by L. Maleki
“It has been a total waist of time, though. Get it? Waist of time?”
“That doesn’t even make sense—”
“W-a-i-s-t—”
“Spelling it out does not make it any funnier.”
“Oh, so you are too sophisticated for your father now, hmm?”
I laughed half-heartedly, for his sake. “I don’t think that comes as a shock to you.”
“You need to relax, Parisa. I told you before, I am fine. You are fine. I know you are overwhelmed with the new job, just remember to stop and catch your breath.” He’d changed the subject, which he’d been doing a lot lately. I was willing to go along for the moment, not sure what to say to him about our family business. My father’s income. His identity.
My God, what will he do? Should I go home, help him?
“It is important you work hard but keep balance in your life, Paris. We all need to remember that. There is beauty out there. Do not forget to look at it. Notice the flecks and swirls. The colors. Even a bit of gravel has beauty.”
“Okay …”
“Even the pimple on your chin.”
“Damn it, Dad, there’s a line.”
He cleared his throat. “I have to tell you something else.”
“Oh no. You said—”
“No, stop now. I told you everything is fine and I mean it. I am talking about Darien.”
“What about him?” I paused. “No, never mind. I don’t care. I’ve cut him out of my life. I don’t want to think about him.”
“As much as I am overjoyed to hear you say that, I thought you might want to know, I ran into Darien’s mother at the café … Darien is moving to New York City.”
It took me a minute to pick my jaw up off the floor. Maybe I should have read his emails instead of deleting them. I controlled my breathing and said, “Okay, I didn’t expect that. Luckily, it’s a huge city.”
“I know you are probably lonely in a new location, but Darien asks too much of you. Keep that in mind.”
“I know, Dad. I know.”
We spoke for five more minutes, until I had my fill of his dad jokes, but neither of us brought up money or ex-boyfriends again. Both of us silently agreed we would pretend life was fabulicious and that we believed the other one was doing just fine, at least for now.
I couldn’t let myself think about Tehrani Tax Services. It was just too big. Too depressing. My breath stopped when I stumbled into a selfish awareness: If my dad was no longer a financial safety net, I was screwed. If I messed up, it was all on me. Suddenly the future didn’t just seem shaky, it loomed over me, baring its fangs, hot saliva dripping on the back of my neck, burning, and out of my reach.
Put it out of your mind, put it out of your mind.
And Darien. What the hell? Why was he moving here? He ran his import business from the West Coast; his family and friends were there. His synagogue.
I’d meant what I said to my father—I did not want to fall back into the Darien hole. I’d tried everything to make him happy and it’d gotten me nothing but heartbreak. Loneliness drowned me in layers some nights, and insecurity stabbed me repeatedly on others, but I couldn’t face that kind of roller coaster again. I’d rather stay at the low point for a while.
Wow. How had the night gotten so dark, so fast?
I picked up my Mac from the bedside table, but the motion caused a small square of paper to flutter into the air before settling back to the surface. It was the receipt on which I’d written down the website for a photography class. Benjamin Stark’s class.
Chapter 9
Paris, read these before you get to work.
Along with the one-line text, Frank linked ten articles, ranging from global affairs to market trends, to an article on New York private investigators, to articles on stretches for the gluteus maximus and organic snacks to promote weight loss.
He’d sent the text the night before or, more accurately, at two in the morning. I didn’t see the message until after stepping out of the shower. Skimming the articles on my short subway ride from the Upper West Side to Midtown, I could only pray I wasn’t going to be quizzed on the content, especially the super exciting article regarding the movement of ships in the South China Sea. Why did I need to know about China’s version of Battleship? And is he saying I need to go on a diet?
At one minute to eight, I stepped into PRCM’s elevator, entered the code, and spent the next thirty seconds sucking in my stomach and assessing my black silk shirt in the mirror, trying to adjust the material to fix the X-rated gap between buttons. It hadn’t seemed so gap-happy when I put it on this morning. Now I was wishing I’d worn a different shirt, or at the very least one of my lacy Victoria’s Secret bras, not the white Target special.
