“Malcolm tells me you’re his executive coach,” Soren says suddenly.
I smile. “Yes. And I just want you to know, it’s such an honor to meet you,” I say, adding something about his last book that kind of recaps what’s on the back flap. It really did seem like it was probably a good book for the right person. I could see how executive coaching could come in handy for business leaders. Even the biggest business leader on the planet needs a confidant, a wise neutral party to bounce ideas off of. Though I am definitely not that person, and for the record, Stella would not be the person either.
“Malcolm Blackberg getting emotional intelligence coaching,” Verlaina says, like it’s the hugest joke ever.
“Yes, I’m under a court order for twenty-one hours of soft skills training.” Malcolm turns to me. “Elle drew the short straw. But I get to determine where and when that coaching happens. So why not here?”
I shake my head scoldingly. I feel like we’re this team, putting on a very specific show together.
“Ah. Court-ordered,” Soren says, like that explains everything he needs to know about me. He’s trying not to sound dismissive, but his attempt to specifically not sound dismissive makes him sound even more dismissive.
Verlaina grins. “I can only imagine how that’s going. What did you do this time, Malcolm?”
“Had a bad employee,” Malcolm says. “Threw him out on his ear.”
Verlaina snorts and turns to me with a wince. “Teaching Malcolm Blackberg emotional intelligence? I don’t envy you.”
“Well, we’re muddling through,” I say.
“You’re turning him into a kinder, more evolved version of himself?” she asks, and it’s clearly another joke, like nobody could ever do that. I find it sad.
“He’s doing very well, actually.” I turn to Soren and pull out my question. “I don’t want to bore these two with shop talk, but…” I rattle off the question that the real Stella made me memorize.
He gives a long answer.
Luckily, the bruschetta plates have come. There’s basil and white cheese and little pea-looking things on them. I take one and force myself to eat it slowly while Soren talks in a slow and sonorous way, like he’s making a speech. I make sure to nod and try to look delighted, even though I don’t know what he’s talking about. When he pauses, I repeat the last few words that he said in a really fascinated way—that’s a Malcolm trick I picked up that makes him seem involved while adding absolutely nothing. It works brilliantly on Soren, who runs on and on. At one point I catch Malcolm’s eye and he’s giving me this friendly gleam, as if to say, I know what you just did. And my heart beats a little harder, because we’re all about our secret relationship now.
Another round of drinks comes. Soren is on his third martini, but I’m pacing myself. I’m still really hungry, and I need the shop talk to be over. I gaze out the window. “You know, I’ve heard that in the Bay Area, you can’t legally obstruct another person’s view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Is that true, you guys?”
I’m grateful when Verlaina gets onto the subject of tree-trimming. Malcolm sets the last bruschetta on my plate and I just want to kiss him.
Unfortunately, Soren picks this moment to steer the conversation back to me. “What’s next?” he asks. “Once you graduate from the court-ordered coaching clients.”
My heart races. What would a real coach say? What other kinds of coaching are there? I have no idea. Would he accept “non-court-ordered” as an answer? Probably not. “Umm, I like where I am,” I say.
Soren furrows his brow and frowns hugely, becoming the very picture of a man balking. If there was an Irish balking jig, he would get up and do it—that’s how intensively he is balking right now. “Court-ordered soft skills coaching? Come on. Nobody voluntarily stays in court-ordered soft skills. Where do you see yourself in five years?”
I’m a deer in headlights. “I’m happy where I am.” I stuff the bruschetta into my mouth.
“But if you’re as passionate about the profession as Malcolm claims…” He frowns. “Where are you trying to go ultimately?”
I chew, trying to think what to say. “Court-ordered is my thing,” I say.
He smiles. “Now give me the real answer.” I can feel Malcolm tense up beside me. True, Soren is being kind of high-handed.
“It’s my thing,” I say.
“How can you say that?” he challenges. “You’re working with students who don’t want to learn…you’re joking, right?”
