by Julia Kent
“Master coders don’t pull in $360 an hour,” Sanjay protests.
“Do you argue with all your clients like this?” Nick asks in a low, neutral voice that manages to sound more threatening than a shout.
Sanjay shuts up.
“Customers will have credit cards on file, and master masseurs can access a smartphone app to pull up the customer’s file for background information when they call. The point is to be a good listener. This is not phone sex,” Carrie clarifies.
“Wait. It’s not?” Justin looks up, long brown hair flopping over his face. He tucks it behind his ears, over the stems of his glasses.
“No. That is a hard no, too,” Carrie elaborates, staring at Zeke. “We could get shut down if we tried it.”
“Then what the hell are women paying $360 an hour for?” Sanjay asks in a voice that makes it clear the guy doesn’t get it.
“Companionship. A listener. The feeling that she gets a little piece of me to herself,” Zeke replies.
Justin and Sanjay just gawk.
“That’s so… stupid,” Justin finally blurts out.
“Welcome to reality, gentleman,” Zeke crows.
“Tuck the peacock feathers back in, Zeke,” Chloe whispers across the table.
“I’m just having fun with them,” he whispers back with a grin.
“I am going back to the office and asking for a raise,” Sanjay says, swiping on his phone.
“Can we get back to discussing the specifics of this project? You know, the one Anterdec is funding?” Amanda Warrick finally joins the conversation, her words cutting through. One eyebrow goes up, an expression like Chloe’s, and all eyes are on her.
Money always gets the eyes.
Except while everyone else is looking at Amanda, I’m looking at Carrie.
“The guidelines for intimate conversations have already been banged out,” she adds.
Zeke snickers. I kick him under the table. Sanjay yelps. Wrong foot.
I don’t care. Sanjay breaks his evaluation of Carrie. Two birds, one stone, all that.
“What we really need to concern ourselves with is the financial system and permissions-based aspect here. We don’t want regret to drive credit card chargebacks and disputes,” Carrie explains.
Justin gapes at her. “Huh?”
“We don’t want customers to claim they didn’t understand the expense of the call. So the tech side of this is clear.”
“Phone sex hotlines have a warning at the beginning. A pre-recorded message that informs the user of the exact charges, and they have to press one to accept, or two to decline,” Zeke says matter-of-factly.
We all just watch him.
“What? Everyone knows that,” he says defensively.
“We don’t want to be so… vulgar,” Chloe weighs in, her voice deliberative.
“O’s branding isn’t about sex,” Carrie adds.
Zeke starts laughing.
“Don’t make that mistake,” she emphasizes. “It’s about freedom. About owning who you are.” Chloe is watching Carrie with the look of a pleased mother. “We don’t want to cheapen the brand by making people equate this new phone system with 1-800-HAND-JOB.”
She spells out the last seven digits.
Zeke is in the middle of drinking his coffee and sprays it all over Geek and Geeker, who jump up and howl in protest.
Nick, Chloe, and Amanda all begin speaking at once, ignoring the coffeefest.
“What about bundling the fee — ”
“How about a gratitude-based message rather than — ”
“If we added a video component, maybe we — ”
“If you turn to page three, you’ll see I’ve addressed all of this,” Carrie interrupts calmly.
My phone buzzes. So does Carrie’s. We simultaneously ignore our phones.
“If we make this about how the woman feels, we’ll nail it from a branding perspective,” Carrie begins.
“Nail it,” Zeke says, snickering again.
I really kick him. “What are you? Twelve?” I hiss.
Carrie gives me a look that says, You too?
No. Not me, too.
My phone buzzes again, though. I grab it and look.
It’s a text from my oldest sister Ellen. Did you finish the grad school application?
I ignore it.
“Go on, Carrie,” I say loudly, trying to clear some of the static from the room so poor Carrie can finish. I don’t sit in on meetings other than staff gatherings managed by Henry or Chloe. This is a snoozefest.