Frank was in his office, though usually he didn’t come in until nine. I could see a shape moving behind the frosted glass. I knocked quietly on his door, pen and pad in hand.
“Come in.” Or at least that’s what I think he said. It was hard to make out the mutter.
“Good morning …” I tried not to stare. The nondescript, middle-aged man sat slumped over a stack of spreadsheets, his white dress shirt dirty and missing buttons. He looked like he’d rolled in a mud puddle.
“Frank, can I get you anything?”
“Yes, I need you to contact Jonah at Iron Title and tell him to call me immediately.” He held out a business card with the number.
Easy enough.
He continued, “The feds released an updated version of the new trading restrictions they’re proposing, see if you can find it. Make sure it’s from today, not last week. Then, I need you to find me dress shirts—Pronto Uomo, one in every color, especially the green. On your way back, pick up white grapes and Saltine crackers, and check to see we have plenty of Perrier. Do not forget the grapes. Ask Michelle what else I like; you’ll need to keep my refrigerator stocked.”
I scribbled frantically.
He stood up, unbuttoning his shirt, offering no explanation. As he shrugged out of it, I could see he did not believe in undershirts or exercise. He wasn’t fat, but he was flabby, with long, straight hairs circling his nipples.
He tossed me the shirt. “Might as well have that dry-cleaned.” He sat back down, shirtless, and picked up his pen. He flicked a glance at me and then down to his pecs and biceps. His jaw went taut as he flexed his muscles. I held in a sigh of exasperation. It was not an impressive show, not physically or maturity-wise.
This guy controls fifteen billion dollars.
“When you get back, let’s talk over some projects. We’ll do it over a late lunch. Bring back some sushi, and I’ll get you started collecting and organizing information for the annual reviews. Oh, and let’s send out a summary of the decluttering article to the assistants. And the stretches.”
I kept my face blank but started backing out of the room, afraid he was going to bring up the other articles, maybe want me to draw a Venn diagram incorporating Asian troop movements and trending US securities. “Well, I better get moving.”
I swear he tried to flex his nonexistent stomach muscles. I turned and was almost out the door, glad to no longer have his hairy nipples in my line of vision, when he said, “Oh, could you grab some cash?”
“You want me to stop at the bank for you?” I pivoted, one foot remaining on the threshold.
“No, I mean, I want you to open that safe.” He gestured awkwardly to a block outlined in the wall, flexing his bicep while trying to point.
“How much do you need?”
“A stack,” he said helpfully. “I have no idea what the combination is. If I’m running low on cash, you’ll need to get more.”
“What’s ‘low’?”
“If the stack has gone from big to small.”
Ah, well that clears it up.
“Okay, I’ll be right back. The combination is at my desk.”
I’d tried to memorize the combo, but I had too many strings of numbers to remember. I flipped to the right page in the Book o
f Frank, quickly writing it on my hand before putting the binder back in the locked drawer, just in case Frank wandered out of his office. Next to the combo, Michelle had typed, Frank is too lazy to memorize this, so you’ll have to.
I returned and did as he asked, withdrawing what I guesstimated to be about three thousand dollars. I figured he’d tell me to put some back, but he didn’t.
“Do I have a shirt around here somewhere?” he said as I piled the bills neatly on his desk. I had no idea if it was too much or not enough, since I had no idea what he was doing with the cash. Taking his son’s Little League team out to lunch at Restaurant Haru? A down payment on more of the hideous pink aluminum art his wife loved?
I tried to decide whether I should dash around the room opening cupboards or go out into the cubicles and demand one of the traders hand over his shirt, Hollywood style. Frank finally stared right at me, his squinty eyes money-green, his hair curling moistly on his forehead. I must have looked as bewildered as I felt.
“I know we’re getting to know each other, Paris. I don’t expect you to have all the answers, not yet. Go ask Michelle. She’d be happy to do your job for you.”
