by Claire Adams
When Martin finally drops the new executive, he turns to me, exclaiming, “This one’s got the eggs! Ha! Reminds me of when you first started coming in here.”
Now, let me make something clear: we are not the only people in the fish market, not by a long shot. Martin’s been in business this long by being the best, and every chef who even thinks of working with seafood in this town knows it.
Wilks is going to be fine, although he’s again becoming aware of just how many people have been watching the scene. I can’t be sure, but I could swear I saw some money change hands between customers when Martin picked the poor bastard off his feet.
Martin gives a decent starting price, and like a trooper, Wilks starts talking him down.
My attention is elsewhere, though.
I could swear that I just saw something on the far corner of the market. It was a flash of red hair ducking behind a display.
When nobody comes out, I tell myself I must be imagining things. Why would Wrigley follow me to a fish market?
“Does that sound about right, Paulson?” Wilks asks, apparently not for the first time.
Pulled back from my ginger hallucination, I turn to look at my new boss.
“It’s your deal,” I tell him. “Does it sound about right to you?”
He turns back to Martin and extends his hand. It’s a rookie mistake.
We leave Martin’s shop and I could swear I see that red hair again before we come to our next stop.
It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to discover that Wrigley’s stalking me. What I don’t understand, though, is why she’d choose to do it here. Why now?
It occurs to me that I’m trying to assign rationality to someone who may or may not be stalking me, and I give up the futile chore.
“How’d you do?” I ask.
“Were you not paying attention?” Wilks beams. “I talked him down a full 20 percent from his original asking price.”
“Well done,” I tell him, and cautiously pat him on the back.
“So, any other lessons before our next stop?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Lesson number five: whatever you do, do not get on the bad side of a fishmonger.”
His confidence is sufficiently elevated to the point where he’s finally willing to ask the question: “Are all your lessons haikus?”
“I knew I liked you, Wilks,” I tell him, and we finish off the rest of our daily buys with relative ease.
After everything’s taken care of, I walk the new exec back to his building, giving him further lessons and miscellaneous advice on the way.
“Are you on tonight?” he asks as we approach his building.
“I’m on the schedule,” I tell him, “but look, something’s kind of going on and I might need to have someone cover me. Is that all right?”
“Paulson, after everything you’ve done for me, I think you’ve earned another night.”
“Thanks,” I tell him, and shake the hand Martin hadn’t touched. “Oh, by the way, Wilks…”
“Yeah?”
“Lesson ten: never give your sous chef a night off when he asks. He can't be trusted.”
He has no idea how to react, but seems to take the lesson in good humor. Of course, when he tries to weasel out of giving me the night off, I gently remind him that not only did he already authorize it, he shook my hand.
I leave him with, “Lesson six: handshakes are how you get what you want and make sure you hang onto it.”
“Oh, fuck off,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I turn around and there she is, leaning against the pole of the stoplight on the corner.
This shit’s got to stop and it’s got to stop now, before it has a chance to escalate.
“Wrigley,” I say as I approach her. “What are the chances that you’d just be standing here at the exact moment I’m walking by?”
“They’re pretty good, I would imagine,” she says, blowing out a puff of smoke. “Have you gotten your head out of your ass yet?”
“Nah,” I tell her. “It’s warm and cozy in there if you don’t mind the smell.”
“Clever,” she says humorlessly. “You know, it is common courtesy not to dump the woman you just started a relationship with, even if she tells you to explore things with someone else.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not a thing,” I tell her.
“Oh yeah?” she asks, blowing her next drag in my face. “What makes you think that?”
“Way too convoluted, and you know, dripping with crazy.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little fucked up how often men call the women in their life crazy?” she asks. “If every woman who was called crazy was actually crazy, I’m pretty sure we’d have a lot more axe murders.”
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Only what’s due me,” she says.
“And what is due you?”
“Do me,” she says. “I get tense as shit if I don’t have a good lay, and you, my dear, couldn’t have ducked out at a worse time.”
“Just find someone else,” I tell her. “That’s never been a problem for you before.”
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re casting some kind of weak ass moral judgment on me for enjoying sex,” she scoffs.
“Not at all,” I tell her. “I’d have no room to talk. It’s a serious suggestion.”
“I don’t want to fuck anyone else right now,” she says. “That may change, but as for right now, I want to fuck you.”
The small group of people waiting for the light to change takes a step or two away from us.
“I’m very flattered,” I tell her, “really, I am. But I’m seeing someone else now. You’ve got to move on.”
“That option’s really not on the table at the moment,” she says. “By all means, screw your roommate to your heart’s content, but don’t pretend like you’re the saint in this conversation.”
“I don’t think either one of us is ‘the saint,’” I answer. “You don’t really think you’re going to get me to cheat on Leila with you by stalking me, do you?”
“I’m not stupid, Dane,” she says. “I’m just planting seeds.”
