The Everything Girl

by L. Maleki

  Oh hell. Set and match. I sighed. “You know I love spending time with you. But I just want to get this over and done with and start working. I have enough help there, and I know you have a ton of stuff to get done here.” I hugged him. “You don’t need to worry about me, I’ll be fine.”

  “If you are sure, I guess, okay then. But keep in touch, let me know you are alright.” He turned his back to me, moved to the refrigerator to retrieve the almond milk.

  What? That’s it? I eyed him suspiciously. It was not like him to give up so easily. What gives?

  Later, I watched the movers stuff the last of my boxes and bags in around my mattress, bed, a desk with my high school crush’s name carved on the leg, a love seat, and an old Barcalounger my dad joyfully foisted off on me, along with a huge box of mismatched plates and kitchenware. I planned on buying new furniture as soon as I had a couple of paychecks under my belt, but I also liked the idea of meshing the old with the new.

  The van left. I wasn’t flying back for another day. I wandered down to the local shops along the beachfront, wearing my favorite sundress. I won’t be wearing this in NYC, not for a while, not unless global warming steps it up a notch. It was a blue sky kinda day. The light February breeze coming off the Pacific tousled my hair and felt good on my sun-warmed skin. I thought about calling up friends for one last hoorah but decided I was too agitated and anxious to be around people. I’d brought my camera for company instead, wanting to capture my last moments here, to bind my emotions to paper.

  After a short while, I realized I’d been snapping a number of photos of gates and doors. Some were painted in bright blues, reds, and yellows, some set in mosaic tiles, some layered in posters for sandcastle contests and Chinese restaurants and tattoo artists and wine tours. There were heavily paned French doors and doors that were cracked and peeling … It made sense. I was about to walk out one door and through another. What will it look like on the other side? What will I look like on the other side?

  Chapter 6

  I surveyed my domain with a smile. I was the queen of a boxcar. As far as apartments went in the city, I was living the high life. I had a separate bedroom, which made me feel spoiled, and the bed boasted a lovely new down comforter, free of Darien’s germs. My bathroom shower was big enough to hold my shampoos, conditioners, soaps, lotions, and most of me. Perfect. I even had two large windows, one in the living room and one in my bedroom. Both had decks—a.k.a. the fire escape.

  I slid my furniture around easily and without guilt, since the hardwood floors were scarred and dented from centuries of high heels and dragged bookcases. I loved it, grateful to not have to deal with a shag carpet loaded with cat hair and dead skin cells from previous tenants. Someone had painted the walls a beautiful tawny color, which highlighted the rug my father had given me, a piece he’d brought with him from Iran.

  I flirted with eviction, taking it upon myself to paint one wall a deep red. Then I hung assorted gold thrift store picture frames, square but in various sizes. My plan was to fill the empty frames with my own photographs. I’d create my own art.

  But first, I had to unpack. Boxes were stacked everywhere. I hadn’t been able to find my toothbrush yet. Or clean underwear. I was going to need clean underwear for more reasons than hygiene—my new existence as Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City was about to kick off.

  I had only three more days before I had to report to my new job. I wanted to be totally nested in and comfortable, with an established safe haven to return to each night. Lucia and Gina were each taking a “mental health” absence from work the next day to help me; we were gung ho about using an electric drill and level, mimosas at the ready to ease the callouses and sore muscles. I really looked forward to having them in my new space, playing the hostess and reveling in friendly vibes.

  Then I noticed the voicemail notification on my phone.

  At first I thought the muffled message was from a dentistry patient, his mouth stuffed with cotton. But then I realized the mumbler was Franklin Coyle.

  “Hey, Paris—Paris! Damn, I love that name—I need you to come in tomorrow, first thing. I’m leaving for an extended business trip and you have to do some things for me while I’m gone. Meet me at my office tomorrow morning at nine. Grab a tall butterscotch latte, too, would ya? See you then.”

  I started to hit the call back button then hesitated. He knows I’m moving right now. It must be important. I didn’t want my first interaction with Frank to be me telling him I wasn’t coming in.

