Fringe Benefits

by Christine Pope

  I contemplated calling Leslie in as backup for my shopping expedition but guessed she wouldn’t be of much use in this particular endeavor. Leslie managed the front office for a plumbing supply company whose dress code brought “business casual” to new lows—dressy for her was wearing real sandals or shoes instead of flip-flops with her jeans. “I dress like this ’cause I keep hoping someone will nominate me for What Not to Wear,” she’d told me once, not too long after we’d met. At the time I had thought she was joking, but after six months of exposure to her haphazard wardrobe, I wasn’t so sure.

  At any rate, I figured it was better if I went back to the mall alone. That way at least I’d be able to postpone trying to explain the Mercedes to her.

  It did feel good to pull into the Galleria’s parking structure in the shiny C-class and not my old Toyota, even though I was so paranoid about someone dinging it or scratching it that I parked way up on almost the top level and off in an obscure corner far away from the elevator or stairs. Luckily the new peep-toes I had bought were pretty comfortable.

  I’d already decided that either Nordstrom or Macy’s was probably my best bet in this situation. I went to Nordstrom first, partly because the store was a little closer to where I had parked, and partly because I had the vague impression that Nordstrom was just a little higher-end than Macy’s. Not that I would know from personal experience; even their clearance racks were a little rich for my blood. Or at least they used to be.

  I headed straight for the evening wear section, but a quick glance at the regular prices drove me to the sale area. Well over half of the two grand Van Rijn had given me was already promised to various bills. I couldn’t afford to spend much more than two hundred dollars on a dress. At first nothing caught my eye—this one was still too expensive, that one too loud, that one too revealing, that one great but the wrong size. Who knew it would be so hard to find something suitable for a “semi-formal” party?

  “Can I help you find something in particular?”

  Damn. I’d hoped I’d be able to get in and get out without salesgirl interference. No such luck. I looked up and attempted a smile at the young woman, who was probably about my age but who looked ten times glossier. “Well—”

  “Special event?” she probed.

  I really didn’t want to tell her I’d been invited to some sort of cocktail party by my brand-new boss. The situation already felt a little hinky to me. Somehow I had the notion if I had to explain it to a total stranger, the whole thing would sound even worse.

  “Cocktail party,” I said, hoping that would be enough.

  “Private home or a restaurant?” she asked.

  Was that level of detail really necessary? Did some hierarchy of cocktail dresses exist, one that I, the rube from Montana, didn’t know anything about?

  “Uh—someone’s house,” I replied.

  She opened her mouth again, and I gave a mental sigh. I really hadn’t come in here expecting the third degree, for God’s sake.

  But all she asked was, “Size six?”

  This time the smile I gave her was genuine. “That’s right.”

  She dug through the racks and produced two dresses, one black, one a dark emerald color. “You can’t go wrong with black,” she said. “But I think the green would be stunning on you.”

  I couldn’t argue. She’d found the perfect dress. I escaped to the dressing room and tried it on, and the fit was perfect, too. The gown was bare but had a built-in bra, which meant I didn’t have to worry about flopping around, and the skirt just skimmed the top of my knees—perfectly appropriate, even if my date also happened to be my boss. And I loved the color. My only good piece of jewelry was a white gold and green tourmaline lavaliere my grandmother had given me as a graduation present, and it would be spectacular with this dress. Luckily I had a pair of strappy silver sandals left over from bridesmaid duty at my cousin’s wedding the summer before, so I didn’t have to worry about shoes.

  The salesgirl didn’t bother to ask if it fit—I must have had a look of triumph on my face. She took the dress from me, and I followed her to the cash register. Even with sales tax I still came in under my budget of two hundred dollars. I pulled out my Visa check card and handed it over. A few days ago I would have had a panic attack at dropping that kind of money on a dress. Now I could only think that I’d gotten a pretty good deal. Funny how having money in the bank can change your whole outlook on life.

