The Everything Girl

by L. Maleki

  “What? No! Of course not.” The heat from my blush must have seared his nose hairs. I wish to God I could control my body.

  “I kid! I kid!” He threw up his hands, as he’d done the first night we met. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name. What should we call you?” He gestured to the class, the royal we. He turned to them. “You know, she left the bar without telling me her name, after promising she’d wait for me. What a heartbreaker, huh?”

  Some in the class tittered, but one or two younger women didn’t take pains to hide their jealous grimaces. I ignored them, and his witticisms, wanting to get into a chair as soon as possible and sink into the floor.

  “Hi. Hi, everyone. I’m Paris.”

  One of the students started to say, “Oh, like—”

  “Yes. Just like Paris Hilton. Minus the hotels and the scandal. And the magazine profiles.”

  Benji guided me to a seat next to him at the end of the table. “Oh, you’re way more photogenic than Paris Hilton,” he said with a grin.

  The same middle-aged guy who’d tried to crack the Paris joke opened his mouth again. I gazed at him coldly. “Don’t say it.”

  Benji dropped his hands to the tabletop, slapping the wood, and said, “Alright, let’s get to it.”

  I’d planned on stopping for information, maybe asking a few questions about film and processing. To leave now, I’d have to get past everyone while Benji was talking. Also, my leg was next to his under the table.

  I guess I’m taking the class.

  Benji launched into a discussion on finding subjects and then regarding those subjects from multiple angles.

  “Don’t just look; really see how an object changes when you view it from another perspective.” Passion and electricity rolled off him as he talked about standing on the bridge over Gill Stream in Central Park and shooting from above, how he would consider the stream’s light and shadow and size and place in the world.

  He jabbed his finger at the intent faces around the table. “Then I change my perspective in a big way, walking down to the edge of that same stream and lying down. I might look crazy, but man, the things you notice!”

  I flashed on him in a pair of swim trunks on a hot summer day, lying on a sandy beach next to the stream, a sheen of sweat on rippling shoulder muscles … but refocused as he described, animatedly, holding the lens of the camera inches above the water, first peering straight down into the depths, and then across the surface. “Two more perspectives of the same body of water, but each with a different vibe, and each with its own set of emotions and complexities that change with a simple tilt of your shoulder or twist of your wrist.”

  He and my dad would get along so well. Finding joy and beauty in the simple things.

  After class, as the students gathered up loose papers, Benji made his rounds and then sauntered up to me as I made my way to the door. “I can’t believe you came in. I have to admit, I’m honored you sought me out.”

  My hand on the knob, ready to flee, I said shyly, “I really liked your photo collection at Rooftop. I want to take photos like that. I like the idea of telling a story in a single shot.” I didn’t want him to think I was stalking him for any other reason than to learn from him. But smelling his cologne and watching the way he moved, like one of the athletes he’d photographed, and seeing how he occasionally ran his hand through his sandy-blond hair, a part of me hoped he and his bartender girlfriend were on the rocks. A big part of me.

  “Well, good, then I assume that means you’re coming back? We’re meeting every week for the next two months.” He lightly placed his hand on my shoulder, offering something between a squeeze and a caress that sent a shiver down my spine, his hazel eyes intent on mine. Then someone tapped him on the back and his hand slipped away, his attention diverted.

  I made my way outside quietly, glad for the chilly air on my face. I immediately called Gina, so I could share my new weekly plans and describe the luscious, full lips of the photographer—while trying not to think of those same lips kissing the hot bartender girlfriend.

  Back in the safety of my apartment, facing the red wall, I decided it was time to fill the gold frames. They’d hung empty long enough.

  Chapter 10

  The armchairs arranged in front of my desk were meant for investors and advisory clients waiting to meet with Andrew or Frank, but should have been switched out for bar stools.

  By mid-March, the office treated my desk as a bar and vomited their fears and hopes out to me, the office bartender. I had yet to sneak in any actual alcohol but that didn’t seem to matter. It took about two weeks of working at PRCM for most of the traders, analysts, and researchers to lose the last traces of inhibitions, or pride, when it came to using me as a buffer between them and Frank.

