Strapped

by Nina G. Jones

“No, enjoy your breakfast. Eat. You’ll need the energy.” It sounds like he is talking about something other than work. “Don’t you want eggs?” I do.

  “No thanks, this is fine.” I awkwardly try to figure out where I can place my eyes and I choose the fruit on my plate as the safest spot.

  “So, I mentioned introducing you to Mona. After speaking with her, she and I concluded that the attire I expect you to wear is something you may not be used to. It is also not something I would expect you to be able to afford on your paycheck.” I didn’t think my paycheck was so measly, but I bet he finds that amount in coins between the cushions of his Italian leather sofa.

  “I was hoping to talk to her about that. I don’t mind investing in good pieces, but I thought I could talk to her about a budget.”

  “I guessed by looking at you, that you are a size 4. Am I right?” That’s rather impressive. Most guys I know know nothing about women’s clothing sizes.

  “Yes, clothing sizes vary, but generally.” How does he suck me into the strangest conversations? Why can’t he ever just spit out what he has to say instead of taking me down a stupid rabbit hole every time? He’s noshing on a piece of bacon and I catch myself staring at his mouth. Again.

  Stop that! I look around to see if Harrison is within sight so I can sense if he feels awkward about Mr. Holden standing here shirtless like this, but he is long gone.

  “Follow me.” Mr. Holden walks ahead of me and I have a free, undisturbed view of his narrow hips and muscular back. Why can’t he just be a fat, balding, middle-aged CEO? He leads me into his office, where there are boxes and bags piled high on the floor. I recognize some names: Carolina Herrera, Diane Von Furstenberg, Tory Burch, Nordstrom, along with other names I do not recognize. I gasp, but I don’t want to assume this is for me, even though all roads are leading to this fact.

  “I had my stylist Mona go shopping for you yesterday. She’s going to be here a little after nine too. We figured it would save time if she just brought the wardrobe here. Then you can keep what works or if you like something, but need a different size, she can take care of all that.” The sight leaves speechless. While any woman would love a new designer wardrobe, I feel a mixed bag of emotions: Is this normal behavior, for a boss to buy his assistant a new wardrobe? At least one he is not fucking?

  “I don’t think I can accept this.” I say, really wanting to accept it.

  “Nonsense. I certainly don’t think it is fair to expect you to spend half of your salary on your work attire and Mona doesn’t do cheap.” That’s just an expression, right? He didn’t really just spend seventy-five thousand dollars on my wardrobe, did he?

  “I don’t know...this is too kind of you. I can’t. I don’t know what to say.”

  “There is nothing to say. Think of it as a tax write-off for me. Why don’t you start looking through the clothes? I’ll have Mona stop in when she arrives. We’ll be going to headquarters today to show you around. Now if you will excuse me, I am going to head into the shower.” He leaves me alone in the office, with all of these clothes. I don’t know where to start. I open a box with the words Claire Pettibone etched on the lid. I peel open the paper wrapping to reveal the most delicious...Underwear! Does my professional wardrobe extend to my underwear? This must be Mona’s doing, she probably finds it repulsive that I would wear Hanes underneath such fine garments. I close the box and dig into some other bags to discover a black pencil skirt and a wine colored silk blouse. This will do. I uncover some shoe boxes on the other side of the room. I recognize these names thanks to “Sex and the City”: Louboutin, Prada, Jimmy Choo, Manolo Blahnik. I chose a pair of black leather heels and a pair of silk stockings. Once I am done, the office is full of bags and boxes turned upside down. I frantically start shoving clothing and shoes back into their rightful enclosures. I don’t want to seem too eager to accept the clothing, my mother would not be proud. I scoop up the outfit I have designated for the day and turn around.

  “Shyla?” I turn around and drop a shoe. In front of me is a slender brunette. She has sleek, long hair parted down the middle that nearly hits her waist. She is wearing a black shift dress with a large beaded turquoise-colored necklace and black patent leather kitten heels. Her face holds impressive amount of make-up, and she pulls it off nicely with a smile.

  “Yes? Are you Mona? Help!”

