Boss Girl

by Nic Tatano

  "On the prowl," said Rica, who was stretched out on the couch. "It would give women a guide to going out and taking the initiative with younger men. How to approach a man, how to ask him out."

  Neely nodded and wrote it down. "Ooooh, I like it. Good start. C'mon, more."

  "Convertible sex," said Jillian. "How putting your top down for certain men makes for a better ride."

  "Very clever terminology," I said, as Neely wrote it down.

  "All men like the top down," said Rica.

  "Reference checking," I said. "For women who are in management and in the position to hire people."

  "Wait a minute," said Jillian, putting up one finger. "Let's rephrase that a bit. For women who have… positions to fill."

  "Very nice," said Neely.

  "By the way," said Rica, "are we gonna have to write this whole thing or just come up with the concepts?"

  "I thought we could divide up the chapters," said Neely. "Maybe intersperse some personal experiences along the way. Amanda just wants a rough draft, then she's got some ghostwriter who is going to polish up the manuscript."

  "I got another one," said Rica. "Woman on top. A guide to taking control in the bedroom."

  "Great," I said. "I think we need a chapter on one-night stands, but I don't know what to call it."

  "How about catch of the day?" said Neely.

  The girl is going to be the Martha Stewart of sex.

  * * *

  "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear your answer through the giant bouquet," said Jillian, craning her neck so she could see me. "Do you think you could move the flower shop?"

  Her original question, "So, how are things going with Scott?" was dripping with Rica's brand of sarcasm. I slid the crystal vase filled with two dozen long-stemmed red roses to the side of the desk, and saw all the girls snickering.

  "Leave me alone," I said.

  "He obviously enjoyed things Friday night," said Neely, getting up to take a closer look at the arrangement. "I just love a man who sends flowers. Hmmm. No card. I guess none is necessary."

  "So," said Rica, "would that be one dozen per—"

  "Shut! Up!" I said, putting my hands up.

  My intercom buzzed. Saved by the bell. Hopefully it was something business related so we could move off the subject of the roses and Scott, who was now known as The Fly (as in ointment, not the classic horror movie in which the scientist swaps heads with an insect.) "Yes?"

  "You have a guest here to see you, Ms. Hack." There was a long pause, then the receptionist dropped her voice. "It's… your mother."

  My face twisted and my shoulders hunched up as my blood pressure immediately spiked. The sweet smell of the roses instantly took on the aroma of a New York garbage strike.

  "And the hits just keep on coming," said Jillian.

  Scott is a big enough fly in the ointment, but Mother is a different story. Will someone please put a screen door on my life?

  "What the hell is The Frigidaire doing here?" asked Rica.

  "No friggin' idea," I said, opening my top drawer and pulling out the industrial size bottle of Tums for a pre-emptive strike. The multicolored tablets bounced around like bingo balls as the bottle shook in my hand. I opened it and popped two, chewing them fast as a squirrel and letting the chalky calcium run down my throat in preparation for an onslaught of stomach acid that was already on the march to greet Mother. It's a professional courtesy thing.

  "I have a meeting," said Neely, fear spreading across her face as she quickly gathered up her things and headed for the door.

  "Me too," said Jillian, whose look matched Neely's as they grabbed the first lifeboats and bailed on the sinking ship.

  "Cowards," I said.

  "I wanna see this," said Rica.

  "Masochist," said Jillian, as she and Neely blew out of the office.

  "You think she read the paper?" asked Rica.

  I put my palms up and shrugged as I punched the button on the phone and answered the receptionist, who I knew would route all my calls to engineering if I let Mother sit in the outer office for more than two minutes. "Have someone escort her back, please."

  Of course she read the damned paper. And if she didn't, the women at the Old Southwich, Connecticut bridge club surely did and proudly presented her with a copy.

  Her daughter was a slut, and now the whole world knew it. But what really mattered was that Old Southwich knew it, and the world beyond its borders doesn't really exist.

  I guess I haven't told you about Mother. Not Mom, but Mother. It's an Old Southwich thing. The term mom implies warmth. Hence Rica's Frigidaire reference. And in Mother's case the defrost feature is permanently broken and can never be repaired. I've been avoiding the subject, but since she's here I guess I'd better brace you for her visit.