  Hopefully, Gina and Lucia wouldn’t be too bent out of shape if we started later in the day. I wouldn’t blame them for being mad. I’ll just make sure the mimosas are stiff and free-flowing, and I won’t complain about crooked shelving.

  I stepped into the building lobby with two lattes and my soft-sided briefcase—a professional black leather Lodis with subtle red piping I’d bought when I started my career, back in L.A. at the Deutsche Bank. My shoes matched. My black pantsuit was ironed. With, like, an iron, and not the dryer. I was adulting the hell out of the morning, despite the short notice.

  Facing the elevator, I realized I needed my code. I patted my pockets, then dug through my briefcase. Refusing to be defeated before even starting the day, I marched over to the lobby’s front desk.

  “Hi, Kwan, do you remember me? Do you happen to have an elevator code for Paris Tehrani listed there? For PRCM’s main offices?”

  The security guard smiled. “Of course I remember! The fast walker. I don’t have anything here for you, though.”

  “Oh … dang it. Todd gave me a card when I was last here but I totally forgot to grab it this morning! I’m sorry. But I did remember this …” I trailed off, holding out the badge hanging around my neck.

  “That’s okay. I know Mr. Lindstrom won’t mind me letting you up.” He walked with me to the back bank of elevators, hitching up his pants after every few steps. “Make sure to grab that code card, though. I’m not always going to be here for you.” He tapped out the numbers, and with a wink, he was out.

  On the thirty-eighth floor, the receptionist was on the phone and simply waved me past when she saw me. I wasn’t sure where Frank’s office was since no one had yet to give me a tour past the lobby and conference rooms. The compliance office, where I’d received the reading material the day I was hired, was two floors down, along with accounts. Todd Lindstrom was on that floor; the older man seemed to be the glue of the company, doing the hiring, the firing, and overseeing accounts. I’d be working closely with him because he also oversaw the personal financial needs of the two CEOs, Andrew and Frank, including their personal taxes. He was the man behind the curtain.

  I ambled into a big open room, a modern, clean-lined work space with maybe fifty desks, some clustered together, others off on their own, lit with mostly natural light from a large bank of windows. These were the traders and the analysts. At the very back of the room were two large offices, set apart for the muckety-mucks.

  Before I made it two feet, the redheaded, hatchet-faced assistant I met on the day of my interview bounced up from seemingly nowhere. Her tone was sharp when she said, “Paris, right? What are you doing here? I thought you’d told Todd you weren’t available until next week.”

  “Um. Hi. Mr. Coyle called and asked me to come in.”

  “First, call him Frank. He hates to be called ‘mister’ anything. Second, Frank left. He’s gone for at least a week.”

  “He called last night, said for me to be here by nine, before he left. Maybe he’s still in his office?”

  The assistant smirked. “No. No, he’s not. His car service just drove away, taking him to the airport.” She chortled and shook her head. “Classic Frank.”

  I shifted back and forth on my high heels. Gina was going to kill me. She’d already taken off work by the time I’d called her to tell her our unpacking party was “pushed back.” I couldn’t face telling her I’d ditched my friends for nothing.

  “Coffee?” I held out one of the
paper cups to the redhead. No time like the present to start making new friends.

  She laughed a nasty laugh. “Ha. Let me guess … butterscotch latte? Meant for Frank?” She didn’t take it, gesturing for me to put it down on the closest desk. “Give it to Michelle. She’s the other assistant you’ll be working with. She won’t mind drinking fatty crap like that.” She ran her hand over her twelve-year-old-boy hips.

  A voice spoke up behind me. “We don’t work with her, Nicki. We work under her. She is our boss.” I turned to find a woman, starkly dressed, her straight blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, all business in black-rimmed glasses. Her face matched her tone: frosty. I thought at first the coldness was directed at Nicki, thanks to her bitchy comment, but no, it was directed at me. She picked up the full coffee cup from her desk and dropped it in the trashcan, not saying a word.

