Chapter 2
2
brADY
I could wring Mario's neck for promising the car would be ready by five. We don't have the capacity for that at all. Tomorrow would have been tight enough, but this is simply impossible. Unfortunately, Mario is the boss's deputy, and I'm just a kind of handyman, which is why I now have to bust my ass to get everything done. What a mess.
The girl arrives just as I'm closing the hood.
"Hello," she says cheerfully. But there's something about her that makes me think she considers herself better than others. Maybe it's just me and she doesn't mean it that way, but it gives me a strange feeling. "Is it ready?"
"All done, as promised,", I force myself to say. What I'd really like to tell her is what I think of rich people like her who think the world revolves only around them.
"Great. Thank you."
"Hmm."
She looks at me expectantly. What does she want?
"Um, do I need to sign something?"
Of course.
"Just a moment."
I get Mario, who handles that. Shaking my head, I go to the next car that I also have to finish today because the owner is picking it up tomorrow morning. Nice mess. This is going to be a night shift.
"Thank you again ," she calls to me, but I pretend I can't hear her. Her thanks mean nothing to me; instead, she should have not made my life more difficult. But that's how they are, the rich. They do what they want, and others have to deal with the consequences.
* * *
It's two in the morning when I finally finish. I get into my car - not a luxury vehicle, but who's surprised? - and drive to my small apartment in Palo Alto. When I got this job, I moved here. San Francisco isn't that far away, thirty-five minutes, but I'm not someone who gets out of bed easily. Every second more is worth gold.
Although I'm exhausted, my first stop is the refrigerator. The last time I looked in, I was greeted by a gaping emptiness, but hope dies last, as they say.
I'm amazed to see Tupperware containers standing there. On top lies a note:
You could call your Mom once in a while! Xoxo, Mom
I smile at the words. She's simply the best. Gratefully, I grab a container, open it, and put the lasagna in the microwave. Homemade of course, as it has been all my life. I feel sorry for all the women in my future, but this is my standard for a woman. Homemade food. Every day. Or almost every day. Fast food is also allowed occasionally.
Does that make me a chauvinist?
I take the container and a fork to the couch, onto which I collapse as if I were eighty and not thirty-two. Then I start wolfing down the food. If I haven't set a new record with that, I don't know what else would qualify.
For a moment, I debate whether to just go to bed as is, dressed and unwashed, but then I hear my Gran's voice saying that brushing your teeth is the alpha and omega. Groaning, I make my way to the bathroom, listlessly move the toothbrush back and forth, before splashing a little water on my face. That will have to do as a nighttime routine.
On the way to the bedroom, I undress and then fall naked into bed. I guess I'm already asleep before I even touch the mattress.
MALLORY
I don't want to get up.
The alarm clock doesn't care about that at all, which is why I silence it with a well-aimed blow. Ah, this silence.
Just as I'm snuggling back into the blanket, the second alarm goes off.
Damn. Why is my evening self such a damn nuisance?
I lean over to the other nightstand and turn off this alarm too. Nice, this silence.
Just five more minutes...
Ring, ring, ring.
Groaning, I realize I don't have a chance. Evening-me has won. Slowly I get up, look at my dresser at the other end of the room, where the third alarm clock stands making a noise as if warning you to take shelter from a tornado.
If I ever catch evening-me, there'll be hell to pay.
I pull myself together to silence the alarm. And since I'm already standing, I might as well stagger to the bathroom and get under the shower. It’s a shorter way than back to bed, and in the morning it's definitely about efficiency. Nothing else.
After I'm clean, I wrap my hair in a towel, go to my small kitchen, which doesn't really deserve the name, press the button on the coffee machine, thank evening-me for having prepared everything, go to the bedroom and get dressed.
And now coffee! A heavenly aroma wafts through my tiny apartment. I grab a cup before going back to the bathroom to put on makeup. Makeup is a kind of defense strategy. I look so little like myself that all the nastiness Juan dishes out all day has nothing to do with me, but rather targets the mask that I carefully apply every morning. Primer, foundation, concealer, setting powder, highlighter, bronzer, blush... The full program. Add false eyelashes, a ton of eyeshadow, and three layers of lipstick. Well, two will do.
The transformation is astonishing every time.
The woman who looks back at me is beautiful, no question. But she basically has nothing to do with me. And that's exactly what I want. A mask that protects me, that gives me the feeling that I can hide my inner self, that no one sees it, one that exists only in secrecy, where I can watch over it. And the fact that my small flaw is also hidden is a plus.