  Bootsie Hack (maiden name, Phyllis Hartshaw) grew up like Jillian but embraced all that goes with a life of privilege in the tony bedroom communities of Connecticut. You'd think she would have married someone named Farnsworth or Wellington, but instead she went off the trust fund reservation and hooked up with my dad; steady, reliable Bill Hack, a blue-collar guy from Stamford who turned her head at a high school football game. This, apparently, was the Old Southwich version of Rebel Without a Cause since Bootsie's family considered the relationship a scandal, as one night in the back of my Dad's Buick resulted in what is commonly referred to as a shotgun wedding, but in New England carries the more genteel term of compensation marriage. The result, in case you hadn't figured this out, is me.

  The night in the Buick is also why I'm an only child.

  After a honeymoon at the Hartshaw's Hamptons getaway, Dad took new bride Bootsie with him to college, which added even more to the scandal, since he attended a school that wasn't in the Ivy League. (The fact that I was conceived in an American car didn't help either. Any man who's knocked up a girl in a car in Old Southwich has at least had the decency to do it in a Volvo.) By the way, Dad is tall, well built, and has a strong anchorman's jaw; thankfully I got his eyes instead of Mother's satanic yellow. He's always turned the heads of women, and back in his younger days I imagine they would have been beating a path to his door, if not for the troll guarding the bridge that led to it. Anyway, Dad soon discovered that he was, indeed, now married to an anorexic refrigeration appliance who promptly announced after my birth that since her first sexual encounter was so unpleasant she never wanted to have sex again. Ever, ever, ever. (Must have been one hell of a honeymoon.) Dad chalked it up to some sort of post-partum thing, but when this dragged on for two years and the poor guy's pipes were about to blow, he pulled the plug on the marriage. Incredibly, Bootsie didn't want custody of moi, finding toddlers as repulsive as sex. (I'm told I was hell on wheels with finger paint, and on one occasion added bright red moustaches to all the Roman emperor lawn statues at the Hartshaw estate.) So I grew up under the wing of one of the coolest dads on the planet. He married a terrific woman after he graduated, who I do call Mom. Dad, bless him, has always been supportive of everything I do. He even understands the older woman thing, having spent two years with The Frigidaire turned up to her coldest setting.

  Bootsie, meanwhile, has spent the time since without so much as a date, clinging to her one bad experience in the Buick for dear life. Though only in her mid-fifties, she looks and dresses like she escaped from an Amish prison. If there were a line of clothes called "dowdy" she'd be the best customer, as I think she watches reruns of Dallas and is trying to channel Miss Ellie. Pictures of Mother in her younger days would carry the description of "plain", as she was typical of the no-make-up, non-feminine, straight-cropped haircut of Old Southwich girls. Now, along with her chin-length blonde hair having gone to that horrible mix of what can only be described as dishwater gray, she looks like someone blew up a balloon and then let all the air out of it, with so many wrinkles she probably has to screw her gloves on. About five-six in flats (she doesn't own a pair of heels) and rail thin with a hunched over posture, her appearance makes one wonder wher
e she might have parked her broom. Sadly, the traditional Old Southwich nose job removed what surely would have been a permanent Halloween costume. (I once asked Dad, "What the hell were you thinking?" His reply was, "I wasn't. The six pack of beer was making the decisions that night." Then he put his arm around me. "But look what I ended up with." The man is a sweetie.)

  I took a deep breath in anticipation of the visit, but the air didn't come out smoothly. "Be strong," said Rica, who probably noticed my hands were already twitching.

  A male college intern led her into my office, "Nice to have met you, Mrs. Hack," he said, then shot me a quick look of wide-eyed fear. She nodded at him, not deigning to return his politeness or noticing Rica on the couch.

  She had what looked like a New York newsstand under one arm as she turned to me. "Sydneeeey…" she said, as she always did, taking the last syllable up a notch and leaving my name hanging in mid-air like someone else was supposed to finish the sentence. I caught a faint hint of the Chanel she always wore.

  "Motherrrrr…" I said, trying my best to match her tone.

  "Yo, Missus H," said Rica. "How's it hangin'?" Rica knew her Brooklyn got under Mother's skin, so she always laid it on thicker than usual.

