Control Freak

by Brianna Hale

  “I don’t know. Maybe turning her into a gorgon wasn’t a punishment. No one was able to look upon her again without being turned to stone, let alone hurt her. She was free.”

  Until Perseus came along and killed her. I play with the blue and white Nazar beads on my wrist as I talk, dropping them one by one through my fingers like prayer beads. They look like eyes, and they’re meant to protect you. Medusa is carved on shields because she’s meant to be protective as well. I believe it, looking upon her ferocious gaze.

  I’m aware that Mr. Blomqvist is watching me silently and I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s a strange preoccupation, but the idea of sight having power has always appealed to me.”

  Gaze being evil or malevolent. Gaze giving strength, too. I suppose I like the idea power from nothing when I feel so weak. That’s why I chose it as a thesis topic.

  “Some people seem to have powerful gazes even without any supernatural ability,” I say, and when I glance up at him, my gaze becomes snagged on his blue one.

  Like you.

  I remember how his eyes bored into me that night when I nearly fell down the stairs. I felt like he was trying to burn through my soul. I can still feel it.

  He considers this for a moment. “It’s not so strange a preoccupation. Power is alluring. So is influence. Control.”

  He speaks like he knows what he’s talking about.

  Changing the subject, I say, “Dad told me about the trouble you had getting the Laxos exhibition here. I’m glad he was able to help.”

  “Yes, your father was instrumental. I am grateful to him, despite what I said the other day about his art.”

  I shake my head, smiling. He can not like dad’s art and still be grateful for the help. “But surely there were collections that you could have acquired more easily?”

  “Of course. But it’s good for the museum to obtain unusual artifacts instead of the same ceramic jars and sculptures everyone else does.”

  Everyone else being the nearby British Museum, I suppose. I wonder if Mr. Blomqvist feels a little professional rivalry with that institution. Or a lot.

  “It’s a risk, too,” I point out. “If anything goes wrong, the Laxos Museum will probably be extremely vocal about denouncing you in the press. I know how protective they feel toward the Laxos Disc.”

  He nods in agreement but doesn’t seem particularly bothered by this.

  “Hiring me was a risk,” I go on. “I might have hated you and sabotaged things in worse ways than keying your car.”

  He leans back against a counter, arms folded, but there’s a small smile on his lips. “Am I being psychoanalyzed?”

  I smile back. “Maybe.”

  It’s a side-effect of being in therapy, I suppose. I have to do so much self-reflection, and it gets me wondering what makes other people tick.

  The silence stretches between us, and his gaze holds mine. He’s expecting me to become flustered and drop the subject, but I’ve had months of practice at this with Doctor Loftin. Being looked at doesn’t scare me. In fact, from Mr. Blomqvist, I rather like it.

  Finally, he says, “I like a challenge. Occasionally things blow up in my face, but when I take a chance and it works out, it’s extremely rewarding.”

  And so here we are, working on an exhibition that could ruin his reputation if anything goes wrong, with me, the highly strung and mentally unstable assistant. It could be an incendiary combination, but so far so good, I think?

  And yet he must be wondering as much as I am, what’s around the next corner?

  Mr. Blomqvist holds out his hand for the cotton gloves, and I pass them back. I enjoy figuring people out, and I’m glad he’s not one of those people who get touchy and offended if you try.

  “What did you come down here for, anyway?” I ask, glancing around.

  “Hmm? Oh, just a piece that I thought might fit with the Phoenician objects,” he says vaguely. “I’ve changed my mind.”

  My attention is snagged by a ceramic jar on the other side of the room. It portrays a man being pursued by three winged women with wild eyes and terrible faces. The man must have committed a blood crime or lied under oath, and now he’ll be hunted into madness by the Erinyes. I can hear their hateful screams and feel his torment.

  They’ll never, ever stop. Not until he’s dead.

  “Lacey? Are you all right?” Mr. Blomqvist comes to see what I’m staring at. He puts a hand on my shoulder, and I flinch. For a moment I’d forgotten he was there.

