by J. J. Bella
I put my head down, both literally and figuratively, and plowed through the work. I don’t know how I did it; I guess I was able to focus my frustrated energy into it, giving some kind of superhuman transcription powers.
And as I was working, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about last night. It was absolutely incredible to be with Trent -almost like a girlhood dream coming true- and something about the way he was with me…I don’t know. It seemed as though he was letting his façade of constant professionalism and stoicism slip, like he needed to bond with someone in such a close way that he couldn’t help himself.
I’d been with the Lanes for only a week or so, but it was long enough to see that Trent’s world was comprised of Olive and work. And that’s it. Sure, he got drinks with clients, but that seemed to be the extent of his social life. It might’ve been me overthinking my importance, but I was starting to wonder if the reason he brought me on board was beyond simply needing someone to keep his affairs in order.
“It’s done?” Mr. Lane asked, coming back into the office after the time had flown by.
“All done,” I said, flashing a beaming smile, as if to say “I know exactly what you’re doing.”
Hey, no reason two couldn’t play at this game.
And that’s the way the rest of the week went. Before I knew it, it was Friday, and work was done. We took the car back home, and came back to Olive sitting at the kitchen table.
“Hey, guys,” she said, not looking up from her book.
“Ms. Kimble,” said Trent, undoing his tie, “I’d like to ask you to spend the evening with Olive, if that wouldn’t be an imposition.”
“Not an imposition in the slightest,” I said, smiling at Olive, who returned the look. “What d’ya say to a trip to the Natural History Museum?”
“Yes, please!” she said, a wide smile breaking out across her freckled face.”
“Very good,” said Mr. Lane.
“Might I ask what the gentleman has planned for the evening?” I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee.
“I have a date.”
The feeling I had next was something like an ice-cold rock being dropped from a great height directly into the pit of my stomach.
“Oh, I see,” I said, hoping that the strange, jealous feeling that was rushing through me wasn’t visible on my face.
“Yes. I’ll be leaving in a half hour or so. My credit card is on the table; use it for whatever you need tonight.
And with that, he left the main room.
I felt disoriented, and almost sick. And the most frustrating part was that I wasn’t preparing to feel this way. The last week went smoothly, and it’s not as though I’d been letting some kind of crush develop only to have it snatched away from me; I knew what was going on.
Still, I felt miserable- just terrible.
I told Olive that I needed to change, and dashed off to my room, tears in my eyes. I felt so stupid, so naïve. Making sure the door was shut behind me, I collapsed onto the bed and let the tears flow. After about five minutes, I lifted my face from the pillow, the soft, white fabric now damp. I went to the bathroom, washed my face, put on some fresh makeup, and changed into something more casual. Taking one last look at myself in the mirror, I appeared at least somewhat presentable.
“Ready to go?” I asked Olive, returning to the living room.
“Yes. Can we see the Sumerian exhibit first?” she asked, her voice weighted with consideration, as though it were something she had been internally debating. “There’s something I wanted to compare to one of my texts.”
“Why, yes we can.”
And at that moment, Trent returned from his room. He was dressed in a sharp, perfectly-tailored suit that fit his body to perfection; I couldn’t help but imagine what he looked like underneath it. Although, now I didn’t have to imagine.
“You ladies have a fun night,” he said, stepping into the elevator.
I watched the doors close and the elevator begin its downward descent.
It was at this moment that I realized the enormity of the situation that I had gotten myself into. And I didn’t know if I’d be able to handle it.
14
If there was any remaining hope that something was to become of Ms. Kimble and I’s night together, my plans for the evening should’ve more than dashed them. She had behaved over this last week, -no emotional outbursts at work, which is what I was fearing- but the announcement that I was going out on a date would hopefully serve to demonstrate our tryst was a one-night only sort of situation. I didn’t take any pleasure out of putting the kibosh on any sort of romantic hopes that she might’ve had, but I did enjoy Ms. Kimble as both a coworker, and an addition to the family of sorts, and I didn’t want any romantic entanglements wrecking what was shaping up to be an otherwise fantastic arrangement.
I was meeting my date for the evening at a restaurant in the East Village, at some sort of high-end ramen noodle place. But first, I needed to stop by the Upper East Side to pick up my date.
The woman that I was seeing this evening was someone that a client suggested might be a good fit for me. The client, an executive from a smaller technology company that I was looking to acquire, pried a little more into my personal life than I would’ve liked. Noting Ms. Kimble’s striking good looks, he asked if she and I were an item. I quickly told him no, and that got him talking about how a young man like myself should be playing the field. I wasn’t much for random flings, but I figured it would do me good to take a woman out for the evening. Not to mention, sending the message to Ms. Kimble to not keep the flame burning for me.
I hadn’t yet met the young woman that I was taking out for the evening, but according to my client, she was a “real looker,” and had “legs for days.” Additionally, she was a dancer of some sort who was performing with a troupe that did some sort of dance and music performance routine. I’m not much for the arts, however, but I was looking forward to meeting her all the same.
