I’d always wanted to learn more about graphic design, but there hadn’t been time for it while I was in college. The expense had been an issue, too; there was no way I could have afforded even the student prices for the software, especially for something that I basically wanted to do for fun. So I didn’t have the foggiest idea what to do with any of the programs, but I managed to find a couple of tutorial sites and amused myself by following their instructions to make photographs look like paintings, or pasting images of celebrities I found online into fun settings like Versailles or the bridge of a starship from one of the Star Wars movies. If nothing else, I was adding to my marketable skills. Besides, it was fun, in an odd sort of way. Maybe I’d found my calling.
This pleasant diversion was interrupted promptly at eleven by the arrival of the FedEx guy, who had three packages for me this time. “Still here?” he asked with a grin.
“Disappointed?” I shot back.
“Relieved,” he said, still grinning. “Now I can ask you if you’re busy tonight.”
I didn’t even have to lie. “Actually, I am.”
“Hot date?”
“So hot I had to buy a new dress.”
He gave a philosophical lift of his shoulders. “Well, I can’t compete with that. I was thinking more along the lines of dinner and a movie.”
I made a noncommittal sound.
“Maybe next time,” he said, but he didn’t push it. Instead, he just took the little portable computer he used to collect signatures and tucked it under his arm. “Have a good weekend.”
“You, too,” I responded, glad that he apparently wasn’t going to pursue the subject. Some guys could be awfully persistent. Maybe it would only take me turning him down once or twice before he got the message.
After that it was back to playing on the computer until lunch, and then two deliveries that came within fifteen minutes of one another around three o’clock. For the first time I realized how quiet the phones were. At most of the places I’d temped I’d had to take at least five or six calls an hour, but the phone hadn’t rung once today. The day before I’d answered it twice; one call was a wrong number, and one did ask for Mr. Van Rijn but declined to leave a message. Odd. But maybe Van Rijn handled most of his calls himself on his personal cell phone.
“Light phones”? More like nonexistent ones.
Still, answering the phone was what I had always liked the least about secretarial work, so I wasn’t going pretend the present situation bothered me too much. The quiet allowed me to focus all my concentration on the oversized cinema display.
“Katherine,” came Van Rijn’s voice from behind me.
I jumped. “Sorry,” I said at once, and minimized the Photoshop document I had been working on. Then I swiveled my office chair so I faced him.
“No need for apologies,” he replied. “You have done that sort of thing before?”
I shook my head. “No, not really. I mean, I played in the Windows Paint program a little bit when I was in college, but that’s not quite the same.”
“True.”
To my surprise, he leaned past me and clicked the mouse so my latest creation popped up in all its glory on the screen. I was glad this one just showed a whimsical insertion of our current President on the deck of the starship Enterprise. My brother Alex had always been a big Trek fan, and I’d embarked on the project with the notion that I could send it to him if I was pleased enough with the results.
I’d never been this close to Van Rijn before, and I was acutely aware of the rustle of his suit, the faint scent of some sort of expensive cologne which drifted from him as he moved. He surveyed my handiwork for a few seconds and said, “You have a fine touch. A good eye for detail. Perhaps you have missed your true vocation.”
Not sure what else to do, I gave an embarrassed little shrug. “Oh, I was just—” I cut myself short before I admitted to wasting time. Of course Van Rijn knew exactly how little work I had to do, but to actually come right out and say so would be downright stupid. “—just seeing what the program can do,” I finished lamely.
“Of course.” He straightened and glanced at his watch. “It is time to get ready, I think. You have brought something else to wear?”
“Yes,” I said at once, grateful for the change of subject. “I just need to get it from the car.”
“Very good. I thought we would have an early dinner, and then go on to the party from there.”
What could I do but nod? Possibly it was just standard operating procedure, but it felt a little strange to go out to eat first when there was a party coming up where presumably there would be lots of free food. Then again, Van Rijn didn’t exactly have to worry about whether food was free or not. Maybe one of these days I’d get out of the college-student mentality that made me consider these things first. Then his words really sank in. Dinner? The two of us alone in a restaurant and trying to keep a conversation going through an entire meal? Well, that promised all sorts of fun awkwardness.
“I’ll just get my things,” I said, to cover my confusion, then fetched the car keys out of my purse before I could say something completely idiotic. Van Rijn only nodded, but I thought I saw a faint quirk at the corner of his mouth, as if he’d guessed at the source of my embarrassment and found it more entertaining than anything else.
I’d hung up the dress from the little rack in the rear seat. It seemed to have survived the baking in my car just fine. My makeup and other necessities I’d brought in the office with me and had stored in the bottom desk drawer next to my purse. The last thing I needed was to have my toiletries melt into a puddle of goo in the trunk of my car.
During the day I didn’t wear a lot of makeup, but I disappeared into the bathroom and attempted to put on a decent evening face. That bathroom was something else, too; at one point it must have been your standard-issue office facility, but Van Rijn’s handiwork was obvious here, from the black-marble-topped vanity to the gilt-framed mirror and the little antique plant stand in the corner with its drooping peace lily.
