by Brianna Hale
The ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Someone’s been telling you about my last assistant.”
“Well, I heard about your car. Dad told me.”
Mr. Blomqvist stands up and comes and sits on his desk in front of me. “I’m sorry I made you think I was going to lose my temper. I get angry when people disappoint me or are careless, but I don’t focus on things I can’t control.”
Just like that, as if he has a choice in what he obsesses over? Sounds fake, but okay. We look at each other for a long time, and I wonder if he’s going to apologize specifically for yelling. I get the feeling he wants to say something, but he doesn’t speak.
“I’ll go and see if I can get another paper interested?” I offer, gesturing over my shoulder.
He nods and goes back to his chair.
I’m halfway to the door when I stop and turn back to him. “I wasn’t searching in my bag for my phone the other night. I know you think I was being careless, but I was looking for something important.”
I don’t know why I need to tell him this. I guess I don’t like being thought of as a silly girl who wanted to check her Instagram DMs so much she nearly died.
“Thank you for telling me that, Lacey.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
I go back to my desk outside, but I barely see the words on the computer screen. I said it again. Sir. This time he didn’t tell me not to, but that’s probably because I left the room so quickly he didn’t have a chance.
I’ve never had anyone to say sir to. I would like to, one day. In bed. I’ve been low-key obsessed with the idea since I discovered that dominants and submissives exist. That’s me, I thought to myself, as I read about the submissive half of the relationship. The one who derives pleasure from being controlled. It couldn’t be just by anyone. There are plenty of people who think they deserve someone saying yes sir and no sir to them, but they have to do something to earn it. Have a presence. Be authoritative. Inspire people to want to do as they direct. Smile at you in a way that makes you want to suck their fingers.
Beneath my desk, I press my thighs together. Mr. Blomqvist has a smile like that.
I got so melancholy over not having anyone to say it to that I even Googled how to be submissive when you haven’t got a dom. An article advised me to find someone in authority in my life and make myself useful to them. I tried it with one of my university professors but I didn’t see him often enough, and he was always trying to help me, so it was no good.
But I have someone now. He’s intelligent, handsome, serious. Authoritative. Demanding. And he’s my boss. It’s perfect. He asks me to do things, and I do them. I already enjoy that, and now I’ve found a way to enjoy it more.
On my way home that night I go into a store and buy myself a present. A pale pink velvet choker with a silver clasp. I’ve always loved the look of these and what they mean, if you think about them in that way. A collar. Belonging to someone. Being owned.
I’m just trying it out. To see if I like the idea of wearing it for Mr. Blomqvist.
I wear several necklaces every day so don’t think anyone at the museum notices I’m wearing it the next day, but I do, and I sit a little straighter at my desk as I type an email to the freight company who are shipping the Laxos artifacts.
At lunchtime, I think that it’s not a bad sort of day as I head to the stairs with my food. I finish my salad and set out the carrot sticks in an orderly row. Not much left to tackle now.
I hear footsteps on the stairs, and freeze. Too late, I realize someone’s coming up them, and then Mr. Blomqvist appears on the landing below and turns and climbs toward me. He’s got a gym bag over his shoulder, and his hair is damp. Since when did he go to the gym at lunchtime?
“Not eating in the lunchroom?” he asks.
I feel my face burn, hard, as if I’ve been caught thieving or spreading malicious gossip. Without waiting for an answer Mr. Blomqvist keeps walking and heads through the door and disappears.
I sit frozen, staring at my lunchbox. He’s seen my weird ritual, and now all I want to do is crumple up in shame and be scattered to the four winds.
Chapter Five
Stian
I’m kicking myself when I get back into my office. The words just slipped out when I saw Lacey on the stairs. I don’t know much about eating disorders but she’s obviously sensitive about food, so I shouldn’t have said anything.