The face I show the world is that of a tough young woman who can hold her own in it. No one needs to know that it doesn't always look like that on the inside. Or maybe never. Inside me lives a seventy-year-old woman who would prefer to sit on the couch with a piece of apple pie to experience as little of the world as possible.
I raise my head, straighten my shoulders. No. It's not an option, to give in to that.
After every hair is in the right place, I fill coffee in my to-go cup, grab a granola bar and make my way to the office. A glance at the clock shows I'm still on schedule.
In the morning, Juan wants a latte macchiato with almond milk and double espresso, and a protein omelet with spinach and tomatoes. But then I remember he wanted to have breakfast with his family, so just the coffee.
I place it on his desk when I arrive at the office, before sitting down at mine and beginning the daily battle against my inbox. One day I will win. My utopian wish can surely become reality for once.
The next time I check the clock, it's already ten. Where is Juan? Should I call him? I quickly check the calendar, but he has no urgent appointments, just one in fifteen minutes with a department head, whom I promptly call to reschedule.
What should I do?
I stand up, hurry to Roberto's office.
"Come in," he says when I softly knock on the open glass door. He smiles, as always.
"Hey, sorry, I don't want to disturb you, but Juan isn't in yet..."
Roberto checks his watch. "Hmm, unusual. Normally he can barely wait to boss you around."
"Exactly. Do you think I should call him?"
"I'll do it. Does he have any appointments?"
"Just one with Daniel, but I've already rescheduled it."
"Got it. I'll let you know in a minute."
Reassured, I go back to my desk. I've handed everything over to capable hands and successfully shifted the responsibility away from me. Things couldn't be going better for me.
When my phone rings, it's Roberto.
"I reached him. He's not coming into the office today. You should bring the most important things to his house."
"Alright," I say calmly and professionally. Internally, however, alarm bells are going off. In the five months I've been working for him, he hasn't missed a single day. He even comes in on Saturdays and Sundays, which I can tell because on Mondays there are a thousand things to take care of that popped into his head over the weekend.
"He didn't sound good. So you might want to be careful," Roberto adds.
"Should I bring him chicken soup?"
"No, it's not that kind of not good ."
"Oh." That's all I can think to say. "Thanks."
He hangs up and I launch into frantic activity, gathering the documents he'll need to work from home. I pour out his now cold coffee before considering whether I should reschedule his afternoon appointments. But no, I should first get a better understanding of the situation. I can always take action after that.
I take my tablet, pen, and notebook to write down any instructions, before getting into my car with a pounding heart and driving to Juan's house.
I'm really good at my job. He's organized and structured, I can arrange everything just how I like it. Unforeseen events scare me. They overwhelm me because I fear I won't be able to respond appropriately, that solutions won't come to me quickly enough, that I might instead become paralyzed. My brain doesn't function well under pressure, at least not under such unexpected pressure.
I pull up to the curb, looking at the pretty Mediterranean-style house, and take a deep breath. Nothing helps. I just have to get through this.
Slowly I walk the short stone path through the front yard before giving myself a pep talk to ring the doorbell. I've been here several times before to drop off his suits that I picked up from the dry cleaners, or to deliver gifts for the children, so I know the doorbell’s sound is piercing. Yet I still jump when it rings.
The door is yanked open.
"For God's sake, stop that damn crying!" Juan shouts into the house, not even looking at me. He just leaves the door open so I can enter, as he walks deeper into the house.
"Crying? I think I have every right to cry when I find out my husband has been cheating on me again!"
His wife matches him in volume.
Oh boy, now I know what's going on. His wife found out.
"She means nothing to me!"
"Then I don't understand why you fucked her!"
"I don't understand why you're making such a big deal out of it!"
She lets out a bitter laugh.
I'm not sure what I should do, but I think the open kitchen is a safe zone to put everything down on the dining table. Just as I'm doing this, they both come into this very room.
Mrs. Lopez is wearing a thin morning robe that isn't tied in front, revealing the silky nightie she's obviously wearing to sleep in. "How can you do this to me? How can you do this to your children?" Her gaze falls on me. "What is she doing here? Are you fucking her too? On your desk? Does she get under it and blow you?"
"Of course not. The walls are made of glass."
"What is she doing here then?" She turns to me. "What are you doing here? Do you want to fuck my husband?"