  Late one afternoon, Andrea, the head of investor relations, gripped the arms of the chair closest to me, her French manicure digging into the soft leather. “I’ve got tickets to the Canary Islands. I’m leaving next week,” she blurted out.

  “That’s great!” I said, wondering what was coming next, her face overcome with facial tics.

  “Yes, it’s great. Great. Greeeeeaaaaat.” Andrea’s eyes darted around. “Frank doesn’t know yet.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Listen, Paris, can you tell him for me, after I leave today? Maybe if he has time to process it over night, he won’t yell.” There was a vein pulsing in her forehead.

  “I thought the COO was in charge of vacations. Did Todd approve it? Why is Frank going to care?”

  She groaned. “He hates it when we go on vacation. I’ve tried explaining to him we have this newfangled thing called the cell phone. Jeez, it’s the twenty-first century. I call investors and answer my emails from anywhere—which he does all the time—but he wants to be in control. Of when I sleep. Of when I eat. When I pee. Yesterday, during a meeting, I tried to sneak out to go to the bathroom and he told me to sit down and hold it!”

  I nodded sympathetically. “I know, he’s hard to take sometimes. But don’t worry, it’s not just you, he does that to everybody. He’s from the Donald Trump School of Operation, where urinating is for the weak.” I leaned over my desk conspiratorially and whispered, “Yet, he just made me order a $20,000 Toto Toilet for his office bathroom. I don’t imagine it will sit unused.”

  Her eyes went wide. “You’re kidding! Does it give you a massage or something?”

  I shrugged. “Probably. It has a seat warmer and flushes on voice command. The bidet has six settings, including a warm jet of air. And, for some reason, there’s a remote control.”

  Her shoulders relaxed. She chuckled and then in a much calmer tone said, “So, you’ll talk to him for me? He should be in a good mood; he went short on the Inverse stock and made a killing.” She got up, not waiting for me to answer. “Thanks, Paris. I think I’ll head home right now. By the way,” she said quickly, as she began to walk away, “I’ll be gone for two weeks.” The tic-tic-tic of her spike heels performed a double-time tempo as she vacated the area before her bomb went off.

  She’s a department head? What a coward, I thought. But she wasn’t acting any different than the other people on the floor, from the assistants to the administrators. I spent a good chunk of most days reassuring the employees that Frank treated everyone “that way” and “no, no one deserved to be so disrespected.”

  I could see his slumpy outline through the frosted glass. His feet were up. He was reading the paper. Best to get this over with. I straightened my spine, tapped on Frank’s door, and quietly slipped inside at his grunt. Guns N’ Roses was playing low in the background, muzak for the forty-somethings, the generation stuck in the eighties.

  “Hey there, what’s up, Paris?” he mumbled, his face relaxed, his squint less squinty than usual, his straight brown hair pushed out of his face, no sweat on his cheeks.

  “So, a coupla’ things. First, I know the yearly report for the investors is due soon, so I’ve begun collecting and correlating data, if you wa
nt to send me your information.”

  He tented his fingers under his chin, peering at me without saying a word, though his energy remained calm. Which was annoying, since I had been asking him for the material for at least a week.

  “Also, I wanted to remind you,” I continued, “I’m going to be gone next Monday, for the Persian New Year holiday.”

  He broke apart his stretched-out legs and re-crossed them. “You’re making that up. There’s no such holiday. I’ve never heard of it.”

  I chuckled nervously, no idea if he was joking or not.

  He wasn’t.

  Slowly, he said, “Seriously, it’s March. Who celebrates the new year in March?”

  “Persians are celebrating the first day of spring. It’s called Norooz. It’s a big deal, even for Iranians who aren’t religious. Just like how secular families celebrate Christmas.”

  “So, what, you’re a pagan? You’re gonna have sex in a green field, like, with a guy wearing horns?”

  What the hell? Is he confusing Persians with Druids?

  How did he make such a crazy leap? Did he spend his free time watching porn and cat videos? For a guy who controlled billions of dollars, globalization hadn’t made much of an impact on his understanding of people.