We arrived at my date’s place, which was an impressive townhome in the Upper East Side. I asked my driver to stop in front, and I stepped out into the evening air, which had a surprising chill to it, considering the month. I ascended the gray stone stairs and gave the door a quick rap. Soon after, my date opened it and greeted me.
To say she was “beautiful” would’ve been quite the understatement. She was an exotic beauty, with olive-colored skin and hair that was so dark and thick that it almost seemed to have the appearance of oil. Her features were sharp, with tall cheekbones and small, full lips. Her eyes were a deep brown, and as she stood before me in a form-fitting black dress, I could see that her figure was certainly worth my client going on about.
“Hello, Mr. Lane,” she said, her voice rich with an accent that hit my ear as Russian. “My name is Nadia Alenchko. A pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” I said, taking her hand and giving it a gentle kiss.
I led her to the car, opening the door first and letting her in. But as she stepped into the car, a troubling thought crept into my mind: I found myself comparing this woman to Ms. Kimble. I noted that this woman, Nadia’s, beauty was more the sharp angles of a supermodel, whereas Ms. Kimble’s beauty was more classical, with fair skin, red lips, and blue eyes that always seemed to sparkle. Then, my mind drifted to the night we had our tryst, and the sight of her beautiful body, nude in the moonlight, filled my mind and caused my heart to flutter in an odd, light manner.
I put these invasive thoughts out of my mind as I let Nadia in the car. There was a bottle of champagne chilling in the bar, and I poured the two of us a glass for the trip down to the restaurant. I let her do the talking, and she eagerly indulged herself, speaking at great length about her job, her life in New York, what sort of things she liked to do- no subject seemed to go undiscussed.
The chatter didn’t stop once we got to the restaurant, nor when the two bowls of overpriced udon ramen were placed before us. Like many young, wealthy women in the city,
her life seemed to be comprised of shopping and being seen at whatever trendy clubs and restaurants she determined would result in the highest social cachet on whatever social media she preferred.
And as she spoke, more thoughts of Ms. Kimble entered my mind. I began to think about how her nose scrunched up when she was taking dictation, how her thin, brown eyebrows would knit in concentration. I thought about her easy way with Olive, how she somehow managed to get that girl to open up. I worried that it wouldn’t happen again since her mother’s passing, yet here it was happening.
Nadia’s words turned into a yammering blur, and I feigned attention as best I could while she prattled on and on. But my thoughts were still on Ms. Kimble. I was beginning to wonder if this was a tenable situation, if I could continue to employ her in this capacity while the romantic considerations were still so apparent. I had to do something.
Before I knew it, the dinner was over, the bill was paid, and we were back in the car. Now, Nadia was more come-hither in her demeanor, and I could tell what was on her mind as we drew closer to her apartment.
“Care to come up for a nightcap?” she asked, her slender body halfway out of the car.
I thought her invitation over. Like every decision I made, I didn’t consider it lightly.
15
I knew that I shouldn’t have felt jealous; I knew that it was stupid of me to think that someone like Trent Lane would want anything more from a girl like me than just a quick fling, and one that he probably regrets on top of everything. And I was stupid for letting it happen, for not putting a stop to it.
But I put on a brave face, pushing out of my mind as best I could the fact that Trent was probably out with an international supermodel, or the newest addition to the Victoria’s Secret crew. In a sick way, it almost made me feel better that I could write off my feelings as pure stupidity- why would he possibly want some girl from Des Moines when he, a man who was in the top 1% not just in money but in absolute beauty, could probably have any girl on the planet that he wanted?
Still, part of my just wanted to go back to the bedroom and spend the evening being a crying mess.
Once I got out on the town with Olive, however, I was able to a better job putting everything out of my mind. And once we arrived at the massive stairs and columned front of the Natural History Museum, I was ready to spend the evening with a little girl who was rapidly becoming one of my favorite people.
We dashed from exhibit to exhibit, with Olive barely able to contain her excitement at being able to check out whatever she wanted. We spent time at the natural displays, admiring the huge dioramas filled with exotic replicas of animals with fantastic painting vista behind them of Amazon rainforests and African Savannahs; we studied the collected artifacts of ancient civilizations; and, of course, we checked out the enormous dinosaur displays.
Hours flew by, and after we were all museumed-out, we grabbed some burritos from a taco truck and ate them in the park, the sun having long since set. A couple of too-tall ice cream cones later, and I could tell Olive was about ready to hit the hay, despite her protestations to the contrary.
Sure enough, when we got back home, Olive could barely keep her eyes open. Bits of sticky ice cream on her face, she leaned against the elevator wall as we went up, her eyelids drooping.
“If I didn’t think you were ready for bed before, I’d say you definitely are now.
“I’m not tired,” she said, before exploding in a stretched-limb, wide-opened-mouthed yawn, “I still need to finish the chapter I’m on in War of the Worlds.”
“Here’s the deal,” I said, as we stepped off the elevator, the lights of the apartment flicking on automatically as we entered, “you get ready for bed, get tucked in, and you can read for another hour. Deal?”
“Deal,” she said, before running off to her wing, getting started on her end of the deal.
