Work for Hire

by Margo Karasek

  “Sorry, Mom,” I grimaced as I ducked for the phone.

  I checked the display. I didn’t recognize the number, so I left the phone unanswered—no point aggravating the hornet’s nest that was my mother’s temper—and finished my dessert. When the message signal beeped and all remnants of dessert disappeared from the table, I excused myself to play back the voicemail.

  “Hey, Tekla,” the male voice sang in my ear, “it’s Julian.”

  My heart stopped, then raced. Mr. GQ! Gorgeous Mr. GQ!

  “I’m back in town and thought it might be nice if we hung out tomorrow night. Call me and let me know what you think.”

  I hugged the phone to my chest and danced back to the table. Yes! I had a date. With Mr. GQ, no less!

  My mother caught sight of my grin.

  “Who was it?” she frowned, obviously suspicious of my sudden giddiness.

  “Oh, just this guy I met at work.” I couldn’t stop my grin. “He asked me out for tomorrow.”

  “Guy? What guy?” my mother frowned harder. “I thought you were dating that nice boy Markus from school. That smart boy. He’ll make a fine lawyer. Too bad he’s not in medicine, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “Mom,” I said, pouting. My mother could deflate my happiness with just one sentence. “Markus and I are not dating. We’re just friends.”

  “Be that as it may, I hope you’re going to tell this phone guy—this guy from work—no.”

  “What?” I gaped. She had to be kidding. Say “no” just because Julian wasn’t a future lawyer or doctor? “Why?”

  “He calls you on a Sunday night to ask you out for Monday? Give me a break,” my mother said and shook her head, as if disappointed by my obtuseness. “He’s clearly not treating you seriously. Any man that is really interested schedules a date at least a week in advance. Ask your father.”

  I bristled. Not serious? I finally had a date with the man of my dreams, and she thought he wasn’t serious!

  Please. What did she know about dating anyway?

  CHAPTER 8

  APPARENTLY, my mother knew a lot.

  I glowered as Julian reached for his iPhone—again—and bemoaned life’s unfairness in making my mother right as he busily texted away, oblivious to our surroundings, my quickly souring mood, and me.

  Here we were, in Manhattan’s version of a hot date spot—a $15-a-drink lounge replete with faux Victorian splendor, including pressed tin ceilings, red velvet loveseats, and Art Nouveau posters of voluptuous nymphs in varying stages of undress—and Julian exhibited far more interest in his iPhone than he did in the place, our date, or me.

  Too bad. Because had he bothered looking up from his gadget long enough to really see me, he might have been impressed.

  Hell, I was.

  My hair was actually groomed. I had gone to a hairdresser and gotten it trimmed and ironed straight. Then I’d sat in rollers underneath a hot dryer for almost an hour to achieve the disheveled, just-out-of-bed look my hairdresser had sworn would make my date think having sex with me would be like having sex with Angelina Jolie. I’d also splurged on a manicure, something I hadn’t done since the start of law school and always purposefully avoided anyway; after all, who in her right mind would willingly part with $60 for a polish that chipped in less than a day?

  Not me. Unless, of course, it was for a hot date. Such a momentous event had also justified a wax, everywhere, and a thong, an incredibly uncomfortable wedgie-up-my-buttocks bit of fabric that was underneath a dress so tight it left nothing to the imagination.

  But clearly my efforts were in vain, because Julian seemed far more enamored with the sleek lines of his iPhone than my bod.

  My dream date was turning into a complete disaster.

  Though it hadn’t started out that way.

  “Why don’t we meet at Amoureux Salon?” Julian had suggested when I called back to confirm. I’d happily agreed, despite hearing my mother’s voice warn that any man who didn’t bother picking up his date wasn’t worth his salt. After all, the lounge was the place to be seen in Manhattan—at least for the moment—and everyone would see me meeting one fine man.

  I would be the envy of every single woman there.

  Plus, my mother had some antiquated notions about men, women and dating, and the place was a mere five blocks from my dorm. It wouldn’t have made any sense for Julian to trek all the way to the dorm just to walk me a few blocks.