  Nicki, with a twist of her lips and a flip of her red hair, said, “Paris, this is Michelle. Don’t mind her. She’s bitter because she was passed over for your job.” She slid away.

  Michelle sighed, her shoulders letting down slightly. For a minute, she simply stared at me. Then, finally, she said, “She’s right, Frank is gone. But I can guess at some of what he wants you to do. Let’s check his office, see if he left a note.”

  I followed her through the maze of desks, back to the big offices. “You also applied for this job? I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, you have no reason to be sorry. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not going to last long. I’ll get another chance.” Before I could say anything, she pushed open an opaque glass door to reveal an office with a gorgeous view of Central Park, decorated in rich leathers and mahogany woods. Much of the art was tasteful, subdued. But not all of it.

  Michelle followed my line of sight to the huge painting of cartoonish zebra stripes splattered with random red streaks. Next to it was a man-sized ball of pink aluminum foil, crumpled and pierced with a railroad spike. She grinned, which lit up her whole face, transforming her from cold to friendly in an instant. “His wife collects art.”

  Neither of us said another word, just stared for a minute. Then she said, “Well, there’s no note. I might as well get you acquainted with some of our procedures.”

  “Oh, that’d be great. I have been going over the handbooks Todd gave me, but it would be good to talk it through with you.”

  “Sure, we can go over company rules and the like, but I’m talking about the real stuff you’re going to need to know. About Frank. How to manage him. Nicki and I, and two research assistants, work directly with the traders. We do whatever they, or you, need us to do, while you work directly with the two CEOs.”

  Michelle showed me my desk, set between Andrew and Frank’s offices, a u-shape of blond wood facing out over the rest of the open workspace, where I could watch a bunch of traders and analysts I had yet to meet working their computers and phones. Behind my amazing desk, a veritable fortress, I pictured myself as Donna in Suits or Joan Holloway in Mad Men, a woman clearly in charge. Minus the sexual harassment and misogyny.

  Michelle slid open a drawer, after unlocking it with a gold key, and retrieved a thick binder. “This is the Book of Frank.”

  Inside were a hundred pages or so of handwritten notes, typed lists, copies of documents, menus, schedules for sporting events and concerts, and phone numbers.

  I paused for a second. “Is there a book of Andrew?”

  Michelle shook her head, ponytail swinging. “No, he will barely talk to you. Andrew’s needs are generally normal and undemanding.” She patted the binder. “Frank, on the other hand, comes with an instruction manual. He is about to make your life a living hell.”

  I flashed on Ericka at the coffee shop, telling me Purple Rock Capital Management was the Ninth Circle of hell and Franklin Coyle was the devil. So, what, I’m Dante now? Is this me, entering the Inferno?

  “This is confidential. It stays in this room, to be locked up at all times.” She handed me the key. “You are in charge of his prescriptions: picking them up, how to talk him into taking them, making sure he takes them. Believe me, you want him on his meds. The info is in here. Also in here”—she flipped to a section toward the end—“is some of his personal banking information. Every few weeks, he expects you to withdraw money at his bank and put it in his office safe. He wants large amounts of cash on hand. We’ll get to why later.”

  She straightened and pushed her glasses higher on her nose while inspecting me for signs of distress. “Never, ever, let Frank see this book. Got me?”

  “Yes.”

  She then left me alone at my new desk with the Book of Frank, reminding me again to lock it up when I was done.

  I wanted to call out, “Thank you, Michelle, that’ll be all,” to her departing back, to establish dominance. She was my assistant but she’d just treated me like she was the superior. I blew my breath out slowly, counting. I wanted to say something, but I also wanted this first day to go smoothly. Like Darien said, I was accommodating.

  As I pulled the binder toward me, I noticed a water stain on the surface of my desk, in the corner, about the size of a small potted plant. Much like the one Ericka had been carrying in her box of belongings.