It didn’t feel quite so odd to be primping in there as it might have in a more corporate-looking restroom. I’d set my hair the night before, and luckily it had behaved pretty well, so the loose waves I’d hoped for were still more or less intact.
After double-checking that the door was really and truly locked, I slipped out of my skirt and blouse and into the dress I’d bought, then strapped on the sandals to match. The only jewelry I’d been wearing was a pair of plain gold hoops, and I took those off so I could put in the little silver and CZ drops I’d gotten to match my grandmother’s lavaliere. Of course they weren’t real, but they had a vaguely antique look to them, and that was the best I could do with my limited budget. Obviously I couldn’t have afforded something in tourmaline and diamonds to match the pendant. My fingers I left bare, since I didn’t have anything I thought worthy of the occasion. Better to go without than wear something cheesy-looking.
When I emerged from the bathroom, Van Rijn was waiting for me in the front office. No need for him to change; his impeccable dark gray suit was obviously more than adequate to the occasion. He finished making a minute adjustment to one of his cufflinks, then looked up at me. For a second I caught a sharp glint from those piercing blue eyes, but almost as quickly the familiar blandly polite expression closed down over his features.
“Very good,” he said. “Shall we, then?” And he indicated the front door.
It felt strange to walk out into broad daylight in my finery, but at that time of year the sun wasn’t due to set for several more hours. I followed Van Rijn to the Maserati, then made myself wait as he opened the passenger door for me. The guys I’d dated hadn’t exactly been the car door–opening types, but apparently Van Rijn was cut from different cloth.
The interior of the car was oven-hot, of course, but it smelled of expensive leather and another, fainter scent I couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the ghost of Van Rijn’s cologne.
As soon as he got in and tur
ned on the engine, a welcome blast of cool air poured out of the front vents. I’d seen the same marvel of engineering in the Mercedes he’d given me. In my old Toyota I’d had to wait a few minutes for the air conditioning to get up to speed, but there were no such plebeian concerns in cars like these.
We pulled out of the parking lot and headed north to Los Feliz Boulevard, then turned west. Now, that C-class I’d been driving was pretty nice, but this Maserati was an order of magnitude beyond it in terms of luxury and power. I could practically feel the engine straining against our sedate pace; the traffic on Los Feliz crawled because of the Friday night rush hour, and we were going nowhere fast. Van Rijn didn’t appear to mind, though. He kept his eyes on the cars around him and didn’t seem inclined to waste energy on idle conversation, but neither was he foaming at the mouth over our snail’s pace the way a lot of other people (myself included) would have been. I’d thought we had headed out to dinner ridiculously early, but at the rate we were going it would be well after six before we got anywhere.
It turned out our destination was an Italian restaurant down on Hillhurst. It wasn’t an area I’d frequented, since the shops and restaurants in that neighborhood were just a little bit out of my price range. Then again, just about anything that wasn’t Del Taco or Target was out of my price range lately.
Obviously they’d been expecting us; we were ushered to a table within seconds of Van Rijn giving his name at the hostess station. The restaurant was a pretty little place, but somehow I’d been expecting something a bit more extravagant, given Van Rijn’s usual penchant for everything high-end. Well, maybe he thought he’d spent enough money on me already.
He did ask me if I’d like wine, and, caught off-guard, I stammered, “Well, uh, sure,” in reply even as I felt a wash of hot blood rush across my cheeks. Luckily the lighting was pretty dim in there, the hot late-afternoon sunlight blocked by heavy green Roman shades.
I’d never heard of the wine he ordered. Something Italian-sounding, but definitely not your standard-issue Chianti. Not that I knew much about wine beyond your basic merlots and cabernets and chardonnays. Billings wasn’t exactly a hotbed of viticulture. And considering how lean my bank account had been ever since I blew into L.A., it wasn’t as if I’d gone out frequenting wine bars and gourmet shops to expand my limited knowledge on the subject.
Still feeling clumsy and out of place—sort of the same sensation I’d experienced when attending my eighth-grade graduation dance, when I’d been a head taller than most of the boys and spent the majority of the evening pretending I was engrossed in the refreshments table—I picked up the menu and buried my nose in it. At least this wasn’t some chi-chi French place where I’d only be able to understand one word out of five on the menu. Or one of those so-called “fusion” restaurants where nothing sounded very good and usually ended up being the size of a silver dollar when you finally received your order. Pasta’s pretty easy to figure out, after all.
As always, the real dilemma lay in deciding whether to say the hell with it and order what I really wanted—pasta carbonara—or being a good girl and getting myself a salad with dressing on the side. Not that I had a weight problem, but it seemed as if constant vigilance was the order of the day around here. I could still remember how shocked the sales guy I’d dated briefly had been when I’d had the audacity to order a steak and a baked potato with real butter on top. Back home we’d eaten steak at least once a week, so I hadn’t thought much of it, but apparently a woman consuming such a meal in his presence had been totally out of his experience. Whatever. I was blessed with a pretty decent metabolism. One meal a week like that wasn’t going to deprive me of my size-six standing. Of course, in this town a size six was considered borderline obese.