“What does that even mean?”
She flicks her cigarette into the group waiting for the light. “You’ll figure it out,” she says. Without a nod of acknowledgement for her crassness, she starts walking away, turning back just long enough to call out, “Sooner or later, they always figure it out!”
Chapter Nineteen
Exaltation with Just a Pinch of Denial
Leila
It’s my last day at the office and nobody but Annabeth could give a crap.
Well, that’s not entirely true. Kidman did offer to go down on me as a going away present. The mental picture makes me vomit a little in my mouth, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?
Right now, I’m a little over halfway done with Atkinson’s final laundry list of menial tasks. I just finished walking his lucky ferret—yeah, the man has a ferret which he not only considers lucky, but actually brings into the office whenever there’s an important meeting—and am now on my way to see if I can, “figure out what the hell is wrong with that fax machine.”
I have absolutely no skills with anything technical like this, but my feeble attempts should buy me a good half hour before he finally tells me to just call maintenance.
I tried calling maintenance first once when his monitor started flickering.
That was the day I found out that Atkinson, though otherwise intimidating, screams like a girl when you get him really, really mad.
Tonight is going to be Dane and my second attempt at an actual date.
After he told me what happened with Wrigley outside his new executive chef’s building earlier today, though, it’s apparent that we’re going to have to get a little creative.
That is, if this interminable day ever comes to an end.
After 15 minutes spent literally poking and prodding Atkinson’s fax mach
ine, I decide to give up a little early and let maintenance deal with it.
My next stop is to collect the third page of Atkinson’s last memo from everyone on this floor and replace it with a new copy.
I’m not doing this because there was some sort of new policy or significant change. I’m doing this because in line 36—that is, fourth paragraph from the top, second sentence—he inserted a hyphen where it didn’t belong.
The offending pair was “boiling-over.”
Never to fear, though, soon everyone will have the copy which rightfully has the phrase as “boiling over,” and I am perfectly confident that no one would ever have noticed. Even if they did, I am certain nobody would have cared.
As I look at the clock, though, my mood lightens.
Only a few more hours and I will forever be free of this cluster fuck.
(I think Dane is starting to rub off on me.)
I hand out the third page of the memo to everyone in the office, making sure to collect the old versions. Atkinson will check my work when I’m done.
This is not speculation.
Kidman’s is the last one, and I motion to Annabeth that it’s time for the fireworks.
She creeps to the side of Mr. Kidman’s doorway. I knock and let myself in.
“Mr. Kidman,” I start, “Mr. Atkinson has asked me to replace page three of today’s memo. Do you happen to have it handy?”
“I’m sure I can find it here somewhere,” he says. “You know, I think I must have tucked it down the front of my pants. Why don’t you be a dear and help me pull it out?”
“You know,” I tell him, “I saved your page for last. Would you like to know why?”
He straightens his tie and says, “Because you’re finally ready to get that raise?” he asks. To ensure there’s no miscommunication, he grabs his crotch.
“No,” I tell him. “I saved yours for last because I finally did something that I really, really should have done a long time ago.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
“I learned the finer points of your particular severance plan and contract with the company.”
“Oh?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Apparently, it’s a pretty standard document. I talked to one of the lawyers here, just to make sure—”
“Wait,” he says, “how did you get access to that?”
“I’m an intern,” I tell him. “I work with important papers all the time. Anyway,” I continue, “it turns out that you only get severance if you’re not fired for cause. While it is true that whoever drew this up gave you a lot of latitude regarding what constitutes cause, in section 18c of the agreement, it clearly states that sexual harassment, as it is against both state and federal civil law, is cause for immediate termination, forfeiture on your part of severance rights, profit-sharing, and about 10 other things I didn’t really take the time to look over.”
“That’s not right,” he says. “I don’t remember anything about any section 18c.”
“Oh, Miss Lozano!” I call out.
A moment later, my gorgeous friend comes into the room, carrying a folder. “Why, yes, Miss Tyler?”
“Did you happen to grab Mr. Kidman’s employment contract with this company?”
“Why, yes I did, Miss Tyler,” she says.
She hands me the folder.
“Thank you, Miss Lozano,” I tell her, and she leaves the room.
I open the file and toss it onto the letch’s desk.
“Don’t worry, we’ve taken the liberty of highlighting the appropriate paragraphs,” I tell him.
“Wha—Why would you do this?”
“I think a better question is why would you do this to us?” I ask.
“This is all he said, she said,” he scoffs. “Nobody’s going to believe you or your friend. I’ve been with this company for—Mrs. Beck,” he says, interrupting himself.
I turn to follow Kidman’s gaze.
There, standing in the doorway, is a tall brunette, dressed in a black pantsuit.
This is my going away present from Annabeth. And to think, I didn’t get her anything.
“I understand that’s no longer a problem?” Mrs. Beck asks, looking at me.
