The Receptionist

by Kate Myles

  “Last call,” says the mailwoman.

  “Just give it to me.” Chloe yanks the pen from her hand and signs. She slams the door and scans her bare living room. It echoes, the emptiness. She isn’t quite sure, but she thinks she misses Sheralyn. She misses having someone around.

  It was disappointing, Sheralyn’s reaction to the dolls. She didn’t yell or get angry. She just backed out of her room, away from the corner where Chloe was crouched, and ran out of the apartment. It was weird, how scared she acted, because by then Chloe wasn’t mad anymore. She’d even put down the scissors.

  Chloe sits on the carpet and carefully opens the letter.

  Dear Chloe, reads the greeting. She winces. It’s so formal, so spiteful. They have a taste of her now. It’s like they still need feeding.

  She keeps reading. Since the management at Beyond the Brand wasn’t able to get in touch with her after her “abrupt departure,” and since she now has over ten consecutive “unexplained and/or unexcused absences” from work, they decided, for their “mutual benefit,” to “terminate” her employment “effective immediately.”

  Terminate. Another threat.

  There’s a check in the envelope for $1,157, the whole pay period, even her unused sick days.

  Good luck in your future endeavors, says the last line of the letter. At last, a kind word. She runs her fingers over the laser printing and clasps the letter to her chest and rocks, sobbing, comforted in the arms of extreme emotion. Something else—a force, a feeling—is in charge.

  She’s been numb since that last day at the office. There was a company-wide email. She wasn’t cc’d on it, but she could hear “Aw!” and “Omigod!” sprouting from the open workspace. Chloe kept her head down while they exclaimed, “The baby!” and “Did you see the baby?” to each other in high-pitched treacle.

  “Go,” said a voice that Chloe had never heard before. It was low and calm and female, and it didn’t care whose fault any of it was. “Go,” it said in regular intervals until she rose like a patient under hypnosis and found her way back to her apartment.

  Chloe’s crying subsides. She leans forward, her forehead almost touching the floor, and tries to summon back the sadness, but it’s done with her for the time being. She lies on her side and fingers the indent in the rug from Sheralyn’s futon.

  She can’t have another day like yesterday. Today she has to do something.

  Food. The first thing is food. The clock on the unconnected DVR says 12:30. She hasn’t eaten today. She walks to the kitchen. A clear plastic bread bag is crumpled on the counter. Inside is a stale end slice. She takes a bite. She can barely chew. She’s out of peanut butter. She’s out of butter. The hummus has been gone for a week.

  She needs to go shopping. She has to make a shopping list. Chloe pulls the second-to-last Post-it from the magnetic dispenser on the refrigerator door and opens the drawer next to the silverware. It’s empty. The pens are gone. She slams the drawer shut and marches to her bedroom, where her phone is charging. Sheralyn’s voice mail picks up after the first ring.

  “It’s me again. Did you seriously take all the pens? I have to write things down, too, you know!”

  She gets a text from Dylan:

  I have your check.

  What check?

  The $2,500.

  She isn’t expecting the $2,500. But of course, Doug promised it to everyone.

  Are you back from NYC?

  They pushed the meeting. I go next week.

  $2,500 plus the $1,157 she just got plus the $8 in her account adds up to $3,665. She’s never had that much money all at one time.

  Want me to drop off your check?

  That could work. She and Dylan can have sex. She lies back and tries masturbating. Nothing. It’s like her soul is gone. She turns onto her side and blinks, and suddenly her alarm clock says 3:30. She can’t tell if she fell asleep or lay still for a few hours. She needs to eat. She texts Dylan.

  Can you mail me the check?

  K. What happened with Sheralyn?

  Chloe sits up. She should go out. Order a chicken wrap. Maybe a veggie burger. She needs to shower.

  Doug. Dylan. She feels warm, thinking of both of them. These guys make things happen for themselves. She needs to be more like them. A doer. She tries Doug’s Instagram again. His account is gone. His Twitter is still deactivated. She puts her phone down. She needs to do more than check the same websites over and over. She can’t have another day like yesterday and the day before and the day before and the day before.