Van Rijn studied his own menu as well, so for the moment at least I was saved from having to make small talk. The waitress returned with the bottle of wine, opened it, and poured a small amount into Van Rijn’s glass. He took a sip, waited a moment, then nodded. With a smile she poured more into his glass, and then filled mine about half full.
“And what would you like tonight?” she asked me.
Oh, the hell with it. Let Van Rijn think what he wanted. I wasn’t his date, and I didn’t feel like pretending to be one of those stick-thin L.A. types who seemed to exist exclusively on salads and bottled water. Or maybe just air.
“Pasta carbonara,” I said defiantly.
She didn’t blink. “And for you, sir?”
“The veal piccata, I think.” He obviously hadn’t missed the note of rebellion in my tone. Even in the dimness of our booth I could catch the amused glint in his eyes.
Then we both ordered salad, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking for the dressing on the side. In for a penny and all that.
But after the waitress had departed, Van Rijn and I were once again left alone in our booth. The restaurant wasn’t very crowded; by then it was barely six-thirty, and Angelenos tended to be late diners.
He spoke first. “So you are finding yourself settled in all right?”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Everything is great…the computer, the car, the…” I trailed off into an awkward silence. In desperation I picked up my glass of wine and took a sip.
If he noted my clumsiness—which he must have—Van Rijn made no sign of it. He raised his own glass but didn’t drink. Instead, he held it by the stem and swirled it gently. Then he spoke. “I imagine it must have been something of a leap for you to come here to Los Angeles.”
The non sequitur took me aback for a moment. Ignoring the little voice in my head that told me he was just trying to ascertain exactly how alone I was here in Southern California, I said, “Oh, I don’t know about that. It might sound kind of silly, but I guess I don’t feel completely on my own, since my brother lives up in Berkeley.”
Which was the complete truth, although I knew living 350 miles apart didn’t exactly confer next-door-neighbor status on my brother and me. Still, in case of a dire emergency, he could be in L.A. in about an hour. Considering the state of air travel these days, he’d probably spend more time in lines at the airport than he would in an actual plane.
“Is he a student there?”
“No,” I said, feeling a flash of pride. “He’s a professor. Computer science.” And one of the youngest people to ever earn tenure at U.C. Berkeley, but I thought throwing that particular tidbit into the conversation might be a little too over the top. I always liked saying that my brother was a college professor, though. It made me feel smarter by association.
Van Rijn lifted an eyebrow. “Ah. Now I see why you pick up things so quickly.”
I wasn’t sure exactly how to respond to that, so I just shrugged. Not that I’d ever been a slouch as a student, but my parade of As with the occasional B couldn’t quite match Alex, who’d gotten perfect scores on his SATs and who had graduated from high school a year ahead of schedule.
“I like to learn new things,” I replied. That seemed safe enough. How could I possibly go into the battle royal which had erupted with my parents when I’d told them at the beginning of my sophomore year that I was thinking of changing my major to art? Mostly because of an art history course I’d taken as part of my breadth requirement; I wasn’t sure how well I’d do in studio art, but MSUB didn’t offer a degree in art history.
But my parents—especially my mother—had flipped out. An English major made sense. You could be a teacher if you majored in English. But art? I might as well have announced I wanted to change my major to underwater basket weaving. And since my parents had been footing the bill for my education, guess who had won.
Van Rijn said, “I shall have to remember that about you.”
There seemed to be something ominous in his remark, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on exactly what. I was spared from answering him by the arrival of our salads. After one bite I was glad I hadn’t ordered the dressing on the side. That stuff was damn good.
Maybe it was the half glass of wine I�
�d consumed that gave me courage. After a few bites of salad, I asked, “So where exactly are we going tonight? You never really did explain.”
Van Rijn turned his head toward me. As he moved, a thin thread of slanting sunlight peeked around the edge of the window shade and caught in his fair hair, making it look almost like molten gold. I found myself thinking how gorgeous that hair was, and wondering what it would feel like to run my fingers through it.
That was craziness right there, though, and I shoved the thought out of my mind almost as quickly as it had come. He was my boss, and I sure as hell shouldn’t be thinking of him that way. I jerked my gaze away and tried to focus on my salad.
He said, “A client of mine is having a soirée to celebrate the installation of a piece I procured for him earlier this month. Frivolous, of course, but he is a very good client, and so—”
“And so you have to make an appearance.”
“Precisely.”
The funny thing was, I hadn’t really stopped to think too much about the sort of people who must make up Van Rijn’s clientele. He’d seemed so in command of his surroundings, so assured in his own wealth, that it was hard for me to imagine anyone who might be his social superior. Then again, just because those clients had the money to fund Van Rijn’s high-end lifestyle didn’t necessarily mean they were his betters. As any glance into a celebrity magazine could tell you, there was a lot more money than taste in this town.
“What sort of piece?” I asked. “A painting?” I had a dim idea that rich people sometimes threw parties to show off the latest addition to their art collections.
Fringe Benefits Page 5