  She laughs and pulls the crumpled outfit out of my arms. “We’ll get this ironed for you. So...what do you think?”

  “Oh my god, this is spectacular. I mean, I had no idea.”

  “Taylor said you would be by his side a lot, and he said I should not spare a dollar in dressing you. I love when he tells me that.”

  “I have to admit, I feel bad, accepting all of this.”

  Mona looks to her left and right and then leans in. “Girl, take the clothes and don’t ask questions. He’s into appearances so don’t worry. The man has more money than he knows what to do with.”

  “Have you dressed other employees?”

  “He has recommended me to some other people and I have dressed some friends for him, but I probably shouldn’t get into details.” I wonder if she has had to sign an NDA too.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I am just so shocked.”

  “No worries, let’s get started.”

  Mona and I spend about 45 minutes going through what works and what doesn’t.

  “Alright Shyla, I have to meet a client across town. I’ll exchange some things and drop them off here for you. Sound good?”

  “Yes, thank you so much!”

  “Ms. Ball.” Harrison’s voice carries from the doorway. “Heather is here to see you.”

  “Heather?” Is this another thing Mr. Holden failed to tell me?

  “Yes, miss. The hair stylist.” Harrison looks amused by my bemusement. Now my hair is a problem too? I’ll admit, I am due for a haircut, but I am a little annoyed. What if I like my hair the way it is? I resolve that I will dictate to her what she can and cannot do. Today’s events are beyond bewildering. I came ready to hit the ground running, expecting to read reports and spreadsheets. I thought I was just going to have a quick meeting with the stylist. Instead, I am getting a makeover.

  “Hi sweetie!” She sure is bubbly. Heather is tall, busty, has a lip ring, and her right arm is covered in tattoos. Her edgy haircut is completely engulfed in a baby pink hue. I tell her my parameters: It must be something low maintenance, even if she straightens it. I don’t like having to keep up with hair dyes, so please keep my hair color as-is. She seems totally understanding and gets to work. An hour later, she holds the mirror in front of me. My once curly hair is stick straight and glossy. I have blunt bangs across my forehead that lengthen at the sides. I am shocked at the difference the hair makes. I look more mature than I did just 60 minutes ago. I hunt around for the new clothes, all the while wondering where the hell Mr. Holden is. I run into Harrison in the great room. He leads me to what looks like a spare bedroom, my perfectly pressed clothing laid out on the bed. I slide into the outfit. The fabrics are luxurious and feel rich against my skin. I face the vanity and am stunned at how put together I look. I look expensive. It is amazing what some designer clothing and hair can do to a person. I can see why people spend so much money on this stuff. I use the new suite of MAC makeup the way Mona instructed me to, but with a much lighter hand.

  I am eager to get on with my day as I am due for a little normalcy, if that is even possible anymore. My heels click loudly on the concrete floors as I leave the guest room, ruining my attempt at a discreet reveal. I feel flushed and nervous about turning the corner into the living area. Heather is still out there, and to my surprise, Mr. Holden is there as well, chatting on his cell phone.

  “Oh, look at you! You look incredible. Just gorgeous!” I blush and make a swatting gesture at Heather’s compliments. I really don’t feel comfortable discussing my appearance in front of Mr. Holden. Mr. Holden looks up from pacing back and forth on his cell phone and pauses to see what
all the clamor is about. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second as he takes me in, and he loses his train of thought with whomever he is speaking with on the phone. He quickly looks back down, sticking his finger in the ear opposite of the phone to drown out the commotion and heads to another room.

  “I have to head out darling, but I just wanted to see the finished product. You made it easy. I was working with a beautiful canvas.” Heather is really sweet, maybe we could be friends if she comes around often enough. She grabs her belongings and gives me a huge hug and smiles as she walks towards the exit.

  “Ms. Ball.” I whip around to see Mr. Holden back in the great room. He looks like perfection. His hair is slicked back, his face is fresh and clean shaven. His crystal eyes are gleaming and he is wearing yet another impeccably tailored suit. This one is a rich navy paired with a white shirt and a fun tie. It is plaid with various hues of silver and blue. It makes him look youthful and only serves to make his eyes pierce even more. “You look very...nice.”

