The Contract

by Sheila Grinell

  “Here’s the media plan we discussed, Ev.” He passed the papers to Ev, who turned them over to Jo. “Basically, Mrs. Dana, I want to select twelve pieces from the twenty-five your husband will show me and then I want exclusive rights to price and sell them for a year. He gets forty percent of the base price.”

  “It’s Ms. Dunhill, but call me Jo. Why only forty percent?”

  “I do all the work. Your husband has nothing to lose.”

  “It’s his work, and he has a reputation to lose.”

  “Not in the art world. Not until I make him. Are you his manager? Do I go through you?”

  “I’m his partner.” She felt slammed. Yes, she managed their affairs, and she sometimes managed Ev’s time, but they collaborated as equals. She was so much more than an impresario, and she would not let Jack diminish her. She straightened her back.

  “Look, Jo, Ev’s new at this, and he needs my smarts. Are we doing this deal or not?”

  Ev said, “It sounds good to me.”

  Not to me, she thought, but he’d cut her off her ability to negotiate.

  Ev said, “One thing, I want you to use the catalog my staff designed.”

  “Yeah, sure. Can’t say how many I’ll print, but you’ll get ten. Okay?”

  Score one for Becca, Jo thought.

  “As far as I’m concerned, the only thing unsettled is the delivery date. For a fall opening, I’ll need to see the twenty-five pieces by the end of the month. Two months the latest. Okay?”

  Jo felt herself pale. If Ev committed to Jack’s schedule, he’d have no bandwidth for the next step in the Saudi job, if it came through. He knew the Saudi deal was her priority. “That’s too tight. How about opening next spring?”

  “I’m aiming at Christmas. People buy whimsy. Grandparents buy presents. Your husband’s sculpture will see some play.”

  Ah, the “s” word, she thought. Jack’s trump card.

  As if reading her thoughts, Ev turned to her. “I can make it work. I’ll work weekends. This is important to me.”

  She shrugged. Without word from Riyadh she had no ammunition. She felt pulled under the tide of Ev’s desires. She’d have to nurse his genius once again, and this time the thought of doing so repelled her. And whose fault was that?

  Jack rose and moved toward the door. “Now that we’ve eyeballed each other, we can finish this remotely.”

  He took them back through the gallery and left them at the door with a “Nice meeting you, Jo.” They walked around the side of the building and climbed into Ev’s truck. He drove toward the freeway. She opened the passenger window, hoping the breeze would refresh her. She felt too depleted to argue. The two feet separating them yawned like a mile. Neither of them said a word about Jack as they crossed the bridge back into Oakland.

  Jo sat at her computer crafting cash flow projections for the next Saudi job with three different start dates. Ev was in the studio refurbishing an old display he’d retrieved from storage to add to his portfolio. She’d written off the time he would dedicate to his dream show in all three projections, and cash was tight. She thought about calling Myriam for a scoop on the committee’s timeline but decided against bugging her. She closed Excel and went to the printer to gather the spreadsheets. She decided to show Ev the numbers, although they wouldn’t likely affect his thinking. She stepped out of the office and across to the studio. She opened the studio door carefully. She stared. She saw Becca in Ev’s arms, the girl clinging tight as they kissed.

  Jo banged the door wide and the two pulled apart.

  Becca gasped. Ev stared. Jo turned on her heel and stomped out.

  Blood surged into her legs and she strode up the hill. All her years catering to his desires, desires he didn’t bother to control. It hurt to the quick.

  And Becca, in whom she’d placed such hope. She’d been a fool, a sentimental fool to expect loyalty from a moonstruck kid.

  But Ev! He shouldn’t have talked to Becca, let alone kissed her.

  How far had it gone?

  She couldn’t believe he’d had an affair with an employee.

  The thought stopped her cold. Hot anger inflamed every cell of her being. She turned back downhill. They’d both have to leave. She would not give an inch.

