Just Like Family

by Kate Hilton

  Tara and Jenny were already at the bar when I arrived. Peter’s serenade had made me late. “Peter says hi,” I told them.

  “Tell him hi back,” said Tara. Jenny said nothing, but I didn’t expect her to. I’d been wondering if it was time to bow out of the Outrage of the Week Club, maybe by missing the odd one and gradually ramping up my absenteeism. But Tara would have had a fit, and I didn’t want to have another infraction on my record.

  “Happy Friday!” said Tara. “Are you ready to rage?”

  “Is that a serious question?” said Jenny.

  “You go first, then,” said Tara.

  “Anton is a complete dickhead,” said Jenny.

  Tara, our adjudicator, shook her head. “You know the rules, Jenny. Specifics, please.”

  “Also, this is not new information,” I said. “You can’t win on the same outrage more than once.” I was growing weary of Anton stories. I knew too much about Jenny’s boss at Brand Awareness, the marketing and communications firm where she worked as a graphic designer: how he tormented his employees by vacillating between excessive praise and unwarranted criticism; how he dangled promotions while taking credit for their work; how he promised them salary increases and holiday bonuses that never materialized; how he brought his dog to the office and made the most junior designers take him for walks.

  “This time it’s different,” said Jenny. “I’m quitting.”

  Tara and I exchanged a look. Jenny talked about quitting constantly.

  “I’m serious, you guys,” said Jenny. “Remember my financial services client? The one who kept rejecting my concepts because they didn’t ‘pop’ enough?”

  We nodded.

  “Anton wrote off all my time so management wouldn’t see that he’d overinvested. And now it looks like I’ve been slacking on my hours, even though I’ve been living at the office. I fucking hate him.”

  We drank in solidarity.

  “Good one,” said Tara. “But I wouldn’t count on your free drink just yet.”

  “Big talk,” said Jenny, smiling, and in that moment, I missed her intensely.

  “Perhaps you heard about it on the news,” said Tara. “The company that gave out wooden spoons to everyone at the baseball game, so fans could ‘stir up some excitement’?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “Didn’t security confiscate the spoons?”

  “They sure did,” said Tara. “Which is exactly what I told them the stadium would do. And then they did a press release, without consulting me, about their plan to donate the confiscated spoons to a ‘wooden-spoon-needing charity.’”

  “Is there such a thing?” said Jenny.

  “No,” said Tara. “There isn’t. Also, it sounds stupid. Which I would have told them, if they hadn’t fired me for their epic PR fail that I had nothing to do with.”

  “It’s going to be close this week,” I said.

  “What about you?” said Tara. “You can’t win if you don’t play.”

  “I don’t have an outrage this week,” I said. I didn’t have the energy to deal with Jenny’s disapproval just then.

  “Really?” said Tara. “Earlier this week, you said you were going to dominate.”

  “I did?” The beginning of the week seemed like an age ago. And Peter had sung me into the elevator.

  “Peter turned on the charm just in time, did he?” said Jenny.

  I didn’t want to rise to her bait, but I felt blood heat my cheeks. “I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

  “He’s good at that,” said Jenny. And we were off again.

  “I know you don’t like him—” I said.

  “Understatement,” said Jenny.

  “—but you need to respect my relationship with him.”

  “Well,” said Jenny, “that’s not going to happen anytime soon. My own quote ‘issues’ aside, Peter has turned you into an obsessive workaholic with no outside interests. When did you last read a book, Avery? Or see a play? Or do any of the things you used to enjoy before Peter got his hands on you?”

  “Jenny,” said Tara.

  “He’s a user,” said Jenny. “He uses people for his own ends. And now he’s using you. And the day you figure it out will be a bad day for you.”

  Every time, I thought. Every damn time. Was it too much to ask for a night off? “You don’t understand how lucky I am for a lawyer at my stage,” I said. “My classmates would kill to be in my position.”

  “Don’t they call that Stockholm syndrome?” said Jenny.

  “Two can play this game, Jenny,” I said.

