by L. Maleki
I went out on the fire escape, a cigarette in hand.
I was struck by the night’s cityscape, the jumble of bright colors lighting up the sky. I put down the death stick and retrieved my camera instead. Clicking away, practicing with different filters and lenses, I thought, I wish Dad could see how happy this makes me. I’m doing what he wants, appreciating beauty in the simple things. And I’m good at it. I can make a go of photography, be successful. I know I can. My father had brought me up in the world of business and hard work—I knew what it took to make a small business function. I fantasized about hanging each shot I took on a wall in my own gallery.
Half an hour later, I was soothed and had a new roll of pictures to develop. Which reminded me of a certain photographer.
Thinking of Benji and his developing room lightened my mood further. The tune to “Brown Eyed Girl” played as the soundtrack to a new, fairly intense fantasy.
Chapter 18
As I got ready for work, digging through piles of clothes and hastily applying makeup, I had the TV on in the background. A dancing circle of prepubescent white girls in old-fashioned dresses and with wilting bluebells in their hair were wrapping ribbons around a May Day pole in Central Park, celebrating the budding leaves and flowers and the baby squirrels of spring.
A gaggle of my aunts, uncles, and cousins were partying Persian style in Iran, at their mid-spring festival. I knew this because my dad, who’d sold the business without consulting me and refused to talk to me about where or if he was working, forwarded a photo the family had sent him: a large, happy group of people crammed into a small backyard festooned with lights and streamers. That was immediately followed by another text from my dad, which was a photo of a cow giving birth. A very clear, detailed picture. Happy Maidyozarem! he said.
It was gross, and it was annoying—that cow got some action, how come I can’t get any? Not that I wanted to be pregnant, but it would be nice if Benji made his way past third base sometime soon.
Benji and I were having a good time, though. He was a good listener and easy to look at. When I could get away from work early enough, or wasn’t called away at the last minute, we hung out in hole-in-the-wall places. At the colorful and loud Mediterranean Festival Restaurant, we worked our way through the menu, or we scarfed up tabouli and cheese and spinach-stuffed pastry in Gazalas, and we laughed and drank and talked about art and building our photography businesses and family.
I closed out my dad’s texts. I was tired of worrying about him, especially when he wouldn’t tell me what was going on. Here I was, trying to figure out how to help him out financially, and he was the one acting like an irresponsible child. Didn’t he care that he was going to lose our family business? Benji had tried talking me into flying back to Newport, but there was no way I had time for that. I was thrilled I had even one night for Benji, which wasn’t always true, thanks to Frank. We’d agreed to meet at a new place to test out their happy hour. The thought of it would help me get through the day.
Work was even busier than usual. The two CEOs were leaving the next day for Galveston, on a rare dual outing, to meet with the heads of a rumored “vast corporation.” I was faced with coordinating a number of things. Yet, despite this, Todd had come in to the office and said he was taking Nicki for the next few days.
“Right now? Can I send her up after we get through this list of phone calls?”
“No. I have a backlog of paperwork that needs to be taken care of immediately. You’ll be fine.”
The junior assistant smirked at me and followed Todd to the elevator. Good riddance.
Since I was in charge of everything, including meshing emergency contact numbers with my executive assistant counterpart in Galveston, I knew Andrew and Frank were meeting with a conglomerate of oil tycoons. It was going to be a bunch of middle-aged men addicted to Viagra, competing to see who had the biggest conquest story. Part of what I had to accomplish before tomorrow was to find two high-profile models willing to accompany Frank and Andrew to a business dinner as their dates. How much money does it take for a Victoria’s Secret model to hide her disdain?
I also knew the details from Michelle. She’d been stomping around the office, her long hair twitching like a horse’s tail across her black blazer, steam rising off her angry hide.
“I’m the one who told Frank about the takeover and I told him who I thought was making the money over there. He promised he’d take me with him,” she fumed, slamming papers down on my desk. “And now Todd has Nicki working on some secret project? This is bullshit.”