  “Yes. Sorry. I’m really cold suddenly. Excuse me.”

  I hurry up the stairs and back into the sunlit entrance hall of the museum, and realize I didn’t even thank Mr. Blomqvist for what he showed me.

  Chapter Seven

  Stian

  I look at the jar for several minutes, wondering what about it made Lacey so distracted. It’s a perfectly ordinary Greek vase.

  Or is it?

  I peer closer at the scene and see that it depicts the Fates. The gods could be vengeful, but there’s something sadistic about these women and the way they’re pursuing this wrongdoer. I know the stories. Nothing will save him but the release of death. Not repentance, not Nazar beads, not Medusa carvings.

  I put the gorgoneion away and head back upstairs.

  There are emails to be got through and updates from my colleagues about everything from the audio descriptions for the exhibition right down to the intensity of the downlights over the Laxos Disc. I like to be across everything before an exhibition opens. Some things deserve to be perfect.

  Every now and then my gaze is drawn from my computer screen to the window, and I look without seeing the sunny day outside. Lacey’s questions have made me introspective, and I find myself thinking back over the pattern of my life, trying to pick where I’ve ever chosen the path of least resistance. I could have stayed in Sweden and worked with Scandinavian antiquities. I could have worked with Scandinavian antiquities here, also. But no, I had to emigrate to another country, learn a whole new language, and diversify my knowledge across the world’s civilizations.

  Then there’s Lacey. I had a terrible first impression of her, and she was rude to me in the interview. The sensible thing would have been to send her away and hire a temp to handle admin while I searched for a permanent assistant, yet despite her being risky and unpredictable, she impressed me. She answered my questions in exactly the way I was hoping a potential assistant would, and she remained calm and firm despite how I’d shouted at her.

  Four years ago, when I was thirty-five, I became director of my own museum. Lacey has been the best assistant I’ve ever had. I take risks, but only when I’m sure that they’ll pay off.

  I notice that it’s nearly six o’clock, shut down my computer and head home.

  That evening I’m meeting a friend at the pub on the common for a drink, but I have a few spare hours first. I change into jeans and a T-shirt and go into the garden to check on my bonsai. I rotate them between my office, the greenhouse, and this paved outdoor space to keep them healthy. All the watering happens first thing in the morning but in the evenings I like to prune, repot, and do any other complicated care they require.

  My pride right now is a pink azalea in boisterous bloom. Azaleas can grow into large shrubs, but this one is twisted into an elegant slanted style, and is small and beautifully formed.

  “And so very pretty,” I murmur, running a forefinger over a delicate blossom.

  God. I can’t remember the last time I spoke so lovingly to a woman. My mind is still on Lacey, and I imagine speaking so indulgently to her. Maybe while she’s on her knees. At my feet. Naked, while I viciously grip her ponytail. Because sometimes you have to be fierce to get the best out of someone, in the same way I brutally pruned back this azalea. And now look at her.

  “Beautiful,” I murmur to the plant.

  The azalea doesn’t need my attention, so I turn to the double-trunk cherry that is overdue for a repotting and spend an hour pruning its roots and fitting it caref
ully into a larger pot. The next-door neighbor’s cat leaps down from the fence to land silently on the lawn, and watches me for a while with bright green eyes.

  The evening is warm and breezy, the wind occasionally ruffling my hair into my eyes. This part of Greater London, on the south side of Wimbledon Common, is very peaceful.

  At a quarter to eight, I wash my hands, change into a blue and white striped shirt, and walk down to the pub. Adam has secured a table out back, so I head through to the bar and order a couple of pints.

  When I’m sitting down, he regales me with stories from his trip to Turkey, and I tell him about Eric’s graceless exit from my office.

  “What a little shit,” Adam says with a shake of his head.

  “Tell me about it,” I agree, taking a long pull on my beer. I never got a taste for the darker ales favored by the English, so I have a pint of Krušovice instead.