As soon as Olive left, the feeling of melancholy returned. It was getting well on in the night, and my mind was flooded with imagines of Trent dancing with some exotic beauty in one of the elegant and luxurious establishments he surely frequented. Maybe a live jazz band was playing some old tune, and her head was resting on his shoulder as they danced slowly, without any care for the hours that were slipping by.
Shaking my head, I went to the kitchen, looking for a glass of something good. I spotted a bottle of red with a fancy-looking label, and not giving heed to how much it might’ve cost, popped it open and poured myself a tall glass.
I took a sip, letting the strange and complex flavors play on my tongue for a moment before swallowing the liquid down. Part of me wanted to drink what was left in the glass in a single gulp, grab the bottle, then finish it off on the terrace, but I knew that if my goal was to not be a sobbing mess, that is exactly the last thing I should be doing.
Olive had gone into her room minutes ago so, wine in hand, I headed down the hallway to check up on her. Sure enough, she was in bed, snoring away, the book opened up and laying on her chest. I took the book, placed it carefully on her nightstand, turned the lights out, and shut the door.
It was still early-ish in the evening, and needing something to distract myself from my feelings, I decided to put my office to use and work on some of the newest additions to my portfolio. Sure, I had a reasonably stable job at the moment, but that didn’t mean I was forever putting aside my desire to work in design.
Entering the spacious office, I sat down at the computer, my notes and concept drawings next to me with my glass of wine. For the next hour or so, I tinkered with some concept logos I’d sketched over the course of the week. The time flew by and before I knew it, my glass (after a refill) was empty, and it was past midnight.
I was snapped out of my work daze by the telltale sound of the elevator opening. My stomach sank once again at that sound; it could only mean that Trent was back. Standing at the bend in the hallway, I looked into the living room. Sure enough, it was him. And what’s more, he was alone.
“Ms. Kimble,” he said, somehow just knowing that I was standing there. “Come into the kitchen. I want to talk with you.”
Upon hearing this, my stomach turned ice-cold, and sank so low that I’m pretty sure it was crashing through the dozens of floors below us.
I grabbed my wine glass and went into the kitchen, where Trent was sitting with his usual pensive, serious look.
“Yes?” I said, sitting down at the table across from him.
What he said next, I simply wasn’t prepared for.
“I’ve been doing some serious thinking, and I think it’s time we end this arrangement.”
16
Ms. Kimble’s face was already fairly pale, but as soon as the words left my mouth, whatever color she had to her complexion drained away at the speed of a finger-snap.
“W-what?” she said, her voice catching on each letter, her eyes welling with tears.
“As I said, I’ve been thinking this over for quite some time. These few weeks had been a trial run, of sorts, to see if having a live-in personal assistant was a good idea. It’s worked to some degree, and not worked for others.”
“How has it not worked?” she asked, her voice barely able to hold the words together.
“While I’ve enjoyed your company, I feel that having a shadow, as it were, is simply not conducive to how I like to conduct my affairs.”
She said nothing, simply looking down, a tear running down her fair cheek in quick, erratic angles.
“This isn’t a reflection on your performance. I’m more than happy to give you a reference, and with my recommendation of you, I’m sure that you’ll be able to find employment at any company that interests you. And for the inconvenience, you’re welcome to stay at my guest apartment in the Upper West Side for as long as you’d like.”
“But,” she said, “I just…”
She couldn’t find the words, and I could tell that she was using every bit of restraint to not simply burst into tears. It wasn’t easy to see her like this, but I made sur
e to keep my composure calm and steady.
Her eyes were now weighted with tears, and her skin was taking on a tone of deep red.
“And you’ll be welcome to spend time with Olive. She seems to have really taken a shine to you, and I’d like to keep you in her life, if that’s something you’re interested in.”
The mention of Olive was too much for her. Her face tightened into a scrunch for a moment, followed by the tears running free. The first hiccups of a sob escaped her throat, but before she could begin the cry that she had heretofore been using every bit of strength to keep at bay, she got up from her chair and rushed from the room as fast as her legs would take her.
And it was over. Sure, I’d be seeing her on her way in the morning, and I wasn’t looking forward to telling Olive that Ms. Kimble would be leaving, but I knew that the first breaking of the news would be the most…unpleasant part of this process. It was strange; I’d fired employees before, but this was the first time that letting someone go was a process that had an effect on my beyond simply considering the time and effort it would take to find someone to replace them.
The next morning went about as well as could be expected. Olive was upset, but was happy to hear that Ms. Kimble would be visiting her often, and that they would be able to continue their field trips.
The car arrived around noon, and Ms. Kimble spent the time before then with Olive in her study. When the car arrived, Ms. Kimble bid Olive farewell, and she was off. As soon as the elevator doors shut, Olive shot me a nasty look before running back to her study.
I wasn’t pleased with having to do what I did, but I knew it would be for the best. I simply couldn’t let a romantic entanglement interfere with my work. My job requires focus and control at all times, and having a woman who I felt some measure of attraction to around could very well be the thing that distracts me just enough to slip in my job. And with a daughter to worry about, this simply wasn’t a risk that I was prepared to take.
