The Whole Package

by Cynthia Ellingsen

  “I like this cognac,” George was saying. Gently, he removed his hand from hers and poured them both a bit of the amber liquid. “It’s quite smoky,” he said. “It would be even nicer with a cigar.”

  Jackie debated telling George some of the questions on her mind but decided against it. It was not the time. Instead, she picked up her drink and admired the color of the liquid in the dim light. Taking a deep breath, Jackie said, “Shall I sip it?” She already knew the answer, but also knew George loved teaching her things. It had always been his role, teacher to student. Returning to that familiar place might just even out the confusion pounding through her head.

  George nodded, then stuck his nose in the top of the glass and breathed deeply. Jackie laughed. The sound was a light tinkle.

  “Yes?” George looked up, ready to be amused.

  “I was just thinking how funny it would be if the driver hit a bump,” she admitted, smiling. “It would be all over your face.”

  “Ah.” George winked. “That’s a very sly way to sneak alcohol into the symphony. I could just chew on my bow tie, yes?”

  “You’re a criminal,” Jackie said.

  They sat in companionable silence. Jackie sipped on her drink, feeling her body unwind for the first time in weeks. She watched the cars zoom past them on Lakeshore Drive.

  “Thanks for inviting me,” she finally said. “This is lovely.”

  “I’m really glad to hear that,” George said, his dark eyes holding hers.

  “Well, it’s been two and a half years, George,” she said lightly. “I can’t ignore the symphony forever.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  THE MORNING THEY PLANNED TO HIRE THEIR WAITSTAFF WAS A beautiful day. The slush had cleared, the sun was shining, and the girls were giddy with excitement. As they walked into the conference room they’d rented at the Westin hotel, they giggled at the prospect of hiring someone simply because “eight-pack” appeared on his resume.

  “Maybe this is too demeaning,” Jackie said suddenly, hesitating at the door. She was suffering a brief moment of conscience, loath to hurt anyone’s feelings. “Who am I to tell”—she flipped open her notebook and ran her finger down their list of appointments, stopping on a random name—“Marco O’Donnell that he needs to work out a bit more? Get a tan? Trim his gnarled body hair?”

  “You’re right,” Doris said. “It’s not very nice.”

  “What are you two talking about? We’re turning the tables,” Cheryl said. She stalked into the room and flipped on the overhead lights. “Women go through this every day. We get evaluated just for going to the grocery store.”

  “Speaking of,” Doris said, “do you guys think I look stupid?” She tugged at her new suit and turned her pretty blue eyes on them.

  “Doris steps in to illustrate the point,” Cheryl sang. “Doris, if you want to be a career woman you have to act like one. That means strong and confident. We’re interviewing them, you know. Not the other way around.”

  The night before, Doris and Jackie had spent two hours flipping through Doris’s perfectly organized closet, trying to find the combination that would make her look high-powered yet attractive. Nothing worked. Finally, they just ran to Talbots and picked up a formal navy suit and a white silk shirt to put on underneath it. She ended up looking very put together but she definitely smelled like new clothes.

  “You look very glamorous,” Jackie approved.

  “Come on, let’s get set up,” Cheryl said. She started moving chairs to the conference table, putting three at the front of the table and one right across from them. She also carried five out into the hallway, setting them up in a neat little row. “For the early birds,” she explained, as Doris studied the setup with confusion.

  The hotel had supplied them with a pitcher of ice water and some chocolate candies. After a moment, Doris moved the pitcher of water over to the table, then brought over three heavy crystal glasses. Jackie followed with the dish of colorfully wrapped candy, then set out some paper and pens.

  “Looks good,” Jackie said, dusting off her hands and taking a seat.

  Cheryl walked in and gave the room a once-over. “Maybe it’s a little cold in here. The hotel said they’d send someone up to check on things, so we’ll ask them to turn up the heat.” In a whisper, she added, “We don’t want shrinkage.”

  Doris pursed her lips in disapproval. “Gross,” she said, but after a moment, blurted out, “I hope they’re handsome.”