  “Thank you,” I blush, sensing that he wanted to say something else, but refrained.

  “Shall, we go to headquarters?”

  “Of course. I am really excited.”

  When we step outside, Harrison is waiting for us by the Bentley. He opens the door and we slide into the back seat. Maybe fifteen seconds later, Holden’s cell phone rings. “Yes, we are heading over today. No...just for an hour or so...Yes, she is with me. I am going to show her around before we get started... I know, tell Marsha to have all the documents prepped on Shyla’s desk so I can have her take them back with her today.”

  My ears feel so virgin to the sound of my first name coming from his mouth. He hasn’t said it since we introduced ourselves in his car. Hearing that I will have documents waiting for me makes my stomach churn. What will I be reading today? Will this all be over my head? Is he just going to throw this on my lap or give me instructions on how to handle this new job? He rests the phone against his chest and looks at me. “Did you bring your passport as I asked?” I nod. “Yes, she did, we will need the visas expedited for St. Petersburg...Ok.” He hangs up the phone without saying goodbye and I wonder if that is a universal thing that CEOs do. I break up the subsequent silence in the car. “Mr. Holden, I just wanted to thank you for all of this, you really didn’t have to.” He gives me that look again, as if I am speaking another language.

  “It’s nothing, really. Just business.” His brevity makes me feel a little sheepish. He probably did this for Emily too. This is nothing personal. As his assistant, I am a reflection of him and he is simply making sure I reflect H.I. to his standards.

  Chapter Four

  We arrive at the tall, gleaming glass tower that is Holden Industries. As I step out of the vehicle, my cell phone buzzes. I slyly look down at it and see it is a call from Rick. I don’t have time to chat so I reject the call, resolving to check it later when I have some alone time. Mr. Holden walks with a stride of confidence towards the glass doors. His handkerchief makes another appearance as he pushes the revolving door and I recall that he also used a handkerchief on the door at the diner yesterday. I note the behavior, but am too busy trying to keep up with his 6 foot-something stride to think too hard about it. There is a security guard at the front desk. Behind him are huge letters in gleaming brushed nickel:

  HOLDEN INDUSTRIES, INC.

  It reminds me I am with someone of great importance. Everyone who passes by us addresses him.

  “Mr. Holden.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Holden.”

  “A pleasure to see you Mr. Holden.”

  He simply nods and smiles at each person, keeping his pace. I get the sense that if he stops to address them further, he will never arrive to his destination. When we get to the express elevator someone in front of us presses the “up” button and it pings open almost immediately. We are swept up, almost too quickly, to the 45th floor and we bust out of the elevator. Why the hell are we walking so fast? We charge through the glass double doors and a very petite redhead comes running up alongside him, I can see her little feet racing to keep up with him. How does he expect us to dress like this and keep up? This is a freaking workout.

  “Mr. Holden, here is the briefing from this morning’s meeting. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, and one for Ms. Ball as well. Thank you Marsha.” That’s Marsha!

  “Nice to meet you Marsha,” I say giving her the I get it look. Mr.Holden opens the tall cherry wood doors that lead into his enormous office. Behind his desk is a breathtaking view of the cityscape. It is impeccably decorated with abstract paintings. There is no way that is a Kandinsky on his wall. I dare not ask. As soon as we walk in, the intercom on his desk buzzes.

  “Yes, Marsha.”

  “Mr. Milan is here to see you.”

  “Let him in.”

  Seconds later, a medium-height slender man, also young for what his position likely is in the company, walks in. He has dirty blonde hair tied back into a short messy ponytail and big light brown eyes. His face registers surprise to see me when he walks through the door.

  “Taylor! Fancy seeing you here!” he exclaims as if seeing a dear old friend. I take it that Mr. Holden works from home way more often than he does in the office. The blonde pats him hard on the shoulder.

  “How’s it going, Henry?” Mr. Holden sounds warm. Henry looks at me, as if waiting to be introduced.

  “This is my new assistant. Ms. Shyla Ball.”

