by Tessa Bailey
Recommendation: Complimentary valet parking service should be instituted at the door immediately.
Sigh.
Okay, the good news: Operations at O are not my area of responsibility. The not-so-good news: Presentation is. Once you enter our door, if you can see it, I am responsible for it. And now it seems that my spa—my career baby—has been deemed average.
Average. Grade C. Middle of the bell curve.
I flip quickly to Section 3 and skim down the page. Thankfully, no highlighter. I can open my eyes. A random paragraph reads:
Staff Attire: Servers (Male) Our team unanimously awarded very high marks in this area. The male thongs were clearly custom-made, and without exception, well-fitting. They were constructed in such a way as to reveal the positive attributes of each server, at the same time leaving the most intimate details to the club member’s imagination until intentionally revealed. The servers’ short kimono jackets were chic and serviceable; the motion of the fabric and open style of the jacket captured and held the viewer’s interest. Very high-quality materials. Grade: A
Great. Let’s translate this, shall we? The nearly-naked men get an A, the facilities get a C. Sex sells. Parking doesn’t.
And there’s more. Over one hundred pages more.
We’ve been mystery-shopped.
Being the subject of a mystery shop evaluation is like standing naked in front of your future in-laws with your credit report taped all over your body and lie-detector tests from all your exes being read over an intercom. In the middle of church.
While standing in a pool of sharks.
Or maybe it just seems that bad. I’m not sure. But I do know there’s no way I can read this much pink without more coffee.
And some Xanax-flavored creamer.
A C? I’m that kid who never earned a C in her life. Failure starts with C!
Okay, so, technically it starts with F, and right now, another word that starts with F is coming out of my mouth as I read this secret shopper evaluation that is longer than my college senior honors thesis.
I live for O.
Don’t misunderstand. You’ve heard of O, right?
We’ve been written up in every lifestyle publication from A to Z. Boston trendsetter Jessica Coffin Instagrams about us regularly—although I’m never quite sure whether she’s being sincere or snarky, and sometimes I suspect she’s on retainer. This is from yesterday’s feed from Jessica: Standing O.
O is a twenty-first century club for sophisticated women. A fourth space for women of a discerning taste.
Home is the first space. Work is the second space. Third spaces are locations like coffee shops and malls.
O is the fourth space. The space where you can arrive. Rest. Relax. Indulge. Be someone you can’t be in the other three spaces.
Based on our membership rates, we’re onto something. Our investors are, shall we say, pleased.
O does have a public presence, thanks to our retail environments. In Boston, Chicago, San Francisco, and soon in New Orleans, sophisticated consumers can spend hours—and hundreds of dollars—browsing our selection of “elegant accessories for intimate pleasure.”
That’s right—sex toys. That’s what the masses call them. Except at O, we cater to a clientele that doesn’t want to be one of the hoi polloi. They want to be unique. In the know. Enlightened and cosmopolitan on the surface.
But a wildcat down…below.
Which makes a Grade C unacceptable. No one wants to be average.
Especially down below.
“‘Trying too hard’?” I read aloud, my words coming out like a bark, my fingernails curling and biting into my palms. “How dare they!”
The last time we were mystery shopped, the review began with superlatives that turned my ego into a hot air balloon.
This new eval? More like a Patriots football.
I read on for a very long time, forcing my face to relax.
Every O has its levels. We begin with apparel. Think of it as gift-wrapping—who doesn’t love to unwrap a beautiful package? Gently tugging off the ribbon, sliding a fingernail underneath the glossy paper, slowly lifting the lid and spreading open the rustling layers of tissue paper to reveal the delicious surprise beneath. We offer both lingerie and street-wear boutiques.
“The clothing seems a bit out of date and not accessible to the average woman,” I whisper-read, wondering who wrote that? There was that word again. Average. We don’t cater to the average woman! Our boutiques carry every size fathomable, and designers from Milan you’ve never heard of (but will next season) have exclusive pre-season visits with us to make decisions about their lines. We don’t follow trends.
We set them.
But it’s not just about merchandise. O is a destination. All our retail spaces include stylish bookstore cafés, where our clientele can sip espresso with a twist of lemon peel from tiny cups while reading masterpieces of erotic literature. Famous authors spend nearly a year on our bookstore signing wait lists to get a crack at access to our members (and their purchasing power and buzz).
O’s clients enjoy meeting a friend here after work for a sparkling glass of prosecco, and sparkling conversation about who gets to use that new toy on whom tonight, without the annoying meat-market feel of a bar.
And if you happen to want a little meat? We have another bar on site for that, except this meat doesn’t hit on you.
It serves you.
That white china cup of black coffee descends onto my desk as if delivered from a crane. I look up, and up, at a wall of flesh that makes my morning just a little more tolerable.
“Oh, Henry, thank you. I really need this.”
“I can see that. You look a little frazzled. And it’s only nine o’clock.” He lowers himself into a white upholstered armchair facing my desk, his brow wrinkled with concern, as I blink. I’ve been mired in all the ways O disappointed a mystery shopping team for the past two hours. No wonder I’m exhausted.