  The girls burst out laughing. Doris lit up and they all took their seats around the table, Cheryl glancing at her watch. “The first one will be here in five minutes. If he’s ugly, you better believe I’m chasing him out of here with a stick.”

  “Maybe this isn’t legal,” Jackie said. “Should I call George?”

  After mentioning his name, she blushed. They’d had a nice time at the symphony. He had been a perfect gentleman, not crowding her in the tight auditorium seats, no arm “accidentally” coming into her space or anything. After the concert, they went to Hugo’s on Rush Street, Jackie’s choice. George had been entertained by her narration of Parisian life and Jackie embellished the stories wherever she could, trying to make him laugh out loud at her colorful descriptions. She had left out mention of Christian altogether. Not that she cared what George thought about her private life, but for whatever reason, she felt it should be kept just that—private.

  Lingering over Irish coffees and cake, George told her about the trips he had taken while she was gone: an international cruise through the islands of Greece, a river ride down the Nile, and another to the top of a mountain in Africa. His stories were outrageous and Jackie refused to believe that pampered George had camped in a tent in Africa, then trekked his way up to the top of a mountain. No matter how many times she implied otherwise, George insisted, “No, I was not airlifted in.” Their night had flown by and Jackie found herself wondering why she’d been trying so hard to avoid spending time with him.

  On the car ride back from their evening, Jackie had let her head rest against the window. Eventually, she drifted off into a comfortable sleep. She was not worried about any type of good-bye at the door. When they were at Doris’s and Jackie got out, he simply said “Thank you for the lovely company,” and didn’t even offer to walk her up, just waved at her like a good friend.

  “Jackie, I’m sorry,” Doris interrupted her thoughts, “when you say the interviews might be illegal . . . ?” She popped three pieces of hotel chocolate like they were medicine.

  “She’s joking,” Cheryl promised, flipping through resumes. She looked radiant in her bright melon-colored suit. “As long as we’re hiring these guys as models, it’s not considered discriminatory. And yes, I checked all this out with the almighty George and he cleared it. I’m fired up, ladies. This is a billion times better than anything I ever did for TurnKey.”

  “How’s your lawsuit coming?” Jackie asked, delicately reaching for a piece of candy.

  “It’s a pain in the ass.” Cheryl sighed. “I have to give it to Stan, he’s kind of a genius.”

  Cheryl explained that, after spending several frustrating days interviewing lawyers, she learned that Stan’s move with the documented warnings was perfect. He’d set her up good. It made the plan to take him down with corporate embezzlement look like child’s play.

  “In a perverse way, I’m glad,” she admitted. “It gives edification to my time at TurnKey. Who wants to admit their boss was a total loser, especially considering the time I put in?”

  “But doesn’t that make it harder to find someone to represent you?” Doris asked.

  Cheryl nodded, thinking back to some of the meetings she’d already had with lawyers.

  “Okay, if wrongful termination won’t work, what about sexual harassment?” Cheryl had tried, just two days before. “I cannot tell you how many times TurnKey . . .”

  “Do you have documented harassment incidents on file?” This particular lawyer looked like a horse, with wide eyes and
a long nose. She fingered a double-stranded pearl necklace, legs crossed comfortably. She was eyeing Cheryl like a patient at a counseling session instead of someone seriously investigating a million-dollar lawsuit.

  “No, but . . .”

  “As your former boss demonstrated”—the Horse Lady yawned—“That would have been the appropriate course of action. Without evidence, you won’t be able to make a strong case that you were the victim of harassment.”

  Cheryl wanted to cut off the woman’s head and slide it into Stan’s bed, pearl necklace attached.

  “Why didn’t you tell her you have proof that Stan tampered with your computer?” Jackie asked.

  “Because I decided against the woman altogether and slammed out of the office,” Cheryl said. “I can’t wait to see if Andy tells Stan that I have that information,” she admitted. “I’m curious to find out if he really is a rat.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Doris said, listening as Cheryl explained it all. “But what if Andy does tell and Blake gets fired? Cheryl, that’s a risky position to put him in.”