“No?” I say.
“Court-ordered diversity training, court-ordered sexual harassment training, yes, that’s a leveraged place to make a difference. There is understanding lacking in those instances. But come on. Court-ordered emotional intelligence training? Are you kidding me?” Soren’s acting almost insulted that I said it, and he’s being a bit insulting as well. “Nobody says that.”
“Clearly, Elle says it,” Malcolm cuts in, giving Soren his hard-sparkle smile minus the smile. “So in fact, it seems that somebody does say it.”
“I like to take things one day at a time,” I try, diplomatically. “Oh my god, have you guys ever seen that show? ‘One Day at a Time’? My mom used to love that show when she was a kid. She made me watch a million episodes of it. File under bo-ring!”
Soren turns to Malcolm. “I’m just saying that the fact that she chooses the area of court-ordered emotional intelligence shows that she is really just not serious. Which is fine. Certainly no harm in that. My point is that it’s like saying, ‘I’m really passionate about filmmaking, and I want to rip tickets apart at the movie theater.’”
“Soren,” Verlaina scolds. “Maybe she enjoys it.”
“Fine, but you don’t call yourself a serious filmmaker if you want to stay in the role of ticket ripper. It’s adjacent to the business, yes.”
Everybody at the table bristles—especially Malcolm, who fixes him with a fierce look that I feel down to my toes. “I can assure you that she’s very serious about executive coaching,” Malcolm says. “Frankly, I think you could learn a thing or two from her.”
“I doubt that.” Soren drains his martini and signals for another.
“I doubt it, too,” I say quickly. “I really, really doubt it.”
“Didn’t the woman from ‘One Day At a Time’ marry Eddy Van Halen?” Verlaina asks, desperately trying to change the subject. We are partners now in desperately trying to change the subject.
“Is that so?” I muse enthusiastically, even though I have no idea what she is talking about. “From the band?”
Malcolm says, “Not only am I learning soft skills from Stella, specifically skills of empathy, but she is responsible for a major negotiation breakthrough.”
“She’s giving you negotiation tips,” Soren says disbelievingly. “You’re getting negotiation tips and learning empathy from a first-year court-ordered executive coach. You.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Malcolm says.
“That’s wonderful,” Verlaina tries, lifting her glass. “To each her own.”
“Though it’s a bit hard to believe, I have to say,” Soren says without even looking at me, like the conversation doesn’t involve me.
“And I didn’t even want to do it,” Malcolm says. “I offered to pay Elle a great deal of money to let me do a self-directed curriculum, if you know what I mean.” He looks over at me. “She’d do no such thing. She hung in there. Making a difference is more important to her than hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
“Really,” Soren says.
“Really,” Malcolm says. “She’s down in the trenches. Doing the actual work.”
Actual work?
Was that an insult? I can’t tell; my mind spins way more on what Malcolm said, because, hello?! He’s learning empathy? Is he actually saying that he is learning empathy? From me?
“The actual work?” Soren asks. “As opposed to what, exactly?”
“I’m just saying she’s getting results,” Malcolm says. “She’s doing th
e impossible, with her very innovative methods.” He turns to me. “Maybe you should write a book, too, Elle.”
Oh my god, is Malcolm just completely messing with Soren?
“I would never write a book,” I say, and then I polish off the last of my drink. “And I’m sure Verlaina is bored to tears of this shop talk.”
“Oh come on, now, I can’t wait to hear this,” Soren says, turning to me. “So what are your very innovative methods, exactly?”
“They’re not really that innovative,” I say. “I’m sure they seem that way to Malcolm considering he’s managed to pay off all of his anger management and soft skills coaches up to now.”
“Not innovative? Are you kidding me?” Malcolm says. “For my intro session, she came dressed as a letter carrier. I’m sure that’s not a common approach.”
Soren looks at me, skeptical. “You dress as a letter carrier? To what purpose?”