I’ve got a budget meeting in forty-five minutes, and I should go through my notes. Instead, I open up Google and type “recovering anorexic” into the search bar, because I suspect that’s what’s up with Lacey. She doesn’t drink coffee or eat fruit at her desk like the other office workers do. When I go into the lunchroom or to the museum café I never see her buying cold drinks or cake. She’s slender, though not painfully so, so she must eat. Now I’ve discovered where.
I read an account of a woman talking about the “anorexic voice” and how angry it is with her when she eats; how it tells her she’s disgusting and doesn’t deserve food; how overwhelming the mere act of putting food in her mouth is, and that she can’t do it with any pleasure. Only fear. Eating around other people, or being near other people when they eat, is torture.
It sounds fucking terrible. I think about the way Lacey was sitting on the stairs, all hunched over like she was being hunted by a monster. I’ve never seen her like that before.
I keep reading and find a chilling paragraph on an educational website. Anorexia has the highest mortality rate of any psychiatric disorder. As many as twenty percent of sufferers will eventually die from the disease. The most common cause of death is heart failure.
As I’m heading out to the budget meeting, I take some catalog proofs to Lacey and give them to her. “You can eat lunch in my office. I’ve got time for the gym again, so I’m out from twelve forty-five to one-thirty every day.”
I have time because of her. I’m not constantly battling to get on top of things. Her eyes are startled, and I see her blush creeping back. Before she can argue with me or tell me it doesn’t matter, I leave her to it. There’s a sofa in the corner of my office. She can eat there and at least feel a little normal.
When I come back from the gym the next afternoon, I’m pleased to see Lacey sitting on the sofa. There’s still food in her lunchbox, but she slams the lid on and tries to get up, her face flooding with color.
I put my hand out. “No, please. Stay where you are.”
I go to my computer, and reluctantly, she sits down again. It’s a big office and we do a good job of ignoring each other, but out of the corner of my eye, I can still see her. Most people eat without thinking, wolfing down a muesli bar while flicking through a magazine or taking bites of a sandwich while they scroll through their phones. Lacey eats painfully slowly, her eyes focused on her lunchbox as if she’s hyper-aware of everything her mouth is doing. It seems more like a chore than a pleasure, and she’s got that hunched, frightened attitude again.
Ten minutes later, she gets up and goes back to her desk.
Every day after that I find her in my office when I get back from the gym. We don’t talk to each other during this time. We don’t even acknowledge each other. To speak to her would be to scare her away, and I feel instinctively this is a big step for her, having someone else in the room while she eats. I like that I’ve been able to do that for her. I like that she’s done as she’s told, as well.
On the fourth day, I watch her retreating back, remembering how she’s said yes, sir and thank you, sir. It’s happened a handful of times now, and each time she does it I want to lean down and say quietly in her ear, Try yes, daddy. I didn’t expect Lacey to be such a good girl, but she is. Helpful, clever and sweet. Just my type, actually, which makes it frustrating that she’s my assistant, and quite a bit younger than me.
The eating disorder recovery, that’s less of an issue. It’s just that. Recovery. She’s obviously a strong person to face such an uphill battle, and I admire her for it.
&nbs
p; Two days later, I come back from the gym to find she’s finished her lunch and is standing before my collection of bonsai plants by the window. I have twelve, all in glazed ceramic pots sitting on a specially made shelf. Japanese Maple. Chinese Elm. Ficus. Beech.
“Your bonsai plants are beautiful. I’ve never seen so many in one place.”
“Thank you. They’re my hobby.” I come and stand beside her, looking at them with her.
“Is it hard, getting them to grow this way?”
I touch the leaf of the maple. “Not so hard. I keep them small and perfect and give them everything they need, and they seem to thrive.”
I look down at her, liking the smile on her face as she looks at them. My eyes land on the pale pink choker around her throat and I feel the urge to touch it. To feel her pulse beating beneath her fragile skin. To ask her why she started wearing it. She wasn’t the first week she was here. I noticed her jewelry every day because the pieces always looked so good on her. The choker looks innocent enough but I’m almost certain she’s wearing it as a collar, and the idea that it might be because of me is an enjoyable thought. She’s good at her job, and sometimes I have the impression that she works hard because the pleasure she derives from it isn’t purely about a job well done. The sir business especially makes me wonder if the collar’s because of me. For me.