  Really, it wouldn’t have.

  So I had tweaked, groomed, and dressed, and virtually ran to the lounge to be on time.

  Julian was already there, with his square jaw, chiseled lips and manly creases, just as cover-perfect as I had remembered.

  He had kissed me on the cheek.

  I’d melted onto the loveseat.

  He had ordered drinks—a tequila for him and a Cosmo for me—and asked me about law school, my hobbies and interests.

  I’d answered.

  He had listened.

  And he’d told me about himself, about his love of art and his years at Vassar.

  As he did so, he had played with my hair, pulling at its ends and twirling a strand around his finger.

  I’d wanted to giggle.

  He had hardly noticed the other women in the lounge eyeing him non-discretely.

  I had beamed. There, I’d wanted to brag, he’s with me.

  Then his phone had rang.

  “I’m so sorry,” he’d murmured, his apology so sincere that I almost forgot I really disliked people who answered their phones at inopportune moments, like in the middle of a date. “It’s work. I have to answer. It will only be a moment.”

  And so he had. He had taken his phone and left me alone at the table, with nothing to do but sip my drink and stare after him.

  And when he had come back, he’d come with the iPhone still in hand.

  “So sorry,” he had mumbled as he’d flicked through his apps. “That was Monique. We’re having a bit of an emergency. I just have to shoot out a few e-mails.”

  And so he’d typed, his fingers busily running over the screen. He had stopped talking. Listening. Paying any attention to me whatsoever.

  I might as well have been invisible.

  A quarter of an hour later, he was still typing.

  I sighed, glowered again for good measure, and turned away from Julian to scan the room for a waiter.

  I needed a drink. Fast.

  Luckily, unlike interested men, the lounge had no shortage of booze.

  “Another Cosmo, please,” I trilled to the perky blonde waitress whose cheerful disposition had me grinding my teeth. What was she so happy about? Didn’t she see I was being ignored by my date? “On second thought, make that a vodka on the rocks.”

  At my order, Julian glanced up, smiled vaguely at the waitress, then returned his eyes to the phone.

  The blonde scurried away. I audibly exhaled, slouched in the loveseat, and crossed my arms across my chest, thinking.

  Mrs. Lamont … Monique. Beautiful Monique. Beautiful and unhappily married Monique. What could she possibly want from Julian on his day off? Could it be him? Was that what Lisa meant with her warning?

  I dropped my hands from my chest and rested a palm on the loveseat, its crushed velvet tickling my skin. “Exactly what kind of an assistant are you?” I asked.

  “Hmm?” Julian glanced up again, his brows furrowed.

  “I asked what type of an assistant you were.”

  I sat up straight in the seat and snapped my eyes to his face. Enough was enough. How long did he think I would just sit here, silent, while he worked away doing God knows what? For Monique. This was my time. “You know, are you, like, a personal assistant, or something else?”

  Because I didn’t know any assistants who were on call twenty-four-seven. Except, of course, those poor celebrity assistants they showed on TV. But that was in L.A.—everyone was kooky there—and Monique was no movie star. Though she had been a model once.

  Honestly, I didn’t
know that many assistants to begin with. My realm of “professional” acquaintances was pretty much limited to law students and my brother’s business friends. Then, of course, there were Xander and Gemma … whose calls I seemed to answer whenever and wherever.

  “No. I’m a photo assistant,” Julian clarified before he got back to his e-mailing.

  Well, that told me a lot. I stared, waiting for more. He said nothing. I tapped his calf with my foot. Oh, no, you don’t. You aren’t getting off that easily. “What sort of responsibilities does a photo assistant usually have?”

  Now Julian positively glowered.

  Good.

  “I assist Monique with her shoots,” he spoke slowly. “You know, set up lights, carry stuff. The usual things.”

  He waited, as if to see if I wanted to know more. I did.

