I see Gatsby on the far end of the room. A full living room with three couches and two sofas and a beautiful coffee table separates us.
“Here, this is it,” Ms. Greaves says, focusin my concentration. I turn to face her. She’s inside a cube. There’s a smaller glass office within the large space. I follow her inside.
“This will be your space. This way you can have some privacy and so can Mr. Wild when he has meetings. But you will also be right here if he needs you.”
If Gatsby needs me. I like the sound of that.
My office is entirely constructed of glass. Even the door is glass. But the size of it is quite manageable. It’s the size of my living room.
I’m relieved. Large spaces make me uncomfortable. I’m glad that I don’t have to sit at a table in the middle of an enormous room.
The desk, which is luckily not made of glass, is facing the window. I sit down and look out. The glass is so clean that I feel like I am outside. A bird flies by. It seems like it’s flying right in front of me even though there are two layers of glass separating us.
“Isn’t this nice?” Ms. Greaves says, walking around my office. I’m not sure if she’s just complimenting the place or is jealous that she’s not the one working here.
“Can I ask you something, Ms. Greaves? Is there a reason you don’t work here? You have so much more experience, and you know everything about Mr. Wild and what he needs.”
“Mr. Wild and I go way back, Ms. York. I don’t like to gossip, but let’s just say that I’m happy in my permanent position.”
“Permanent?” I ask. What does that mean? Does that mean that Gatsby is going to fire me soon?
“Is this position not permanent?” I ask when she doesn’t reply.
“It’s complicated. You and I fulfill different functions. Let’s just say, this position isn’t for me,” she finally says. “But I’m sure you’re going to be very happy here.”
After Ms. Greaves leaves, I sit down in the most comfortable office chair I’ve ever sat in and swivel around in a circle. I stop spinning, facing Gatsby, who is talking on the phone and walking around his office. He pours himself a coffee at the bar and meanders around the living room with it. The conversation is heated, but I can’t hear a word.
He signals that he’ll be off soon when he catches me staring at him. I turn away from him and face the computer. It’s a good time to get some work done. If not work, then at least set up all the things that need to be set up. My email. Facebook. Save some important tabs into favorites. Like CNN. Buzzfeed.
* * *
“Hey, sorry, about that,” Gatsby opens the door. “How do you like your office?”
My office. I like the sound of that!
“It’s great, thanks.”
“Did Ms. Greaves show you everything?”
“Yep. Thanks. This place is amazing, Gatsby. The view, it’s unbelievable. But you know, I wanted to talk to you about something. I mean, after everything that happened, are you sure that you want me working here?”
He takes a moment to collect his thoughts.
“Yes, I do, Ms. York. I wouldn’t have asked for you otherwise.”
“Ms. York?”
“Ms. York. And it’s Mr. Wild to you. I have to get back to work now.”
I nod. I can’t believe my ears. Ms. York. Mr. Wild. The formalities make me cringe. It’s as if we are strangers again. Calls start streaming in before I get the chance to really think about this and what it all means. I answer calls, putting some of them through. Ms. Greaves was kind enough to leave a list of people who were to be put through immediately on my desk. I screen all other calls, take notes on their issues and desires and pleas.
The rest of the day comes and goes, but we don’t speak again. At least, not in person. There are a couple of times when Gatsby, er, Mr. Wild, calls me on the phone and asks for his messages, but other than that, nothing.
Around 5:30 pm, I’m ready to leave. I’ve been ready to leave for close to forty-five minutes already, but I’m not sure what to do. Gatsby is still at his desk, going through paperwork and making calls. When he’s not doing that, he’s staring at the computer screen and clicking ferociously.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to leave too early. I don’t know if I should ask permission. I never did before with Ms. Greaves, but this is different.
I watch the clock. Time passes slowly.
5:45 pm.
6:00 pm.
7:15 pm.
7:29 pm.
* * *
This is getting ridiculous. What am I waiting for? Clearly, there’s no more work for me to do. If Gatsby needs to stay late, that’s his problem. I have searched every website imaginable. Finally, at 7:31pm, I turn off the screen and officially end my day.
“Hey, Gatsby…I mean, Mr. Wild,” I correct myself as quickly as I can. “I’m going to take off now.”
“Oh, wow, you’re still here?”
I catch him off guard. He’s no longer wearing his tie. His starched shirt is just as starched, but the two buttons at the top are open. He’s not wearing his suit jacket anymore. When I get closer to his desk, I see that he’s also barefoot. His shoes are tossed casually aside, and his perfect, powerful feet are naked. No socks!
“I thought you’d left already,” he says, leaning back in his chair. There’s a half drunk gin and tonic on his desk.
“You did?” I don’t understand how that’s possible. “Why?”
“Yeah. I can’t really see you,” he says, pointing his drink at my office.
I turn around. The glass cube is completely opaque. I can see out, but no one can see in.