  I’d just finished signing my name on the electronic card reader when the salesgirl handed me the dress (now carefully swathed in plastic) and said, “It’s spectacular on you. I know your date is going to love it.”

  In response I just dredged up another one of those half-assed smiles. What else could I do? After all, I couldn’t very well tell her that my date was my boss and that I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea for him to think I was “spectacular.”

  All the way back to the car I kept thinking about her off-hand comment. No doubt she was just making conversation, but my brain kept worrying at the remark. Did I want Mr. Van Rijn to look at me that way? Maybe I should have gone for something a little more understated. Too late now, though. I’d feel like a complete idiot if I turned around and returned the dress. No, I’d just keep it and face the consequences.

  Whatever those might be.

  I drove home and parked the Mercedes in my assigned spot behind the apartment building. At least it was a carport with a roof, but I still felt nervous about leaving the car there. The complex had security cameras in the parking area and along the main pathways, but you could never count on them to be working at any one time. However, it wasn’t as if I could exactly camp out in the back seat of my car to dissuade would-be thieves, so I just clicked the remote to engage the alarm and hoped for the best.

  The apartment was stifling after being shut up all day. I flicked on the A/C, then went into the bedroom area and hung my new dress up in the closet. Technically the place was a studio because there wasn’t a real wall separating the bedroom and the living room, but it was decently sized for a studio. I’d placed a screen behind the little entertainment unit that held my TV and stereo so I’d have some more privacy. Not that I’d needed it; except for one brief, badly timed relationship with a sales guy at the first company I temped for, my personal life hadn’t exactly been a hotbed of excitement since I got to L.A.

  I’d just wandered into the kitchen and was contemplating the merits of two different Lean Cuisine frozen dinners when I heard Leslie’s distinctive rat-a-tat knock on the door. I tossed the boxes back in the freezer, then went to the door and opened it.

  “Someone’s parked in your space,” she said.

  Oh, hell. Leslie’s spot was only three spaces down from mine, so of course she would have noticed the Mercedes right away.

  “Not exactly,” I replied.

  She lifted an eyebrow.

  “It’s—it’s a company car. Mr. Van Rijn gave it to me to drive.”

  Without saying anything, she stepped inside and shut the door behind her. Then she planted her hands on her hips and gave me a direct, dark stare. “Your first day on the job, and the guy hands you a fucking Mercedes? What’re you doing, giving him blow jobs under the desk or something?”

  By this time I’d gotten used to Leslie’s propensity toward sprinkling her conversation with F-bombs the way other people might say “hell” or “damn.” Not that I didn’t let one fly if provoked, but after getting attacked with a bar of Dial once as a kid when I’d made the mistake of saying the Forbidden Word within earshot of my mother, I was a lot more circumspect than Leslie. That sort of thing can scar you for life. As for the rest—

  “I am not giving him blow jobs,” I replied calmly.

  “Hand jobs?”

  “Nope.” I went back to the kitchen and opened the freezer once more. “Do you want to stay for dinner? I’ve got an extra beef portobello if you want it.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “No, thanks. Joe’s coming by in a bit. I think
we’re going over to Cha Cha Cha.”

  If I hadn’t been so preoccupied with explaining the Mercedes to her, I might have noticed a little sooner that she was dressed for going out. Well, Leslie’s version of going out, which meant a close-fitting top of some synthetic fabric and beaded flip-flops instead of the rubber kind. Cha Cha Cha was a popular Cuban place in Silverlake made famous by a few brief background shots in The Fast & the Furious, which explained Leslie’s “fancy” footwear.

  Joe was Leslie’s on-again, off-again boyfriend. Currently they were in the “on” phase, which would only last until they had one of their epic blowouts. Then they’d break up until Leslie got tired of being celibate. What usually followed was supposedly spectacular makeup sex, and then a period of sickening (well, to me, anyway) lovey-dovey behavior until the next cataclysm. I knew I couldn’t live my life that way—I would have kicked Joe to the curb a long time ago—but Leslie seemed to thrive on the excitement.

