The Everything Girl

by L. Maleki

  I told myself not to be hurt by the probably racist, definitely sexist experience with the businessmen, but it was a matter of willpower to not succumb to depression. And if I was going to be barred from meetings, what did Frank think I was here for?

  I ordered a drink and then tried to reach my dad, and then Gina, but the only people willing to talk to me were the drunken letches who thought I was for hire. I wanted to also try Benji, but I knew he wouldn’t pick up and that would just crush me. I liked him so much, with his sweet humor, and artistic genius, and loving hands … picturing him lying next to me that night so long ago, wrapped in a sheet and laughing. I fought back tears. I put my relationship in jeopardy. And my new business.

  And for what, for this? I thought, leaning away from a bar customer who scooted closer and closer to me, and farther away from his wife. It was hard to hide my extreme annoyance by the time Frank lumbered into the room to get me.

  On the car ride back to the hotel, Frank muttered into his phone, recording notes to himself, stopping occasionally to scratch his head and research something on his iPad. He was preparing for the real meeting tomorrow. I breathed shallowly and avoided swift movement, lest I startle the beast in his natural habitat and draw attention to the Iranian American girl frozen in the corner.

  I busied myself by sending another round of text messages to my dad and Gina, who were pretending their phones had died. One or both of them may have been wishing I was dead. I started a message to Benji about twenty times, but deleted it before ever hitting send. It wasn’t just that he was mad, it was that I’d disappointed him so badly when he put himself out there for me. I simply didn’t know what I could say to make it better, to erase the disgust from his voice. I hadn’t done it on purpose, but I had done it.

  We arrived back at the hotel without incident. Against the odds, Frank bumbled his way straight back to his room, not bothering to say goodnight as he went in, still making verbal notes in his phone.

  I checked his iPhone GPS every five minutes until I could no longer keep my eyes open. He did not leave the hotel that night, at least not as far as I could tell. I fell asleep quickly, falling into the heavy slumber that comes from sobbing for too long.

  Frank was alive the next morning. He was even dressed in his preordained suit and tie choice, ready to go when I called to tell him the car was available.

  We met in the hall. He straightened his tie, glancing at me as we walked. “You look nice, Paris. Are you ready? Today is going to be interesting, you should learn a lot. Let me know if you have any questions.”

  Shocked, I could only nod. Who is this man, and what has he done with my boss? Maybe this weekend won’t be as bad as I thought.

  As I followed Frank Coyle through the lobby to the outside world, I searched for wood to knock on.

  Chapter 22

  The boardroom was beautiful, a bank of tall windows offering a vista of the white-beached shoreline and clear-blue water seamlessly blending with the sky at the horizon. The long table was burled maple, the chandeliers composed of tasteful crystal drops. My chair, tucked into the corner, was a bit of architectural magic that supported and comforted my body as I took notes.

  The council members perched around the long table; happily, three of the seven were women. However, the blowhard who had banished me last night was in charge, wielding his power like a bludgeon. He treated the men and women equally to large servings of condescension and aggression. Frank looked like he wanted to hump him, or be him, or both.

  “Mr. Coyle, I believe we’re ready to hear what you have to say.”

  My whole body cringed as Frank leapt from his chair like a clown from a jack-in-the-box. But when the hedge fund manager took over, he transformed into a different man. His hunched shoulders straightened, his paunchy stomach disappeared, his normal squint opened up to reveal intelligence in his green eyes, and his stringy hair … was still stringy, but he projected charisma and confidence, abandoning the aura of a beat-up middle school teacher.

  “You men and women have been at the top of your game for a while now. But now you want to take your earnings to the next level. That’s what I do. I’m the best there is in this already elite club.” He smiled, revealing surprisingly white teeth, then cocked a hip and pointed a finger gun at Blowhard. “I’m a bankster.”

  Oh my God, we’re done here, I thought. What a dork. But no. The Texans ate it up. Laughter bounced around the room. I rubbed my neck, amazed. Then Frank astounded me further by letting the humor float for only a few seconds before bringing the conversation back on track—instead of beating the joke to death, which is what he did back home, even though the jokes were never funny in the first place.