  She needs to get out of her apartment. She has to diversify. Diversify. That sounds like something a doer would say. What was it Doug’s wife said to her? She had a great look. She should do commercials.

  Emily’s agency is huge. They have offices in New York, even. Why shouldn’t Chloe reach out? Successful people network. Successful people exploit their contacts.

  Chloe reaches into her closet. She digs through the floor full of empty backpacks and canvas totes until she finds her old yellow hobo bag. Doug’s wife’s card is in the inside pocket.

  From: ChloeChloe123@gmail.com

  To: Ewebb@rfg.com

  Subject: Hi there!

  Hi Emily,

  I’m not sure if you remember me, but I met with you a few months back about my group, Common Parlance. If you remember, we do site specific performance art. Also, more recently, I believe we ran into each other at Dr. Maryn’s party in Bel Air where my group was the entertainment for the evening. I hope you enjoyed it! Congratulations by the way on your new arrival!!

  I remember that you thought I might be good at commercials? I’ve given the matter some thought, and even though I have deeper artistic ambitions, I would definitely be interested in doing something like that. Additionally, my performance group might be moving to New York soon, and it would be great to have representation on both coasts. Would you please let me know who I should contact about this? Or would you mind forwarding this to the right people?

  I hope you’re doing well. Congratulations again on the birth of your child.

  Sincerely,

  Chloe

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHLOE

  From: ChloeChloe123@gmail.com

  To: Ewebb@rfg.com

  Subject: RE: Hi there!

  Dear Emily,

  I was hoping to have heard back from you by now, but I know you’re probably really busy. Are you on maternity leave or did you go back to work? I guess that’s always a hard choice for a new mom to make.

  Anyway, like I mentioned, I hope to start doing commercials. Oh and added bonus—I just whitened my teeth! I used Crest Whitestrips and have a before and after picture in case they’re looking for something like that.

  Thanks. I hope to hear from you soon.

  Chloe

  Chloe is a half hour late to meet Dylan for happy hour on Melrose. He just got back from New York. The plan was to race out of her apartment the minute she woke, but she kept stopping for long intervals to check her email and examine her bone structure in the mirror. She’s lost weight. It accentuates her cheeks and jaws. Her looks are reassuring. Whatever’s happened, she’s still gorgeous.

  She parks on the street outside the restaurant and opens her phone. Doug’s wife hasn’t responded. She reads over the last email she sent, and the one from the day before, and ones from two days to two weeks before that. They’re perfectly fine. She sounds normal, cheerful even. But maybe sending so many seems desperate.

  She’s not desperate. It’s important that Emily know that.

  From: ChloeChloe123@gmail.com

  To: Ewebb@rfg.com

  Subject: RE: Hi there!

  I realize I’ve been sending you a lot of emails! If it’s too much, just let me know. While I’m really looking forward to getting into commercials, I also have a couple thousand dollars, so it’s not like I need the money right away, but then again, money doesn’t grow on trees!

  Warmest regards,

  C


  Dylan is sitting on the terrace, at one of the rustic tables. His chair and the empty one beside it face out toward the street. A bottle of white wine sits in an ice bucket.

  “Sorry,” Chloe says. “Traffic.”

  “You like pinot grigio, right?” Dylan asks and butters a palm-size baguette slice for her. Instead of his usual Old Navy T-shirt, he’s wearing a short-sleeved oxford tucked into jeans. His beard has grown out a bit.

  “Thanks. I didn’t have breakfast,” says Chloe.

  “You look thinner.” His eyes linger on her face with a searching concern. Yes. He’s a good option now that she’s single. He must have been nervous, waiting for her to show up.

  “How was New York?” she asks.

  “Very instructive.”

  The waiter comes over. Chloe tries to read the menu. It’s difficult, though. She can’t quite see past the contrast of black type on the pale-yellow page. “You go first,” she says. Dylan orders the mussels. “That’s what I’ll have.” She hands the menu back to the waiter.