  Henry turns to shake my hand. “So nice to meet you Shyla. We should schedule a lunch, so I can show you the ropes.” He holds my gaze and my hand a few more seconds than necessary and gives me a sly grin. I have shared gazes with Mr. Holden, but they were nuanced, toting the line between something in my imagination and an absolute reality. Henry Milan here is deliberately giving me the look. I know that look. Mr. Holden looks at Henry sternly as if he knows what he is up to.

  “Taylor, I was wondering if I could have a quick word with you.” Mr. Holden looks in my direction. “Ms. Ball, could you give us a moment? Why don’t you have Marsha show you your office?” I nod, containing my excitement. I tell Henry it was nice meeting him, although I am not sure I truly feel this way. As the door closes behind me, I think I hear Henry say in a low voice: “Damn that’s a nice piece of ass you just hired there.”

  “Henry, cut the shit.” Taylor hisses and then the door closes so that I can no longer hear the conversation. While I am not thrilled with Henry Milan’s 1950s office sensibilities, I am somewhat enveloped with a feeling of warmth from hearing Mr. Holden shut down his callous behavior. I head over to Marsha’s desk. I notice Marsha gets to be Marsha and Henry gets to be Henry. Everyone else here seems to go by their first name except me. I understand this is something I may need to earn over time, but when we first met he was so casual and so the current formality feels forced.

  “Hi Marsha.” I feel instantly comfortable with her presence as I come upon her eating a sandwich at her desk. She doesn’t have the same robotic appearance as many of the others here. Her jittery, nervous behavior endears me to her.

  She looks up from her thick, black-rimmed glasses with wide, embarrassed eyes. “Oh! Hi Ms. Ball!” She hastily chews her mouthful of sandwich and wipes her hands to give me her full attention.

  “Please, call me Shyla and take your time. I don’t mean to disturb your lunch. Henry and Mr. Holden were having a private conversation and Mr. Holden suggested I ask you to show me my office. You should relax and finish up. I can wait.” That’s not Marsha’s style. She won’t be able to relax and eat until I have been situated, and she makes this very clear to me. I apologetically allow her to take me. She leads me back down the corridor past Mr. Holden’s office through a smaller dark cherry door and flicks on the lights.

  “All yours!” she says cheerfully. Oh my. While the room is a fraction of the size of Mr. Holden’s, I too have magnificent views of the cityscape! There is a large glass desk and a beautiful white leather executive chair. T
wo crimson suede tulip chairs face my desk, for visitors I will never have, and there is a white leather loveseat on the wall I share with Mr. Holden. “I stocked the office with supplies, but if you need any more, the supply closet is that door right across the hall.” I stare around in awe of the fantastic setup, but wonder how much time I will really spend in this building given his reputation for reclusiveness.

  “Mr. Holden asked that I provide you with copies of the documents related to the trip to St. Petersburg. In those folders on your desk are the schedules outlined for each day, profiles on the various people you will be meeting and some figures you will need to have a grasp on regarding the project we are bidding on.” The mountain of neatly stacked paper is daunting. I hear a throat clearing from the doorway. It’s him. I wonder if Marsha notices how beautiful he is. I can’t be the only one who starts to feel like a giddy fourth grader around him.

  “Ms. Ball, I realize you haven’t eaten since this morning. Please go take a late lunch break and we will reconvene in 45 minutes to an hour.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Marsha would you like to come with? That is, if that’s okay?” She barely touched her sandwich and I need to talk to someone about Mr.Holden. Keeping every last detail to myself is maddening. Mr. Holden has an amused look on his face. Marsha looks terrified. I have a hunch that mousy Marsha may not have many friends in the office and probably never goes out to lunch.

  “Sure. See you in an hour.” He quietly glides away like a cat into his office.

  “Come on Marsha. My treat.” The excited look on her face warms me. It is often the quiet people like Marsha who know the most and I hope she can fill me in on the mystery of Mr. Holden.

  We settle on a diner just a couple of blocks from the office. “So Marsha, how long have you been working for Mr. Holden?”

  “Five years as of last week.” Her glasses slide down her nose as she replies.

  “What’s he like to work for?”