High Maintenance

by Jennifer Belle

  I had only had one other interview. It was with a handsome gray-haired man named Steve Levin at a small but elegant firm in SoHo. “You remind me of my daughter,” he said, just as I was about to leave his office. I had felt flattered. I liked reminding rich, successful real estate moguls of their daughters. “That’s Jennifer,” he said, pointing to a picture in a silver frame of a girl wearing a sweater.

  “She’s pretty,” I said. She really looked familiar. Jennifer. Jennifer Levin.

  As soon as I closed his office door behind me I realized where I knew her from. Jennifer Levin. The Preppy Murder victim. The girl Robert Chambers strangled in Central Park with her own bra. Jennifer Levin had been around my age. It could have been me that night. Although I would never have sex in the park at night because I was too afraid of rats. But when you have sex with a guy, even if he’s a jerk, you don’t expect to end up dead on the cover of the Daily News the next day.

  I stood frozen in front of the receptionist, thinking of something Andrew had said to me just the week before. “For Halloween I can be Robert Chambers and you’ll be Jennifer Levin.” “That’s not funny,” I said. That morning I had had rough sex with Andrew and a moment ago I had been sitting face-to-face with Jennifer Levin’s father. From now on, in her memory, I would be more careful.

  “Are you okay?” the receptionist asked me.

  “That’s Jennifer Levin’s father,” I said dumbly.

  She showed me a petition to keep Robert Chambers from getting early parole, and while I signed it I wondered, if I were dead, if my father’s receptionist would ask people to sign a petition for me. I didn’t think she would. My cousin died right after he was born and my father always secretly criticized my aunt Emma for not moving on with her life. My eyes filled with tears.

  I wanted to go back in and tell him not to worry. I wouldn’t let what happened to Jennifer happen to me. I would break up with Andrew. I wanted to show Mr. Levin my gun, to let him know I could take care of myself, but I didn’t have the guts to go back. That’s why I had chosen to work at Smoothe Transitions.

  “So, what can we do to make you happy?” my new boss said. She had an actual crest of some sort on her navy blazer. Who dressed like that?

  I remembered in real estate school the teacher said all we needed was a phone and a pair of comfortable shoes.

  “All I need is a phone and a pair of comfortable shoes,” I said.

  She looked down at my black high-heeled boots. They were Via Spigas that my father had sent me. It took weeks before I could get used to walking one block in them.

  “Well, make a lot of money for us and you can have any desk you want,” she said. “Except mine, of course.” She laughed and I laughed, too, trying to regain my wits. “If you need anything just holler. I have an open-door policy.”

  She left, and the woman I shared the shelf with hung up her phone without saying goodbye to the person she was pretending to talk to. Her things were taking up most of my half, including her big coat. I really hated her.

  I put my picture of the swami on my part of the desk next to the woman’s coat, and she looked at it. It didn’t go with the rest of the office. The swami stared out with piercing eyes.

  “Who’s that?” she asked.

  “A great swami,” I said. She looked over her shoulder as if she wanted to see if anyone had heard me say that. She looked almost scared.

  “Are you going to keep that there?” she asked.

  I noticed a picture of a gray-and-white Shih Tzu wearing a barrette pinned to the bulletin board in her corner.

  “Yes I am. I consider him one of the secrets to my success.”

  I introduced myself confidently. She had a Post-it on her telephone with the words “My Number” written on it and her seven-digit phone number. I figured if she couldn’t even remember her own phone number she wouldn’t pose much of a threat.

  “I’m Carla Lerner,” she said. “I’ve been here for almost six months. I think you’ll like it, it’s a great company. Kim’s great.” She had a long face and plain brown hair. She looked jowly.

  “Who’s Kim?” I asked.

  “Who’s Kim?” she mimicked. “Kim’s our boss. The woman who just brought you over to your desk.” She looked at me as if I would be no threat to her if I couldn’t remember the name of my boss.

  “Oh Kim, I thought you said Tim,” I said. “Oh, yeah, Kim’s great.”

  Around us people screamed into phones. I recognized Marti Landesman, one of the most infamous brokers in New York. I suddenly realized I had no idea what I was doing. I didn’t really know how to use the computer. I didn’t know anything. Working here was going to be completely different from Dale’s perverted little office. At least here no one was chain-smoking marijuana and I could use my phone as much as I wanted.

  I called Violet and gave her my new work number. She was just lounging around at home deciding what to order from the Westway diner for lunch. We had a whole conversation in which she asked me long complicated questions about how I was feeling and I gave one-word responses like “bad,” “hell,” and “miserable,” so Carla Lerner wouldn’t know what I was saying. Then Violet had to get off the phone.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked again.

  “No.”

  “Do you have money for lunch?”

  I sighed. I would never start a new job without money for lunch. I would never leave my house without money for lunch.

  “I’m taking you into the bathroom with me,” she said. I could hear her peeing. “Liv, this is frustrating. It’s hard to have a conversation like this. You’re not telling me anything. What’s it like there?”

  “Suffocating,” I said.

  “Call me later.”

  I hung up reluctantly, letting go of my last link to the outside world.