Henry Holliday is seriously seven feet tall. He is my ‘work husband.’ Ginger hair, green eyes, and the muscular physique that his somewhat unique job requires. Henry is a master masseur in the O Club spa, and fills in occasionally as a performer for private parties. Dancing is in his body and soul. And it pays the tuition for his brain: Henry is working on his master’s degree in public health at Harvard.
In a roundabout way, working at O is a form of public service.
See what I mean? At O, you’re here to be served.
From the moment you step into an O property, you enter a different world. A world of serenity, where your senses are first lulled, then stimulated.
A world designed by me.
Chloe Browne.
Who has just been given her first C.
Chapter Two
Chloe
“We’ve been mystery-shopped. I found the report on my desk this morning. Anterdec is watching us closely—I guess that’s what comes after a ten-million-dollar investment,” I explain to Henry as he watches me intently. I’d invite him to get his own cup, but I know Henry hates coffee, which makes him part cyborg.
He tenses visibly. It’s a sight. Henry has more muscles than the average person.
There’s that damn word again.
Average.
“And? Anything I should know? What did they say about the spa? You know I need this job, Chloe. It pays well and fits my class schedule.”
“Not sure yet, it’s over a hundred pages long, but so far it seems fairly neutral.”
He sucks in his breath as if scandalized.
Neutral. Average.
The overachiever’s biggest fear.
“I know.” I shake my head sadly. “Do you have any idea who it could have been? I filled in giving some of the tours last month, but no one seemed like they were evaluating us. Everyone I saw honestly seemed to be enjoying themselves. And enjoying you.” I smile.
He doesn’t smile back.
“There are no more services that I can provide for our c
lients and still be faithful to Jemma. None. Thank god I have an understanding wife. I am giving my all, thanks to your uniform design.”
“Which, by the way, got very high marks,” I say cheerfully. “Who knew shoelaces could be so popular?”
He gives me an arched eyebrow and leans forward. “Let’s see that report.”
I hold it away from him just as my phone buzzes with a text.
“Don’t answer that!” he snaps. I wince. Henry’s not just an employee. He’s a good friend, and he knows why I want to look.
I look.
“It might be the adoption agency,” I protest. “I have to take it.” I’m waiting to hear whether I’ve been cleared after my home study for adoption. Nearly a year since I started the process, and I’m finally in the home stretch.
Henry groans.
The text says, Hey beautiful.
Not the adoption agency, unless part of their services now includes self-esteem building for prospective mothers.
It’s Joe. My boyfriend of three years.
I tell myself not to reply.
I can’t help myself. I reply. Hey.
How’s your morning? he writes back quickly.
It’s had its highlights. Too much to text. One hundred and twenty-five pages too much.
Tell me tonight? Your place?
I tell myself to say no. I do. I really do.
“Chloe.” Henry’s voice holds a low warning, like he’s defending me from myself.
Yes, I text back.
Great 6:30
Self-loathing is an art. I should be pinned to a wall at the Institute of Contemporary Art.
I met Joe at my last job. He was the chief legal counsel. I was a project manager. One of our vendors failed to deliver a $40,000 conference table to Joe’s legal firm, and we sued. Joe got the table, and earned a bonus.
When the table finally arrived on site, Joe and I immediately used it to conduct a late-night intimate meeting—and a very satisfying meeting it was, too. That table was fabulous for spreading out and getting the job done under tight circumstances.
;)
Joe is my greatest supporter, my confidante, my tender lover. And due to some rather unfortunate timing, still someone else’s husband.
I know, I know, don’t even say it. It’s such a cliché, right? They grew apart, they haven’t slept together in years, the divorce will be final any day now…and we fell in love.
A familiar story, so contrived, but when it happens to you, it feels painfully real.
At least at first. Lately, it’s just painful.
And Joe needs to get real.
“I can’t believe you’re caving in,” Henry says with a sigh. Henry and his wife are not Joe fans, to say the least. He plucks the thick report out of my hands deftly and maneuvers away, like he’s practicing a dance move. His ginger waves have tightened with summer humidity, and curls ring his forehead. They bounce as he shakes his head.
“I can’t show you the whole thing, Henry. You know I have a non-disclosure agreement on things like this! Let me find the spa section, and the private entertainment review.”
Henry is a rule follower at heart, so he returns the report.
I check the index, and pull out a highlighter of my own. Orange.
“Okay, here it is…” I hand him the report and watch his eyes scan the pages.
“Think, Henry.” I lean forward. “Do you remember anyone who seemed to know a little too much about your services, or asked too many questions?”
He frowns. “There was one woman—you know, when I enter the room, the client is always lying on the table, under the cover, as instructed.”
I wish he hadn’t mentioned lying on a table. Joe. Technically, I wasn’t lying on the table. I was bent over it. Well, the first time, at least…
“Chloe?” Henry waves his hand in front of my face. “Earth to Chloe! You listening?”
“Um, right. Yes.” I will away the memory with a sigh and a sip of my coffee.
“But this woman had the linen sheet wrapped around her, and she was looking at my framed diplomas on the wall.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, yeah, now that I think about it… she was older. Blonde. Kind of wild. Ditzy, but I got a sense it was an act. She came here with a younger woman, and later mentioned her daughter was getting married. She drank a shot out of my navel.”