“We focus on how she feels. Thank her for her call. Talk about how privileged O is to provide this support to her in a time when she is working on personal growth. Have the masseurs emphasize their gratitude to her.”
Sanjay makes a mock gagging motion.
“What does that have to do with the tech angle, though?” Amanda muses. “How do we design a tight system that gives us permission to charge their credit cards and keep chargebacks at a low rate?”
“What about a follow-up?” Carrie mentions, pointing to page four of her handout. “We have an automated check-in later in the day. Opt-in. We could text her — even have the master masseurs write a personal text and the system could schedule it. We would have strong return business, too. Build a relationship between the masseur and the client.”
“This is so fake,” Justin says with a sour look.
“Can you do it from a tech standpoint?” Amanda asks, giving Justin and Sanjay a challenging look.
“Of course,” Sanjay says. “Not hard at all. We’d need to connect customer records with phone and texting systems. Do you want email integration, too?”
“Absolutely. VR as well,” Chloe adds.
“VR? Virtual reality?” Sanjay’s eyebrows go up.
“We’re experimenting with it. If we could have synergy between all the systems, that would be optimal.”
“Great idea, Sanjay!” Zeke says, pretending to clap. “I like it.”
Everyone nods. Carrie’s face falls. Sanjay beams while Justin pats him on the shoulder.
“It was Carrie’s idea,” I say, clearing my throat. Carrie looks at her phone as I talk and frowns. The skin at the corner of her eye starts to twitch, then tighten.
Oh, no.
I know that look.
She’s about to cry.
“Well, she had the general idea, but — ”
I put Sanjay’s protests to an end. “She had the entire idea fleshed out.”
Zeke snickers.
“And you need to leave if you can’t stop acting like a teen boy in his first sex ed class,” I tell Zeke in a calm, cold voice that makes it clear I’m not fucking around.
Carrie won’t stop looking at her phone. What was in that text?
Nick Grafton speaks, splaying his hands on the table, leaning in and looking at Geek and Geeker with the eyes of a closer.
“Can you accomplish the autoresponder sequence with texts and emails that are customized by the master masseur to the customer? Yes or no?”
“Yes,” Justin stammers. “But it’s complex, and all the new requirements are going to take longer and cost more. ”
“No, it’s not,” I bark, reluctant to jump in, but they’ve given me no choice. “All you have to do is customize the branding to feel and sound like the O Spa. You already paid for a phone service product that does the heavy lifting for you,” I add, giving Chloe and Nick a pointed look. “The rest isn’t that hard.”
Nick looks back at me, grabs a pen, and jots something down on his notepad.
Sanjay shrugs. Justin scowls.
The room goes silent. Carrie’s looking at me, lips parted, teeth separated, her face filled with surprise.
I shrug. “I have coding experience.”
“The man braids hair, dances beautifully, keeps the customers happy with his hands, and can code. Is there anything you can’t do, Ryan?” Chloe jokes.
I look at Carrie.
Yeah, I think. There is.
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Chapter 5
CARRIE
We knew Saturday was going to come, right? A gorgeous Saturday in late September, the month when New England in general — and Boston in particular — comes alive with events and energy and impossible natural beauty. In a city full of universities, the new year really begins on Labor Day.
We — the old ‘we,’ Jamey and me — were going to drive out to the country today and pick apples. Then we were going to come home and bake a pie. A beautiful pie, with a perfect fluted crust sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, and a little slice of cheddar cheese on the side. Or homemade ice cream. Whichever we felt in the mood for.
I feel more in the mood for applesauce. You know, where you peel off the skin and cut up the fruit with knives and then boil it until you end up with mush. So it matches your heart.
For our apple-picking date, I was going to wear a cute little corduroy miniskirt and a bright quilted vest. Instead I am wearing plaid flannel pajama bottoms that say Northville Polar Bears across the seat (Christmas gift from Mom and Dad), and slippers with polar bear faces on the toes (Christmas gift from Teddy). The slippers scuff and slap as I trudge up and down from the basement laundry, four flights down. For those of you with elevators, that’s sixty steps each way, times four (wash and dry), for two loads. Two hundred forty steps, half of them carrying a basket of clothes. Who needs a gym membership?