  “I guess you’re not too happy here,” Carla said, as if I were the only homesick girl at camp.

  I sat in my armless chair staring at the swami. I took off my boots and crossed my legs under me, sitting like the swami on my desk chair. I smoothed my skirt over my knees and touched my thumb to my forefinger on each hand. I had to relax. It was really freaking Carla out.

  I looked into the swami’s eyes. I had never considered myself a spiritual person but maybe I was one. I called on the great real estate forces to help me. Steve Levin, Donald Trump, Barbara Corcoran, St. Francis (the real estate saint). Carla Lerner’s phone rang and she answered it. “I’ll call you back,” she whispered and hung up. I could feel her staring at me. I closed my eyes and the noise of the office softened. My fingers started to tingle. The muscles in my neck relaxed. Then my head snapped back sort of involuntarily. I wondered what was happening to me. I had never been in a trance before. I sat that way for quite a while and then suddenly I was filled with the feeling of knowing what I was supposed to do.

  “Carla,” I said, softly.

  “What,” she said.

  “Do you think you could find another place to put your coat?”

  Her face managed to go from long to longer. “Why? Is it bothering you or something?” she said.

  “Yes it is,” I said. “It’s taking up half of my desk.”

  She moved it over in her direction a quarter of an inch. “How’s that?” she asked.

  “Not quite good enough. I want you to get it off my desk.”

  She grabbed her coat and stormed over to the coatrack. When she came back I pointed to her tape dispenser, her mini-fan, and her Snack Well’s cookies. “Your stuff is still on my desk.”

  She moved her things over, walked back to the coatrack, put on her coat, and left. I picked up the wastepaper basket from next to her chair and put it on my side of the file cabinet, next to me. I figured that was enough work for one day.

  “Five hundred thousand dollars! Five hundred thousand dollars! That’s an insult,” a man was yelling into a phone on the other side of
the office. “Tell your client he’s insulting the owner. Is he aware that he is going to insult the owner?” He had one of the more deluxe free-standing desks reserved for the successful “power brokers.” His voice sounded furious but his face looked happy. He looked happy to be there, yelling at someone on the phone. I was jealous. I couldn’t wait until I could start screaming at people like that.

  I opened my organizer and turned to my “clients” section. These were the clients I had stolen from Dale’s. I dialed Noah Bausch’s number and left a message that I was no longer with the Dale Kilpatrick Real Estate Gallery because Dale Kilpatrick was insane, and now I was with Smoothe Transitions from where, I was sure, I could better serve them. Two pigeons landed on the ledge outside the air shaft window near my desk. Worse than Carla Lerner, worse than almost anything, now there were pigeons.

  20.

  XXX MINT PIED-À-TERRE

  There are a few things I always do with a man to endear myself to him, things I’ve done with all my boyfriends, such as jumping up and down a little at the thought of going to the zoo. Before I left my apartment with Andrew, I spent a long time fumbling with the zipper of the red rain jacket my husband had given me. It had been his, but I got him to give it to me by telling him that it looked like a woman’s jacket and that he looked like a woman in it. I stood there fumbling with the zipper like a little girl even though I could easily have zipped it quickly.

  Andrew turned around a few times to look at me trying to zip the thing. “Are you having a problem there?” he asked. He had a big smile on his face. I wouldn’t think that my zipper trick would work on someone like Andrew, but of course it did. He came toward me as if he intended to help me with my jacket.

  “I can do it myself,” I said. “See!” I zipped it all the way to the top.

  He came over to me and kissed me. “I just love you,” he said. It was the first time he had said it to me. But he didn’t say, “I love you.” He said, “I just love you.” Just-love wasn’t the same as love. It sounded so offhanded and fleeting.

  “I know you love me, too,” he said.

  “What are you going to do about your girlfriend?” I asked him.

  “I’m going to leave her.”

  “When?”

  “Liv, I need time. Why do you have to push like that? You just got me to tell you that I love you and that I would leave her. We just said I love you to each other. Why can’t we just enjoy that?” He unzipped me. “Come on, let me see you try to zip this thing again. It was kind of turning me on.”

  “I thought we were getting pizza,” I said. “We so rarely dine out.”

  He followed me down the stairs and out onto the street. We walked down the street in silence. “When we’re married, you’re going to be so proud walking down the street with me,” he said. “When we’re married, you’ll be proud every time you walk down the street just knowing you’ve got my ring on your finger and my money in your pocket.”

  I laughed. “When we’re married, every time you walk down the street, it will be like a small parade with all the private detectives I’ll have following you.”

  “I want to take you to a restaurant.” He criticized every restaurant we passed for blocks. Finally we ended up in SoHo at Fanelli’s.

  “Is this dark enough for you?” I asked.

  We sat in the back at a table covered with a plastic red-and-white-checked tablecloth. He reached over and took my hand.

  The waitress came over with water, silverware, and napkins. “Andrew?” she said.

  “Hi,” he said. “How are you?”

  “Fine, except for working here. How are you? I just saw Jordan on the street the other day and she said you guys were good.”

  He was still holding my hand on top of the table.

  “Uh,” Andrew said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” the waitress said, noticing our hands.