“How is that memorable?” I tease. “Every woman who sets foot in O does that.” I pause and think. “Hell, so have I.”
“I think it was a requirement during my interview,” he says dryly.
Everyone working at O has some pretty good stories. We have a very appealing staff of men and women, all highly trained to provide the ultimate release from stressful reality. O space is carefully designed to encourage escapism. But Henry is on the frontlines of funny. As he says, it’s lucky he has an understanding wife. Actually, Jemma is one of my closest friends.
Technically, we’re not supposed to talk about clients, ever, but when the three of us have dinner, it’s confidential.
And hilarious. I’d write a book if my employment contract didn’t specifically prohibit it.
“Not sure I want the details.” I pause. “Yet. Do you remember her name?”
He snorts. “No, are you kidding? I don’t even see client names. I just see their membership number. But if I recall correctly, her number should have been sixty-nine.”
I burst out laughing. “We didn’t assign sixty-nine to anyone! Sort of like high-rise buildings that don’t have a thirteenth floor. It would be tempting fate.”
He stands to leave, glances at my phone, then looks at me closely. “Is the mystery shop the only thing on your mind?”
Unexpectedly, my eyes fill up with tears.
I’m not a crier.
I am cool. I am collected. I hate crying.
“Dammit, Chloe.” He knows. We all know.
Joe.
“Henry, do NOT make a Joe Blow joke.” We’ve been down this road before.
Henry leans down, and I stand up for his hug, but forget I’m holding the orange marker. Which somehow highlights the front of his grey gym shorts.
Perfect. But at least we’re laughing now.
“Better highlighter than lipstick, I guess,” I offer.
“Only until Mystery Shopper #69 comes back,” he says ruefully.
My phone buzzes with a text.
He snatches it away from me.
“It could be the adoption agency!” I protest weakly. I don’t even reach for it.
Henry looks. His head recoils. “It is.”
“It is?” I gasp, grabbing the phone.
Home study cleared, Chloe. Please call me when you can. Congratulations, Yvonne.
Henry and Jemma have been my staunchest supporters through my adoption process. They came over and helped me install child-proof locks on all my cabinets before the home study. Have given tips and hints, listened and held me, parsed through logical issues and irrational state requirements.
“Yes. It says yes. Home study cleared,” I say in wonderment.
His face splits with a huge grin, his white teeth shining, the former tense lines between his eyes gone. “I knew it.” He pulls me into a hug. “You’re going to be a mom soon.”
Mom.
The phone buzzes again. I look behind Henry’s shoulder at the phone in my hand.
And buy a fifth of Tito’s, Joe texts. You can drive me home.
“You are getting what you deserve, Chloe,” Henry says. “Everything you’ve ever wanted.”
I turn my phone off.
Right.
* * *
Coffee has diminishing returns, and by two in the afternoon, I am a rat pushing the caffeine lever over and over without receiving the desired effect. All I can think about is babies. My computer screen has twelve tabs open, one to PoshTots, one to Babycenter, one to Dr. Sears, one to the CDC guidelines for cribs, and the rest are for baby clothing sites. I don’t know
why they make shoes for babies who can’t even stand up, much less walk, but they are ridiculously cute.
Hey—priorities.
“Chloe? Must have been a good night if you’re still wearing hangover glasses after lunch.”
Carrie is O’s junior designer, though she’s only a year younger than me. We’re opposites. I’m darker-skinned with dark, straight hair, while Carrie looks like someone dropped her out of an Amazonian cornfield in Iowa. Her long, wavy strawberry blonde hair hangs over one shoulder in a loose ponytail, like a witness to the awful mystery shop report.
She drops a bunch of new fabric samples in the basket next to my desk, towering over me. “Are those the new J.Crew sunglasses?”
Well, yes, they are. I take them off and rub my eyes.
“Worse than a hangover. I’ve been reading hot pink criticism for four hours. I needed protection,” I explain.
She gives me a polite, soft laugh.
“Carrie, how are we doing with the voice response system? We’ve reached a point where we need to get the computer system in place for customer service calls and reservations.”
“I’m on it, Chloe.” Carrie reaches for a folder and slides out a piece of paper. “Our only obstacle now is the service request menu.”
I look at the list.
Press 1 to schedule a massage appointment
Press 2 to request a master masseur
Press 3 to speak with a coordinator about divorce parties
Press 4 to purchase merchandise
Press 5 to —
I squint. “Does that say what I think it says?”
Carrie laughs. “Yes.”
“We can’t have an option to speak directly with one of the masseurs. They’ll be inundated!”
“It’s a new idea from the business development office. Customer-driven. They want ‘phone sessions’ with the guys.”
“Paid phone sessions?” My jaw drops. I’ve seen a lot here, but this takes the cake.
“Right.”
“That’s phone sex!”
Carrie squirms, her face reddening. “Ah, technically, it’s a half-hour consultation with the guys to discuss self care.” I can tell that is a very well-rehearsed euphemism written by a marketing team via focus group input, all right.