by Poppy Dunne
“Sit down, please.” He gestures to a chair before his desk. I take that seat, though I feel a little weird doing it. Kind of like being back in sixth grade and waiting in the principal’s office. Waiting to be told that no, you can’t challenge kids to a dance-off in history class, complete with shouted lines from Will Smith movies in moments of triumph. Ah, to be a child once more.
Sorry, gotta listen to the boss.
“You’re usually one of the first people to the office. Imagine my surprise when I walked in to find your desk empty.” Gavin says it all with a pleasant ease, like it’s a joke between us: imagine me getting angry at you? Wink wink.
Normally, it’d make me blush just to think of. Right now, though, it feels kind of…scoldy? Like he said, I don’t show up late. I am on time. I know for a fact that a lot of the popped-collar douchebags around here slouch in around lunchtime and then head back out to the golf course at quarter past two. You know, the world’s so hard for those with bleached teeth and polished assholes. Real challenge.
“Sorry. Honestly, I just forgot to set my alarm.”
Gavin’s eyes trail over me, and I remember that I’m dressed extra fancy today. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he lingers on what is definitely not my face. A little further south, if you catch my drift. “You made such an effort today. I’m glad it didn’t go to waste.”
Does he think I dressed like this for him? I mean, what’s worse: Gavin thinks I’m trying to catch his eye, or he knows all about my magnificent, sweaty evening of the night before? Or is there an option C: fake amnesia and forget my own name?
“Er, thanks.” I’m perched on the edge of my seat. “I’ll see myself out, then?”
He holds up one hand, like he’s the commander or something. ‘Stay,’ that’s what the gesture says. Doesn’t even ask. That gets my gut cramping with unease. Maybe some annoyance as well.
“I’d hate for all this work of yours to go to waste, Emma.” His magnetic blue gaze catches mine. “How about we try again? Dinner, tonight.”
It’s not just Fraser. Gavin’s weird ‘sit down little girl’ talk and smirk have kind of turned me off, in a big way. I don’t feel any regret when I say,
“Er, I’m not sure that’d be such a good idea.”
Man, he likes the sound of that. “You play hard to get very nicely. It’s one of the most attractive things about you.”
Hate to burst your bubble, dude. “I mean that I don’t think my boyfriend would be happy about it.” Yes, I know, it sucks that I have to use the ‘another man peed on me so you should find another womanly tree’ excuse. But it’s true (sort of, if Fraser and I are truly becoming a thing) and it rocks Gavin back onto his heels. Metaphorically, I mean, it’s hard to rock on your heels when you’re seated. Though I’d like to see him try, for science.
Okay, break’s over. Back to reality.
Like I said, Gavin looks surprised. No, more than surprised. Stunned is the correct word. It’s kind of insulting how shocked he is by this apparently gobsmacking revelation.
“That’s fast work, isn’t it?” He leans forward, laying his hands on the desk. All business now.
“Sort of. Actually, he’s your old college friend. Remember?” I mean, by ‘old college friend’ I could also have said ‘that guy you must have had angry sex with’ or ‘the man who killed your father and then you swore a poetic blood oath to one day destroy him.’ Fraser and Gavin were not exactly pleasant to each other. Then again, Fraser wasn’t pleasant; Gavin seemed pretty cool.
And he looks like he’s about to lose that cool now that I’ve brought Fraser into the conversation. “You’re kidding.”
He does not sound pleased. Kind of flat, really.
“Miracles do happen, I guess.”
“You must have had a late night.” Now he’s looking at my clothes like they personally insulted him somehow. Now he’s putting the pieces together and realizing that this swank little cocktail dress wasn’t for him; it was for Fraser.
And I didn’t have time to go home and change. Gavin squares his jaw a little; I do believe a vein is pulsing in his neck. The whole alpha male displeasure thing might please some women, but it makes me feel anxious.
“So I’m…gonna go, if that’s all right.” I get up out of my seat, and Gavin’s entire body relaxes. He reclines back in his ergonomic chair, the Master of Cool. Except for a little squeezy stress ball; I see him pick that bad boy up and start squeezing.
