by Mia Caldwell
“I don’t think so!” It was far too late for that.
“Give me your hand.”
“I can do it myself!”
One thing Nick had learnt about Zoe was that she did not like to be helped – or at least not physically assisted, and certainly not by him.
As Nick watched, trying not to allow his amusement to show, Zoe’s position reached a crisis point and the situation ended as it was always destined to – with a splash.
“Watch your head against the boat,” Nick observed as Zoe bobbed back to the surface.
“You think this is funny?”
“No,” said Nick, in defiant denial of his own obvious laughter. “I think it’s an object lesson in what happens when you don’t do what I tell you to. Let me help you.”
“I can manage!”
Nick wondered if her unwillingness to be touched was just about him or if it extended to all men. He found himself oddly concerned by it, not wanting to believe that it might be about him.
Zoe lunged for the boards of the dock, grabbing hold with her hands and hauling herself up with grunts of effort and a strained look on her face. With a massive effort she managed to get her torso out onto the dock and lay there panting and gasping wetly for a while before dragging her legs up, looking like a seal trying to pull itself back onto land.
“Graceful,” commented Nick.
“Bite me.”
“If you’d done what I told you…”
“Bite me.”
“On your feet,” Nick snapped.
There was a hard edge to his voice now and Zoe obeyed it, sullenly but without question.
“Right. This time, you do exactly what I tell you. We’re spending a lot of time out on the water today and it will be more productive if you spend less time in it.”
“Wait,” Zoe looked shocked. “We’re still going sailing?!”
“Of course.”
“I’m drenched.”
“Whose fault is that?” He tossed her a towel from his bag. “Dry off, then get on the damn boat.”
“But, my hair is a disaster. And my clothes are wet. I don’t have anything to change into.”
“I refer you to all my previous answers.”
“Nick, I’m cold.” There was a plaintive tone to her voice now. Although it was a bright, sunny day, the water was freezing and Nick could her hardened nipples poking at the front of her top.
He tried not to stare.
“Well, you should have thought of that beforehand. Get in the boat.”
Zoe did as she was told.
In fact, she did exactly as she was told the whole day.
Sailing did not come naturally to her but, with Nick’s new severity, she learned quickly, seldom making the same mistake more than once (although she was repeatedly hit in the head by the swinging boom). All in all it was a very successful lesson, far more so than those of the previous few days. And yet Nick found that he took little satisfaction from it.
They docked the boat and Nick sprang out to tie it up. He offered a hand to Zoe to help her out.
She ignored it.
“Same time tomorrow.”
“Yes.” She said stiffly.
Zoe turned to leave.
“Wait.” Nick felt he couldn’t leave things like this. “I’m sorry if I was hard on you today. It’s dangerous out there and it’s really important you did what you were told or something bad might have happened.
Zoe met his gaze with a curiously blank expression on her face. “I’ll do whatever you tell me, Mr. Rothberger. You’re my boss and that was the deal we made. But that’s not reason that you behaved the way you did today. Even if you won’t admit it to me, at least have the decency to admit it to yourself.”
With that, she turned on her heel and strode away, leaving Nick alone on the dock.
What had she meant by that?
Why else would he have snapped at her and forced her to continue in wet clothes? It was for her safety. Well… not the wet clothes, that hadn’t served any safety purpose at all. So why had he done it?
This self-questioning made Nick feel uncomfortable.
He seemed to be lifting the lid on a closed part of his mind that made him his skin hot and prickly. Unwelcome thoughts and images sleeted through his mind. He dismissed them. The bet was what mattered – that was what he had to focus on and that meant training Zoe, no matter how unpleasant it might be. That was why he had done all he had done; to get some obedience out of her.
They weren’t friends, bantering back and forth, they were employee and employer and it was about time she started acting like it.
That was why he had treated her like shit.
That seemed like a satisfying reason and it answered the questions in his head. But deep down, in a part of his mind he was not yet ready to address, Nick worried that was not the whole story.
Week one of Zoe’s training ended with an evening at the ballet. Nick had been putting this one off. Not because he had known that Zoe would hate it, but because he hated it. There were certain things that a man of his education and upbringing was supposed to like, and most of them he genuinely did.
He liked good food and wine (which did not mean that he did not also like a burger and a beer), he liked opera and classical music (which did not mean that he did not also enjoy rock and the guilty pleasure of ABBA), he liked the films of Truffaut, Dreyer, and Bergman (and laughed his ass off at movies like Airplane and Austin Powers).
But ballet?
Nick had a theory that no one liked ballet any more. Perhaps there had been a time in history when people had genuinely enjoyed it, before the invention of television, books and every other form of entertainment, but that time had long since passed and now people only went to the ballet because they were supposed to. Nick went about once a year with family and, for reasons he could not adequately explain to himself, he still pretended to enjoy it.
Why could he not be honest about it? He had no idea, but it was probably too late to start now. It was not that he could not appreciate it – ballet was obviously very hard to do, but then again it would be hard to make a glass sledgehammer, which did not mean that it was worth doing. Given the choice, he would, therefore, have happily left ballet off the list of cultural activities to teach to Zoe, but Vanessa (damn her!) had made particular mention of ballet in a couple of her emails to Jacques Jourdan. It was a passion the pair shared and so it was necessary for Zoe to know about it.