  “Guys,” said Tara. “Please.”

  “No, Tara,” I said. “I sit here every week and Jenny judges me. Fuck that. I have a successful career that I enjoy. The person at this table who’s throwing away her talent is Jenny.”

  “Avery,” said Tara. “Don’t.”

  “It’s true,” I said. “You’re an artist. And you’re sitting in a cubicle, making shitty graphic designs for companies you don’t care about, and taking orders from people who you don’t respect. Why do you get the moral high ground here? You don’t like my boss. So what? I doubt I’d like Anton.”

  “Anton didn’t steal the only father you ever knew and bankrupt your mother,” said Jenny. “And if he had, I wouldn’t be working for him, because he would be my sworn enemy. I am not Switzerland.”

  I shook my head and stood up. “Enough,” I said. “Jenny, I’m sorry I’m a disappointment to you. I feel sad about that, but I can’t keep living this drama over and over again. It’s exhausting.”

  “Avery,” said Tara. “Please don’t do this. Stay. Don’t walk away.”

  I gathered my coat. “I’m sorry,” I said. Jenny said nothing.

  “You can fix this,” said Tara to Jenny.

  “No,” said Jenny. “Not this time.”

  I thought about going home, but Matt wouldn’t be there yet, and I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to feel purposeful, competent. I walked back to the office.

  Peter was in his office, reviewing my notes. He said, “You were right. The Coulter case is a mess.”

  I took off my coat. “I’m here.”

  {CHAPTER 17}

  Tuesday, July 18, 2017

  It’s Tuesday morning, 8:30 a.m., officially forty hours since I’ve received any communication from Peter. My fury is starting to fade, or at least be overshadowed by my panic. He’s never gone underground like this, not in all of the years we’ve worked together. People are looking for him. Specifically, people are looking for him for the waterfront development meeting at nine, which I scheduled and cancelled twice yesterday, and which I must hold this morning at nine in order to prevent a revolution among our left-wing base.

  I circle the outer office again, cruising past Bonnie’s desk. She barely raises her head.

  “No,” she says. “I haven’t heard from him.” She is unsympathetic to my plight. Her position requires no explanation: she told me not to open Peter’s door. I have both disrespected her authority and triggered consequences that are raining down on the entire office. I am not entitled to her pity.

  “What should I do about the meeting?” I ask her. I have my merry band of Jim, Marla, Doris, Glynis, Charis, and Marshall on their way, along with a team of architects. I have agendas. I have briefing notes. I have copies of the newest version of the plans, which have the daycare centre and the women’s shelter in a completely separate building from the artists’ studios. I have a conference room booked. I have coffee and paper (not Styrofoam) cups. I have muffins from a local organic bakery that provides jobs to women transitioning back into the community after serving prison terms. I’ve even managed (thanks to Peter) to provide Marshall Westwood with forty-eight hours’ notice of the meeting. But I don’t have a mayor, and that is a big problem.

  Bonnie shrugs. “That’s why you’re the chief of staff,” she says. Her phone flashes and she holds up a hand to stop me from answering. “Good morning, Mr. Mayor,” she says into the receiver. “Yes, s
ir. Everything is organized. We’ll see you shortly, then.” She disconnects and says, “He’s on his way.”

  “Thank God,” I say. “When will he be here? I’d like him to talk with the architects to go over the plan before he goes into the meeting.”

  “That’s unlikely,” says Bonnie as the door opens and Doris Renaud enters the office with one of Glynis or Charis. Twenty minutes early. Of course they are.

  “I would like it noted that we are offended by the multiple changes in the meeting time,” says Doris. “It underscores the mayor’s contempt for women’s issues. He could not have made it more obvious that we are not his top priority. This meeting should have been held yesterday morning. As it is, Charis was unable to be here today, having moved an appointment to accommodate the original meeting time.”

  “Please give her my apologies,” I say. “We were attempting to work with eight busy schedules on short notice. It simply wasn’t possible to get everyone in one room yesterday, even with Bonnie’s scheduling wizardry.” This offering fails to elicit even a hint of a smile from Bonnie.