  “Um, no, my family is not pagan.” I barely managed to keep my voice level. “We celebrate with big family meals, some singing. We exchange presents. There are no fields or fertility rites involved.” He has a son. He’s added to the gene pool. Please tell me he’s joking.

  Frank picked up his newspaper, shook it out. “Sounds boring. Keep your phone on. I’ll text you if we have an emergency.”

  By “we,” he meant him. No one else had emergencies, unless their emergency involved him. Irritated, I forgot to coat my next words in sugar.

  “Frank, Andrea is going to be gone on Monday as well. As a matter of fact, she’s going to be gone for two weeks. Todd approved her vacation a long time ago but she’s been too afraid to tell you.”

  I should have left that last part out.

  “Oh no she isn’t! She can’t do that! You get her in here right now!” Before I could tell him she’d already left, he started shouting, “Andrea! Andrea! Get in here right now!”

  Instead of prolonging the pain, I said, “I’ll go find her,” and darted out of his office.

  “Andrea! You’ve got five seconds!” he shouted again, his tantrum muffling as I yanked his door shut.

  I rested my forehead on the frame for a beat. Then, sighing, I turned and found a woman, maybe in her fifties, possibly in her sixties, leaning against my desk, her eyebrows high on her forehead.

  “I’m assuming you’re not Andrea?” she asked me.

  “No.” I couldn’t stop a nervous laugh from burbling out. “Andrea is miles away by now, though she can probably still hear Mr. Coyle. Sorry about that.”

  The woman—beautiful, slim, and dressed in a classic haute couture white pantsuit—shrugged and said, “I hope you don’t let him talk to you like that.”

  Not sure how to answer her, I noticed she held a framed photo from my desk in her hand. She saw me looking and her perfect black hair bobbed smoothly as she shifted around the other framed photos I’d quietly set out a week ago, hoping Frank wouldn’t say anything. They were stills from my last day on the boardwalk by my father’s house, each focused on a different door, offering a pop of color against a black-and-white background.

  “Are these from Newport? Down along the promenade?” Amusement curled her lips into a kind smile.

  “Yes! Are you from there?” A flush of homesickness rushed through me. I recognized her vaguely, but I couldn’t place from where. I didn’t think I knew her from back home. Maybe a client from my old bank?

  “Yes, I live in L.A. I love Newport.” She ran a manicured fingertip over the glass covering an orange-and-red gate in front of a vintage bookstore. “These are fabulous. They make me feel as if I’m there. It’s like the heart of the place has been captured.”

  Heat moved across my face. “Thank you. Really. I feel the same way about them. I’m going to take more, next time I’m home.”

  She put the picture back with the others and scanned my face, suddenly businesslike. “So you took these? What gallery are you in?”

  “Gallery? Oh, no, it’s just a hobby—”

  “Honey, there’s hobbies and then there’s art. You’ve got an eye. Believe me, I know.” Her dark brown eyes seared into mine. Then it hit me.

  “You … you’re Tris Jenson …” I stuttered stupidly. The uber-famous businesswoman had just complimented my photos. I felt a bit faint but shook myself awake.

  “Don’t get weird. We’re just two California girls, yakking about home.” She winked. “Have you considered selling your work? Or starting your own photography business? You should.”

  “I’ve never—”

  Another muffled yell from Frank’s office stopped me. He was yelling for me this time.

  “I’m so sorry, excuse me.” I opened his door, hoping to cut him off before he shouted again. “Frank, you have—”

  “Is that Tris out there? What the hell have you been doing? Stop bothering the investors.” He stepped around me and filled the doorframe with his awkward, unappealing body. “Tris! Come in! Let me get you a whiskey. Neat, right?”

  Tris Jenson brushed past the two of us, saying, “Frank, darling, you sound like a beast, yelling at this poor girl. Don’t you have an intercom?”

  He glared at me. “She’s fine with it.”

  Ignoring that, I said, “Can I get either of you anything?”

  Frank opened his mouth but Ms. Jenson beat him to the punch. “No, thank you.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Think about what I said.”