Needless to say, the diarrhea excuse is looking pretty good right about now. “I-it was the program that I designed,” I say.
“Right. But why?” Soren says. Because apparently that answer doesn’t work as well on him as it did on Malcolm. His new drink is delivered.
“It’s just the program.”
“Seems…odd,” Soren says, giving me a quick, efficient frown.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
“I think I should be able to comprehend it,” Soren says, clearly taking insult. My pulse races. I really want to swig more bubbly now, but my glass is empty.
Malcolm cuts in to tell Soren how I’m forcing him to watch video of people whose building is being torn down. “Hours of footage of the people,” he says. “The best part is her mail-carrier-themed advice. Like the big dog, little dog thing?” He looks over at me. “And that anecdote about the lost dog? It was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant,” he says, going on to explain the way he used it in his negotiation.
Soren stares at me, stunned. “Let me get this straight. You tell your clients mail-carrier-themed anecdotes and force them to watch video of people on the other end of their business operations? What is the thinking there?”
“It’s just…the program—”
“I understand—the program that you designed,” he snaps. “But why design the program in the first place? Is there some protocol or rubric that you are drawing from? Or did you just make it up?”
“That’s…” My pulse races. “That’s proprietary.”
“Excuse me?” he says. “Proprietary vis-a-vis the Bexley Partners? I thought you said you designed it.”
“Yes, I designed it. It’s proprietary vis-a-vis myself.”
24
Malcolm
“Proprietary vis-a-vis yourself,” Soren says.
I bite back a smile. The man is a blowhard.
Which is just one of the many reasons why it’s so hilarious that Elle refuses to explain herself to him. Proprietary. I want to kiss her. I never imagined our cocktail hour would be quite this entertaining.
“Well…” She shrugs apologetically. “Yeah. Vis-a-vis myself.”
“So basically what you’re saying is that you want to keep it a secret from me,” Soren says. “You don’t want me to know. Can I ask you why not?” he demands.
I struggle to keep my face neutral. Usually it’s me upsetting people.
“It’s proprietary, that’s all,” she says.
Soren has no idea how maniacally Elle will hold on to what she knows—she’s like a little dog, teeth sunk in, refusing to give up her one sure patch of knowledge. I don’t enjoy when it’s turned on me, but it’s magnificent seeing it turned on Soren.
“Let’s just drop it,” Verlaina says.
“You’ve told me the technique itself,” Soren says to me, ignoring Verlaina. “Are you telling me that the rationale is proprietary?” This like it’s the stupidest thing he ever heard.
She does her chin-up thing that I’ve come to enjoy. “I’m sorry, that’s proprietary.”
“It’s not as if I’m going to steal the rationale,” he growls.
Elle can take care of herself; that’s definitely something I’ve learned, but I don’t like Soren’s bullying tone—I didn’t appreciate it aimed at the waitperson and I definitely don’t appreciate it aimed at Elle.
I turn to the man. Calmly, I say, “If it’s proprietary, it’s proprietary.”
“But it’s ridiculous to make such a thing proprietary.” Soren says. “It’s like making your method for tying shoelaces proprietary. There’s simply no reason for it.”
“Soren,” Verlaina says. “She doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“Fine. Say you don’t want to talk about it, then, but don’t claim it’s proprietary.” He finishes up his drink. “A letter carrier and amateur documentary footage. Not as if I’m going to steal it,” Soren grumbles. “I don’t do gimmicks.”
I give him a cool smile. “Maybe you should try it, Soren,” I say. “Anybody can take on the clients who want coaching, but it takes a real innovator to take on the uncooperative clients.”
“This is ridiculous.” Soren stands and grabs his phone. “You may need a bit more of her emotional intelligence dog and pony show, Malcolm, because those soft skills? Not in evidence.” He throws down a few bills and heads out.
Verlaina winces. “I’m sorry. He’s been under so much pressure with the new release and everything.” She looks from me to Elle. “Thanks for coming out. It really was nice to meet you, Elle.”