I’ve done domestic kink before. Office kink, though, that’s something new to explore. I become distracted by thoughts of sliding her underwear down her thighs while she sits on my desk when I realize she’s asked me about the bonsai.
“Hmm? Oh, these ones are five or ten years old. I have others at home that are younger, but they’re not ready yet. It takes a while to train them.”
The training is almost the best part.
Lacey looks up at me innocently enough, but my thoughts as I gaze back at her are far from so.
Chapter Six
Lacey
Small and perfect. Everything you need to thrive. That sounds like an ideal existence. On my way home, I imagine Mr. Blomqvist tending to his bonsai plants at home, carefully pruning, positioning and watering them so they grow strong under his hands. I wonder what his home is like, and what he’s like in it. If it’s a house, and if he shares it with anyone, or if it’s just him, shelves of books, plants, and a comfy chair by the fireplace where he reads. I wonder if he has a pair of well-washed jeans and a white T-shirt that he wears on Saturday mornings to water his plants, before he walks down the street to buy a takeaway coffee and a croissant. It’s soothing to imagine him doing these things. Just simple things, but enviable, maybe because of their simplicity.
Mum and dad are still eating when I come back downstairs after eating my dinner, and for once I don’t go through to the living room to read, but join them at the table. Glancing at their plates, I think they had beef stroganoff.
Both look at me in surprise when I sit down. Neither comment on it, but mum smiles a little. I ask them how their days were and about mum’s tennis tournament this weekend. The aroma of their meal isn’t too off-putting.
Finally, I ask what I’m really curious about. “Dad. How did you meet Mr. Blomqvist?”
Dad mops up the sauce on his plate with a piece of bread. “Well, that was an interesting day. It’s gratifying to meet a man who appreciates both modern and classical art. It must be his background. Scandinavians are so cultured.”
I fight to keep a straight face.
“A few months ago he’d run into a brick wall with the people at the Laxos Museum. You remember that my cousin, Yannis, is a curator at the Athens Hellenic Museum?”
I nod. Dad was born in Athens, but his parents emigrated to London with him when he was just a baby.
“One of Stian’s colleagues put him onto me, and I put Stian onto Yannis. Yannis put in a good word for Stian at the Laxos museum, and so—” Dad makes an expansive gesture and reaches for his glass of wine. “Connections are everything in the art world. Modern and otherwise.”
Mum looks on, amused, leaning her chin on her hand. If dad is the flighty, arty type then she’s definitely the practical one in their relationship. I see how much she loves his energy, though.
“But you didn’t know Mr. Blomqvist, so how could you and Yannis vouch for him?” I ask.
“I know art people,” dad says emphatically. “I only needed to meet him once. A man like Stian Blomqvist has exquisite taste, and the utmost respect for the things he admires. The artifacts will be safe in his hands, and the Laxos Museum will benefit for years to come from the pieces’ exposure at the Albright Collection.”
That last part is probably true. Brits do love visiting Greece and the various archaeological sites—when they’re tired of the beaches and bars, that is. I have no doubt that Mr. Blomqvist will look after the pieces. He probably impressed dad with his well-cut suits and good looks. The tattoos, Mr. Blomqvist would be exasperated to hear, probably helped, as well.
“So you like him?” I ask, topping up dad’s water glass and taking a sip myself.
“Oh, yes. An intelligent man.” Dad takes a thoughtful mouthful of wine. “I could see that at the exhibition the other week. He doesn’t say much, but that just goes to show how deeply he’s thinking about my work. Most people chatter, chatter, chatter, more interested in themselves and their gossip. It’s deplorable.”
He says this with a smile, and I know he doesn’t really mind it at all. Dad loves noisy rooms full of people at his events.
“Stian Blomqvist actually takes the time to listen,” dad tells us. “A rare quality in anyone.”