“You might want to go home and change before heading back to your desk.” Gavin flashes that megawatt smile of his. “It’s more professional that way.”
Hello, Jack Frost. I do believe you’ve swept into this meeting to work your freezing magic. Because Gavin might be all smiles, but it’s more like lockjaw than something genuine. Nothing says sexy like a man straining against tetanus.
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” Before I hit the door, I turn. “You still up for that Blaire Lavender pitch later today?” Crap, what if the deal’s off the table now? But Gavin simply nods.
“After lunch, like we agreed.”
With that, I walk out of the office and back to my desk to call for an Uber. And while on the way, I try to shake off the creepy vibes I just picked up. Because I may be a woman who comes in to work wearing a cocktail dress and carrying a spangled clutch purse, but I am not to be trifled with.
Honestly, I’m a little proud of myself as I call that car. I handled myself well, without blurting out inappropriate things or semi-apologizing for my burgeoning relationship.
A girl’s gotta grow up sometime.
12
Fraser
“More gorillas?” Cheryl asks with a smile as she sets down my coffee. I’ve been staring out the window these past five minutes, replaying every last erotic detail of last night. And more than that, anticipating another replay this evening. Or is it the sequel? I can never be certain about these things. A soft reboot, perhaps.
Right, coffee and gorillas. I take a sip of one and deny the other.
“Not gorillas, Cheryl. They’re out of my dreams and all over real life now.” We pause while she stares at me, that uncertain expression on her face: do I laugh at my boss’s joke, or call a doctor? “Er, thank you. That’ll be all.”
She leaves, and I find I’m too elated to stay seated. I get up and pace to the far window and back, hand in my pocket. I’d forgotten how it felt to be this alive. This excited. This caffeinated. I recall now that I drank Emma’s cup in the kitchen, as she had to rush to work. Perhaps I should avoid another round.
Then again, I want to be up late tonight. As late as Emma or my tireless erection will allow.
Emma would say ‘My Tireless Erection’ is a good name for a band. Heh.
Christ, I’m hard again just thinking of her laugh.
The phone rings, and I pick up. Anything to get my mind off her fine, succulent, “Breasts,” I say. Then I proceed to imagine hurling myself out the window.
“Sorry to say your attempts at sexual harassment are subpar, boss,” Cheryl deadpans. Please, let no one have been in the waiting room when she said that.
“Apologies. Is there a call for me?”
“No, I just wanted to hear your mellifluous voice one more time.”
I pay for this kind of abuse. Handsomely. “Who’s on the line?” Could it be Emma? My imagination goes wild with the erotic possibilities. Perhaps she’s waiting downstairs wearing a coat and nothing else. A man can dream. Then he can book a suite at the luxury hotel next door and—
“It’s Gillian Hanson again.”
Fuck everything.
“Thanks. Put her through.” I’ll say this for Gillian: she’s killed the mood quite effectively.
“Fraser?” Gillian whispers over the phone. I can’t tell if she’s been crying, and sit down at once.
“What happened?”
“I tried again, like you told me to. But it’s no use. It.” She stops, and this time there is crying. Soft, husky crying coming
over the line. I close my eyes, lean wearily back in my chair. If there is a sound that instills more hopelessness than a woman crying, I’ve yet to hear it.
“So the answer is no, I take it?”
“I’m so sorry. I’m going to need more money.” I had already expected this the minute she phoned.
“Of course. Whatever you need.” Some of us, at least, take our responsibilities seriously. Gillian weeps with relief.
“Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Gillian didn’t always sound this fragile. She didn’t always weep. That’s been a new development these past few years.
All the excitement of my rendezvous with Emma hardens and sharpens into ice-cold focus. I square my shoulders.
“It’s not a problem, Gillian. I’ll take care of it.” As always, I’ll take care of it. It’s the least I can do, after all the trouble I caused. She thanks me once more, and we hang up. Then I proceed to turn around and face the Hollywood hills. Everything is so acid bright in Los Angeles; all of reality laid out in such startling clarity.
It would be wonderful to remain hidden a bit in the shadows. There are certain elements of my past I’d rather stay hidden.