My stomach sank. There was no emotion in his voice, or on his face, but I felt a sting on my cheek from the slap. I nodded stiffly and walked out.
Michelle, sitting at her tidy desk, working on three projects at once, peered up in a fog. Pushing her black glasses up her nose, she told me where the last executive assistant stored extra clothes for Frank. I wanted to talk to her, get her advice, but she was distracted and besides, she was my assistant. I was supposed to be establishing my authority.
In a locked closet outside the break room, there were stacks of clothes. And four different pairs of wingtips. Flannel pajamas and a bathrobe, next to a box filled with deodorant, shampoo, toothpaste, and brushes. Another box contained twenty tubs of Lancôme wrinkle cream, three tubes of Tinactin for athlete’s foot, and a tube of Lotrimin for ringworm. The only ointment that looked to be opened was a tube of Vagistat for yeast infections; the seal was broken, the tube rolled up like the Colgate in my bathroom.
“What the—” I decided I didn’t want to know.
“What are you doing?” Nicki came up beside me, swinging her red hair over her shoulder like she was trying out for the reboot of Gossip Girl.
“Getting Frank a clean shirt.”
“Make sure you iron it before you give it to him, especially the collar. I have some starch stashed with the extra shirts for the other staff, I’ll be right back.” The younger assistant flounced off, returning in a second with a spray can. She smirked at my shirt, and then handed me the starch, saying, “Do you know how to use this?”
There was an iron in the closet. I considered hitting her on the head with it. Instead, I used the break room table as an ironing board. Using Nicki as an ironing board would be frowned upon. I speed walked back to Frank’s office, trying to control the bounce of my C-cups with my forearms, though creating an even bigger gap between the buttons in the process.
Note to self: look into lacy sport bras from Victoria’s Secret.
Frank put on the shirt, took off the shirt, and threw it back to me. “Why is the collar stiff?”
“I ironed—”
“If I’d wanted it ironed, I would have said so. Get me another shirt.”
Suddenly, his bare skin turned a mottled, tomato red from his chin to his hairy nipples. He laid a palm across his throat, as if feeling for a pulse. “Oh my God, did you use starch?” he shouted, his eyes bugging out.
“Ye-ye-yes …”
“Goddamnit! Get me a cold, wet washcloth, now!”
I sprinted into his bathroom and, bunching a hand towel under the running faucet, I vaguely remembered the list of allergies from the Book of Frank. Starch. Yes, it definitely listed starch.
“Do I need to call an ambulance? Do you have an EpiPen?” I made my voice remain calm as I thrust the wet towel at him. “What can I do?”
He glared, wrapping the hand towel around his throat. “Get me another shirt. And an ice pack,” he growled. He fumbled a box of Benadryl out of his drawer.
Nicki was waiting for me at the closet. “Oh, didn’t he like that one?” she asked in a baby voice.
I refused to be trolled. “Nope,” I said, grabbing what I needed and walking away.
Frank looked better by the time I got back to him, more pink than red. He no longer flexed for me. Nor was he talking to me. He just grunted and waved me away.
I had a hard time concentrating after that. Finding the report on the newest federal regulations took some time. Scanning the content, their biggest beef seemed to be that the funds weren’t taxed. That, and the managers were asking for a 2-and-20 split, taking 2 percent of the clients’ assets and 20 percent of the profits.
I had no idea why that would bother the feds, since clients weren’t forced into putting their money in hedge funds. They couldn’t even be an investor unless they made half a million a year and had at least a million in assets free to trade—which couldn’t include their McMansion residence. We weren’t working with hobos.
But I knew hedge funds weren’t popular when I took this gig. Every trader outside of hedge funds hated hedge funds, since we made money betting against their stocks. Some hedge funds were strong enough to sway the outcome of a stock. I had no idea if PRCM was playing at that level. It might be, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know. It seemed like there were plenty of reasons to be irritated with Frank outside of his trading practices.
“Paris!” he screamed through his door.
I jumped up and ran in, expecting to see blood weeping from his starch rash. But no, Frank was fine, sitting calmly at his desk, his shirt unbuttoned guido-style, the skin on his chest back to pasty white.