“Oh, I had no idea. Why is it like that?”
Gatsby shrugs and smiles.
“If you want to be in a fishbowl, you can always turn it off.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about. He walks me back to my office and shows me that there’s a button on my desk that makes the glass all around the office either opaque or see-through. My office has been opaque the whole day. He couldn’t see a thing!
“I just thought you wanted some privacy.”
I shake my head. I had been wrong this whole day. I spent so much time pretending to work that I actually got some work done.
I start to laugh.
“What? What’s so funny?”
“Nothing really. I just didn’t know. That’s all.”
“Ah, I see. You feel like the day has been wasted because you were just pretending to work, huh?” he jokes. For a moment, I see the old Gatsby and my heart breaks.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Would you like a drink?” he asks. He doesn’t apologize for being rude in not offering me one before, he simply stares into my eyes and asks the question like he means it. But I can’t say yes. This has to remain professional. I’m confused as to what’s going on here.
“Sure,” I nod. The words simply escape my lips as if my body is acting on its own accord. He appears to be as surprised by it as I am.
29
I watch Gatsby make me a martini. He’s meticulous and diligent. He’s like this in everything except lovemaking. It’s as if he has flashes of inspiration that he only saves for me when we are together. My mind is wandering again, and it must stop.
Gatsby hands me my drink and takes a sip of his, looking over the skyline below us.
“We’re so high up, and the windows are so big, I feel like I’m skydiving again.”
Gatsby smiles without turning to me. “It wasn’t this boring, was it?”
“No, not at all! I mean the slow part. After the chute opened. It hardly felt like we were falling at all.”
“Isn’t that cool?” he asks.
“How do you mean?”
“How relative everything is. If you were to fall right now at that same slow speed, you’d feel like you were falling fast. But in comparison to falling out of a plane, standing still feels like falling.”
I nod and look out at the b
uildings and the flashing lights below. This part of downtown is quiet now. Almost all of the office buildings are empty. All of the employees that make this place such a hotbed of activity at lunchtime have now gone home or moved their activity to the clubs and bars to the west.
“I’m sorry about what happened,” Gatsby says, facing the window and looking out into the distance.
I want to face him, but I don’t.
“Me too,” I say.
“I don’t want it to interfere with our working relationship. I really like having you around,” he says.
“No, me neither,” I agree.
“What I’m trying to say.” Gatsby turns to face me. “Is that I want you to keep working here. No matter what happens between us.”
“I want to work here, too,” I whisper.
We are standing so close together I can feel his breath on my lips. What does that mean, no matter what happens between us? I thought ‘we’ were over, but perhaps not.
“So you want to be friends?” I ask.
I don’t know if I want him to say yes or no. I want to be friends if we can’t be anything else, but I don’t want to be just friends. I want more. I want to grab his head right now and pull him close to me.
He leans closer to me. So close that his hair brushes against my forehead. It feels like a feather and sends shivers up my spine.
“I’d like that,” he whispers.
I close my eyes. I feel the warmth of his lip close to mine. I hear the pounding of his heart.
He wraps his arms around me and gives me a close hug. A warm, but clearly not romantic hug.
I open my eyes and realize that we’re in the middle of a friendly but not sensual embrace.
“I’m glad, we were able to work this out,” Gatsby says when he pulls away from me.
I am stunned. Speechless. Shocked.
“So what happened?” Maggie Mae asks when I finally see her that evening. We are sitting around the dining room table and having ill-advised coffee. It’s late at night, and I know I will regret this in the morning. I tell her everything.
“Nothing.” I shrug. “I thought we were going to kiss, but we didn’t. It was such a perfect moment to make up for everything that happened, but then it just never materialized.”
“Agh! That sucks!”
I smile. Maggie Mae is excellent at vocalizing and conveying my deepest regrets in a perfect surge of emotion.
“Why didn’t you just kiss him?”
I have no answer. Not any good ones, anyway.
“I don’t know,” I finally say. “Because I’m a coward? Because I’ve been rejected already, and I have no idea how he feels.”
“You would’ve if you had kissed him.”
I know that she’s right. There is so much one can tell from a kiss. But I am afraid. What if he doesn’t kiss back? What if he pulls away and rejects me again?
“I don’t know what to do,” I finally admit.
“I don’t know either.” She shrugs. “Just go to work and play it by ear, I guess.”
I nod. She’s right, of course. Besides, I don’t have any more options other than that.
The following morning, I am so swamped with work that I don’t have the time to dwell on what happened the night before. Calls are coming in, faxes have to be sent out, papers have to be organized and signed.
Gatsby is talking non-stop on the phone and the rest of the time, he’s at his desk scrolling through spreadsheets and answering emails. He has four meetings lined up and three more that still have to be scheduled and fitted in somewhere between lunch and five o’clock. But I’m glad about the workload. It takes my mind off all the things that I shouldn’t be thinking about.