  Doris scowls. I smile harder. “Why don’t I put you in the conference room now, and you can have some coffee?” I say. “I’ll give you a copy of the agenda as well.”

  “Fine,” says Doris. “I would appreciate a few minutes alone with the mayor when he arrives.”

  “So would we all,” I say. “Let’s play that by ear.”

  I lead Doris and Glynis to the conference room. “Make yourselves comfortable,” I say.

  Doris studies my admittedly sparse breakfast buffet. “Are these muffins gluten-free?” she asks.

  “Uh, no,” I say. “They’re organic and socially responsible.”

  “Any herbal tea?”

  “Let me check in the kitchen,” I say.

  “Doris is extremely sensitive to caffeine,” says Glynis.

  “On it,” I say, and return to the reception area as Jim Crawford and Marla Kraft reach the heavy glass doors. Marlene struggles to pull one open while Jim watches. She holds it for him and he glides through.

  “I understand you heard from the international greenkeeper,” says Jim.

  “Marshall Westwood, yes,” I say. “He was able to clear his schedule and be here this morning. I’m expecting him any minute.”

  “I’d like a private word with the mayor before the meeting,” says Jim.

  “That may not be possible,” I say. “The mayor has had back-to-back meetings this morning. He’s on his way now but may not arrive with time to spare.”

  “I’m sure afterwards would be fine,” says Marla.

  “Let’s go down to the conference room,” I say, ushering them back through the doors and down the hallway.

  “Did you find any herbal tea?” says Glynis as I enter. She casts a worried glance at Doris, who is filling a paper cup with coffee.

  “Still looking,” I say.

  “What the hell kind of muffins are these?” says Jim.

  “Banana bran chocolate, pumpkin sunflower, and raisin cardamom,” I say.

  “Ridiculous,” says Jim. “What happened to blueberry? What happened to chocolate chip? Who wants to eat stuff like this?”

  “It’s local and organic,” I say.

  “That’s nice,” says Marla.

  “I’m going to look for that tea,” I say to Glynis.

  “There you are,” says Bonnie as I enter the reception area. Logan Kim, my lead architect, and two of his juniors are waiting in a cluster off to one side of Bonnie’s desk.

  “I’m going to try to get us a few minutes with Peter,” I tell them.

  “Good,” says Logan. “We can’t keep moving units around, Avery. We can’t make structural changes without escalating costs at this stage. If we’re adding a green roof, we need to reinforce the structure. If we’re moving the childcare centre, or the studios, or the shelter, or any other element of the design from one building to another, it involves structure.”

  “I get it, Logan,” I say. “We need to give Peter a primer, that’s all. There’s no cause for alarm.”

  “Avery,” says Bonnie. “This is Mr. Westwood.” I turn to greet a middle-aged man in shorts, a Mother Earth League T-shirt, and sandals.

  “Pleather,” he says.

  “I’m sorry?” I say.

  He points to his sandals. “Pleather, not leather, in case you were wondering.”

  I wasn’t. I shake his hand. “Thanks for joining us,” I say.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it,” he says. “I’m only sorry that MEL wasn’t kept abreast of this project from the earliest stages of planning. It’s always so much more expensive when we get involved this late.” He smiles with only the slightest trace of humour. Behind me, Logan sighs. It is the sigh of a person who understands that his day is only getting worse.

  “Do we have any herbal tea in the kitchen?” I ask Bonnie.

  “No,” she says. “Aidan Clarke has left five messages for you.”

  “Not today,” I say. “I can’t talk to any reporters today. Do we have any herbal tea anywhere else?”

  She purses her lips and opens a drawer in her desk, pulls out a box, and hands me a single, wrapped tea bag. “Chamomile peppermint,” she says.

  “Thanks,” I say. She nods, curtly, all business.

  I deliver Marshall to the conference room. “Would you like a muffin?” I ask.