Poor Michelle. She believed Frank would ignore his sexist, classicist nature and reward her hard work, dedication, and smarts. Sigh. She had a master’s from the University of Michigan and parents in the auto industry. Without an Ivy League degree, he wasn’t going to take Michelle seriously. He thought state schools were filled with hillbillies and English majors.
So … wait. I’m from a state school. Why am I sticking around? “He’d told you he was going to let you be part of their meetings?”
“Not in so many words.” Despite how she was acting, Michelle knew the reality: Frank was never going to allow someone else to take credit for the deal and certainly not an assistant. We brought him toilet paper. We weren’t thinking, functioning human beings. I could see she’d let herself get caught up in a fantasy, only to be crushed.
Michelle and I had watched Frank and Andrew moving around on the other side of their frosted office doors, in a world that seemed inaccessible. Michelle then harrumphed and stormed off to the break room. She’d been helping with Frank’s departure issues, but that appeared to be over now. Luckily, I’d become adept at anticipating his needs.
Michelle might have been distraught, but I was far from it. With Nicki’s snideness gone for a few days and Frank’s Frankness on the way out of the office, I was ready to celebrate even before Frank left. I decided that, after drinks with Benji, a late dinner with Gina and Lucia would perfectly round out the night. It was rare I had this much energy.
“Hey, Gina,” I whispered into my phone. I didn’t want to capture the attention of any of the traders, or God forbid Frank, who might then set me on some freakishly time-consuming task. “I’m free tonight. You guys want to grab dinner?”
“Yah, right, Paris. You’re going to make it to a dinner?”
“Frank’s leaving tomorrow, gone for the next few nights. My workload is going to be deliciously light.”
“And the new boyfriend?”
“I’m trying to make time for you guys, I swear. It’s not Benji who forces me to break plans at the last minute.”
“How would I know? I never see you anymore. Benji could be an imaginary boyfriend.”
I’d been trying to get him and the girls together for a while, but work, or exhaustion, or Lucia’s twenty-four-hour morning sickness, got in the way. And, yes, I’d passed up opportunities because I’d wanted to be alone with him. “Why don’t I bring Benji along tonight? Unless you and Lucia are fighting again.”
“We aren’t fighting. We were never fighting.” She huffed, then sighed. “She’s adamant she’s going to have this baby. I love her like a sister, Paris. On one hand, I think she should have an abortion, just start over with a clean slate, get back to her career. It’s not too late. Her family never needs to know. But another, bigger part of me understands. I mean, there’s a little life in there.”
“I love you both. I’m here, too. I’ll help however I can.”
“Well, anyway, let’s start with you committing to a dinner. Time to rake your guy over the coals. First test will be to see if he’s a good human. For example, does he eat diner food?”
“Not everyone thinks a diner is high cuisine.”
“It’s not high cuisine. It’s the best cuisine!”
“I’m not sure what diner you’ve been going to.”
“Oh my God. It is so obvious you weren’t born in Jersey. You know nothing, Paris Tehrani.”
I spent the rest o
f the afternoon making sure the staff at Hotel Galvez in Galveston, a five-star luxury hotel, had the penthouse rooms adequately stacked with booze and sugar-free candies and knew to expect an “eccentric” guest. I was also coordinating meeting times, restaurant reservations, party RSVPs, drivers, helicopter hops, and the private jet for both Andrew and Frank. Frank, as usual, created an extra challenge—he was unable to tell me where he wanted the driver to pick up his luggage when it was time to depart. I found it bizarre that he had multiple houses within a two-hour radius of one another. He believed in options, like picking out a shirt for the day. Sonya and Liam Coyle stayed in the Lenox Hill brownstone most of the time, since it was the closest to Liam’s school, but that didn’t seem to be a tether for Frank.
Happy hour was quickly approaching. I decided to wrap up the final details the following morning, like finding models willing to go on a date with a rich goon. I packed, quietly, so I could slip out without anyone noticing. As I was about to make my escape, however, two extremely tall men in flashy suits appeared at my desk.