Of course, if Nick was correct, then neither Vanessa nor Jacques, actually enjoyed it, they were just showing off to each other. And so the horrible cycle of ballet continued – as long as people thought it was culturally impressive to know about it, then people would keep going to see it, and the dancers would continue to inflict it on the world.
“You’ll love it,” enthused Nick, lying through his teeth. “It’s just like going to the theatre.”
“I’m sure it’ll be great,” said Zoe, blandly.
Nick had expected, or more accurately hoped, to get a snapped response along the lines of ‘That’s what you said about Opera’. Since the sailing lesson the attractively acerbic side of Zoe had gone AWOL.
Which was worrying for two reasons: firstly, that side of her had been far more like Vanessa Reese, which was rather the point of the whole exercise. Secondly, it seemed that he had hurt her. He had taken the fight out of her and turned her into an obedient and characterless automaton. That second point ought not have mattered and Nick strove hard not to let it, but it did. She was easier to control now, easier to mold to suit his purpose, she did as she was told, and yet Nick hated himself for this development.
They made their way to their exclusive box, giving them a wide view of the assembled great and good of high society, who were using this pre-show opportunity to be seen and to be fabulous. It seemed that a night at the ballet was the price you had to pay to appear in public in your best clothes, your best jewels and with your best supercilious sneer on your face. Seats were ta
ken, the lights dimmed, the music began, and Nick took a deep breath and prepared to be bored.
The lights rose again after what seemed like an eon, for the interval. Nick glanced at Zoe and was disappointed to see again, that blank, characterless façade that she had been wearing since the sailing trip. Then, as she turned to him, he saw the façade crack and split, revealing the woman beneath.
“What - in the name of all things holy – what the sweet, merciful crap was that?!”
“Ballet?” ventured Nick.
“Bullshit is more like it!”
“Some people like it.” Nick was now trying hard not smile.
“Some people like having stuff shoved in weird places! Doesn’t mean we should indulge their idiocy by joining in!” It was safe to say at this point, that Zoe had not enjoyed the ballet. “You really like this shit?!”
“No.”
“I mean, what was that? Nineteen emaciated girls (with weirdly muscular legs) bouncing up and down on their toes, and one man in tights with his penis strapped down – and that’s entertainment?! What could you possibly see in this?!”
“I don’t like it either.”
“If the point is storytelling then why don’t they just tell the damn story without all this jumping about? What does it add? Why does watching two dozen idiots cripple themselves for life make a story better? It doesn’t!”
“I agree.”
“Would The Godfather be a better movie if Marlon Brando broke his toes halfway through?”
“No.”
“Would Pride and Prejudice be a better book if Mr. Darcy made Elisabeth jump everywhere for no earthly reason?”
“No.”
“Just cause something is difficult and painful, doesn’t mean it’s worthwhile.”
“I agree.”
“I mean it would be difficult and painful to tell the story of Cinderella while simultaneously having a colonoscopy but that doesn’t make it entertaining. I don’t see people flocking to see that! How can you possibly pay money for this? How can you possibly enjoy it?”
“I don’t.”
“How can you… what?” Zoe finally heard what Nick had been saying throughout her rant. “You don’t like ballet either?”
“No,” said Nick, simply. It occurred to him fleetingly that she was awfully pretty when she was angry.
“Then why in the hell did you bring me here!”
Once Nick had explained that Vanessa and Jacques Jourdan had bonded over ballet and that it was inconceivable that he would not bring the subject up and therefore it was necessary for Zoe to have some sort of basic grounding in the art-form, they got down to a discussion of Nick’s theory that no one actually liked ballet any more.
Zoe agreed whole-heartedly – ballet was like salad, people said they liked it but they really just ate it because it was supposed to be good for you. It was a conspiracy. When the second act began they entertained themselves by exchanging whispered comments about the dancers and individual audience members, pointing and collapsing in stifled giggles. As the evening progressed, the comments became less whispered and the giggles less stifled, until one of the stewards asked them to either keep it down or leave.
They chose the latter option.
They left the theatre still laughing and joking about the ballet itself and the people who voluntarily went to watch it. At one point on the walk back to the car, Nick thought he might actually pass out from laughing so hard.
Later, he dropped Zoe off at her apartment.
“Thanks,” said Zoe, “for a horrible night that turned out to be pretty fun. Let’s never do it again.”
“Amen to that.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow.”
There was still so much to learn.
Nick drove back home and went to bed. But he did not sleep, at least not immediately. He lay awake, long into the early hours of the morning, staring at the ceiling with a smile on his face. He had taken a few girls to the ballet because they had wanted to go, he had taken many more girls to places that were actually fun, but he was not sure that he had ever come home feeling like this. He felt light-headed, excited and… he felt happy. He had not thought that he was unhappy before, in fact he was pretty sure that he had not been (certainly he had no reason to be anything other than happy).