  “It’s true, the markets are volatile right now, and not apt to be resolved soon, not worldwide. The riotous habits of the industry will make it difficult to provide solid returns month after month. That is the nature of the beast.” He shrugged one shoulder, sighed dramatically, and crossed the room. “Sometimes we will have a bad month. We will lose money, and diversification will not always adjust for this. Not right away. You should be prepared.

  “But notice that I said we may not balance our earnings right away. Because this is the long game, folks. You are oil people. You know the long game. You’ve lived the long game. But you don’t know this particular game. Not like I do.” He jammed his finger in the air. “No one knows it like I do. And I make money. Lots of money.”

  My mouth was agape. This man is so competent. In charge of the room. Selling like a motherfucker.

  Over the next hour, he explained trends and prospects, forecasting a rosy future for these wealthy folks, with plenty of evidence that he could make that future happen, answering questions with aplomb and not a hint of intellectual snobbery. It was a thing of beauty.

  Why can’t he be like this every day? Imagine the loyalty he would inspire. PRCM would be a much healthier creature if the man before me came to the table more often.

  When he finished, there were handshakes and back slaps all around.

  Then they broke for a light lunch, catered in the private dining room. A martini lunch.

  Frank, of course, reverted to his normal, socially awkward self as soon as the first martini was down, but he didn’t become obviously drunk over his fresh fish salad, thank God, nor did he say anything outrageous or unprofessional. Sure, it was a tad weird when he interrupted a woman who was talking about fracking in the heartland of America in order to make a comment about llama farms, apropos of nothing, explaining how he loved them as a child and so purchased his own llama farm, and offered to fly everyone there that afternoon and pet his big, fluffy animals. I didn’t know why, but the Texans once again thought he was hilarious.

  As the laughter wound down, he opened his mouth to keep going but I kicked his ankle under the table. It was the only time since meeting Frank I was glad I was sitting next to him. And he actually understood the kick, squinting his eyes but shutting his piehole, especially when I gave the faint but distinctive finger-across-the-throat sign for “shut the hell up.” My guess was he’d been kicked under a table before.

  “Mr. Coyle,” I interrupted politely, “that conference call you asked me to schedule is in twenty minutes. I have the notes set up in your hotel room.”

  “Wha—”

  I kicked him again. He winced.

  “The call with Andrew and Todd. They would like to be looped in.”

  He rolled his eyes, exasperated, but the head Texan pushed back from the table and stood up.

  “Ah, well,” said Blowhard, “we’re done for now anyway. Why don’t we meet for dinner at eight? We can work out the finalities then.” He snapped his chubby fingers and an assistant leapt out of the background. “Make reservations for a banquet room at The Railhead.” He slapped his hands on the basketball stomach under his silk shirt and winked at Frank. “Best barbecue in Texas.”

  Walking into the southern heat, out of the office building, Frank unleashed his irritation. �
��What was with the kicking? And why am I talking to Andrew? He knows what I’m doing.”

  “There’s no conference call. I just figured I’d save you from a lunch meeting that seemed to be dragging on forever.” In reality, I was saving him from himself. We had a few hours before dinner and I needed to make sure he was able to close the deal. Otherwise, my life had been derailed for nothing.

  “Very clever, my little Persian princ—sorry, I mean, good thinking, Paris. Those suits were pretty boring.” He reached over and flicked my ear, as if I were a child. “Let’s go find some fun.”

  I flinched away. Who does that? “Uh, I think we should go back to the hotel before we do anything. It’s only a couple of hours before dinner and I’d like to freshen up, take a shower. It’s so muggy here.”

  He leered, the liquor adding a shine to his ugly pig eyes. I’d purposefully referenced myself naked in order to distract him. But in hindsight, it not only made me feel dirty, it also made me feel unsafe.