  “Okay,” I smiled. We were on a roll here. He was actually talking to me again. “But I don’t imagine she shoots every day. What do you do when she doesn’t, like when you’re at the house?”

  “I’ll do post-production.”

  At my confused stare, he actually set the iPhone aside. I wanted to whoop. I had triumphed over the machine.

  “You know, like Photoshop the pictures,” Julian elaborated. “I also do pre-production—schedule the shoots, arrange for transportation, pull the crew together, deal with the clients.”

  “Doesn’t the photographer do that?” I queried in surprise as the waitress came back with my drink.

  Julian reached for his wallet. I sipped. The undiluted liquor had me gasping for breath. I should’ve gone for that Cosmo.

  “Not if she’s someone like Monique. She’s too big to deal with such trivial matters. That’s what assistants are for.”

  “How did you become an assistant? Monique’s assistant?”

  I sipped the vodka again. Julian had paid for the drink, and I would force it down to the last drop even if it burned my esophagus beyond repair. The liquor rolled down my throat like hot lava. I wheezed.

  “I interned for her during my summers at college,” Julian said as he chuckled at my drinking efforts. “Then, after graduation, she hired me as a second assistant. We got along. She liked my work. I knew about lights. Better yet, I knew digital cameras backwards and forwards. She had trouble with that. She was used to shooting film. Her old assistant didn’t know much about digital either. The industry had changed by then, and digital became a prerequisite. Few magazines wanted to deal with film.”

  I nodded, faking understanding. Lights? What was there to know about lights? And weren’t digital cameras supposed to be so simple a monkey could use one? I itched to ask, but held my tongue lest he think me a complete idiot.

  “She promoted me to her first assistant. Now I work exclusively for her. I’ve been with her for about three years.”

  “And are you planning to stay Monique’s assistant for good?”

  Sip number three had tears springing to my eyes and coughs racking my body. I wiped my eyes, covered my mouth and carefully placed the drink on a table. I would finish it later. Much later.

  “No, of course not.” Julian reached over and patted my back, like an old friend. “No one stays an assistant forever, at least not on purpose. Eventually I want to be the photographer. I have the technical know-how, and I shoot much better than Monique. But I don’t have enough contacts in the industry yet. Like everywhere else in life, fashion photography is about whom you know, and not necessarily what you know. That’s where Monique comes in. She knows everybody.”

  “Oh.” What to say next? I wanted to ask about his feelings for Monique, but was the question inappropriate? “And … do you like working with Monique?”

  Julian arched a brow, as if he sensed I was about to enter uncharted—forbidden?—territory.

  “Look, Tekla … ”

  He patted my back again, but, somehow, the gesture didn’t feel as friendly as before. Then he retrieved the temporarily forgotten phone. He glanced down at the screen and cursed under his breath. His hand fell away from my back.

  Guess he missed a few important messages.

  “I have to get back to work. Now.”

  He got up from the seat and searched the pockets of his slacks, as if confirming he had everything with him. I gaped. He couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t possibly be ditching me.

  “I’m sorry about tonight, about abandoning you like this.”

  He was!

  “You’re a really nice girl—woman. I’d love to see you again. Really. But stuff’s come up. Monique wants me to book a job for her in Milan right now. She wants to leave tomorrow morning. I have to arrange everything ASAP, and to do that, I need to be back at the office. I’ll call you when I return. We’ll do this again, for sure.”

  “Wait.”

  I jumped off the loveseat after him and blocked his exit. My mind reeled. Monique was leaving again?

  “Why?” I probed. “Monique just came back to New York, and Gemma’s been looking forward to her stay for days. She can’t just leave again. Gemma will be devastated.”

  At these words, Julian paused his rapid exit.

  “Gemma will be fine,” he smiled. “It’s not like it’s the first time Monique has left on short notice. Gemma’s used to it. That’s how the Lamonts are. Don’t worry.”

  I frowned.

  “But why does Monique have to leave tomorrow?” And take you with her?

  “I suspect,” Julian sighed, “it’s because of a little disagreement she had with Mr. Lamont.”