Then I turn, pick up the phone, and dial Cheryl.
“More breasts, Mr. Drake?” she drawls. I do appreciate my employees.
“I’d like you to get me Dr. Laskin on the line, please,” I tell her.
13
Emma
My computer screen is filled with the gorgeous face of Blaire Lavender. She’s sitting and Skyping with me at home, while her two little Pomeranians frisk in the background. Aw, they’re chewing on her collection of high heels. That’s…gonna get them no treats.
“Misty! Rico! Stop!” Blaire scoops the little canine poofs up into her arms and turns back to me. “Need anything else, Em? Or do you think we’re ready for the meeting with Watcher today?”
“Walker.” I roll my eyes and giggle, and Blaire laughs along. Honestly, spending a couple of days just working with her has been a laugh riot. We both love dogs, cookie dough, attractive men in suits, and we both love seeing people happy and settled in their lives. And Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion. We’re both a little too into that movie.
“I mean, walker, stalker, I don’t care about anything so long as he’s hot and wants to work with me.” Blaire slides her long, straight black hair over one shoulder and winks. Honestly, she’s like the trans Elizabeth Taylor, and she’s got a master’s in social psychology. Deadly combo. We are both gonna be rich. And more importantly, there’ll be a lot of anxious women out there who are going to get help. Is anything better?
“Well, you’ve got a lot of douchebag stalkers in the office,” I mutter. Casey, behind me, whispers an ‘amen’ and gives a thumbs up. “The ‘so hot’ comments have been coming fast and furious.”
Another movie Blaire and I both love. I swear, when she’s signed with us I’m going to need to take her out for mani-pedis and action comedies. It’s the only way to treat your clients.
“Oh, the burden,” Blaire says, placing one hand against her forehead dramatically. My phone buzzes, and it’s Gavin’s secretary. Time to head into the meeting.
“Wish me luck.” I pick up my iPad, my handy dandy notebook, my squeezy stress koosh ball, and try to stop my gut from doing an aggressive mambo. I just had lunch, and I don’t want to lose it all over Gavin’s pristine office.
“We make our own luck.” Blaire rolls her eyes playfully; that’s one of her key sayings.
“Oh yeah, that’s one of the things we’re going to change,” I tell her before I sign off. Laughing, Blaire’s in the middle of calling me a snaky b—
“I’m assuming the word she was about to use was ‘beauty’?” Casey chuckles as I straighten my skirt. Pencil skirt and stylish heels today: I am ready to kick ass and look like a modern Grace Kelly while doing it. Only I’m pretty sure Grace Kelly never horfed a breakfast burrito while barreling down the 10 east freeway.
“I think ‘bumpkin’ is the word of the day.” I high-five Casey as I head toward Gavin’s office. “Wish me luck.”
“We make our own luck, you snaky Beetlejuice,” she calls back.
Thea grins toothily at me when I arrive. Pretty sure I’m one of the few in this office who’s actually nice to her. “I looked up Blaire when I read over your pitch material last night.” She pushes her Warby Parkers back up her nose. “She’s amazing! I think I’m going to try her avocado peel on my face, and also get a mantra.”
See? Already, Blaire’s affecting her target audience. Thea knocks on the door, cracks it open. “Mr. Walker? Emma’s—”
“Thea. Phone.” Gavin’s voice booms out the door, and Thea quails at once. She shuts the door and scuttles to her desk, her frizzy hair frizzing more than usual, her cheeks burning red. Now doesn’t that just grind my gears?
“You’re doing great,” I whisper as she calls into Gavin’s office. She tries smiling, but I catch the shine of tears in her eyes. Okay, if there was ever a time I was glad I did not go down the Gavin-Walker-banging rabbit hole, it is certainly now. She calls, he picks up, she announces me again, and the door opens.
“Emma. Come on in.” He smiles warmly, that ‘handsome sex god from Ralph Lauren’ vibe of his vibe-ing all over the place. Only this time, it’s not working on me.