  I spent the morning fascinated as the inner workings of a successful millionaire revealed themselves in the form of lists and warnings: Frank’s likes, dislikes; his shirt size, pant size, underwear preference (briefs, not boxers); foundations he worked with, foundations he just said he worked with; doctors’ names; descriptions and phone numbers of his friends; contact information for useful people, like tailors and personal trainers and concierges from around the world; details on his wife’s allowance; important dates and where to buy his wife and son gifts on those important dates; his kid’s soccer and school calendar; where Frank liked to eat, favorite foods, how to order his steak, what to keep in his office refrigerator and directions on the sugar-free candies he wanted unwrapped and put in a bowl on his desk; who he refused to talk to and who to put through immediately; how to talk to new investors, how to talk to old investors, how to talk to board members; details for hiring a private plane, what airline he was willing to fly if private wasn’t available; hotels he liked and didn’t like; the direct line to his psychiatrist; a list of his homes and job descriptions for each one of the house staff; his grandmother’s name and her homes and a short list of phrases to use with her when she called … and so much more. Like phrases to use on Frank when he was inappropriate, and what to say to the person he’d just insulted.

  Also, as Michelle promised, there was the list of his medications, dosages, when and how he was to take them, as well as his bank account numbers so I could withdraw $15,000 in cash monthly. There, on a separate sheet of paper, clearly labeled, were the combinations to his office safe and two of his home safes. It wasn’t even in code. What the hell, I thought. He doesn’t know me. Now I know the combo to his safe? And that he takes enough Ritalin to calm a silverback gorilla? I shifted uncomfortably and looked around. Why does he need so much Ritalin?

  From across the room, Michelle must have noticed me coming up for air. The intercom on my desk buzzed and her tinny voice floated out. “You should make copies of his contact information. It’s not confidential. Then you can put the names and numbers in your phone and keep a hard copy. There’s a printer and a copier behind you.”

  So there was. I noticed a flyer in the printer’s tray. The banner showed multiple attractive women with the caption stating: Twelve Places in Toronto Where Gorgeous Women Hang Out. There was a list of addresses for those who were “lacking female attention.”

  Franklin Coyle was in Toronto.

  I knew way too much about this guy already.

  Chapter 7

  I spent a couple of hours at the office every day for the rest of that week, meeting the traders, analysts, research assistants, and everyone else who kept the Purple Rock Capital Management Company knee-deep in trading sheets and bonds. I studied office procedures and operation sys
tems and trading styles, discovering that most of our people were “trigger traders,” jumping on trades when Andrew and Frank told them to. I talked to the analysts to hear about the current hot topics in regard to mergers and acquisitions, what they were telling the CEOs to look at, what was good in the market right then and what was not.

  Frank was still gone, and I had not heard one word from him. I had no idea what it was he’d wanted me to do before he left. Hopefully he’d forgotten about it. My company email was up and running, and I had a company voicemail accessible on both my desk landline and through my cell phone. But I assumed he didn’t need whatever it was that badly, because he did not reach out.

  I also spent time trying to win over Michelle and Nicki. It wasn’t just Michelle who’d been passed over for my position; Nicki had applied for it, too. I was surprised she was so bent out of shape over it, though, since Michelle had been there much, much longer and clearly was the one with more practical experience, and she was a shit-ton smarter than Nicki, the redheaded harpy.

  The more I spent time with Michelle, the more I came to think she was probably the one who had kept Ericka on track for so long. She deserved the job more than I did. She would hunch over her desk without moving for hours, her black glasses perched on the end of her nose, flipping through documents and profiles. She gave off the sexy librarian vibe while working on a mean case of scoliosis, rarely breaking out of her huddle.

  She was the one the traders turned to when they needed help. She answered questions and marshaled the troops with a flick of her wrist and a twitch of her blonde ponytail. I was terrified she was going to discover I didn’t have experience working with hedge funds. Nor did I want anyone else to figure it out. Whenever I felt a conversation was over my head, I’d put my fingers along my chin, squint, and nod a lot, and then quickly walk back to my computer to research any term or phrase I hadn’t recognized.