That afternoon, after welcoming one of the top people from the investment bank and making him comfortable with coffee and coffee cake, which he actually ate, I return to my office. There are ten more emails in my inbox!
I was just away from the desk for 5 minutes!
Annoyed, I scroll through them. Four are typical emails requesting meetings with Gatsby, and the last one isn’t addressed to me. I’m about to delete it. But then I see who it’s from.
Atticus.
Hmm.
Why is Atticus sending me an email?
I open it and see that it’s a chain email, to which I am mysteriously attached. It’s long with a lot of forwards and cc’s. It takes me close to a minute to even scroll through the ridiculously long email. I have no idea what it’s all about, and I’m about to delete it. But something holds me back.
One of the emails from Atticus:
Here are the real third quarter financials.
* * *
Another one says:
I think we can depress the share price even further.
* * *
And the last one is more insistent:
Give me some time. It’s fine, don’t worry about it. No one will know.
* * *
These emails give me pause. I scroll up all the way to the bottom and read every one of the emails more carefully. When I reach the top, I realize that I received the email chain because Atticus hit reply all and, for some reason, I was attached to the list.
I don’t know all the details of what’s going on, but some things are becoming clear. Atticus is trying to artificially depress the share price of the company prior to it going public. The investment bank is in on it.
I can’t believe what I’m reading!
I remember that I did some filling out on some regulatory filing paperwork last week. I need to double check that the third-quarter financials are actually off. I look through the files of documents saved on my computer for close to an hour and finally find them.
What did Atticus say that he wanted to depress the financials to?
$240 million.
No, this can’t be right. I look over the paperwork again.
The real third-quarter financials are $350 million.
They’re off. By a lot. One hundred and ten million dollars!
I don’t know what to do. I pace back and forth in my office. I have to tell Gatsby, but how? This weekend had made it perfectly clear that he was on his brother’s side. Would he believe me? What if he fires me for this?
And then a terrifying thought pops into my head.
What if he’s in on it? What if he knows already?
“Mr. Wild?” I walk up to Gatsby.
The phone is silent for once, and he’s reading something on the screen. His shoulders are pulled up. His eyes aren’t blinking. He’s so focused that, for a moment, I’m not sure if he even heard me.
“What is it, Annabelle?” he says without looking up. Then he catches himself. “Ms. York, I mean.”
The words stop in my throat. This is going to be more difficult than I thought. I stand there before him, dumb and mute.
“Ms. York?” he says. “If you have something for me, then get on with it. I have a lot to do.”
I hate the formality in his voice. I hate the people that we have become with each other. Finally, I take the plunge.
“I have to show you something.”
I’ve printed out the emails and highlighted the most important parts. I’ve printed out the first page of the third-quarter financials. I’ve brought him proof. I just hope that it’s enough. I also pray that he’s not in on it.
“What is it?”
“It’s an email that I received from Atticus. He didn’t send it to me, but he must’ve replied to all and I was attached to it somehow.”
“Oh Annabelle, I don’t have time for this.” Gatsby shakes his head and rolls his eyes.
“Please, this is very important. It’s not really about what happened this weekend, but it sort of is. The emails show that Atticus has been trying to decrease the share price of the company prior to the IPO.”
Gatsby furrows his brows. He takes the emails from me and looks them over. He pauses at the highlighted portions. Disbelief and confusion are all over his face.
; “I don’t understand,” he finally mutters. “Why would he do this? Why would he want the company to be valued less?”
“I don’t know,” I shrug. “I just needed to show you this.”
I want Gatsby to run up to me and hug and kiss me. I want him to thank me for the mystery that I’ve unraveled, for the crime that I prevented. But he simply sits there in his chair, dumbfounded. This is the real world. He’s not excited about this. He’s hurt. He doesn’t know why his brother did this, and now he has even more to deal with on top of everything else.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I finally say.
“Help with what?”
“With whatever this is. With whatever you’re going to do about it.”
He shakes his head.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do about this. I don’t know why you brought this to me, Annabelle.”
Now I’m the one who’s stunned. “What?”
“This.” He waves the emails in his hand. “This just complicates things so much. Don’t you know that?”
I feel anger starting to bubble up within me.
“Of course I know that! That’s exactly why I brought it to you,” I say, raising my voice. “You needed to see this.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “Maybe not.”
“This is your company, Gatsby. Your brother’s trying to rip you off. Don’t you see that?”
“Of course I see that! I just don’t know how he’s doing it. I don’t know why. Agh!” He slams the table with his fist.
I walk away. I can’t be around this. He doesn’t believe me. I hate him for this.
“Wait!” I hear Gatsby’s footsteps behind me, but I don’t dare turn around. Tears are streaming down my face. I don’t know why I’m crying, but I can’t make them stop.
“Annabelle, I’m sorry.” He catches up to me and grabs my arm. I wipe my tears with my other hand.
Auctioned to Him 6: Damage Page 45