“You, too,” Elle says.
“Soft skills,” I growl as Verlaina rushes off to catch up to Soren. “I’ve got some soft skills I’d like to show him.”
When I look over, Elle’s beaming at me. “Thank you,” she gusts, as though she can’t believe how fiercely I took her side. Has nobody ever done that? I move closer to her. “I’ve got some soft skills that will lay him right out.”
Her grin grows even wider.
I say, “I’m sorry I brought you out to drinks with that jackass.”
“No, it was sweet,” she says. “It was a nice idea.”
“He was a jackass,” I growl.
She makes a sly face. “Dog and pony show? Do you think he was trying to insult me?”
“I should’ve laid him out,” I growl.
“And let you end up with another court-ordered emotional intelligence coach? No way,” she says. “Anyway, I’m sure I was insulting with my proprietary thing. But he made me nervous, like I might say the wrong thing.”
“I think he wanted to make you nervous.”
She frowns, not liking that.
“But you got the better of him.” I lean in closer to her. “It’s proprietary.”
She smiles her huge smile. “Well, Malcolm, they say that anybody can take on the clients who want coaching, but it takes a real coach to help the uncooperative ones.”
I grin, pleased that she enjoyed that.
She grabs my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Those soft skills, Malcolm? Not in evidence!”
“Certainly not,” I say. And just like that, we’re sitting there, holding hands. And I’m looking at our joined hands. And my heart is racing. And I know I’m falling for her. “I love your dog and pony show,” I say softly.
“Good, because I love doing the dog and pony show with you,” she says.
“I want you to do the dog and pony show with me…and nobody else,” I say, and it’s clear I’m talking about much more than her coaching.
A strange, sad look comes over her face. The look alarms me to the core.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says softly, taking her hand back, ostensibly to fix her hair clip. “And, no, I don’t want to…do anything with anybody else but you right now. It’s the truth.”
“But…” My blood races. “Is somebody else in the picture?”
“No, it’s not that,” she says, still with the sense of a reservation, a but.
“But what?” I demand, then, “
I need to know if there are any obstacles to us being together.”
I don’t like the wary look that comes over her face. It reminds me I’m not in control—not a sensation I’m accustomed to where a woman is concerned.
“Well? Are there?”
“It’s not that simple,” she says.
“Because of your profession?”
“Sort of…this whole situation—”
“Never mind,” I say. “I’m pushing you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Let’s just have dinner,” I say. She’s stuck with me for the time being. I don’t need to push.
“Malcolm—”
“I push people all the time and I don’t want to push you. I won’t do it,” I say. “Look at your soft-skills teaching paying off, right?”
She smiles wistfully.
I spot the host coming for us. “Come on, then.” I offer her my arm. She takes it, and we follow him back.
A nice dinner, now. One step at a time. Usually I prefer to root out and demolish obstacles head-on, but that might not work with Elle. She’s not a company. There’s no backroom leverage to apply. No financial pressure to exert. If she doesn’t want to be with me in a real way, I can’t force it.
I tell myself that she’s probably worried that she’ll lose her beloved job. That I can overcome, but what if it’s more? I don’t enjoy this lack of power, but at the same time, here we are, heading to dinner. We have the whole night in front of us; I can’t help but feel happy about that.
My shameless bribery has paid off with a stellar corner table bathed in candlelight.
“Wow,” she says. “Nice.” She goes right for the menu. I love that she loves to eat. “Another tiny menu with no prices,” she says. “A San Fran fashion, huh?”
“See anything you like?” I ask.
“I might like it all,” she says.
“There won’t be a bad dish on there,” I say, signaling the waiters. We order two more drinks and a feast off the menu, including more bruschetta.
“Our favorite food,” she says.
Something strange shimmers through my chest at that.
I quiz her about her favorite eateries in New Jersey. I usually quiz people about their lives because it helps me gain control over them, but with Elle, I want to know all.
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