  “God no,” says Marshall. “Those things will kill you.”

  “I’ve gone gluten-free,” says Doris. “It’s added years to my life.”

  “Gluten is only one of the poisons in these muffins,” says Marshall. “Lectins and phytates are every bit as toxic. Modern wheat causes all kinds of autoimmune disorders—multiple sclerosis, chronic fatigue, asthma, irritable bowel syndrome—all preventable!” He pats his ample midsection. “No wheat belly here!”

  Glynis and Marla drop their muffins.

  “They’re made by women reintegrating into society after prison terms,” I say, to no one in particular. “I’ll be right back.”

  Glynis intercepts me as I head for the door. “The tea?” she asks.

  “Right, sorry,” I say. “Here. I found one. It’s chamomile peppermint.”

  I hope it’s not too late,” says Glynis.

  “Me too,” I say. I don’t have time to worry about what she means. It’s after nine. I need to find Peter.

  “He’s here,” says Bonnie as I enter the office. “He’s in there.” She points to his door.

  “Mood?” I ask.

  She raises an eyebrow, which I take to mean You’re on your own, kid. I can hear cursing from behind the door. I knock tentatively.

  “Peter?” I call. “They’re waiting for you.”

  The door opens and Peter glowers at me. “Where’s my fucking briefing note?” he says. “I’ve been looking everywhere for it.”

  “I emailed it to you last night,” I say. “I have a hard copy here.”

  “I don’t have time to read it now,” he says. “I guess I’ll have to wing it.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend that, Peter,” I say. “Let’s take a couple of minutes now and I’ll sketch it out for you. Logan Kim is here and he can take you through the drawings.” Wing it? I think. It’s not enough for you to look unprepared? You have to make us all look incompetent as well?

  “You’ll have to tell me while we walk,” he says. “It’s nine fifteen. These folks have been waiting too long already.” The use of the word “folks” is a positive sign that Peter is putting on his game face. We can do this.

  “Fine,” I say. Logan falls into step with us. “The players this morning are the artists who live and work in the co-op, the women’s organization that supports the shelter and childcare centre, and the environmentalists.”

  “MEL?” asks Peter.

  “Yes,” I say. “Jim Crawford is connected with them, but I haven’t yet figured out how or why.”

  “Bottom line?”

  “Everyone wants us to spend mo
re money, which we can’t do. Everyone wants something that, if we agree, will disadvantage one of the other groups at the table. Promise nothing. The project is over budget.”

  “We can’t make structural changes to the plan, sir,” says Logan, who has done a remarkable job of restraining himself thus far. “We are trying to cut all the frills and stay inside the boundaries of the structural drawings so that we don’t have to open them up.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, but we can’t send them away empty-handed,” says Peter. “First rule of politics.”

  “I thought that was ‘Don’t fuck the intern,’” I say under my breath.

  “What?” says Peter.

  “I said, ‘I think with luck, they’ll turn,’” I say.

  “It’s not about luck,” says Peter and turns his back on us.

  Logan and I exchange a glance. I hold up my hand and cross my fingers. Logan presses his palms together, yoga-style, in the centre of his chest. One of his juniors pulls a crucifix from underneath the collar of her shirt and kisses it. The second junior looks astonished, then awkward, and then gives us all a thumbs-up sign. It may not be about luck, but we’ll take all the help we can get, and our little group is hedging its bets and covering its collective ass. It may not be the first rule of politics, but it’s an important one.

  To give him his due, Peter starts strong. He opens his arms to his activist brothers and sisters, and beams as if they are old friends, long separated, now reunited by common cause and felicitous circumstance. “I’m so pleased to have you all here at city hall,” he says. “The waterfront development means so much to all of us. Let’s roll up our sleeves and get it right.”

  Everyone nods, and I can see the body language softening around the table. “I’ve provided everyone with an agenda and a plan of the site,” I say. “You have those documents in front of you.”

  “Thanks, Avery,” says Peter. “Now, the first thing I’m going to do is depart from the agenda.”