  “Who is Jordan?” I asked in a loud, shocked voice. I stood up. Andrew laughed nervously. “Oh, my God, you have a girlfriend?” I said. “You bastard. How could you do this to me!”

  “I’m really sorry,” the waitress said. “Oh, my God.”

  I stormed over to the bathroom. “She’s just kidding around,” I heard Andrew say behind me. In the ladies’ room, I laughed out loud.

  When I returned to the table, Andrew ordered a veggie burger without onions. The waitress looked miserable taking our orders, especially when he said, “No onions.” I ordered soup. The waitress brought us wine on the house. “Are you still acting?” he asked her. She got very animated practically reciting her whole résumé for the past few years the way all actors do. When she finally left us alone, Andrew said, “Liv, tell me what our kids will be like?”

  “We won’t be having any kids,” I said.

  “Yes, we will. You’ve probably already planned what they’ll be like.”

  I had worried that they might be hideously ugly with munchkin cheeks.

  “Well, they’d be short,” I said.

  “And what else?”

  “They’d probably be crying all the time and saying things like, ‘Mommy, why does Daddy live with that mean woman uptown instead of at home with us?’ and, ‘Mommy, why do we have to hang up when we call Daddy and that mean woman answers the phone?’ and things like that.”

  “Liv, I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you.”

  “They’d say, ‘Mommy, why does Daddy only take us to the most dimly lit McDonald’s and why do we have to wear these strange disguises and why do you hire all those men to follow Daddy and take those pictures of him?’”

  “I just adore you,” Andrew said.

  As soon as we finished our meal, Andrew wanted to leave. The waitress put our check down between us on the table. He didn’t make a move for it. “I’ll get this,” he said, finally.

  “That’s a good idea,” I said.

  “Oh, so you just expect me to pick up the check?”

  “Andrew, I’m the mistress,” I said, in a really loud voice, so the waitress could hear. “I’m the mistress for Christ’s sake, the other woman. The other woman doesn’t pay for anything. You don’t even buy me presents. Where are my presents? Where are my chocolates? Where are my flowers? You never even buy condoms.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, smiling. He stood up. “Walk me to the train.”

  We kissed by the Spring Street stop and said goodbye and then I walked around SoHo by myself for a little while. I realized my heart had been pounding the whole time I was with him. When I got home my face was still flushed. My phone rang. It was Andrew.

  “Liv,” he said. “Did my breath taste funny when we kissed?”

  “What!” I asked. It had tasted awful and garlicky from the veggie burger.

  “When I got home Jordan said my breath was funny and all I could think was, Oh no, I kissed Liv and I tasted terrible.”

  “You tasted fine,” I said. He sounded tortured, miserable.

  “I’ve just been sitting here, running the whole thing over and over in my mind.”

  I told him his stupid breath was fine, and we got off the phone. Then I realized he must have gotten pretty close to his girlfriend, if she could tell him he had bad breath.

  The first thing I thought of when I woke up the next morning was that I was in love with Andrew and I believed him. He was going to leave Jordan, which would be better for both of them. He wasn’t doing her any favors by staying with her if he was in love with me. I decided it would be for the best if he left Jordan by Friday.

  I called his number, but Jordan answered so I hung up. She had a nice voice. It sounded young and sweet. I had expected her voice to be so frigid it would freeze the phone line. Icicles would form on the receiver. But she just sounded normal. A few minutes later he called back. “Did you just call here?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said bravely.

  “Tell me you love me,” he sai
d.

  “I love you,” I said.

  “Oh, my God, that’s great,” he said. “That’s so great. I love you, too.” We had moved past just-love.

  “How’s your girlfriend?”

  “You tell me—how are you?” he said.

  “I’m talking about Jordan. Where is she?” I asked.

  “She’s walking the dogs.”

  “I’ve been thinking about something, Andrew. I think you should leave and move in here by Friday. Just get out of there quickly, and then we’ll figure out what to do from there.”

  “By Friday,” he said.

  “Yes, Friday,” I said.

  “That sounds like a good idea,” he said. “I’ll think about that.” It all seemed so simple now.

  “You know what I wish, Liv?”

  “What?”

  “I wish I could carry your cunt around in my pocket like a change purse, and always have it with me. A beautiful, soft velvet change purse.”

  “You sound like Jeffery Dahmer,” I said.

  He laughed. “I’ve got to go, I’ll call you from the office.”

  I got to work just in time to hear Carla Lerner describing a loft. She was holding a photograph of the living room and gushing about the location. “And it’s got those, you know, poles,” she said. “It’s got twelve white poles …”

  “Columns,” I whispered. “Not poles. Cast-iron columns.” The apartment Dale had shown me in her building had a pole; this loft had columns.

  “Twelve cast-iron columns,” she said, exaggerating the word as if it were something exotic, as if she had just learned Greek.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled, when she got off the phone. We didn’t say a word to each other for the rest of the morning. I spent about an hour recording my voice-mail greeting. “This is Liv Kellerman at Smoothe Transitions,” I said over and over. I liked the sound of it.

  I couldn’t wait for my first message from Andrew on my new voice mail. Jordan was visiting her parents in Connecticut and he was coming to my place for the whole night.