  Diane brought the teapot and a mug to Jo’s desk. No one else was in the office. Ev was in the studio where he’d spent the night. He had tried to explain how the kiss came about, but Jo would not hear him, and so he’d withdrawn. Jo had spent the night alone, sedated, and this morning sat at her desk, pretending to work. She wanted to believe that Ev had not betrayed her, but he and Becca had had something going for months. When he’d gone for the gallery, maybe he’d gone for her.

  She should have kicked him in the groin. She should have smacked Becca across the Bay instead of running out of the studio.

  Diane poured tea into the mug and passed it to her sister. “Would you like milk or lemon?”

  Jo’s mouth filled with straw. She could not answer.

  “Becca told me you found them in a clinch. Can we talk about it?”

  “I have never been this angry before.” She spat out the words. “I expect so. But maybe you don’t have to be.”

  Jo grunted.

  Diane took a breath. “Did you know how Becca wound up at college in Virginia? She’s a Yankee, so first she went to the Rhode Island School of Design. But she got in trouble and had an abortion and her father disowned her.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “You once told Becca that I’d gone off the rails. She asked me about it. We shared stories. Found out neither one of us went off the rails. Our families deserted us.” She paused. “Except for you.”

  “So?”

  “The abortion and the rejection left a hole she hasn’t been able to fill. She’s passionate and mouthy, but she’s still a wounded, fatherless girl.”

  “Don’t tell me she thinks of Ev as a father.”

  “No. But he treats her like a daughter.”

  “He was kissing her.”

  “Maybe he was just returning her kiss.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Listen.” Diane shook her head. “Last week Becca’s sister wrote that she’d had her baby, the first grandchild in the family, and Becca’s not invited to the christening. It knocked her back. She went to Ev for reassurance.”

  “Hardly. She’s been mooning over him for months.”

  “This was different. I think it was innocent.”

  “Diane, he encouraged her.” She’d warned him about Becca’s crush and he’d ignored her. He’d liked being the object of the girl’s affection. Clearly, he prized flattery more than fidelity. It turned her stomach.

  “The rules are looser for Becca’s generation. She needed a shoulder to cry on.”

  “She should have come to me.”

  “She’s been wary of you because of the Saudi job. It goes against her conscience to work with those people. She’s been trying to overcome her scruples. For you.”

  “She has scruples?”

  “Please, Jo. It’s no big deal to fall in love with your boss. Becca’s a great girl, and she’s a good worker. She admires you. Yes, she kissed him. But it’s not important.”

  “Why are you defending her?”

  “I’m defending you. You have a wonderful marriage to protect.” Diane stroked her forearm. Jo did not respond. After a beat Diane got up and left. The tea cooled, untouched.

  Was it a marriage or a business she needed to protect? She had never anticipated a conflict between the two. Ev should not have put her in this position. She did not know what to do. She would not talk to him until she did.

  She turned to her screen, but the thought she’d been avoiding for twenty-four hours burst into mind. Had Ev been attracted to the girl because she was a girl, more supple and needy than she herself? Maybe he wanted a different kind of mate, a soft heart rather than a managing partner. The idea of being insufficiently female for him dismayed her. She had
to shut it down.

  In the afternoon, Becca entered the office and marched stiffly to Jo’s desk. Her face was pale and puffed. She did not remove her sweater. She stood, hands clasped at her breast. “I’m so sorry I behaved stupidly. I got some bad news from home and I just lost it.”

  “You could have told me.”

  “I didn’t think you’d listen. You don’t lose it. You can ignore things that blow my mind.” She looked away. “You are tough.”

  “I’m not tough, I’m tolerant. But there are limits.”

  “I never meant to hurt you. I just needed a hug.”

  Jo sat silent.

  Becca looked at Jo with something flinty in her eyes. “If you want, I’ll quit.”

  Jo did not bristle back. To her slight surprise, she felt neutral toward the girl. Becca’s Puritanical conscience would punish her enough. She did not feel neutral toward Ev. She would not enable his fraternizing with a lovesick assistant. She spoke gently. “I think that’s for the best. You can go today. Debrief with Diane before you leave.”