  “Well, have fun,” I said, in distinctly unenthusiastic tones.

  She didn’t bother with a direct reply. While she was more than forthright in her opinions regarding my love life (or lack thereof), most of the time she didn’t want to know what I thought of hers. “Hey, my brothers are throwing another party tomorrow night. Wanna go?”

  So much for keeping the whole “date with the boss” thing from Leslie. Not that it was really a date. At least, I didn’t think it could be classified as a date. “I can’t. I have an event to go to with Mr. Van Rijn.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re going out with him? Are you nuts?”

  “It’s not like that. It’s just a business thing. He needed someone to go with him. It’s nothing personal.” Belatedly I realized that I might be protesting just a little too much, and, judging by the dubious expression on Leslie’s face, she seemed to be thinking the same thing.

  “Uh-huh. And you actually believed that?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  She shook her head. “Do we have to have the ‘naïve Montana girl’ discussion again?”

  “No,” I said, feeling more than a little annoyed. If I forced myself to admit it, probably a good deal of my irritation stemmed from the fact that I’d already had these same arguments with myself. Several times. “Look, if you’d met him you’d see why I really have nothing to worry about. He’s too—proper—for that sort of thing.”

  “Yeah, right. It’s always the quiet ones you have to worry about. Don’t you ever watch the news? It’s filled with people saying, ‘Oh, but he was such a quiet, nice person. Who would have ever thought he’d kill and eat all those nuns?’”

  Despite myself, I smiled. “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a little?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe you’re just jealous.”

  That comment got both her eyebrows going. “Jealous? Why should I be jealous that you’ve landed a job where you make three times what I do, where the guy gives you a Mercedes—the least expensive one in the line, though, by the way—and then takes you out to some fancy party?”

  “I never said it was a fancy party,” I protested. I figured it was better to ignore the snotty comment about the C-class.

  “What other kind of party would this guy go to?”

  I had to admit to myself she had a point. After all, I couldn’t really imagine Van Rijn knocking back a Bud Light at a Dodger game or going bowling with the boys. Of course I had no idea what his background was, whether he’d earned his riches or inherited them, but he certainly did seem like the type who was born with the proverbial silver spoon lodged firmly in his mouth. “For all I know, he’s gay.”

  Leslie gave an indelicate snort. “Nice try, Kat. But I don’t know too many gay guys who ask for a photo and hire someone who looks like you. No way.”

  “Well, that’s awfully biased.”

  “Says who?” she demanded. “I probably have more gay friends than you do. And I’m pretty damn sure none of them would give a shit about your bust size or how good your ass looks in a pencil skirt.”

  I still wasn’t completely convinced. After all, someone who was as wrapped up in aesthetics as Van Rijn might very well want to make sure he had a secretary who matched the décor in his office, even if he had no personal interest in getting her in the sack. But I could tell from the mulish look on Leslie’s face that it wasn’t worth arguing the point.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll be careful. Besides, a party is a pretty public sort of event. It’s not as if he’s taking me up to his house to look at his etchings or something.”

  “He says he’s taking you to a party,” she said darkly. “How do you know for sure exactly where he’s taking you?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” I snapped. “Yeah, this whole thing is a ploy so he can take advantage of me while I’m changing my clothes in the bathroom at work.”

  “You never know,” Leslie said, still in tones weighted with suspicion. “Men pull all kinds of underhanded crap.”

  “Speaking of which, how is Joe these days?”

  She scowled. “Okay, that was low. But ten points for bitchiness. I knew you had it in you somewhere.”

  Both her words and the wicked light in her brown eyes told me she wasn’t really all that annoyed. Yes, she put up with way more from Joe than she should, but that didn’t mean she was stupid or didn’t know what was going on. Apparently she’d decided there was something in him that was worth all the crap. I’d never seen it myself, but I wasn’t privy to their personal life. People could be so different when they were alone together.