  Mother turned and narrowed her gaze. "Ah. Frederica. I didn't see you there."

  (At this point it should be noted that nothing, with the possible exception of Central Park mimes, pisses off Rica more than someone using her given name.)

  Rica's death stare begins to coalesce as Mother continues to look at her. While Rica's gaze is unparalleled, Mother's could be likened to Superman's laser beam ice-melting glare. This could be the clash of the titans. Seconds pass. Nothing is said. Finally Rica gets up from the couch. "I gotta go to a meetin' and I need a cuppa cawfee. We'll tawk laytuh, Syd." She gets up from the couch and moves close to Mother, looking her right in the eye. "Nice ta see ya…. Phyllis."

  The name hits ol' Bootsie like a blowdart in the neck, as her head jerks back. Rica smiles as she leaves my office, happy that she's gotten the last shot.

  I wish Rica had stayed because now I'm going one on one with the only person on the planet who not only can push my buttons but knows the secret launch codes and can turn both keys simultaneously and send my confidence into outer space where it will be vaporized in a nanosecond.

  She unfolds the newspapers with a snap, turns them around and spreads them out on my desk so all the front pages are screaming at me. "Aren't you so proud of yourself?" The headlines jab at me, her little ink soldiers in the war she is waging to save her reputation back in Old Southwich.

  I shrug my shoulders. "Whatever. It's New York," I say, and hear my voice quiver a little. Dammit, Syd, be tough. "They're always making up sensational stories here."

  "Well, then they all appear to be making up the same sensational story." She licks her thumb and flips open one newspaper to page three. "And what's this? A nice little lawsuit involving my daughter that reveals her place of business is the second coming of a Roman orgy. You hire people with a casting couch. How am I to ever walk through downtown Old Southwich again when the entire town knows my daughter is nothing more than a common trollop?"

  (You should know that Mother cannot say words like "slut" or "tramp" or any other colloquial terms that might refer to my escapades in the bedroom. To me, trollop sounds like something you'd get on Valentine's Day… chocolate covered trollops. Of course, if Harrell wants to cover me in Hershey's syrup on February fourteenth, I won't complain.)

  "Mother, what I do in my personal life—"

  "Affects my personal life. You are dragging the Hartshaw name through the gutter."

  "My last name is Hack, and so is yours. In case you had forgotten."

  "I'm still a Hartshaw, and Hartshaw blood runs through your veins. This is a scandal from which the family may never recover."

  I folded my arms and stood tall. "Maybe if you had sex once every decade you'd understand the rest of the world's point of view."

  "The rest of the world doesn't go around jumping from one bed to another like a game of hopscotch."

  "Then where the hell did six billion people come from?"

  She waved away my comment. "Pffft. I would have thought you'd be over this sex thing by now. I assumed it was just a phase during high school—"

  "You mean like you and Dad?" (Damn, I wanted to save my trump card for the end, but it fit so well at this point in the argument that I couldn't keep it from escaping.)

  Her eyes narrowed into gunslinger mode as she finished her thought. "But this? You can't go running around like a cheerleader sleeping with every member of the football team anymore. You are, after all, nearing forty."

  "Sorry, Mother, I didn't get the memo that middle-aged women stopped having sex."

  This went on for ten minutes, back and forth, Mother slowly beating me down and sending my blood past the boiling point.

  Then, incredibly, it actually got worse.

  The Fly walked into my office.

  Just give me the gun and let me put myself out of my misery.

  "I heard your mother was visiting," he said to me. He took her hands. "Mrs. Hack, I'm Scott. So very nice to meet you."

  Mother ran one wary eye up and down Scott's body. "Likewise," she said, with all the sincerity of a New York State Thruway toll-taker saying thank you.

  "I've been wondering when I was finally going to meet Sydney's parents."

  Gun! Now!

  Just when I was cursing the fact that jumping out the window would have no effect since my office is on the ground floor, a gentle tap on the door announced Jillian's entrance. "Syd, we have that four o'clock meeting upstairs in a few minutes," she said, pointing to her watch. She looked directly into my eyes and I got the message. She then turned to my mother. "Oh, hello Mrs. Hack, I didn't know you dropped by. Nice to see you again."