“Hi, boss. I’ve got just the pitch for you.” I smile as I walk past him into the room, then sit down in front of the desk. I’m all business and readiness as he takes his own seat, still beaming. Honestly, I feel a little more relaxed. This morning, after I told him about Fraser—let him know I didn’t want to take him up on dinner and naked times, basically—he was a little standoffish. But now, it seems, he’s gotten back under control, and not a moment too soon. “Are you ready for a woman who will simultaneously help you in your career, teach you to experience greater sexual pleasure, and also create a spectacular facial mask with nothing but coffee grounds?”
“Do you think the world’s ready for such a woman?” He laughs. Okay. Off to a good start. He’s in a pleasant mood.
“If by woman you mean Blaire Lavender, then yes.” I bring up all of Blaire’s stats again—her incredible platform growth that’s taken only sixteen months, her skyrocketing presence on social media, her invitation to various prestigious conventions. I also show him some of Blaire’s promotional pictures, and yes, a couple involve her in a bikini, but when you got it, flaunt it. Gavin nods appreciatively at the stats, the pictures, the book proposal. We want to package Blaire’s message and deliver it to all the major publishers and get a bidding war started. Because of her looks (shallow but true) Blaire can also expect to be booked on Dr. Phil, and pretty much every other talk show that is not Judge Judy.
Unless those unpaid parking tickets land her in real hot water, but we’re not going to worry about that today.
When I’m finished, Gavin kicks back in his seat. He steeples his fingers together. A calm, certain smile plays on his lips. I light up inside, because this is it, fam. My first and certainly not last discovery of a lifetime.
“What do you think?” I ask, waiting for the champagne toast.
“We’re going to have to pass,” he says.
For a minute I’m waiting for the punch line. “We’re going to have to pass…on PASSING,” or some other double negative nonsense. But it doesn’t happen. Instead, Gavin simply slides my papers and iPad back to me. He never loses that calm, self-assured smile…a smile that is beginning to make me cross-eyed with anger. It’s the kind of smile that says ‘you tried, little girl. Now here’s a money-flavored lollipop with lint on it, right out of my pocket. Go fetch.’
Admittedly I’ve mixed up my child and canine rearing. That happens a lot.
“So is there a reason why we’re passing on the most solid thing anyone has brought you in six months?” I’m not going to stop smiling, either. It’s going to be the most passive aggressive pair of happy people you ever saw in your life up in this busin
ess.
“It’s not Blaire I’m worried about, honestly. It’s you.”
Me? Moi? I? “Afraid I’m going to screw up this deal, or afraid I’m going to accidentally reveal my plans for world domination at the next summit UN meeting?” I cross my legs and dig my fingernails into the armrests of my seat. “Because you know I just hate keeping good news to myself.”
“I just worry about your nose for these things, Emma.”
Speaking of noses, if I could break his with the force of my glare I’m pretty sure I would. That’d be a done deal by now. “What, pray tell, is wrong with my nose?”
“There’s no need to get upset.” He says it in that soothing, douchey tone that makes me feel like I’m the one that’s crazy. Sorry, pal. Not playing today. I relax like I’m slipping into a hot, soothing bath of executive tears. Mmm, feels like success.
“Not upset at all. Just curious.” I think I’m dimpling, I’m smiling so hard.
“Well, you’re so interested in all these self help gurus.” He shrugs, like what can he do? So out of his hands. “But how helpful can they be if you’re still. Well.”
“Still. Well. What?”
Gavin gives a small sigh, like he doesn’t want to say it but I’m just forcing it out of him. “Still unmarried. Still so scattered. At your age, it’s, well, concerning.”
Do you remember that robot-punching movie with Hugh Jackman that didn’t do too well? I like to imagine that movie right now, only instead of the robots punching each other, they’re tenderizing Gavin Walker to a pliant, succulent meatloaf. That image makes me feel super good about everything.
“Sorry, I’ll be sure to bring in my cane to the next meeting.” I know I’m saying most of this through gritted teeth. Gavin rubs one of his temples. Again, look at what a psychotic bitch I’m being by sitting here calmly and cracking wise in the face of a mega ton of assholery. How does this poor man put up with my hysteria?