Baring his white teeth in a striking smile, one of them asked, “Yo, is the big guy in?”
The other guy, with sharp brown eyes and a broken nose, said, “Damn, girl, he always make you work this hard?” He raised an eyebrow at the papers and files spread across my desk. There were stacks on the floor next to me. Frank took a lot of paper to manage.
“Oh, hello. Yes, he’s in. Let me tell him you’re here.” I ignored their flirtation and their questions. They were investors, both of them in the headlines: NBA players famous for their affairs and multiple baby mamas, though neither seemed to care about their reputations. Every woman in the PRCM office had been the victim of an ass grab from one, or both, of the professional athletes.
They didn’t have an appointment but Frank threw open his office door and acted like his fraternity had come to town.
“What up, dudes?” he hollered, bouncing on his heels.
I can’t believe these guys are willing to be seen in public with him. But, of course, it came down to money. Frank was the money guy. It was why he could act like a piggish buffoon and dress like a hobo and still get into the best restaurants with a drop of his name. He’d made a lot of people a lot of money.
I called PRCM’s car service and then Bar Pitti to make a reservation and preorder appetizers with a round of martinis for them. Frank had been going there weekly, ever since he’d cornered Gwyneth Paltrow at the bar one night and she’d had a drink with him.
I texted the CEO the details, reminding him he’d be flying out tomorrow afternoon, and that I had everything ready to go. I hoped he’d take that as an invitation to stay home until it was time for him to board. Stepping onto the elevator, I tried to think of any other reason Frank might call me, so I could resolve it before it came to that. But as I descended into the lobby, I let it go and smoothed my long hair. Benji was waiting.
We watched the May Day events on the TV over the bar in The Mermaid Inn, slurping down cheap oysters and Bloody Marys. The small, trendy restaurant had their rolling doors open to the sidewalk, which was refreshing until the air chilled as the sun descended. Benji noticed me shiver, even with my coat on, and he wrapped his jacket around my shoulders, rubbing my arms briskly.
“If we want to make dinner with your friends, we’ll have to leave soon. Good thing, or I’m going to freeze while you’re all cozy in two coats.” He ran a hand through his dark blond curls, which always made me melt. Then he took a swig of his beer, set it down, and said, “Hey, I have something important to talk to you about.”
I stopped chewing, tried to swallow without choking. Is this it? Are we finally going to spend the night at my apartment? Or maybe he’s breaking up with me … I didn’t want to be chewing like a cow with a cud while he regarded me so intently from his barstool.
“I set up a job for you.”
I wasn’t tracking. “Huh?”
“One of my bigger clients owns a string of boutiques downtown; they want a whole new advertising spread. They are willing to take you on as the photographer, as a favor to me. I showed them your portfolio and they like your work.”
“You are kidding me.”
“Nope. One hundred percent for real. It’s time you got serious.”
My face felt numb, my stomach hot. My hands started to shake; I tucked them between my legs. “Serious. Seriously. You’re serious?” He nodded. “But, I … okay, so …”
Benji’s hazel eyes crinkled with laughter. “It’s okay, I’ll talk you through it. It’s an important gig, but you can totally do it.”
“When do they want to get started?”
“That’s my girl. This weekend. Late Saturday afternoon.”
My brain whirled with excitement. Normally, I was on call weekends, since Frank couldn’t go a day without needing me to find his wallet or to solve a ridiculous personal problem, like what cologne he should wear. But he was going to be far away that weekend, with Andrew watching over him.
“On a scale of one to ten, would you agree that Paris’s snoring is at an eight?”
Gina peered expectantly at Benji over several empty wine bottles and dirty plates, the white linen tablecloth spattered with marinara sauce and Chianti. Galli, in SoHo, served huge portions of pasta at normal prices, and Gina and Lucia had deemed it fit for consumption.
“I do not snore!” I said, indignant.