I can’t argue with that. Maybe it’s his stony gaze, but I never feel like I’m being judged by Mr. Blomqvist. He must have figured out by now that I’m not completely well, but I’ve never detected any wariness or unease from him when he’s been confronted by my unusual behaviors.
“Do you like him, Lacey?” mum asks.
Am I being paranoid, or do a detect more than casual interest in her question? I take a slow sip from dad’s water glass again, striving for nonchalance. “Oh, yes, he’s fine. He received an invitation to Malcolm Hesse’s exhibition the other day,” I say, changing the subject.
Dad’s eyes immediately sharpen. He and Hesse are great friends, but also great rivals. “Oh? And will Stian be going?”
“I don’t think so. The flyer didn’t seem to appeal to him.”
Dad roars with laughter and thumps the table with his fist. “Did I not say he was a man of taste and intelligence?”
The next day at lunchtime I contemplate Mr. Blomqvist’s bonsai. It’s wonderful to be able to focus on the leaves and delicate stems while I chew, even if it’s only in flashes. I eat the same things for lunch that I have for the last six months. I’m afraid of switching to new foods and what the voice will have to say about them. Any change I make in my life has to be done so, so carefully, in case I accidentally dislodge the lid and my old friend comes flying out, screaming in triumph.
I wonder what it’s like having everything you need to thrive, no more, no less. To have someone give that to you with two large, strong hands. From within her box, I hear the voice mutter darkly about small and perfect; that I’m neither and I never will be unless I do exactly what she says. With some effort, I’m able to push her cruelty away. Besides, that’s not the small and perfect I mean.
Little…at heart really. Joyful. Carefree. Like a child. Sometimes my therapist encourages me to do coloring in when I talk to her because it helps me focus. I told her it reminds me of being a kid, nine years old or so, and lying on my belly on the living room floor with my coloring-in book, watching cartoons on a Saturday morning. Doctor Loftin said that was good as I was remembering a time before I had an eating disorder. That’s a comforting way to put it because some days it feels like I’ve never not had it.
When Mr. Blomqvist comes back from the gym, I finish my lunch and then stand up to go, but he calls out to me.
“I have to go down to the vault. Have you got a moment to
come with me? I want to show you something.”
He never talks to me at lunchtime, as if we’re both pretending I’m not here, so it takes me a moment to get over my surprise. “Oh—sure.”
The vaults are in the basement and they house all the artifacts that the museum owns which aren’t currently on display. It’s cool and silent when we step out of the elevator, and Mr. Blomqvist walks me through a series of rooms filled with neat shelves.
Going to a cabinet, he pulls open a large, flat drawer, and then steps back to show me the contents. I see a shield with three wings, the bronze green with age, with a grotesque Medusa head at the center.
I lean closer excitedly. “Oh, my goodness! Is that a gorgoneion?”
I’ve only ever seen photographs of these shields, and I didn’t realize how big they were, nearly a meter across.
“Yes. You mentioned your thesis topic, and I remembered we had this.” He hands me a pair of cotton gloves, and I realize I’m allowed to touch it. I put on the gloves, still studying the artifact. It’s nearly three thousand years old, and I carefully trace the thin edges of the wings and the ghastly Medusa face. I don’t dare do more, but that small contact is enough. I’ve felt it with my own hands.
Medusa’s expression is furious and frightening, but I gaze down at her, smiling. “She’s always been a favorite of mine.”
Mr. Blomqvist hasn’t moved from my side, even though he said he came down here for something. “Oh?”
“Everyone remembers that Perseus cut off Medusa’s head, because he’s the hero and she’s the monster. But they don’t remember the part before that when Medusa was a beautiful maiden, and why Athena transformed her into this.”
Poseidon raped Medusa in Athena’s temple, and the virgin goddess was supposedly furious at the sacrilege and took her revenge on the young woman.
Mr. Blomqvist must know the story, because he says, “The gods were never fair.”