I take the pen out of my pocket and hand it to her. She presses the little button, and the recording isn’t playing for 10 seconds before his career is over.
“It seems you’ve been caught on tape,” Mrs. Beck says. “How you’ve gotten away with this shameful behavior for so long is nothing short of astounding.”
“I have a contract!” he shouts, rising from his desk. “You can fire me, but I get—”
“You do have a contract,” she interrupts. “It is a contract which you have violated in such an egregious way to do substantial harm to this company and its employees. As soon as these women are done with you, rest assured we’ll be coming for whatever’s left. That is, if they haven’t taken everything.”
“What women?” he asks.
Right on cue, Annabeth calls, “Ladies!” from the other side of the doorway and over the next couple of minutes, every woman, assistant level or lower, every woman on this floor comes in, hands a pen to Mrs. Beck, and walks back out again.
I’ve never enjoyed watching a grown man cry so thoroughly.
I’m about to head out the door, but realize that I’ve forgotten something.
“Sorry,” I say to Mrs. Beck as I make my way back into the room.
I walk to Kidman’s desk and remove page three from Atkinson’s memo. While it’s clear enough that Kidman’s not going to need any part of it, Atkinson was adamant that I retrieve every copy with the extraneous hyphen.
The things we choose to care about.
I walk back out of the room, expecting—not applause or anything—but some kind of acknowledgment that we’ve finally brought the bastard down. True to form, though, everyone’s back to work and no one but Annabeth even notices my presence.
* * *
The rest of my work day is spent finishing up favors for Atkinson. For as much commotion as there was in Kidman’s office only a few hours ago, I leave the building without speaking to anyone.
When I get home, the apartment is empty.
Dane should be home by now, but that’s all right. Now I’ll have a chance to take a quick shower and change out of my work clothes before he gets back.
Once the water’s pouring over me, I’m finding it difficult to imagine getting out voluntarily. I clean myself, rinse myself, and then just enjoy the water.
I start to fantasize about Dane coming home, finding me in the shower. We have dinner reservations at l’Iris, pretty much the only place either of us believes we might have a chance avoiding a run-in with Wrigley, but I wouldn’t mind pretending that the shower is a waterfall and that the dim light over the sink is a sunrise.
Maybe it’s not my exact fantasy, but it is close enough for now.
I stay in the shower until the water starts to turn cold.
Maybe he came in and I just didn’t hear him.
I wrap one towel around my midsection, another around my hair, and wipe my feet on the rug before leaving the bathroom. It may not be an imagined waterfall at sunrise, but he can still unwrap me before we go to dinner.
I could live with that.
When he doesn’t come home before my exposed skin has air-dried, I start to get a little nervous.
He didn’t mention any plans today, and he assured me that he’d gotten out of work.
I walk back into the bathroom and finish drying myself before checking my phone.
I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocent and reasonable explanation, but he’s not answering his phone.
When the call goes to voicemail, I hang up and try it again, walking around the apartment as it rings, thinking maybe he simply forgot it. If it’s here, the ringer’s turned off.
Now I’m really starting to get worried.
Wrigley told me to keep my head down, that she di
dn’t want me to get involved. I knew it was a threat, but could she really have done something to him?
I’m just being silly and I know it, but still, there’s that heavy pull telling me that something’s very wrong.
Running out of places to look, I find the number for l’Iris and call it.
“l’Iris, please hold.”
I sit on the couch, but immediately get back up again. I don’t really care how long they have me on hold; I can’t relax until I know that Dane is all right.
A minute or two passes before the line goes active again.
“I apologize for the wait, we don’t have any open reservations for tonight, but we might be able to squeeze you in sometime—”
“Is Dane there?” I ask. “This is his roommate, Leila. He hasn’t been home, and I’m starting to get a little worried about him.”
“Dane?” the man with the obviously fake accent asks.
“Dane,” I repeat. “Dane Paulson.”
“Ah, monsieur Paulson,” the man says. “I will check. Please hold.”
I’ve really got to tell Dane to do something about fake accent man. It’s really annoying.
“Yes, it seems that Mr. Paulson has the night off tonight,” the man says. “I can leave a message here for him if you would like.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I tell him, and hang up.
Because there is absolutely nowhere else I know to look, I try calling his phone again, but this time it just goes straight to voicemail.
“Dane, it’s Leila. You’re still not home, and I’ve been trying to call you. Just give me a call back and let me know that you’re all right, will you?”
I hang up, feeling completely helpless.
For as much as I care for him, there’s still so much that I don’t know about Dane. If he has friends outside of work, he’s never mentioned them.
Come to think of it, he’s never actually referred to any of his coworkers as friends. When he refers to them at all, and it’s a rare occasion that he does, he never has a single nice thing to say about any of them.
Maybe he and I are just too different to go on pretending that this is going to work.