  “Sure, fine then.” As the driver opened the limo door for him, he said, “Driver, just take us down the main street and then back along the beach road. You can see the sunbathers from the road, right?”

  Once we were inside, the limo powered away from the curb abruptly, making me sway. Frank watched my chest, more blatantly than Blowhard the day before. Crossing my arms, a learned response since I was fourteen, I tried to limit the jiggle. I will totally rip off a hunk of his face with my teeth, à la Silence of the Lambs, if he touches me.

  I tried to delay in the lobby so he’d walk up without me, but he stuck close, at one point putting a hand on my hip to guide me around a corner. I pretended to scratch my arm and moved away. I kept my face poised, careful not to sway my hips or say anything that could even remotely be considered suggestive. I minimized myself, becoming a robot, a nonsexual being. At his penthouse door, I was acutely aware that Frank, who was my height and actively worked on acquiring liver disease and diabetes, could physically overcome me and drag me into his room. Worse, I was sure he wanted to.

  He started to speak. “Hey, why don’t—”

  “I’m gonna return a call to Todd,” I said, talking over him. “Let’s meet back here in three hours and head over to the restaurant?”

  He frowned at me and grumbled as I slid into my room and closed the door behind me. It took willpower not to whip it shut. I locked the bolt, carefully, quietly, so as not to insult Frank.

  So as not to insult the man who has pawed at me and said awful, suggestive things! What the fuck is wrong with me? I should have told him off, many times, and pushed his hand away whenever he touched me, but instead I minimized his actions so that by the time I was alone in an isolated place with him, he felt entitled to say and do whatever the hell he wanted to. Frank has been allowed to treat women like dirt. I’m allowing Frank to treat me like dirt. I have set feminism back fifty years.

  My desire to appease everyone was truly doing me no favors.

  I threw on a sundress, not taking the time to shower. Instead, I grabbed my camera and snuck back out. Leaving the lobby, I checked Frank’s GPS. He was in his room.

  I meandered down the beach, taking photos. The peaceful lull of the waves and the wind settled my angst. Digging my toes into warm sand, forcing moist air deep into my lungs and blowing out with gusto, I found myself missing Dad and our home.

  I took pictures of beach grass, and shrieking kids running into the white frothy gulf, and cormorants, and leatherback turtles. Caressed by the warm sun and ocean breezes, I enjoyed the glorious afternoon. I was grateful I didn’t see any snakes or alligators. I’d be too busy screaming and peeing myself to take pictures.

  Too soon, I had to turn back. I checked my phone for the hundredth time. No one I loved had tried to contact me, and the one I abhorred was still in his room.

  Carrying my sandals, I made my way back up the beach, toward our hotel, preoccupied. Why had I let Frank, and other men, cow me so many times? I hated that I crossed the street instead of flipping off catcalling construction workers because I was afraid of conflict. Of them, really.

  But eventually my focus shifted from general sociological ills to the specifics. Why had Benji given up on me so easily? That hurt. And why were Gina and Lucia refusing to talk to me? It wasn’t fair. Finally, why had my dad waited until it was too late to get my help? Anger and sorrow swirled through my brain and my heart.

  My feet left sandy prints as I crossed the pool area into the lobby. A familiar hoot of nasal laughter came from behind me. I twirled and faced the opening to the Hotel Galvez’s upscale bar.

  I looked at the Friends app on my phone. The blue dot that was Frank sat in the exact location as when I’d left the hotel. Yet, as I entered the dim lounge, I immediately spotted his slouched figure on a barstool, at least five hundred feet from his room, flirting with a woman who couldn’t have been younger than seventy-five, held up by an exoskeleton of diamonds and Botox. A margarita the size of a bucket was in his hand.

  Damn it. He must have left his phone in the room. I should have thought about that before.

  As I was trying to figure out how to get Frank out of the bar, the scrawny older woman next to him wandered off in the direction of the restroom, hip-checking each table she passed. From beside Frank, I motioned the bartender over.

  “Hey there, this guy needs to go. Can you settle up his tab and put it on his room? Penthouse A. And please bring a cup of coffee, to go.”