  Becca’s eyes widened. Surprise? Fear? She pulled herself taller. “Thank you for everything you’ve taught me.” Her face tightened, as if she were stifling tears.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’ll go collect my things.” She extended her hand. They shook. Becca stepped to Diane’s desk and the two of them talked quietly.

  It occurred to Jo that Ev would not approve. Too bad. He did not deserve to be consulted, and in her present mood, she might say something she’d later regret. She opened the cash flow spreadsheet to transfer Becca’s salary to the contractor line. Someone would have to pick up Becca’s hours when the Saudi deal started cranking. She began to compile a list of potential replacements, feeling preternaturally calm.

  Becca went into the storage closet; they heard her rummaging inside. She emerged with a cardboard carton and carried it to her desk. She opened drawers and fiddled with the computer. Diane sat down next to her and took notes as they talked. Jo looked away.

  She did not text Ev. If he came in now, they would fight over her letting Becca go. She did not want to fight, not until her thinking cleared. She began to feel uneasy, aware that she may have been hasty. But something about Ev had propelled her. The idea of losing Ev—to a smart young woman like Becca, or to a showman like Jack—made her catch her breath. She wanted him beside her. She couldn’t stand him beside her. The contradiction crushed her.

  Her phone pinged. She glanced at it: Phil Owen. She opened his message. He wrote “We need to talk. There’s a problem with your demo. When can I call?”

  Oh, lord, what now? Her heart began to flutter.

  CONTINGENCY

  22

  They sat around the table, Jo, Ev, Carlos, and Diane, listening to Phil Owen snarl through the speakerphone. “I don’t know why you had to prod the Saudis, but now we’re stuck.’

  No one said a word. Jo braced for another blow.

  “The chairman called me to say they consider the demonstration to be incomplete. Evidently you promised them some kind of online deal? He wants to see it before he will pay us.”

  Jo shook her head. Ev looked puzzled. Diane whispered, “Could he be talking about the mom’s club?”

  Jo roused herself, pulling on her psychic armor. “Phil, we didn’t make any promises. We asked some of the mothers if they would join an online club to help their children do take-home activities, and we showed them a storyboard. That’s all.”

  “You introduced a new idea, and now the chairman is convinced an app would improve the kids’ experience. Jesus, Jo, the man wants to lead the world in innovation.”

  Ev said, “An app would ruin the kids’ experience.”

  “Right. The Saudis don’t need us to design an app, they need us to design a museum. I have a plan.” He paused; they heard the metaphorical drum roll. “I’ve been cleared to travel short distances. I invited the chairman to meet me at La Villette. He knows the French reputation. My colleague at La Villette will turn him off technology, rest assured.”

  Ev leaned back and cupped his hands around the back of his head. Carlos made the A-OK sign.

  “So you need to meet us there. Bring the author of the storyboard.”

  “Can’t. She quit. I’ll cover it.” Jo stretched out her arm to block objections from the others at the table.

  “Cover the cost of your travel, too. I’m saving the contingency money for whatever extras the chairman wants.”

  “Do we have to give him anything?”

  “We don’t have a choice. You opened Pandora’s box.” Goddamn, she thought, another trip on our nickel. All because she had wanted to reach out to the moms to get to the girls. The client had misunderstood her; she’d done a rotten job communicating.

  “Evidently the chairman likes Paris. He scheduled the meeting for this weekend. My assistant will send you the details.” Owen cut off the call.

  Ev sat up and turned to Jo. “Do you need me to go with you?” His voice was flat, perfunctory. His mind must have moved on, into the studio where another old exhibit awaited refurbishing. She squelched a twinge of … what? Jealousy of his new obsession?

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  She found it hard to look at him. He didn’t acknowledge her anger. He didn’t believe she had cause. Of course she did. She wasn’t angry at Becca, or the pain-in-the-ass Saudis, or even Phil Owen. She burned against him. He’d left her out. He shouldn’t have schemed with Becca about the whirligig. He shouldn’t have let Jack’s voice override hers. “I’d better check on flights.” She went to her desk, eyes averted. Ev got up and headed for the back door.