But this… this was something else.
Learning about new and exciting (and boring) cultural activities was only the first part of Zoe’s breakneck ‘sophistification’, sooner or later they had to address the issue of her appearance. Nick had purposefully left this thorny but unavoidable issue until they had had a chance to get to know each other a bit. It didn’t matter whether a girl was a shallow narcissist or a dedicated feminist who refused to shave her armpits, Nick knew no woman liked to be told that they look terrible.
Of course, Nick wasn’t about to use those words.
And, in fact, it wasn’t that Zoe looked terrible exactly, she just didn’t look like the woman that Jacques Jourdan was expecting, or indeed the type of woman who would be allowed into the building in which the all-important meeting was held by any entrance other than the tradesman’s. From her messy hair, mismatched outfits, and her scuffed ‘sensible’ shoes, Zoe’s ‘look’ could be defined by one word: comfort. Well, maybe another word also: thrifty.
That was about to change.
“I like my hair like this,” said Zoe, defensively.
The hairdresser – whose name was apparently Steven, although Nick severely doubted that was what he had been christened – looked at the mass of unruly curls and pulled a face that was somewhere between disgust and disbelief. “It looks like your lady garden has migrated upwards and then got out of control.”
“It’s very ‘you’,” said Nick, more diplomatically. “But, for the purposes of this project, you’re not ‘you’. You’re Vanessa. And Vanessa would never have hair like this.”
“Not on her head at any rate,” added Steven, unable to let a good analogy go. “I don’t know whether to cut it or wax it.”
“How about you shove it?” suggested Zoe, acidly.
“Kitty has claws,” said Steven, who seemed determined to play the stereotype of his profession to the upmost.
“Let’s start by styling it,” said Nick.
“Let’s start combing it.” said Steven, who would not be told his job.
“I combed it this morning,” snapped Zoe.
“If you say so, I won’t call you a liar,” replied Steven. “But I will say that you’re playing fast and loose with the term ‘comb’. Like using a toothbrush to sift through haystack.”
Nick was not sure that this new analogy was a great improvement on the last one. “Perhaps we could have more work and less commentary?”
Steven, put his hand on his hip and struck a self-consciously ‘get her’ pose. “I’m not about to take styling advice from…” he waved a hand to indicate Nick’s overall ‘look’, “… this.”
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” said Zoe from the chair.
“You might as well go get lunch. And probably dinner. Maybe breakfast too. This is going to take awhile.” Steven snarked.
Steven hadn’t been joking. Hours later when Nick returned, Steven was still hard at work. Although Steven kept up his running commentary throughout (it seemed to be a standard part of the service), and Zoe kept punctuating his efforts with ‘Oww!’ there was no denying that the man knew his profession. When Steven finally spun the chair around to present the new Zoe, Nick was stunned.
“Wow.”
“I know,” said Zoe, who was impressed despite herself. “I look… I look good.”
She looked more professional in Nick’s estimation. But Nick’s initial ‘wow’ was more a reaction to how different she looked than necessarily a comment of it being an improvement. For the purposes of the project, she certainly looked better – the wild, curly hair had been tamed, straightened and coaxed into a stylish and attractive ‘do’ that would catch
the eye of any red-blooded male.
Yet—somehow – he missed what she looked like before.
“It actually looks … quite nice. Sexy?” Zoe said, looking at herself askance. “I didn’t know my hair could be sexy.”
“Color me shocked,” muttered Steven.
“Yeah,” Nick hastily agreed. She did look sexy, no doubt about it. She looked much more like Vanessa. Jourdan would not have any reason to doubt ‘Vanessa’s’ skills based on her hair.
But he didn’t like it. It was okay for someone else – Someone like Vanessa. But not for his Zoe.
His Zoe?
The use of the possessive startled him.
Nick couldn’t stop staring. Her hairstyle was designed to look sexy - sculpted and sleekly shaped to achieve a sophisticated effect. But beforehand it had just been sexy. Effortlessly so. Sure, it might not have been something Vanessa would have worn, but on Zoe her natural curls had looked carefree and charming.
It was the difference between Angelina Jolie and the girl next door – one looked like a robot built to be the perfect embodiment of male desire, the other was actually desirable.
It was possible, Nick thought, that he was giving way too much thought to the relative sexuality of hair, which, whichever way you think about it, did not have a great deal to do with the act of sex. But if it did, and he had to choose between sex with the fake, sleek, restrained hairstyle Zoe now sported, and the wild curls of before, Nick would choose the curls every time.
Which was stupid.
Objectively she looked better like this. Before it had been natural, sure, but now it was stylish, sexy, sophisticated and just much more fashionable. This was a woman people would look at, a woman they would listen to, a woman they would be attracted to but know that they had no chance with. The previous Zoe was someone they would have overlooked and dismissed with one glance.
Yes, he was improving Zoe, and her old self would soon be a thing of the past.
With the new hair came the need for a new face (‘you can’t have this on top of that,’ Steven had pointed out).
Zoe glared at the both of them.
“You must have had a makeover before,” said Nick.