The Receptionist

by Kate Myles

  It’s startling. It’s awful.

  “But he always came back!” he says.

  Chloe and Doug laugh in each other’s faces.

  Surely it isn’t this easy? She’d been assuming there would be a moment, a horrible moment when she’d have to fess up about why she’s no longer a backup dancer, about where she’s from. And her mother’s twisted face and all the midnight escapes and terror of waking all those different fathers.

  I got out, she thinks and fingers the raised scar on her thigh. It’s so thick. She can pinch both sides of it. She barely remembers, now, how much it hurt.

  “What happened to you?” Doug asks. “Wait, let me guess.” He points to her scar. “You were a cutter?”

  Chloe blinks. She smiles. This is funny too. He thinks she’s predictable. He thinks he can put her into a category.

  “My mother tried to kill me.”

  Doug goes quiet. He rubs his forehead with his fingertips and slides his back up against the headboard. Chloe waits for him to respond, to tell her he’s glad she said something about her past.

  “Anyway, I should have majored in computer science,” he finally says.

  Her lungs fill with a sharp gust of air.

  “Those tech guys, man,” he says. “They’re changing the world.”

  He heard her. She knows he did. But he doesn’t want to know about this stuff. No one does.

  “Bullshit,” says Chloe.

  His face turns hard and cautioning. It’s the reflex of a powerful man, someone who doesn’t like to be challenged. Chloe brings the side of her thumb to her teeth. One, two, three, she thinks. She bites off a flap of skin. Four, five, six.

  He frowns. “Are you counting?”

  Doug’s not any better than her. He needs to know that. She sidles up next to him and brings her fingers to the soft inside of his elbow. She pinches him.

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to do it that hard.”

  He draws his head back and stares at her. “Don’t do it again.”

  Chloe pulls her knees up and hugs them tight. Doug doesn’t say anything else. But his wife is away. They have all night. She lies back and follows a crack in the ceiling to the wall above the dresser. The Doberman in the portrait is staring at her.

  “Is that your dog?” Chloe asks.

  He sighs. “Was. If you run into my wife, don’t mention it.”

  “Why?”

  “It was vicious. I had to take it back to the breeder who sold it to her.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  DOUG

  Doug is sitting at the small conference table in his office with Maurice, his innovation strategist with the shaved head. Eva, his fiftysomething communications vice president, needs a place to sit. Harper knocks lightly on the door. She rolls in an extra chair. No one asked her for one. Harper just knows what’s needed. She’s wearing a deep, purple V-neck with a choker necklace. The kind that was popular twenty years ago.

  Eva leans across the table to connect her laptop to the projector, exposing the elastic waistband on her basic black trousers. She’s wearing a quilted blazer. Harper starts out the door.

  “Harper,” Doug says. “Do you want to stay for this?”

  She gives him a surprised smile. “I’d love to.” She moves to the back of the room. He winks at her as she leans against his awards shelf. His first instinct was to shut her out, lead her away from everything to do with the EEG. But he already got rid of Sanjay. A firing spree would only attract attention. Better to keep her close, monitor her, practice his denials on her. She keeps asking questions. When they were putting together the board packets, she asked, “Is this real?” about his claims the EEG would deliver the information on a customer’s color preference or their moods relative to the time of day.

  “Of course it’s real!” he insisted last week. “What are you accusing me of?”

  There’s a magical indignation he inhabits when he lies. A small window of uncertainty where he’s free to maneuver. Because whoever doubts him, well, that person doesn’t 100 percent know he’s lying. And what if he were really telling the truth? What right would anyone have to suggest otherwise? Just the thought of someone not believing him fills him with outrage.

  Eva shuts off the light and projects a video onto Doug’s whiteboard. An animated universe appears, twirling to the tune of a cheerful pop orchestra. Galaxies and constellations part to reveal a pixelated Planet Earth. The image zooms down to street level in a cartoon city as the coy, husky voice of a female narrator glides over the violins.