  “I didn’t mention names and besides, Stan couldn’t prove a thing,” she scoffed. “Not until we are in court. If that happens, it would be a little late for him to go after Blake because Blake would have the grounds to go after Stan.”

  Doris shook her head, totally confused. “I have another question on a different topic. When you talked to George about legalities for the restaurant . . . um . . .”

  “Yes, Doris,” Cheryl sang, already knowing what she was going to ask. “All the permits came through. The health department gave us the go-ahead.”

  “That can’t be right,” Doris protested.

  Jackie laughed. The Health Department was the one denial Doris had been counting on. If they were turned down by the Health Department, Doris suggested dropping the whole idea and just opening a cozy place with good food that the three women created together.

  “Oh, honey,” Jackie giggled. “It will be okay. The men aren’t really going to be serving food naked. They’ll be wearing something.”

  “But . . .”

  “Seriously,” Cheryl demanded. “How is this different from a woman wearing a miniskirt? Serving dinner in a sports bra?”

  Doris looked stricken.

  “Have you been to Hooters?” Cheryl asked.

  Doris didn’t answer. Instead, her jaw practically hit the table. Jackie turned to see the first male model poking his head inside. He was like an overgrown, male version of Swiss Miss—all blond hair and milk-white teeth.

  “I heard you need a package,” he said in broken English.

  “Let the games begin,” Jackie chirped, fluffing up her hair.

  The man sauntered into the room and stood in front of them. Without any prelude, he made a move to unbuckle his pants.

  “Wait!” Doris cried and the man looked at her in confusion.

  Cheryl held up her hand. “Hold on a second . . . Christoph. Please remain clothed. Before we get into all that, why don’t you tell us a little about yourself?”

  Christoph cleared his throat and Jackie watched him with interest.

  “I think he really wants to take his pants off,” she whispered to Doris.

  “Well . . . I am a model,” Christoph explained, flashing his teeth. “I am eighteen. I am here on a work visa . . .” As he talked, it became clear that he had no idea what to do with his hands. First, he tucked them in his belt buckle. Then, he spent two minutes running them through his hair. Finally, he just let them hang out midair, which made him look like a goalie for some German football team. “My visa will run out in two month unless I get job. I need to work so I think I work for you. I show you my package now.” He reached down to unbuckle his belt once again.

  Jackie rested her chin in her hand.

  “No,” Doris practically shrieked and the blond giant jumped back in surprise.

  “We really don’t need you to take off your pants.” Cheryl grinned. “Not yet. Maybe not ever. You gave us your comp card. I think that gives us a good idea what you look like in a thong.”

  Jackie grabbed for the composite postcard Cheryl was holding, a collection of Christoph’s modeling pictures. In one he was shirtless, riding a horse; in the next he was in said thong, surfing; in the next he was oiled up, riding a bicycle . . .

  “I think,” Jackie mused, studying the card, “I just don’t have enough information.”

  “Jackie,” Doris said, pinching her under the table.

  Jackie slapped Doris’s hand away and cleared her throat. “You know what, Christoph. It actually would help us with our decision-making process if you would just drop your pants.”

  The model gave a big smile, undid his belt buckle, and let his pants drop to the floor. He was wearing a bleached white pair of Calvin Klein underwear, which cupped his package perfectly. It was well formed and very appealing.

  “Uh . . .” Cheryl cleared her throat. “Wow.”

  “It is big.” Christoph nodded. “Like a snake.”

  Doris let out some sort of strangled cry.

  “Okay,” Jackie laughed. “That will do.”

  Christoph pulled up his pants and gave them another big smile.

  “Thanks so much for coming in,” Cheryl said. “We’ll be talking to you soon.”

  The model turned and strutted out the door, smiling at them one last time over his shoulder. The second he was out of sight, Jackie and Cheryl bounced up and down in their chairs, squealing. Doris was silent, but after a minute, she looked at them with a slight gleam in her eye.

  “He was good-looking,” she said. “Should we hire him?”