  Mother loosened her death grip on her facial muscles and managed a smile. (It's actually not a smile in the traditional sense, as I believe Mother had a plastic surgeon do a procedure that prevents the corners of her mouth from tilting up.) Jillian was, after all, a blueblood, even though she's strayed from the fold. In Mother's eyes, there was still hope that she would ditch this silly thing called a job and find a wealthy husband who would bring her petit fours and not demand anything in the bedroom. "Very nice to see you, Jillian."

  "I'm really sorry to interrupt your visit," said Jillian, who then turned back to me, "but we've really got to get going, Syd."

  "This might take a while," I said to my mother, gathering up a pad and some papers to make a show of it. "Scott can fix you a glass of hemlock from the bar."

  She picked up her purse and the newspapers, presumably for a new scrapbook she was dedicating to my escapades. She'd probably have some local artist design one with the word "trollop" in needlepoint on the cover. "I'm going shopping anyway," she said.

  "I'll be happy to show you the way out," said Scott.

  An AK-47 would be nice at this point.

  Mother faced the door and stopped. "I assume we'll see you at Thanksgiving?" she asked, without turning to look at me.

  "If I don't have to work." I've just put myself on the schedule.

  "Your grandmother will be deeply disappointed if she doesn't see you." She fired her final volley, knowing how much I loved Gran. (Souls in the Hartshaw family apparently skip a generation, as it is a recessive gene.)

  "I'll let you know," I said.

  Mother left my office without saying anything else, just pausing at the door and leaving me with an audible sniff that conveyed her disgust. Scott followed, and I heard his voice trail off as they headed for the reception area. "Your daughter is just wonderful to work for…"

  The Fly and the Frigidaire. Sounds like a children's story.

  One with a really unhappy ending.

  I shook my head and rolled my eyes. "Dear God, thank you Jillian," I said, knowing that Jillian found being in the same room with my mother repulsive.

  "When I
saw Scott come in here I knew you'd be approaching meltdown status. I'm sure you didn't anticipate that wild card in the deck from hell."

  "Well, the fake meeting was brilliant." I tossed the pad and papers back on my desk and noticed my hands were actually still shaking a bit. She apparently did as well, and moved forward, giving me a strong hug. I held on for a moment, savoring her sweet floral perfume and the embrace of a true friend.

  "You'll be okay. She's gone." She pulled away after a while and brushed my hair aside. "The meeting isn't fake, by the way. You need to get going," she said.

  "What do you mean?" I quickly checked my day planner and there was nothing on it. "I don't have anything scheduled."

  “It’s something I scheduled. Just go to the loft. It’s all taken care of.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The "on air" light was already blazing as I reached the top of the stairs. I stopped a moment, still shaking a bit, heart hammering away to an angry beat, wondering if I needed a ton of animalistic sex, a really good cry, a very long hug, an I-V of liquor, or all four. Anger and sadness did battle for my emotions, as was always the case when Mother did a number on my head. I wiped my eyes, not wanting to show the flip side of Neutron Syd to whoever was on the other side of the door. I took a few deep breaths in an effort to exhale the stress, but it had no effect. What the hell. Whoever was inside was going to have to see me in this condition and just accept it. I stood up straight, threw my head back and entered the loft.

  The Snack was sitting on the couch, one arm across the back of it. "Jillian said you needed to relax," said Shawn.

  "That's an understatement," I said.

  He patted the cushion next to him, not saying anything.

  But it wasn't a come-on, and, for once, this wasn't about sex. His eyes were filled with sincerity and a kindness that told me it was safe to let down my guard. I closed the door behind me, locked it, moved to the couch and sat down next to him. He leaned over, put both arms around me, and pulled me close.

  I lay my head on his shoulder, melted into his embrace and held on as he began to gently stroke the back of my head. I felt my eyes well up, so I held on tighter, not wanting him to see Neutron Syd cry. I closed my eyes as I felt a few tears run down my cheeks, let his warmth fill my heart, and concentrated on his touch. The waterworks slowly turned off as he seemed to absorb the stress in my body. He didn't say anything for a couple of minutes, then finally pulled back and looked at me. My heart finally downshifted from its twenty minute marathon through the ninth circle of hell. "Can I get you anything?" he asked. "Need a drink?"