  “What if we could simulate our world? Create an avatar of each person . . . where we know their tastes . . . their wants . . . their desires?”

  The picture pans to a busy sidewalk, paved in flowcharts and spreadsheets. Blocky stick figure people, made up of swirling numbers and code, rise from the various database schemas and join the rush of pedestrians.

  “Not long ago, customer data was flat, inert. But with Beyond the Brand’s patented consumer insights, we’re leveraging multiple data points to create a complete, interactive profile of—”

  “Stop there,” says Doug. He leans back in his swivel chair and clicks a ballpoint pen in the air. “‘Leveraging multiple data points’—it sounds too much like corporate speak. We’re collecting more intimate information than our competitors. That’s what we want to get across.”

  Eva handwrites on a legal pad. Maurice types into his MacBook.

  “Harper,” Doug says, “do you have any comments?”

  She stands and folds her arms across her chest. “Um . . . I’m wondering about the story,” she says. “You know, does this capture the story of what Beyond the Brand is doing?”

  “Very good,” says Doug. He gives Harper a nod. She’s been paying attention. It’s all about the mythmaking, the corporate story. That’s how companies stand out. That’s how TED Talks go viral.

  The phone on Doug’s desk rings. Harper jumps up and heads to her workstation. He hears her say, “Doug Markham’s office,” on the other side of the door.

  “And let’s have a man for the voice-over,” says Doug.

  Harper slides into his office after the meeting. “I’ll take that chair back,” she says. She rolls the extra seat toward the door. “That was Erik Powell on the phone. I sent you an IM. I’m not sure I understand what he was asking.”

  Doug looks up from his computer. “What did he say?”

  “He said we made out the check wrong?”

  The air around Doug stills. “What check?” His words come out like a whipcrack.

  “The invoice he sent you last week. I forwarded it to accounting.”

  “He sent it to me?” He stands. He strides to the door, flings the chair in her hands out of his way, and heads to her desk. He shakes her computer mouse, bringing her home screen to life.

  “Show me,” he says.

  “What?”

  “The invoice.”

  Harper opens her email and clicks to Doug’s inbox. “He said the check was supposed to go to him personally,” she says. “Not his company.” Doug leans forward. Erik’s invoice is official, professional looking, requesting $75,000 for “services rendered.”

  “Jesus,” he says. He turns to Harper. “Why didn’t you come to me about this?”

  Harper lifts her chin, steeling herself. She looks him straight in the eye. “Because if I did, you’d ask why I was bothering you about accounting stuff.”

  Doug points to her computer. “Delete it,” he says. “Tell accounting to cancel the check. It’s an error. And delete your message to me and all traces of this invoice. I want it off our servers.”

  He storms back into his office. Goddamned Erik. He’s a loose cannon. Doug knew it from the beginning. That’s why he thought the guy would be useful. That’s why Doug showed up that night at Shutters, when Emily took Erik out. But these rule breakers. These drunks and egotists. They’re easy to manipulate. Impossible to control.

  He pulls out
his personal cell phone. “You sent me a fucking invoice?” Doug says when Erik answers.

  “Where’s my money?”

  “You want us to get arrested?”

  “I want to get paid for my work.”

  Doug flinches. He clenches his jaw. Is it actually freaking conceivable that this guy who oversees multimillion-dollar projects doesn’t know how back-channel payments work?

  “Erik, I have to get paid first; then that money has to clear; then I pay you. But the trick is, it all has to be untraceable. Got it? That’s why we set up our accounts.”

  “It’s been weeks, Doug.”

  “If you’re impatient, call me. Don’t fucking threaten me with an invoice.”

  Erik is silent for a moment. “I thought you’d find the ‘services rendered’ part funny.”

  “You’re an idiot,” says Doug.

  “I know. I have another drive for you. Chock full of good stuff.”

  There’s a knock on his door.

  “Don’t screw me like that again,” says Doug. He hangs up.

  Harper opens the door just enough to poke her head in. “Doug?” she says. “Can I talk to you a minute?” She sounds small, suddenly. Meek. He’s never heard her speak without confidence. He waves her in. She’s carrying a folded piece of paper.