  “Absolutely,” Cheryl said.

  “Magnifique,” Jackie agreed. “He seemed a little shy, though. How on earth are we going to get him to show the customers his package?”

  The girls were still giggling when the man with the gray mullet and comb-over walked in.

  “Great,” Cheryl said, hopping to her feet. “Thanks for checking in. Can we get the heat turned up just a touch and maybe a bit more water?” She held out the pitcher, smiling graciously at the man from the hotel.

  “My resume already says I’ve waited some tables in my time,” the man drawled, amused. “Do you really need me to prove it?” Seeing Cheryl’s confusion, he pointed at the next resume on the table. “Henry Durrett.”

  “Oh,” Cheryl said, baffled. “You’re . . . not with the hotel?”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “I think he’s our next interview,” Doris whispered, glancing at her list.

  “Oh, here’s his picture,” Cheryl said, voice high-pitched. Sitting down, she slid the photo over to Jackie and Doris. They peered at the picture on the table for several moments, while Henry stood in front of them clearing his throat. His leather biker jacket seemed to crinkle with every breath.

  “Je regrette, mais . . .” Jackie looked up at him, then back down to the photo again. “This is you?” she finally asked.

  Henry grinned. “That’s the real me,” he said proudly.

  “I think this is . . .” Cheryl peered closer at his photo. “Isn’t this Robert Redford when he was younger?”

  Jackie grabbed for the picture, squealing in delight. The man took that opportunity to drop his pants, showcasing a red Speedo ensconcing an incredibly large member. He tilted his chin back proudly. “What do you ladies think of that?”

  “We’ll call you,” Doris said hurriedly and practically dove under the table, pretending she’d dropped a pen.

  Henry nodded and pulled up his pants. Giving a little wave, he walked out. Doris shot back up from under the table, a bottle of hand sanitizer in her hand. Like a woman trying to put a fire out, she doused her hands with it.

  Jackie waggled her fingers. “Here please.”

  “Squirt it in my eyes,” Cheryl begged. “They feel dirty.” When the group had nearly depleted the bottle of sanitizer, Cheryl said, “Hey Doris, don’t you think it gave him the wrong impression when
you dove to your knees?”

  Jackie laughed until she cried.

  Even Doris managed to crack a tiny smile. “Good lord,” she said. “I wonder who we’ll have next.”

  Six hours later, after going through countless interviews and peep shows, they’d found the majority of their . . . “Staff?” Cheryl cracked.

  “Please don’t say that word,” Jackie groaned. Her interest in the male genitalia had waned after the tenth interview. “I’ve never seen so many men in my entire life.”

  “I hope Doug never comes back,” Doris said, rubbing her eyes. “I never want to see a penis again.”

  They had stopped off at a local diner for dinner. Doris and Jackie had each gotten a chicken salad. Cheryl had ordered a chocolate shake, a burger with fries, and a large bowl of corn chowder on the side.

  “Forgive the indelicacy but . . . are you pregnant?” Jackie marveled, after their tired waitress dumped the entire spread onto the table and Cheryl dug in.

  Dipping a fry into her yellow soup, Cheryl laughed. “That would be the immaculate conception, wouldn’t it?”

  Truth be told, she had been sleeping with a Dad-type actor she’d met through one of TurnKey’s commercial sessions. Cheryl didn’t want to mention that, considering Doris’s recent judgment of her sex life. As for pregnancy, though, Cheryl really doubted it. The only thing she was really worried about was her inability to do anything physical without fantasizing about Andy.

  “Remember that guy Andy?” Cheryl said. It gave her a little thrill to say his name out loud. “He hasn’t called.” In fact, she had heard nothing since their dinner, not even a thank-you for her time.

  Jackie tried to suggest that perhaps, just perhaps, her bad behavior in the beginning of the date had put him off.

  “I bet he thinks you hate him,” Doris agreed, chomping on a piece of chicken.

  “I asked if he was married.” Cheryl bellowed this so loudly at least three people in the diner turned and looked. She lowered her voice. “How do you get I hate you out of that?”