by Alex Wolf
She paused. “Wouldn’t selling the company make your bank account go up?”
“I already calculated that. I stand to make more if I just keep working with the company. Long-term investment.” He sighed in frustration. What was it to her if he wanted to keep investing his time and energy into a company he hated? She wasn't there to psychoanalyze him, or fix his business. She was just there to make sure he was organized enough to not miss meetings. He stared at her over his shoulder.
“You’re going to run out of money if you keep making products that ruin people's lives like that fucking Mia.” Her eyes met his.
“Mia was my father's pet project. He wanted to make a house that could look after itself, and all its inhabitants. I would at least like to see that project to its conclusion.”
“Your dad ordered Mia?”
“No, my father designed Mia.”
“Was your dad as bad at IT as you are?”
Matty whipped around, clearly annoyed at this point. “No, he was a genius. He just never completely finished her. We're having to iron out the kinks without him.”
Christina nodded. “So, Mia was left unfinished? That makes sense, actually.”
“Whatever did she do to you?” Matty’s eyes went to the floor. He didn’t enjoy hearing her rip apart his father’s work.
“Well, I tried to call you and Mr. Johannes but she wouldn't let me, and then she played Leonard Cohen at me while I looked for you. I can't even remember the last time I heard Leonard Cohen before today. Probably at my grandpa's house. And it wouldn’t go away until your music took over when I got to this room. That’s how I figured out you were back here and found the place.”
He laughed. “That's actually kind of funny.”
“I’m sure it is when it’s not happening to you.” She couldn’t keep her smile suppressed.
“She’ll work out in the end. It always works out in the end.”
“It doesn't for people who aren’t loaded. Most people's mistakes cost them their business. Relationships, hobbies, even their lives.”
“Mine don't. That's what matters.”
“Until someone won't take your money, or it runs out.”
He wanted to be angry at her. But she had a point. It only ever really worked out because he could afford to pay someone else to get the job done, or to lie for him. If the business truly went under, or they were sued for everything they owned, or someone wouldn't fix a problem for him, no matter how much he paid them, he’d be screwed.
He continued painting the thick waves of hair cascading down the gray woman's shoulders, the red glitter shining in the light the same way Christina's hair had shone when let loose.
He glanced over at her to admire her hair once more, wondering if she had worked out that he was painting her.
She was staring at her phone. Looking up, she made eye contact with him. She didn’t seem as relaxed or as entertained as before. “I have to go. Another client’s having trouble with his latest secretary and he needs me to help them out.”
“Another client?” Matty’s jaw flexed, and his fingers tightened on the paintbrush. “You have other clients?”
She nodded. “Uhh, yeah. This is a business, not a marriage. I try and give sixty or seventy percent of my attention to my newest client, to make sure they get the help they need, but I still go back to my old clients from time to time and make sure everything is in order.”
“I thought you were only working for me today.”
“I was. But Mr. Emery needs me more. I need to help him.” She stood up and dropped her phone into her handbag.
“How are his needs more urgent than mine? You've seen what a mess everything is for me.” He suddenly realized how desperate he sounded and straightened up. “Besides, you already began your work day for me. I'm not about to pay you to walk away, you know?”
“We’ll pick this up tomorrow, but I need to hurry. I have to get changed before I get there. Can’t show up in this.”
He paused and looked at her dress, a bit confused. “It looks fine.”
“It's covered in paint. I can’t go to work covered in paint. Look, I will see you tomorrow. Thank you for understanding.”
She walked off before he could say anything else, stepping over the still-creeping puddle of yellow paint. She disappeared into the maze of sculptures and canvasses. A few seconds later he heard the door open and shut. And he was alone in the studio again.
He stared at the painting before drawing a large brush stroke through the middle of the figure. Fuck that bitch. She’d completely ruined his inspiration. And he’d been on a roll too. It was looking so good and now he had no clue how to finish it. She’d just sat there getting paid to watch him paint, even if she said it was her lunch break. Bullshit. She’d eat something when she got to her house. He was sure of it.
He also wasn't sure why, but he’d thought they shared something special, something unique. He’d thought that her feelings for him were deep and meaningful. But apparently it was all just business. Apparently, last night hadn’t impressed her, nor affected her, as much as he’d thought.
Wiping himself down roughly with a towel to remove some of the paint, he slipped out of his painting clothes and into a pair of plain jeans and a clean t-shirt. He couldn't do any more painting today. The whole artistic flow was nothing but muddled shit now. He may as well go to the office and see if he could do any work. If she was going to walk off like that, then he needed to know how to handle his own business. He didn’t need her, or anyone else to tell him how to run his own damn life.
But he wanted her attention again. He hated her for that. Not actually hated, but she frustrated him to no end.
He sighed and decided to send her a bonus. It was how all problems were fixed, after all, wasn't it? Just send enough money through and she would have to come back. She herself had admitted to it. Everyone had a price.