  “So New York,” says Dylan.

  “New York,” says Chloe.

  They hold each other’s gaze, and between them passes either a highly charged understanding or a wish for something like it. When it’s time to look away, though, Dylan stays locked in on her. His expression turns determined. Why does he have to be so intense?

  He lifts his hand and lets it fall next to hers, just barely touching. “Can I ask you something personal?”

  “Depends,” says Chloe. It’s easier for Chloe to picture herself with him when he’s not around.

  His pinkie moves first, hooking hers. His other fingers follow, crawling in stop-motion across her hand like a sweaty tarantula. Chloe puts her hand on top of his and speaks as gently as she can. “I think we’re better off as friends.”

  She’s said as much a thousand times before in small gestures and changes of subject, minor blows that always land with him pausing, staring into space for a fragment of a second. About 5 percent of her likes putting him off, knowing it won’t change his feelings, knowing he’ll make another attempt. Today, though, he scowls. He yanks his hand away.

  “Hold on,” he says and pulls his phone from his back pocket. “I have to take this.” He gets up from the table. The mussels come. She pours herself a glass of wine and dunks the rest of her bread into the broth.

  “More wine?” she asks as he sits back down.

  “No thanks.” His tone is upbeat. He scoops two mussels onto his spoon and inspects them. “So New York was good. They pitched me on a gaming project.”

  “Like what?”

  “Virtual reality, but open ended. It could be a livestreaming kind of thing. Could be a scavenger hunt, an escape room. Gill, the guy from the party, said he wanted to capture our spontaneity. I’m going back next week.”

  But they’re not supposed to be about video games. They’re about live performance. The public square. They’re not supposed to cheapen what they do. “You’re going by yourself?”

  “I’ll talk about bringing you along when it’s time to produce something.”

  “How long?”

  “They offered me a six-month contract.”

  “You took a job?”

  “Technically, I’m just a consultant,” he says.

  Chloe wasn’t expecting this. She was expecting everything to work out. The plan was to move to New York as a group. “You went behind our backs.”

  Dylan pushes his plate away. “You went behind my back going psycho on Sheralyn.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Whatever. She’s gone. Howie’s gone.”

  “We can find new people.”

  “Me!” Dylan slaps his chest. A couple at a nearby table looks their way. Dylan frowns and lowers his voice. “I can find new people.” He tightens his lips and looks up to the heavens like he’s asking permission for something. He takes a breath. “The creative vision for the group was my idea. You all acted like you came up with it.”

  “We did everything by consensus.”

  “That was my idea too! I’m a leader, Chloe. I’m done pretending I’m not.”

  Chloe touches his arm. He pulls away. It’s a troubling prospect then that she hones in on. Dylan doesn’t want to sleep with her anymore.

  He keeps talking. She can barely hear him. “I don’t want this to end badly,” he says. “And I want you to keep going. Out of all of us, you’re the most capable of carrying on the work.”

  It’s like he’s talking to her across a canyon now, with the lights of civilization twinkling behind him. She knows she should join him there. All she has to do is assemble some combination of sentences, pull from a sanctioned list of behaviors. That’s all people do anyway, repeat the same phrases back at each other and reassure each other they’re sane.

  “Chloe? Are you okay?”

  She smiles at him. “Yeah, why?”

  “You just had a weird look on your face.”

  “Oh,” she says. She laughs. Dylan is quiet a moment before laughing along with her. He motions to the waiter for the check. Chloe can’t be sure, but it seems like his hands are shaking.

  There’s traffic on the way home. Chloe waits in the correct lane to get on the freeway. She waits to take her turn. And this guy, he’s driving an Alfa Romeo. He speeds in from a faster lane and tries to cut her off. She honks and pulls up close to the car in front, but the guy keeps going, edging ahead of her, daring her to ram him. She honks again and angles her chin so he can see clearly.