  If he meant the huge fight the Lamonts had over Mr. Lamont’s affair with Lisa—the fight that had left Gemma in tears all of Sunday—then he was the undisputed master of the understatement.

  “They have these tiffs on a regular basis. Monique likes to resolve them by leaving for a few weeks, usually on an extended work assignment. I’m sure a therapist would question the method but, hey, it works for them. They’re still married, and it’s good for business—at least, my business. The more work she does, the more exposure I have.”

  I couldn’t find a suitable response. What was wrong with these people?

  Julian took hold of my shoulders, kissed me on the cheek like before—though this kiss was less romantic, by far—positioned me out of his way, and hightailed it for the door.

  I plopped back on the loveseat. Alone.

  Well, that was … fun.

  I eyed the vodka still sitting on the table, and reached for the glass. I twirled the lowball in my hand and, what the hell, gulped down its content in one fast swig. The liquor burned a hot path to my stomach, momentarily robbing me of breath. I hissed when the vodka finally settled.

  At least Julian had paid for the drinks. My mother couldn’t complain about that.

  I returned the empty glass to the table and glanced down at my wristwatch.

  It was barely ten.

  Our date had lasted less than an hour.

  CHAPTER 9

  HOW WAS your date?

  The instant message popped up on my computer screen during Constitutional Law class. I paused my fingers over the computer’s keyboard, right in the middle of transcribing Professor Johnson’s lecture on the glorious power of the Constitution’s commerce clause, and stared both at the message and its accompanying username.

  Law#1.

  Only one person I knew loved the law so much she made it her screen name.

  Ann.

  I turned my head ever so slightly—lest Professor Johnson notice any sudden movement and, God forbid, call on me again—to look at her. She sat in front of her laptop in her customary black turtleneck, low bun and horn-rimmed glasses, seemingly absorbed in the lecture.

  Appearances were deceiving.

  I turned back to my screen.

  Damn. How had she found out about the date? Worse, how many other section mates would now read her message and latch on to the potentially juicy tidbit? We were all on the same buddy list. And, boy, did we love to gossip, especially during a boring lecture. But gos
sip was only fun when it concerned somebody else.

  I didn’t want classmates speculating about my love life, or its lack thereof.

  Fine.

  I typed the one word and mentally crossed fingers, hoping the uninformative answer would help Ann get the hint to drop the subject.

  Better than fine. She got back after midnight.

  The comment from HotStuff popped up in mere seconds.

  Damn. Lauren. Should’ve figured. Miss “Hot Stuff,” today garbed in a Dolce & Gabbana skin-tight tube dress, couldn’t keep her mouth shut even if a court issued a gag order.

  Had to hand it to Lauren’s top-notch investigative skills, though: I could’ve sworn she was sound asleep when I got back to the dorm

  Date? What date? Markus7 demanded.

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see Markus—button-down shirt, hair parted down the middle, wounded puppy eyes—turn to face me and stare, clearly unafraid of Professor Johnson’s wrath.

  Of course, Markus was always prepared. He likely knew the casebook in and out by now, and didn’t care if Professor Johnson called on him every day.

  Last night. She went out with some hottie.

  Lauren again.

  I ground my teeth and swiveled my chair for a clear shot at Lauren’s shin, Professor Johnson be damned.

  Lauren knew about Markus and the teeny white lie I had told to get him off my back.

  Proof-positive she felt something for him because why else would she go out of her way to make me look bad?

  And it was those feelings that had me stopping short with the kick. Maybe I was her Monique and Markus was her Julian.

  “Shut up,” I mumbled instead and swiveled back in my seat, just in time to read Markus’s new message.

  I thought you said you weren’t dating during law school.

  Er … hmm. I had said exactly that and, officially, I wasn’t, at least where Markus was concerned. The fib had seemed like such an ideal solution to Markus’s constant pestering for a date: I got to say no, his feelings weren’t hurt and we were still friends and study buddies. What I would do after graduation, I didn’t know. But for now, all was good.