likes churn or it wouldn’t be that way,” Coralee says. “He doesn’t like us to get too cozy.”
“We’re all just interchangeable to him,” Nisha adds.
The discussion turns to whether he even has friends. Lawrence declares not, since Malcolm’s always at work.
Walt, who apparently exchanges information with Malcolm’s other assistants, tells me that Malcolm has gifts sent to business associates and random people from his past, but he never travels to see anybody, and he rarely even seems to go out to dinner with people, except that Kyra once in a while.
“Kyra’s a shark like him, and they’re both vicious and on again, off again,” says Coralee, who seems to be most up on the gossip in the group.
“But no gifts for her,” Walt says. “Or for family. He has holiday cards sent to his father here in San Fran, but never any gifts. Interestingly—and you can’t repeat any of this—but his instructions are that the father card should acknowledge the holiday, but nothing emotional or sentimental.” Walt points his fork at me and Nisha. “And get this—even though he signs the holiday cards that go out to his business associates and old friends, he never signs the cards to his father. The unsentimental cards for his father are to be sent with no signature.”
“Oh, wow, I didn’t know that,” Nisha says.
“The relationship with the father is not the best ever,” Coralee says.
I frown. “Did Malcolm grow up here in California?” I ask. “Because his accent…”
“The family lived in England until he was five, or so,” Coralee says. “And then they moved here, but they apparently sent him back for one of those English boys’ schools where the boys are all cruel to each other. And the mother’s out of the picture. Took off somewhere…”
“Australia,” Walt adds. “No cards for her. No nothing for her.”
Dinner comes and we dig in. My pasta is insanely delicious, but I feel strangely sad for Malcolm. The boys’ school and the distant parents. And everybody who works with him is on their way to somewhere else. Even the guy he’s negotiating with just wants something from him. Is that how Malcolm likes it? How could anybody prefer that?
The gang is planning a day trip to the wharf. They’re all on their phones checking maps and schedules to see if there’s a gap between negotiation sessions and work sessions.
“Guys,” Lawrence says. “Don’t look.”
The mood transforms right then, like an electric current got shot around the table. Everybody’s gazes are fixed on their food.
Even the noise level in the restaurant has plummeted, like the diners all sense a predator has entered their midst, and they’ve lowered their voices, staying small and quiet.
I know without looking that Malcolm has arrived.
I glance over discreetly, and there he is, strolling past the hostess stand, heading for the bar.
He’s in an elegant black dinner jacket with a bright white shirt underneath. The bright white of it lends intensity to his dusky complexion. His gait is ca
sual, strides long and confident, the picture of self-assured mastery, beautiful and alone.
It’s not just that he’s alone, it’s that he’s ragingly alone. He’s a fiercely isolated storm, speeding across the sky, shadowing the lands below, charging up the atmosphere with negative ions of fear and tension and something else, like some kind of aliveness.
“What’s he doing here?” Nisha whispers, even though there’s no way he could hear us. Still, she whispers it, like he has demon-level hearing. “Is he coming over here?”
“No way,” Walt whispers.
He takes a corner seat at the bar and looks down at his phone like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be by himself. I feel weird going into places by myself, but alone is Malcolm’s natural habitat. His hair is parted severely on the side, but two chunks of it hit down against his forehead like soft black spikes.
Everyone is looking at Coralee, being that she’s the master of gossip and the person who’s worked longest at Blackberg, Inc.—going on two years, I think she’d said. Even Coralee seems mystified. “Don’t look at me,” she says. “He can get room service to bring him any drink that they have. Why descend from his suite?”
“Prostitute,” Lawrence offers.
“Not likely,” Coralee gusts out, risking a quick glance over there.
“Do you think he knows we’re here?” Nisha asks.
“Oh, he knows,” Lawrence says. “He always knows the room. He’s a spider, and the whole world is his web, and he feels everything. Every little vibration in every corner. Every unfortunate little bug that flies into his web, Malcolm knows all.”
“You’re such a dork,” Nisha says. “But then again, he kind of does...”
I steal another quick glance, and right then he looks in our direction—right at me. Our gazes collide, and the fine hairs on my skin stand on end—every tiny, invisible little hair is straining and craning.
Am I the little bug? Does he feel my vibration? Because I’m definitely in full vibration mode.
“Erp,” Nisha whispers.
Walt raises his glass in a long-distance toast. Coralee nods. I copy Coralee, nodding at him from afar before I plaster my gaze down at my half-finished pasta, heart pounding.
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