  “What’s up?” he says.

  “I have an opportunity,” she says. “At a start-up.” She runs one hand down her thigh, like she’s wiping sweat off her palm. “I wasn’t sure if I was going to take it—”

  Doug jumps up. Harper startles. “You’re quitting?” he says.

  “It’s a great opportunity.”

  “Harper, I’m about to promote you.”

  She takes a breath. “Thank you,” she says. “This has been a . . . good place to work.” She pauses and shakes her head with her mouth open. “I have a letter.” She starts to put the paper on his desk.

  “Jesus Christ!” He grabs the paper from her and squeezes it into a tight ball. She can’t leave. She’s been keeping his secrets for so long now. He doesn’t even know how much she knows. “How about some goddamned loyalty?”

  Harper takes a step back. “I’m feeling uncomfortable right now.”

  Uncomfortable. That’s his lot in life. Making sure people under him are comfortable. He comes around his desk and sits on the edge. He attempts a smile.

  “I’ll promote you,” he says. “Today. I’ll make you a manager. You want to work in PR?”

  “Doug, it’s not—”

  “Fifty percent raise. That’ll bring you to what? Ninety thousand?”

  Harper breathes in and straightens herself. He’s emboldening her now. He can tell. She’s ready to negotiate. They all come around when you mention money.

  “Come on, Doug,” she says. “We’ve gotten two huge influxes of data. No one knows where they come from. They just go into this pool, this swirl of information. Jeremiah said you guys were opening up ‘new categories,’ which, I’m sorry, but are you selling people’s medical information? I mean, is that legal?”

  Doug looks Harper over slowly. He lingers on her waist before bringing his eyes up to meet hers. “Did you delete the invoice?”

  Harper spreads her hands out to the sides, like she’s trying to steady herself on the air. There’s confusion in her now, overtaking her momentary show of defiance. “I’m not really comfortable with that.”

  Comfort. Again. Now she’s using it against him. “It’s your job, Harper.”

  She stammers. “My job is not . . . this isn’t what I . . .”

  He pushes off from his desk quickly. She starts for the exit, but he’s faster. He sprints past her and presses his hand against the door. Shutting it. Keeping it shut. She stops short with a tiny “Oh!” and brings her hands to the sides of her nose in prayer position. She backs away from him to the middle of the room.

  “You think you’re gonna go whistleblower on me?”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  Of course he is. People like Harper think the world is supposed to be fair or kind. They know nothing of risk. Of what it means to own a business. They never have to resort to savagery.

  He leans forward and spits his words at her. “I will annihilate you!”

  She’s shaking. He lets her stand there a moment before opening his door and motioning for her to leave. She turns from him as she passes. It’s not like he enjoys frightening the shit out of people. It’s just something he has to do every once in a while.

  He sits back down at his desk and pretends to work at his computer. He glances through the doorway and watches as she gathers her pictures and tchotchkes.

  “Don’t touch that computer,” he says.

  She lowers her head, hiding her face from him. Is she crying? Her beautiful curls are masking everything. He feels bad now. He feels like he’s sinking. He’ll have HR follow up. They can offer her a small severance.

  Chloe texts a few minutes after she leaves:

  Did Harper just quit????

  Get in here.

  Chloe barrels into his office, all out of breath and eager. “I have to tell you something,” she says. “I never liked Harper.”

  He closes the door. “Have you ever been hate fucked?”

  Chloe cocks her head to the side. “Sort of?”

  “Stand over there.”

  He points to the middle of the room, where Harper was standing. He holds the door shut with his hand and watches Chloe prance away from him. She peeks over her shoulder. Playing seductress.

  “Take your shirt off,” he says. She does. Her bra is gray, the sheer demicup he bought her. “Take your pants off.” She’s wearing flowered cotton panties.