Or had she meant that she was not going to be bought with money? Walking into the office and closing the door behind himself, he froze. What if that had been her subtle way of telling him that he had no power over her? She could not be bought. She would always have other clients, and she was not his own personal toy to play with.
And he damn sure wanted to own her. Now, more than ever.
He didn't want to marry. He never had. It hadn't worked for his father, or his brothers, or any of his friends. They’d all tried marriage, and all come out of it paying child support, losing a house, or just being bitter and miserable bastards with blue balls. He’d been put off that sort of contract for good reason.
But a long-term relationship was another matter. He’d dated a few beautiful women, almost monogamously, for a year or more. The experience hadn’t exactly thrilled him. For all the fun of a long-term relationship with frequent sex, and for all the social merits of having a stunning woman on his arm, he always found the experience stressful. Most of these models and actresses and socialites were just in it to get a ring on their finger, swiftly followed by a divorce and a hefty payment. As soon as they found out that marriage was not an option, they’d magically vanish. And he’d grown so tired of the game that he hadn’t dated seriously in a few years. It was easier that way.
Now, he felt tempted to give it another try. Not with a model, or someone whose main goal was to trick him into marriage for the sake of money. Just with a woman who was on the same page as he was. A woman who wanted a long, stable, happy romance without involving the government. Perhaps that was a good idea? Especially with a woman like Christina.
Someone who looked after herself. Who was smart and calm. Who did not complain about things she didn’t understand, like his art. A nice independent woman, who could get by on her own and not complain about him needing to take business trips, or be late at the office.
But if she didn't see their relationship as anything more than business, then what odds did it make? He had to see the arrangement for what it was. Just like she had not complained much about his art, he could n
ot complain much about her work, her organization, her straightforward attitude.
He sat back at his desk and looked at the piles of paper she’d been sorting. He couldn't deny that she was doing an amazing job. And that was what he had paid her to do.
Chapter Twelve
Christina sighed as she hung up the phone and started to type an email. At his age, Mr. Emery really should be handing the business to his daughter. She understood this world much better than he did. Unfortunately for him, part of his misunderstanding was that women were not capable of running a company.
Even though his daughter was far smarter, with a degree in business and another in accounting, her dad didn’t trust her with anything. He wouldn’t even let her answer phone calls for him, in case she “got ideas” about her place in the company.
He’d said she would only have a role to play in the company when she was married. Then her husband could take over the business and make sure she ran things correctly when Mr. Emery was no longer around to manage the place. If only he knew a little more about social media and the internet, perhaps he’d have known that Gracie Emery was a lesbian.
At least it meant Christina had work. Unlike other women, she was a trusted business partner for Mr. Emery. She was different in his eyes, though. She was calm and collected. She never wore her hair down or showed her knees under her dress. She didn't blush or giggle or even slap when she was hit on at work. She was bitter, snarky, and mechanical. As far as Mr. Emery was concerned, she wasn’t a man, but she wasn’t far off either. More like a robot, which he seemed to rank above women in terms of their ability to reason.
It was ridiculous thinking like this that got her most of her work. When she’d started out she’d wanted to just be herself. To be professional, of course, but also to be able to go for after-work drinks, joke around, and dress however she wanted. Make friends and just be normal. She’d learned fast because that was her strongest skill set. Adapting to her surroundings. Most of the people she made friends with in order to succeed at her job were like Mr. Emery—older men, from privileged backgrounds, with antiquated attitudes.
Smiling at them was flirting. Wearing something too bright or too low-cut was unprofessional. Going out for drinks was a date, even if there were ten other people there. There was nothing she could do that wouldn’t be misinterpreted. There was no way she could carry herself that wouldn’t ruin her career prospects. The best she could do was be cold, cruel, and hope they forgot about her quickly.
In fact, most of her employers no longer considered her a woman. The worst part was, she didn’t really mind. They’d just give her work and let her focus.
Her entire childhood she’d been ashamed if she wasn’t warm and friendly. But what had that got her? Condescension and oversight. The “bitch” always got the promotions. The “bitch” got respect. The “bitch” got a life. She was happy to star in the role of “The Bitch.”
But now, with Mr. Spencer, that understanding had been turned on its head. He made her want to be a woman. Want to be vulnerable and sweet and kind. Not necessarily all the time, or at the expense of her identity and her work. Just sometimes. Whenever she damn well pleased.
She wanted to stop being a machine now and become human again. For him. She wanted to relax and just be herself. Not spend all day trying to avoid being judged. She wanted to be as natural and wild as he was. She wanted to let loose, and be a sweet girl or a bitch, maybe even a combination—to find her own identity as naturally as he’d found his paint in that chaotic room.
She knew he was against marriage. She knew that he was cold and detached from most people. She knew that he went through girlfriends like a teenage rugby player went through pizza at a buffet. There was no hope that he would change. Men like that never did. They just kept going—burning through girlfriends, having fun with whomever they wanted, and casting aside anyone who ruined their fun.
Christina could try and lie to herself that Matty Spencer was able to change. That she could change him, but it went against all her experience. He had an amazing life. He wouldn't just become a different person because she still held onto the hope of marriage, against all the odds.