His mouth moved into an unappealing o-shaped rosebud of surprise when I came crashing through his door. He must not have realized his screaming made it sound like someone lit his pants on fire.
He unabashedly watched my girls bouncing under my blouse. I halted, blushing.
“Where are my grapes?” he asked my breasts.
Is that a metaphor? The anti-sexual harassment movement was alive and well everywhere else but in his office.
“On my way to run your errands now,” I said cheerfully, as if all was right with the world.
Michelle stopped me as I passed her desk. “I heard him yelling. Are you okay?”
“Yes. And so is he, though I did almost kill him. I used starch.”
“Ah. I’m guessing this has something to do with Nicki. She’s been sauntering around with a smug look on her face.”
I sighed. “I won’t trust her again, that’s for sure. On the flip side, Frank’s never going to trust me again, either.”
I clocked out at exactly six o’clock. I was done, figuratively and literally. Stepping onto the damp sidewalk in front of the Purple Rock Capital Management building, I decided to walk at least part way home to shake off some of the day’s residue. I’d spent the better part of my afternoon hunting down the elusive lime green Uomo dress shirt, well hidden in the wilds of Manhattan up-scale man boutiques, protected by legions of coiffed salespeople who treated me like Julia Roberts in the Pretty Woman shopping spree.
I dug out the pack of Benson & Hedges and stuck one in my mouth. Walking past Joe’s Coffee Shop, I caught sight of myself in the window. I do look cool, I decided. New York hip. At least that’s what I told myself.
Then I noticed something more interesting than my reflection; it was Nicki and Ericka, the executive assistant I had replaced. They were sitting together, whispering and giggling. I thought Ericka wanted nothing more to do with the company? And Nicki? I would never have pegged those two as friends. But even the bitchy and the crazy need friends.
I kept walking. Ending my day with either of those two didn’t sound like fun.
I didn’t light the cigarette. The disgusting spongy, acrid filter had begun to grow on me, though, just like how I’d
learned to enjoy the bitterness of coffee … if coffee caused cancer. Which it probably did. Moving the death stick around with my tongue gave me something to do as I walked. I hoped it made me fit in, look like a secure, sophisticated professional.
Because I don’t feel like a professional. Or an adult. Somehow, I’ve taken a step backward in my career.
Dealing with securities at Deutsche Bank, I’d been low on the totem pole, maybe two rungs above the tellers, but at least I’d been working with actual money and numbers, versus … this. But I knew, realistically, leaving PRCM not only meant a pay cut, it probably meant living on unemployment and moving back home. The banks were tightening their belts, just like my dad, and jobs were scarce. The truth was, I was lucky to have this job. I was going to have to suck it up.
I wasn’t wandering mindlessly. Around Broadway and 72nd Street, I found what I was looking for. A bright red and white door. A storefront window with bold, beautifully framed photographic images fighting for space. A hand-painted sign proclaiming BENJAMIN STARK PHOTOGRAPHY, along with his hours. It was long past time for the photographer to have closed up shop, but I tried the door anyway; his website said he offered evening workshops. A bell chimed as the door swung open. I stuck the soggy cigarette in my coat pocket and stepped in.
There was a small entryway with a wide opening to the left leading into a photo gallery. To the right were three doors, one marked Restroom, one marked Darkroom, and the last marked Classroom. I could hear voices from behind the last, at least five or six people. Then, suddenly, the door flew open. There he was. Benji, the photographer from The Rooftop at Viceroy.
“Hey! It’s you!” he said, putting his hands on his hips, a surprised grin creeping across his face, tiny laugh lines crinkling in the corner of his eyes. His thick hair was tousled—and so sexy. I could see past him, where a small group sat around a table, peering at me curiously.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt a class.” I twisted my earring back and forth, trying not to scrunch my shoulders.
“No way are you interrupting. Come on in, have a seat. Unless you’re here to ask me out? Are you following me, girly?”