BUT if you are five minutes late for your cycle? (No, not that cycle!) Someone will have removed your wet laundry and left it on top of the machine. Either add one hundred and twenty more steps or wait forty minutes in the windowless, humid laundry room, so you don’t miss your chance.
Anyway, the muggy laundry room with its peeling green paint feels about right today. There are no chairs, but if I sit on the machine, the steady vibration and rocking motion might just distract me for a few minutes.
My new boyfriend, Kenmore. I can set the dial to Large Load. Ha.
I pull out my other boyfriend, Smartphone. The one who is such good company, always willing to entertain or inform me, any time of day or night. You’re never alone when you have an iPhone.
I press SHD in my contacts list.
“Hi Daddy, it’s me.” During the meeting at work, Dad texted me. I couldn’t deal with him then. Laundry time is down time, perfect for calling home.
“Carrie Baby! Hold on!” He holds the receiver away from his mouth. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Patterson, and don’t forget you can store wet brushes in the freezer overnight! Saves on cleanup! Come in again soon!” My dad’s sentences always seem to end in exclamation points.
“Sorry, baby,” he says. “Busy day — fall is fix-up-your-house time!”
“I know, Daddy,” I smile. “I can almost smell the paint.”
“Remember when we used that slogan in our ads? ‘Wake up and smell the fresh paint!’ But then it turned out that some people hate that smell.” He chuckles.
My parents own Shelton’s Home Decorating in Northville, Michigan. They sell paint and basic wallpaper, plus all the tools and accessories to do it yourself. And they hold classes. I have taught literally hundreds of people to use a utility knife.
Making things look better is in my blood. I’m a total sucker for before-and-after magazine spreads, doesn’t matter if it’s houses or hairdos, cosmetics or closets. In the checkout line, when I see a People Magazine cover that says “I Lost 100 Pounds!” or “Veteran With Six Foster Children Gets New Home Surprise!” I cannot get $4.99 out of my purse fast enough.
“What’s Teddy doing?” My brother still works at Shelton’s. He and his girlfriend, Andrea, fixed up an apartment over our parents’ barn. The paint and wallpaper were free. It’s cute.
“He’s around here someplace. In the stockroom, I think. Did you want to speak to him?”
“No. I just wanted to hear your voice.” I sniffle. Damn.
“What’s up, sweetie?” His voice is immediately full of concern. “Everything okay at work?”
“Oh, yes, everything’s fine. I just miss you, and Mom, and… home.”
“Carrie, you can come home anytime! You know that. Your room is waiting for you, and Mom and I would love to have you back. And so would all your high school friends, the ones that stayed around. Mom hates cooking for just the two of us, and she has no one to go to the mall with anymore. Why don’t you come for a weekend and think about staying?”
“Thank you, Daddy. I’ll be home at Thanksgiving. I’m fine. I love you.”
I don’t point out that they have never visited me in Boston. “Too loud and busy,” they say. Mom and Dad never planned for Teddy or me when it came to college. They assumed we’d stay put and take over the business. And I did — stay put, that is. Just long enough to realize I was literally spending much of my life watching paint dry.
I left home when I was twenty-five. Moved to Boston nine years ago. Took the long route to getting my degree. I’ve built a fine life.
I am fine, right? I mean, I have a great job, even if it doesn’t pay very much yet. I’m in debt up to my eyeballs, too, but who isn’t? Changing careers means some sacrifice, but I knew I wanted to be in design, not public relations. Now I have my degree, and I’m back on track.
Career on track. Love life off the rails. I just can’t explain this situation to my father.
Saved by the beep.
“I have to go, Daddy, my friend Jenny’s trying to call. She’s the one who’s getting married in a few weeks. I’ll call Mom later. I love you.”
“Sure, baby, I’ll tell her. Love you back.”
I click over to Jenny as my machine boyfriend clicks over from ‘wash’ to ‘rinse.’