  “Have you got a new assistant yet?”

  “Yes.” I tell him the story of meeting Lacey at her father’s exhibition. I tell him everything. Shouting at her, not realizing she’s Petrou’s daughter, then coming face-to-face with her the next morning.

  Adam is incredulous. “And you offered her the job after all that? And she said yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus, Stian. Why can you never make things easy for yourself?”

  I smile faintly. “That’s what she said today.”

  “Sorry?”

  I focus on my pint, quashing the smile. “Nothing. She was just observing that I exerted a lot of energy on getting the Laxos exhibition here when I could have gone after something easier.”

  Adam takes a mouthful of beer, and when he puts his glass down he has a knowing expression in his eyes. “She’s got you pegged already. Pretty, is she?”

  I give him a long, baleful look. “Adam, she’s fifteen years younger than me and she’s my assistant. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

  He shakes his head, smiling innocently. “I didn’t say a word. When was the last time you went on a date, anyway?”

  A date? Years. My last relationship was a disaster. Someone setting fire to all your clothes on the front lawn after a fight can put you off dating for a while.

  My mind glides over the memory of Lacey gazing with rapt, delighted attention at the gorgoneion. Lacey doesn’t create drama, she just has a lot of it to deal with.

  I wonder if I could help her with that.

  I push that thought away and change the subject. We eat fish and chips, have another pint, and then I head home at ten.

  The next night is the opening of the Phoenician exhibition. We’re hosting a drinks reception with a speech by the lead archeologist on the dig where several of the artifacts were discovered. I’ve told Lacey she doesn’t need to come if she’s busy, giving her a way out of a social situation she might be worried about, but she assures me that she’ll be there.

  I wish I knew what she was digging in her handbag for the night of her father’s exhibition. Something upset her, and not knowing what it was makes me tense.

  I head downstairs at half-past five to check on the arrangements and Lacey tells me she’ll be right there, she just wants to get changed.

  The guests start arriving at six, and I get myself a beer. I can relax a little now that everything is in place. The pieces are correctly displayed, and the descriptions and flyers that Lacey wrote are perfect. Everything’s as it should be.

  A few minutes later I see Lacey on the far side of the room. She’s wearing a white cotton dress and has removed all her jewelry except for the velvet choker. Her hair’s loose and shiny and her lips are glossy. I want to push past everyone and tell her how beautiful she looks. I shouldn’t though, because I’m her boss, and commenting on the appearance of someone with an eating disorder is probably something you shouldn’t do.

  One of the collections managers has gone to talk to her. Derek, whom I know is single, and he’s looking at her like he wants to eat her. I feel my hackles rising. He notices Lacey hasn’t got a drink and gestures to the table where rows of wine and beer have been set up. She seems to say no but Derek presses her, and she says yes to something. White wine, I think.

  I try to concentrate on what the head of museum operations is telling me about the order of service tonight, but my attention keeps getting snared by Lacey. She takes a sip of the wine Derek has given her, and I see her pained expression as she swallows. Derek doesn’t seem to notice. She’s wearing high heels, and her ankle is trembling.

  Go over and get her out of there.

  Leave her, she’ll be all right.

  No, I can fix this.

  I argue back and forth with myself, gripping my beer bottle tightly and imagining smashing it right into Derek’s face. The head of operations mentions that the speaker has arrived and I look, but when turn back to search for Lacey, she’s gone.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” I say, putting my beer down and heading for the stairs.

  She didn’t have her handbag with her, so she’s probably gone back to her desk. I jog up the stairs two at a time, hoping to catch her before she heads for the Tube. I need to tell her it’s all right. Tell her something. It’s my fault she’s so upset because it’s my event, and I’m ashamed too because this must have been the state she was in when I grabbed her and yelled at her at her father’s exhibition.

  Lacey’s not at her desk when I reach it, but the door to my office is open. I peer in and see her hunched over something, shaking slightly.

  “Are you all right, Lacey?”