  She puts her hands on her hips and shimmies. Even in mismatched underwear, she’s a show-off. It’s not what he wants. He wants her dirty. He wants her humiliated.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers. He charges. He grabs her by her hair and pulls her to the floor. “I’m so sorry.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  DOUG

  It’s been a week since Harper left. Doug paces his office with his phone in his hand and switches from his browser to his email app. Jo-Ann has sent two more résumés. Neither has included a picture. He needs a personal touch in his new assistant. He needs someone to ask if he’s okay when she sees him pacing his office with his phone in his hand, searching online for his most recent drug dealers, the ones from before his last stint in rehab. When was that? Seven, ten years ago?

  Things are getting murky. Doug has been here before. He knows when he’s inviting chaos. Hunting distraction.

  One of his old dealers is in jail. Another owns an auto-repair shop in Alhambra. The guy’s profile picture shows him cradling an infant with a muscular arm.

  Doug fights the urge to text Chloe, to tell her to come into his office. They’ve been screwing a lot more. At work. In the bathroom. It was mostly after hours at first. A bit of rebellious fun that fast became a daily compulsion. She’s his go-to now. Warm and malleable. Chloe is comfort food.

  But this behavior is dangerous. He knows this. He’s been sued. The last one, Tamra. It almost went to court. Almost went public. She didn’t want to sign the nondisclosure.

  Plus, he has a baby on the way. Jesus. He needs to behave. Emily is what, seven months along now?

  He texts Chloe:

  Let’s go. Your car. Pick me up at Rose and 4th.

  “I’ll drive,” he says as she pulls up to the sidewalk in her Celica. He opens her door and moves to let her out of the car. But she just climbs over the center console to the passenger seat. “Where are we going?”

  “A quick errand,” he says.

  He takes the 10 freeway east, speeding out of the coastal mist into the stark sunlight. Doug reaches for the sunglasses he’s hung from the collar of his crewneck. Chloe takes hers out of the Mulberry tote he bought her. He gets off at the exit for Garfield Avenue and drives through tracts of nondescript warehouses.

  Chloe sinks into her seat. She looks
disappointed. “Is this Monterey Park?” she asks.

  “Alhambra,” he says. He should have told her where they’re going. There’s nothing sexy about fixing the air-conditioning on a car. Still, he has to take care of this. He has to set her up not to hate him when he breaks it off with her. If he can give her enough financial help, she’ll be grateful.

  He pulls into the lot of a yellow cinder block garage.

  “Time you got some AC.”

  “Really?” She opens her mouth wide and clutches a hand to her heart like some lucky game show contestant. “Oh my God, thank you!”

  The mechanic, Doug’s old dealer, comes out. He shakes Doug’s hand. “Hey, man, how you been?”

  Doug explains what they want. The mechanic checks under the hood and addresses Chloe. “When was the last time you added coolant?” She looks startled and glances to Doug.

  “Do you think that’s the issue?” Doug asks.

  The mechanic clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth. “Hard to say. We can do a diagnostic with new fluid, but it’ll be about two hundred to even find out what’s wrong.”

  “Just call when it’s fixed,” says Doug.

  Doug and Chloe sit silently in the Uber on the way back, an old Lincoln Continental driven by a white guy in his sixties who looks like he’s done time as a taxi driver. Doug feels hopeful. He doesn’t know if the mechanic is still dealing, but the guy was friendly. A good sign. Not that Doug is planning to start doing drugs again.

  “Thank you for this,” Chloe finally says. She’s looking out the window. Her voice is high pitched and tight. “Do you think it’s really just the coolant?”

  Doug frowns at her. “When was the last time you had your car serviced?” She inhales and grips both thighs. “This stuff isn’t that complicated, Chloe.”

  “I know. My brain just goes into lockdown around money and logistics. Like, say the word taxes, and I’m the Batmobile. Vvvt, vvvt, vvvt.” She mimes closing a zipper around her head.

  “Taxes?” He’s finding it difficult to hide his exasperation. “You do your taxes, right?”

  “It’s just, I claimed more than my fair share of dependents.”