“Hi Jen.”
“Hey, what’s going on?”
“Going on? What do you mean?” How much does she know? What is she really asking?
“I mean, like, what’s going on? What do you mean, what do I mean?”
“I’m in the laundry room standing guard over my load of darks.”
“Never try to get the machines on a Saturday, you have to fight all the people who have nothing better to do.” I am the people who have nothing better to do, but apparently she doesn’t know that yet. “I thought you’d be on your way to the apple orchard by now. You’re running late — or are you staying in the country tonight? Jamey always finds those adorable inns where they roast the venison over an open fire or whatever.” She chuckles, proud of her creative brother.
“Um, no. That was the plan but… Jamey had to go out of town. At the last minute.”
“Really? That’s weird, he always lets Mom know where he’s going to be.”
“I think he had a lot on his mind.” Can you die from lying by omission? I’m about to find out.
“Oh. Well, since you’re not doing anything, why don’t you come meet us? I’m taking Savannah to pick out her flower girl basket, and then we’re going to Cheesecake Factory for an early supper. It’ll be so much fun!”
You see? You see? This is what my life is going to be from now on. Dragging someone’s whiny four-year-old niece around on the T, followed by gluey fettucine Alfredo at 5:00 on Saturday night. Home in bed by 8:45. Alone.
“That definitely sounds like fun, Jen, but I think I’m going to use the time to work on a special project Chloe gave me. It’s a little different for me and I want to do a good job.”
“Okay, sweetie,” she says, her mind already moving on to the next wedding-checklist item. “When Jamey comes back, let’s get dinner, the four of us.”
“That would be great.”
It would be great, all right. Just four friends, two happy couples, grabbing dinner. But Jamey’s not coming back — not to that life, anyway.
We say our goodbyes and I’m alone with my spin cycle again.
Jenny hasn’t heard the news. That’s obvious. I don’t think it’s up to me to tell her. You don’t out people. That’s not how this works. Even if I hate Jamey — and part of me does — I’m not cruel. There’s a reason he hasn’t told
Jenny the truth yet. While he’s been horrible to me, I don’t have to stoop to his level and be horrible back. When he’s ready, he’ll tell Jenny.
I’m pretty sure showing up to the wedding with a boyfriend will tip his hand.
This is like living in some alternate reality: in one version, Jamey and I are living out a cozy and predictable romantic comedy, happily ever after, except in my parallel universe, the comedy is Will & Grace.
Being the keeper of Jamey’s secret is harder than it should be. Frankly, it’s unfair. I feel a sudden and desperate need to talk to someone who knows the true story.
That would be Ryan.
Hi! I type, and delete.
Hey! delete.
What’s going on? Delete.
What is the matter with me? It’s just Ryan — it’s not like it has to be the cleverest line ever written.
Do you like apple pie? I hit send.
When everything is finally dry, I pile both loads into my laundry basket and start the final ascent to the third floor. I’m developing thighs of steel. Although I’ve never been sure if that’s really a good look.
Still no answer to my text.
In my bedroom, I dig through the clean clothes until I find a pair of jeans and a long-sleeve tee. I pull my hair back with an elastic, grab my wallet and that quilted vest.
“Your plan was to bake an apple pie today and, with or without a boyfriend, that is what you are going to do,” I tell myself. Or applesauce. Not sure yet.
No answer.
At the Tedeschi store down the street, I buy a bag of McIntosh apples, some brown sugar, and a little block of cheddar cheese sealed in plastic. Jamey would never tolerate ingredients from the convenience store. If it wasn’t from Whole Foods, you’d think it was rat poison.
No answer from Ryan.
Back in my kitchen, I get out a bowl and start peeling. Okay, this is where it’s more fun if you’re doing it with a partner. It’s a lot of apples. Jamey would have researched all the different types of apples and he’d explain which was best for what use. He would get the stream of “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me” on NPR, and we’d laugh at the jokes. We’d drink hard cider.
We had so much fun. So much damn fun.