  Diane came over. “Would you like help? I’ve got some free time.”

  “No. Yes. Can you go through the data and pull out any comments about the moms’ club? I’ll try to re-spin it. Find out if I need an interpreter or if Owen’s got that covered.”

  Diane nodded and disappeared behind her computer. Jo forced herself to concentrate on the next task; she had no choice but to click into gear. Thank goodness for the poker in her spine. She pushed her ire at Ev to the back of her mind. She opened her email to look for Owen’s latest.

  Inside the immense science museum at Parc de la Villette, Jo stood at the entrance to the children’s division. It had changed since her visit years ago: now there were two museums, one for two- to seven-year-olds, and one for five- to twelve-year-olds. She showed her pass to the attendant on the little kids’ side and followed a young family in. The exhibits looked the same as she remembered, but beefed up, naturally, after so many visitors. She watched kids scramble into a suite of ramps where they navigated mazes and hopped on stepping stones, challenging their baby minds to locate themselves in space. She parted from the family and whipped through the rest of the exhibition. Not a computer screen in sight.

  She stepped over to the older kids’ museum and trotted through. She saw sections labeled “the factory,” “the garden,” and “the TV studio” where kids were handling artifacts and engaging in costumed role-play. Quite a few of the displays included technology that enabled kids to manipulate a variable. Surely the chairman, a cultivated man, would see that the museum didn’t include technology for technology’s sake, but only to help ten-year-olds ask good questions. She tipped her hat to Phil Owen; meeting here might be the master stroke.

  She descended to the central lobby to meet Owen in advance of their rendezvous with the chairman. He appeared on time, dressed in a business suit instead of his usual dapper duds. His complexion was sallow, with dark smudges under the eyes. He did not offer a handshake.

  “Do you know Roger Coutant?”

  She shook her head.

  “Didn’t think so. He’s my secret weapon. He’ll ooze compliments in French, charm them, and sell them his approach to technology the while. The man is a magician. I am advising you, let him take over the meeting. Just shut up and look pretty.”

  She stiffened.

  “That’s what
I intend to do.” He raised his hand to his heart.

  “You can’t. You look like shit.” She could tolerate him in his reduced circumstances.

  “My dear, the show must go on. We are going to pull this one out of the fire even if I have to call for an ambulance.” He gestured toward the elevator. “Shall we?”

  They made their way to the administrative offices, Owen boasting about his long collaboration with Coutant. Owen’s sidekick, the patient Marc, had already arrived, along with a short man with thick glasses who had to be the magician in question. As they shook hands all around, the conference room door opened and the chairman walked in, followed by a Saudi man Jo did not recognize and, blessing of blessings, Myriam, wearing a head scarf but no abaya. She bustled into the room in a jacket and long skirt, looking like a dumpy matron rather than a political operative. Jo took heart; at least one reasonable Saudi voice would be raised. After another round of handshakes, they settled into chairs. Myriam sat across the table, beside the chairman.

  Owen cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Chairman, my colleague here, Roger Coutant,” gesturing to him, “led the redesign of the Cite des enfants some years ago. He will give us a tour, and then we can return to this room to discuss matters.”

  Jo piped up, “Monsieur Coutant, has Phil told you that we are looking at a very young population? Perhaps we should see the two-year-old side first?”

  The chairman looked at Jo. “Why should we begin there, Mrs. Joanna?”

  “Because we want to get into the mind of the child.”

  “I wish to get into the mind of the older child, as well as the younger.” The chairman raised his eyebrows with what might be displeasure.

  Coutant waved his arm and said in a thick accent, “I generally start to tour with the little ones because the parents bring them when they are small and they grow up with us. There is a sequence to their experience. First, we opened the museum for the little ones, and when it was an enormous success, we added the museum for older children.”

  Jo could kiss him.