  “Pssht. I don’t need coffee.” But Frank didn’t argue further, just got up and wandered out. I got the coffee and followed. He was already in his room but answered the knock at his door. He had his phone, talking loudly into it while trying to wave me into the room with him. My feet remained firmly planted in the hallway.

  “Dude, right on. See you in ten minutes.” He hung up. “Wanna come in?”

  “Who was that?” I asked, handing him his coffee from the hallway.

  He did not slur his words, which I hoped meant he was sober. “One of the oil guys is sending his car around to get me. He wants to show me the golf course he just bought, and then we’ll meet at the barbecue place.”

  This is not going to end well.

  Frank had a supernatural tolerance for alcohol, but this was not the day to test it. Could I somehow finagle a ride along? Probably, if I showed some cleavage and an interest in partying. But no, I had to draw the line somewhere. And, really, dinner was not too far out and he’d be with one of the investors … How bad could it be?

  “Don’t forget your phone,” I said.

  Chapter 23

  When I arrived at dinner, there were no other women at the table, except for one of the Texan’s assistants, a terrified college girl whose face spasmed with relief when I came in. Where were the female CEOs from that morning?

  Frank was there, thank God. I’d followed his jaunt around town on my iPhone as I paced the length of my hotel room, suffering through bouts of the nervous shakes, praying the technology demons weren’t lying to me when they reported his blue dot went directly to the golf course and then to The Railhead. I was grateful to see his bloated face and squinty eyes in the banquet room, seated at the center of a table meant to fit at least sixteen, an empty seat on either side of him. Oddly, the six well-dressed male occupants were spread out, empty chairs between them all.

  “She’s here! Let the party begin!” gurgled Frank, choking on a drunken giggle. The oilmen chortled along with him, fiddling with their ties and twirling their mustaches. Frank raised a glass of red wine and toasted me. “The other girls will be here soon, I’m sure.”

  I lifted an eyebrow at the female assistant, seated at the end of the table. She looked down at her hands, misery radiating off her in waves. I drew out the chair next to Frank but he said, “No, Paris, sit down there, next to her.”

  I guess I’m not the life of the party after all.

  I sniffed and straightened my new black organza dress, smoothing a hand over the peacock on the side, embroi
dered in such a way that it looked like an elegant tattoo. The dress and I deserved way more respect.

  I moved down the table. I’d seen the girl earlier, but we hadn’t spoken, as I’d been busy taking unnecessary notes and watering down Frank’s lunch drinks while she’d been sent on multiple latte runs.

  “Hi, I’m Dee,” she murmured, nervously adjusting a bra strap under her tight red cocktail dress. “I am so glad ya’ll are here, you just don’t know!” She peered around, but no one was listening to us. “This is so weird. I’m only a junior assistant. Why’m I here?”

  I would probably have to help her figure out which was a fork and which was a spoon when dinner was served, but she seemed nice. “Dee, I’m Paris. You’re here so these boys have a lovely young woman to stare at while they suck on their barbecued ribs.”

  She bit at a fingernail nervously. “I don’t know … Your boss said you were bringing along some friends who were models …” She pointed to an empty seat and dropped her voice even lower. “My bosses are pretty dang excited about it.”

  The bottom fell out of my stomach. Oh. My. God.

  I had stupidly assumed when Andrew broke his leg and I was forced to come along that Frank no longer needed a paid “date” for the evening. I’d already canceled their contract. And, anyway, I’d only been asked to book two women—their agent referred to the dinner as a “modeling” gig—but the empty seats at the table made it look like the men were expecting a herd of beautiful ladies to show up.

  “Dee,” I said around a slow, thick tongue, “this is an emergency. Do you have any friends free to have dinner with us?”

  “Sure,” she said uncertainly. “John and Trent are waiting for me at the bar down the street—”

  “Girls!” I hissed at her. “We need girls!” I wanted to bash the stupid off her sweet face. “There are no models coming!”