But he was the most amazing man she’d ever met in her life. He was the most handsome, powerful, and natural person she’d ever been around. She never thought she could meet a client she liked, let alone fall in love with.
Especially him. When she’d researched him and his company, she was almost certain that she would hate him. He was the mind and the wallet behind Mia, the automated system that’d ruined so many of her clients' lives. He was the reason that perfectly decent people lost their businesses, or had to completely remodel their houses, all while he got richer.
But she was wrong. She couldn’t even dislike him. He wasn’t a broken monster. Seeing him in that studio was like watching a caveman. That was how people were meant to be. He wasn’t some complete asshole, with his disorder, lack of punctuality, and poor filing systems.
She wanted nothing more than him. She wanted him to have her completely. And she wanted to surrender herself to him. She wanted to fall back to her primitive self and just be.
Everything else she did, from dressing that morning to sending Mr. Emery's final email, felt like a hollow attempt to extract meaning from a meaningless society. What was the point of any of it, if it didn’t make her happy?
She nodded politely at Mr. Emery as she handed him two pieces of paper. An invoice and a report of everything she’d done. He seemed relieved and carefully read both sheets before signing the invoice at the bottom. He promised her a check in the mail as soon as he had a moment to write one out.
“Thank you so much.” He stood from his chair.
“You’re welcome.”
It was odd. Normally it felt good to finish a job. Great, even. It was like her world was in balance, everything in its place—she’d created a little bit of order out of a clusterfuck.
But now she was like Sisyphus pushing his boulder up the mountain. What did it matter that she’d managed to keep Mr. Emery's website from collapsing? In a week or two it would fall apart again, and she’d be back in his office all over again.
It reminded her of what Mr. Spencer had said about the dust in his studio. That fine chalky powder which came from dry, smashed clay. It would creep, every single day, no matter what he did. It would take him most of the day, or a lot of money, to keep it from building up in the room.
Christina would’ve fought against it the entire time she was there. But Mr. Spencer didn’t. He could produce one work a day, if he was inspired. And he’d lived in that house for fifteen years, according to her research. That was a theoretical five and a half thousand pieces he could’ve made. From what she’d seen there weren’t nearly that many.
But it was still far more than she could’ve made. While she was spending her life fighting the natural disorder of the universe, Mr. Spencer had embraced it, and in doing so he’d created amazing beauty.
Christina left and drove home. Her flat was a world apart from the mansions and penthouses that her clients lived in. It was a small apartment with a tiny bathroom and a small kitchen area at the back. The medium-sized windows down one side of the room overlooked a quiet little alley.
It wasn’t big, or grand, or full of expensive and interesting items. But it was clean, it was tidy, and it was home.
Picking up the mail, she realized she’d missed two days' worth. The morning before seeing Mr. Spencer, she’d left before it’d arrived. Since then, she’d only been home to change for dinner. She paused and sighed, looked around. It was early evening. She couldn’t afford to wait much longer to go through the letters or she’d be no better than her clients.
The chaos constantly crept up on her. She could do whatever she liked to try and push back against it, but at the end of the day, it would always win. She opened a couple of bills and pinned them to her oversized calendar, specially made for her to organize everything. She threw a couple of fast
food advertisements into the shredder, holding onto one for a kebab shop. A kebab would be nice for dinner after the day she’d had. Not healthy, or amazing. But tasty and cheap and there’d be no dishes to wash.
Her phone rang while she looked through the rest of the letters.
She recognized the number from America and knew it could only be from one person—her father. He lived in Lexington, Kentucky. She leaned back against the wall. “Hello?”
“Miss Smith?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Doctor Stein.”
Christina’s heart dropped into her stomach. Her father had cancer, but it’d been in remission. “How may I help you?”
“I hate to say this, but your father asked me to call. He’s not doing so well.”
Christina blew out a sigh of relief, not at the fact her father was sick again, but she’d feared the worst. “I see. How’s it looking?”
“Not good. I’m sorry.”
“Tell him I’m on my way.”
“Yes, Ma’am. There’s one other thing while I have you.”
“Yes?”
“I apologize, but there are problems with his insurance. We’ll need to discuss that when you get here.”
What in the hell? He shouldn’t have any problems with insurance. She didn’t have time to deal with that at the moment. She needed to be on the first flight out. “Okay. See you shortly.”
Christina stood there in shock. It felt so surreal. The cancer had been in remission after an operation and radiation, and had shown no signs of spreading. He’d been well when he’d called her last weekend. Normal even.
Her heart was a hard lump in her throat. They’d been warned this could happen at any time, of course. She knew it could return. But, it wasn't supposed to happen to her, or her family. It was something that happened to other people.
She logged onto an airline website and booked the first ticket back to Lexington. Back home. She hadn't been home since Christmas two years ago. She moved to the UK years ago to study, and fell in love with the place, adopting their customs, and tastes. America was like a foreign land to the young expat.