  That’s right, she thinks. I’m fucking gorgeous.

  He pulls in front of her. She leans on her horn. She keeps it up until they reach the light at the top of the ramp.

  “Dick!” she screams.

  The guy wiggles five cheery fingers in the air before speeding away. It’s the classic LA diss, the gesture of impenetrable happiness. She’s nothing to him. Nothing at all.

  From: ChloeChloe123@gmail.com

  To: Ewebb@rfg.com

  Subject: Doug

  Dear Emily,

  I had an affair with Doug the whole time you were pregnant. I got fired. Doug is a very bad person. But I bet you don’t give a shit. Nobody gives a shit about anybody. People are awful, and I’m sure you’re no different.

  Hugs and Kisses,

  Chloe

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  EMILY

  I was waiting until I got stronger, until I felt like I could parent Grace by myself, before I would decide what to do about Doug—leave him, figure out a way to get rid of him, or even stay married and accept a low-grade unhappiness. Our daily routines, feeding our daughter, rocking her to sleep, had begun blunting the worst of my hostility toward him. He even seemed like a good dad. He had a short attention span, sure, but he would dance with Grace and sweet-talk her in baby language.

  Dr. Maryn had been quiet. There was no news of the tape or legal action, no more cryptic messages. It was almost as if there were no problem. If it hadn’t been for the deluge of gifts we received from Doug’s colleagues, I might not even have noticed the fact that I received nothing from my workplace.

  And so I found myself on the couch with Doug, under the same blanket, watching a mob movie, the kind of thing he liked. Grace was asleep upstairs. The faint sour smell of her spit-up was still on my shirt. I brought the fabric to my face and inhaled. Doug put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me into him.

  What if we could stay like this? I wondered. When people talked of the ups and downs of marriage, I’d assumed they meant some pattern of fights and making up. I hadn’t realized it was possible to come back from such profound disgust.

  My phone lit up from the side table.

  “No,” said Doug. “Turn it off.”

  “Wait,” I said. It was my work email. I moved to the chaise. The room turned cold after I read Chloe’s first sentence. Doug paused the TV.

  “Are you watching this with me or what?”

  “Give me a second,” I said. I ra
n up to our bedroom and read the whole thing three times. It was incredible. I now had solid proof.

  What I would use it for, I had no idea. Destroy my family? Confront Doug? I pictured him receiving the news with a shrug. I’d already consulted a lawyer, hoping the hair from my razor would avenge me in a court of law. But I’d learned that California was a no-fault divorce state. An affair meant nothing, no leverage.

  The TV was still on pause. I went downstairs and sat at the other end of the couch. He picked up the remote.

  “Where are we with Grace’s trust?” I asked.

  “You want to talk about this now?”

  “You keep putting it off.”

  He pressed play. The sound of gunfire erupted from the speakers. A tracksuited man on the screen fell to the ground. I went behind the entertainment center and unplugged it.

  “Em! What the hell?”

  “Dr. Maryn might sue. We need to protect Grace, set up an irrevocable trust. There could be a class action. Fuck, Doug. You could get arrested.”

  “Fine,” said Doug. He stalked to the office. “You want a trust fund baby? Go ahead and set one up yourself.”

  I followed him. “Why are you turning this into a fight?”

  He stopped in the doorway and faced me. “Because I’m not Bill Gates!”

  Doug sat at his desk. I walked to the sliding glass door. The night was dark, but I could still make out the whitecaps moving past my reflection. The water was soothing, something I always associated with unlimited funds.

  Doug called me into the office. He was logged onto Merrill Lynch.

  “Look,” Doug said. “We’ve already started Grace’s college fund. I don’t want her to have to worry about paying for school. Now, here is what we have so far for retirement . . .”

  “We went over this for the prenup.”

  “Then why are we having this conversation?”

  I steeled myself. There was no turning back after I said it. “What about your slush fund?”

  His face froze. He stared at me with a sick-looking smile. “You just tipped your hand,” he said.

  “Stop.”