  She jumps and turns around. There’s a piece of paper clutched in her fingers and an expression in her eyes like she’s drowning. All I want to do is reach out and save her.

  Chapter Eight

  Lacey

  Mr. Blomqvist seems out of breath, as if he ran all the way up here.

  I straighten quickly and try and smooth out my expression of panic. I only got halfway through my affirmations, and my heart is still racing. “Sorry. I know I shouldn’t be in here. I just needed a moment.”

  I had to come to his office. It’s calming, being in here. The tidy space, the bonsai, the sofa. The reminder of him. This is the only place in the last year where I’ve felt comfortable eating with another person present.

  Mr. Blomqvist comes in and stands next to me. “It’s all right. I was just worried about you.”

  “I wasn’t going to fall down any stairs,” I say with a weak smile. “Promise.”

  He doesn’t return my smile. We stand in awkward silence together, looking at his plants.

  “Shouldn’t you be downstairs?” I ask. “I thought you were supposed to introduce the professor who’s speaking tonight.”

  “Someone else is.”

  I don’t know if I believe him, and it makes me feel wretched that he’s up here with me when he’s got other responsibilities. I’m being unprofessional and a liability, two things that only make my anxiety worse. Doctor Loftin tells me I can have a normal life if I learn to manage these situations, but I don’t think I believe her. The taste of wine in my mouth makes me want to throw up.

  Mr. Blomqvist breaks the silence first. Studying the ficus, he asks quietly, “Why did you take the job when I was such an asshole to you?”

  I look up at him in surprise. His expression is serious and hard as granite. I give him a one-shouldered shrug. “I have to say yes to things that make me seem normal. I wanted to leave as soon as I saw it was you, but once I’d talked to you, you didn’t seem so bad. Demanding people don’t frighten me. Actually, I kind of like them.”

  The words pass my lips like a forbidden confession, skating close to what I really want to say. Actually, I kind of like you. “You never asked me why I need to eat in secret. You probably think I’m really weird.”

  Still looking at the bonsai, he says, “I think you’re under a lot of pressure to be a certain way and do certain things. Otherwise, I don’t think much other than that you’re a lovely and capable young woman.�
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  I look up at him sharply and find him gazing back at me. My heart explodes in a shower of stars. I can’t help it. He said I’m lovely.

  I imagine what it would be like if he took me in his arms and kissed me. I know it could never happen. He must be fifteen years older than me and doesn’t think about me like that. He’s probably got a girlfriend. I still want to share more of myself with him, because right now the only person who understands me is my therapist, and how sad is that?

  “I don’t feel lovely and capable. Social events are hard with people eating and being loud. Work is more manageable. I thought I could manage it, anyway.”

  Mr. Blomqvist doesn’t say anything. From anyone else I’d assume the silence meant he was uncomfortable, but I know he’s just listening.

  “Here,” I say, passing the list of affirmations to him. The paper is worn and falling apart from so much unfolding and refolding, but my handwriting is still legible.

  “You were looking for this in your bag that night?” he asks, reading the words.

  I nod, looking at the paper in his big fingers. He’s got beautiful hands. I wonder what they’d be like to hold onto. I kissed boys in high school when I was still more or less functional around people, but at university when you’re supposed to go on dates and have casual sex, I was too tired, sick and anxious for any of that. I’ve missed out on so much. I’m still missing out.

  “They’re an antidote to the other things my mind yells at me.”

  He nods as if he understands, and passes the paper back. I remember what he said about not focusing on things you can’t control. What must that be like, not to have your mind screaming at you all the time that you’re disgusting and unworthy?

  “I’m so jealous of you,” I whisper. It just slips out. When I talk to my therapist, everything’s so goal-oriented and structured. How was your week, what was the hardest moment, did you eat. Over and over again. With Mr. Blomqvist, I feel like a person. He’s my boss and I should be careful about how much I share with him, but there’s no one else in my life like him and I crave to be closer to him.