  “All right, I’ve gotta go,” she went on. “But if you change your mind about your date and decide you don’t want your face ending up on a milk carton, let me know. Joe already agreed to be the D.D. tomorrow night.”

  Which was a mixed blessing at the most. Yes, it was great to have someone be the responsible one so everyone else could party hearty. Unfortunately, Joe drove a pickup with an extra cab, which meant I’d be squeezed into a back seat that was probably fine for anyone still in grade school but more than a little cramped for a normal-sized adult.

  “I’m not going to change my mind,” I said firmly. “But thanks for the offer.”

  “Your funeral,” she replied, then gave me one last pitying glance before she let herself out and shut the door behind her.

  That pithy comment did nothing to help my frame of mind. I told myself it was just Leslie being protective. Pretty much from the time we’d first met, she’d decided I needed taking care of. Maybe she was right. Anyway, I knew her heart was in the right place even if sometimes her method of expressing herself left a little to be desired.

  I could feel myself frown as I returned to the kitchen and put my meager dinner in the microwave. Of course it was just a figure of speech, but Leslie’s words bothered me more than I wanted to admit. After all, the news was full of stories about unfortunate young women who mysteriously disappeared. If something happened to me, would anyone believe Leslie if she tried to tell them Mr. Van Rijn was the most likely suspect?

  Oh, for God’s sake, I thought. Was paranoia contagious? If so, I’d obviously caught a good case of it from Leslie. Next thing I knew I’d be watching Oliver Stone movies and hanging out on conspiracy websites. Poor Mr. Van Rijn would probably fire me on the spot if he ever got an inkling of all the ways I’d maligned him in my mind. So the situation was a little unusual. Okay, that was the truth. So he was grossly overpaying me for work anyone with two brain cells to rub together could handle. As with everything else, there could be a million reasons for that. Maybe he just had an oversized allotment of upper-class guilt and was doing his part to help the little guy. I didn’t know, of course. And maybe he’d just gotten out of a long-term relationship or something and figured it would be safe to bring his secretary along to a function where he really couldn’t go stag.

  I wanted to blame Leslie for planting these ideas in my mind, but truthfully, they’d been there before she ever opened her mouth. M
aybe it was the way I’d been raised, but I liked things neat and tidy. This situation with Mr. Van Rijn was anything but neat and tidy. The revolving door when it came to his secretaries. The fact that he’d hired me after only the most cursory of interviews. The Mercedes. Everything.

  The microwave chimed, signaling my food was ready. I pulled it out and got myself a fork, although my appetite seemed like it was at an all-time low. I wasn’t sure whether that was from nerves or whether subconsciously I was worried about having a belly bulge show in my new dress. Stupid, really—I’d been watching what I ate for weeks, more due to lack of funds than an attempt at actual dieting. My stomach was probably the flattest it had ever been. Short of wolfing down three Del Taco bean and cheese burritos in a row (which I didn’t think I was even capable of), I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have a problem looking decent in the green dress I’d just bought.

  I took the little tray of food over to the couch and perched it on my knees as I picked up the remote and surfed through the local channels. Not much on, but I didn’t even care. The voices were reassuring babble, something to blot out the emptiness of my apartment.

  If only they could do something to blot out the nagging voices in my mind.

  Four

  The next day was quiet enough; Van Rijn went out at around ten in the morning and didn’t come back to the office until almost four. I found myself wondering where he went on these excursions but didn’t have the courage to ask. Certainly he didn’t volunteer the information. Two more delivery trucks dropped off their loads, and at least this time I knew enough to go to the rear of the warehouse and open the enormous doors so the trucks could back in to deliver their cargo. I discovered that besides the usual Office software on my computer, Van Rijn had apparently installed a bunch of design programs like Photoshop and Illustrator.