  I mumbled something and shut the door, leaving them to discuss how best to position her vast fortune.

  How could I not think about what she said? Every word from her lips was a gem to be treasured, as far as I was concerned, even if none of it was realistic. It wasn’t like I could control Frank. And start my own photography business? Being a person who liked to eat food and avoid rat-infested, moldy housing situations, I couldn’t see the starving artist lifestyle working for me. Maybe when I have an actual retirement account. Sixty years from now. But … damn.

  I straightened the frames on my desk, a grin hurting my cheeks. Michelle and Nicki slunk over, curious. The two research assistants hovered behind them, trying like hell to get in on the gossip.

  “My God, did Tris Jenson just call you fabulous?” Nicki hissed, jealousy writhing across her face.

  “What was she talking about, Paris?” Michelle seemed impressed, hands on hips. She smiled with encouragement, while Nicki simply looked hungry.

  “Nothing. We were just discussing L.A.” I shrugged. “She was very sweet.” For some reason, I didn’t want to spoil the dream by sharing it too soon.

  “She’s tough, that’s what she is. She comes in here about every six months and it freaks out Frank,” Michelle said. She turned to the huddled group of wide-eyed assistants. “You two,” she said to the researchers. “You might as well update your trade reports in the biotech sector; he’s going to ask for them in a minute. Tell each of the traders what you need. And you”—she turned to Nicki—“make a reservation at Tao for two people thirty minutes from now. Have oysters at the table waiting for them. Make sure they know it’s Frank and Tris. Then go downstairs and make sure Frank’s car is waiting, that there are two bottles of Dom Pérignon rosé on ice, and upload Nina Simone’s albums for the driver.”

  “But—” Nicki sputtered.

  “Go.” Michelle’s voice was low and menacing, like an Aryan German officer ready to beat down Nicki for the sake of the office. I couldn’t help but be impressed by the mastery with which she controlled the situation and the people. She faced me, her blonde ponytail an exclamation point down her back.

  “Stop looking so scared.” She sniffed with disdain. “This is what we do. We figure out what Fr
ank will want before he wants it. You’ll figure it out, if you’re here long enough.”

  Despite my better judgment, I asked her, “What should I be doing? Should I be doing something with her investment portfolio?”

  “Call down to Tris’s assistant; she’s probably waiting at Tris’s car; tell her what’s going on. Then stand here. When they come out, follow quietly, ready to take notes or make calls, or run into traffic, whatever he wants.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I said earnestly.

  Her face softened when she realized I didn’t resent her for taking over; on the contrary, I was grateful. But then she gave me a quizzical look and asked, “And what would you do if I told you to go over Tris’s portfolio? What would you be looking for?”

  She wasn’t projecting anything but curiosity, but bile rose my throat. After all this time, I’d let myself forget about the fact that I had zero experience actually managing or manipulating hedge fund portfolios. I had been lulled by my days of scheduling and buying tampons; I’d backed off from using my brain. Rarely was I asked to do anything directly related to finance, unless it was to run a report, which meant I had the time to sit at my computer and figure out what was needed. “Uh. I guess, first, I would assess the biotech—”

  The office phone on my desk rang. I may or may not have literally hurdled over a desk to get to it—and away from Michelle. As I snagged up the receiver, I could see her become distracted by one of the researchers and wander away, but my shoulders refused to come down off my ears.

  Nicki was calling from the lobby, her phone manner as unpleasant as her face-to-face manner. “I can’t find any music by Nina Simpson. There’s no such person as Nina Simpson.”

  “You’re right, there is no Nina Simpson.” Your musical tastes run as deep as your thoughts on life. “Michelle said Nina Simone. You know, ‘I Put a Spell on You’?”

  “Paris, you’re an idiot. That was a guy.” And she hung up.

  I made myself look busy, moving papers from pile A to pile B to cabinet C, at the same time treating my frayed nerves with the sweet medicine of superiority, thinking of Nicki and shaking my head. When I heard voices approaching from the opposite side of Frank’s door, I grabbed a notepad and my iPhone, ready for action.