“Well, you’d had a few glasses of wine that night, baby …” Benji dramatically swept his gaze over the table and the empty glass in front of me, grinning wickedly. “I find it charming. Maybe tonight I can record you.”
My heart skipped a beat. He wanted to spend the night with me. I grinned back.
“There is nothing charming about it,” said Lucia, lifting her glass of sparkling water in a toast to my septum. “Unless you enjoy the sound of a wide-open engine.” She sniffed pretentiously. “Please tell me you’re not a NASCAR fan.”
It made me happy to see her and Gina amicable. Lucia had told me they didn’t talk about the pregnancy. When she’d mentioned maybe keeping the baby, Gina had walked out, but first hotly reminded Lucia she hadn’t even told her parents about the pregnancy—how did she plan to hide a baby?
It was hard not to notice Lucia’s cute little baby bump on her thin frame. But if they could find a way to eat peaceably together, I was happy. Even when they were mocking me.
“What’s NASCAR?” asked my handsome photographer, with a crooked, far-too-innocent smile that led me to believe a Saturday at the track was likely in my future.
While my friends joked together, I smiled warmly. Not just because my people were getting along smashingly, or even because Benji had finally thawed on his no-sex policy, but because it hit me that he’d used a term of endearment. “Baby.” So natural, so sweet. How I love this man.
I sat up straight. I loved him? I plucked that thought out of my head, laid it gently in a metal tin, sealed it up, and tucked it into a dim corner of my mind to be explored when I was alone. I was intent on having mind-blowing sex and cuddle time. True, neither of us was interested in being with anyone else right then, but deep, permanent feelings—which could leave deep, permanent scars—needed to be dealt with carefully.
Lucia, her hand on her rounded stomach, more sexy as a pregnant woman than I would ever be on a normal day, put her drink down and studied me. “Bella, I need to ask you a favor.” She opened up the calendar on her phone and showed me an appointment note. “I have a sonogram scheduled for Saturday morning. Would it be possible for you take me?” She tilted her head at me, avoiding Gina’s gaze. “Gina is working. If you can’t, Paris, it’s okay. I can get there myself.”
“No, I would totally love that! Will we see the baby? Are we finding out if it’s a girl or a boy?” I knew I was her second choice, but I was happy to fill in until Gina chilled the hell out.
She laughed. “The bambino is as big as a lime, but it’s too small to see the gender.” She rubbed her tummy. “We wi
ll hear the heartbeat.”
“That is so cool,” Benji said, with such earnestness, and so loudly, we turned to him in amazement. “What?” he said. “I like babies.”
We were laughing and teasing him when the waiter approached the table. He frowned at our boisterous group. “Would the ladies or gentleman care for dessert? The menu is limited,” he said stiffly, implying we should get the hell out of there.
Benji offered him a slow smile and tried to slide the dessert menu out of the waiter’s pinched fingers. There was a slight struggle, but Benji won, holding up the laminated sheet triumphantly. “Ladies, I’m thinking chocolate. You?”
“Ahh. One more reason to adore you, Benji,” said Gina, wrapping an arm around him. “You’re a keeper.”
I opened my mouth to agree when my phone went off.
Lucia, Gina, and Benji went dead silent. Their heads swiveled to me in sync.
“Don’t answer it, Paris,” Gina said, low and intense.
I stared at the screen. It was Frank. Of course it was Frank.
Gina saw me hesitate. She scoffed, “What, the office out of Coffee-mate?”
Lucia put a hand up in the air like a referee. “Gina—” Pregnancy had turned the Italian model into a nurturing ball of empathy.
Benji’s hazel eyes rested on me, unreadable. He said nothing.
On the fourth ring, I said, “I am so sorry, guys. I have to at least see what he wants. He’s my boss.”
I knew how lame that sounded when I said it. Whose boss calls after hours? Well, I argued with myself, the boss of someone who gets paid a decent wage. Someone with no safety net and a dad with money problems to think about. I answered it.