"Lenora, leave her out of this."
"WHAT IS SHE DOING HERE?" she screams.
"I... I... am... just... bringing... work stuff," I stammer.
She looks at me in disbelief before turning on her husband: "Work stuff? Are you serious? We're having a family crisis and you're having work brought to the house?" She glares at me so fiercely I'm afraid I might drop dead. "Get out, you stupid slut! Don't you dare set foot in my house ever again!"
I look at Juan, who just nods in resignation.
Quickly I rush outside, glad to escape the madhouse. But now I still don't know what to do with his appointments. I'll just reschedule them. That's probably best.
* * *
I have nothing to do. For the first time in five months, I don't know what I should be doing. I've even conquered the inbox, but it doesn't even feel like I've won. I'm tapping my pen on the desk in boredom until I can't stand it anymore.
On impulse, I make my way back to Roberto's office and knock softly.
He looks up. "What's up?"
"I know this sounds totally silly, but since Juan isn't in the office, I have nothing to do." I look at him embarrassed, rubbing my nose.
He smiles. "I understand. Let me make a quick call." He picks up the phone. "Hey, Scott, didn't you need some manpower for the project? Cool. Then I'll send you the highly capable Mallory." He hangs up, smiles at me, then smacks his forehead. "Fuck, I'm an idiot."
I look at him confused. "Why?"
"I was trying not to be so exclusionary in my language and then I said 'manpower' instead of just 'support.'"
"That's why you're the good triplet," slips out of my mouth, before I want to sink into the ground from embarrassment. Why did I say that?
"The good triplet? Is that what they call me?" he asks, amused.
"Well, yeah."
"Don't let the evil triplets hear that. They might get pissed." He laughs. "But it's kind of fitting."
"Sorry."
"It's all good. Scott has been telling me for the last few days that he could use an assistant. But tell him right away that he can only have you today, otherwise he'll never let you go."
"Thanks."
Scott. That's the innovation department. Exciting, I imagine.
* * *
Two hours later I can say it's not half as exciting as I thought it would be. Not even a quarter as exciting. My job is to write letters, address them, and stamp them. Then I have to type up a bunch of notes, organize them, and compile them into a sort of guideline. Thrilling.
And finally, I'm sent to fetch food, and I realize that I've actually got it pretty good with Juan. He may be an asshole, but he doesn't just have me do grunt work, but also cool things that I enjoy. Okay, I have to get food too, but he lets me organize events and functions. I write press releases and communicate with the press. Sure, I have to go to the dry cleaners, but my work has a purpose. Somehow.
Maybe I'm being unfair to Scott and his team because I'm just the temp for them. Perhaps the work would be more challenging if I was a permanent part of this team.
"It's a shame you're only with us today. We could really use someone to take care of all these things for us," he says as I hand him his sandwich.
Okay, no. My regular job here would obviously be exactly what today has previewed. I would wither away.
Even after just this one day, I feel like my remaining life expectancy has dramatically decreased. As I sit in my car – one advantage is that it's at a reasonable time – I'm crossing myself in relief that I've survived this day.
For the first time in weeks, I go to the gym. Usually I successfully convince myself that I don't have time. Something that doesn't work today.
Arriving at reception, I ask if a trainer is available because I'm not sure anymore how to do the exercises I was once shown. The nice woman at reception tells me that Tian will be with me in half an hour and that I should warm up in the meantime.
So I do that, while looking around.
Oh, isn't that Mr. Sexy? He was hot in his coveralls, but how he's lifting weights there... I'm getting warm just watching. Sure, he wasn't particularly nice to me, but that doesn't mean I can't risk an admiring glance. As long as I don't fall off the stepper.
"Are you Mallory?"
I look in the direction the voice is coming from. This must be my trainer.
"Yes, that's me. Tian?"
He smiles. "What can I do for you?"
I step off the stepper before saying: "I haven't been here for quite a while, so I'm not sure if I'm still doing all the exercises correctly."
"No problem. I'm happy to help you with that."
For the next half hour, he walks me through all the machines and exercises, corrects my posture, helps, me set the appropriate weights, and ensures I feel more confident again. When he leaves me on my own, I decide to do another round on the treadmill and then call it a day. No need to overdo it on the first day.
As I'm jogging along, my eyes search for Mr. Sexy. And I promptly miss my next step when I notice he's standing right beside me.