4. Salinger
4
SALINGER
M y phone is blowing up again. Alma just cannot take a hint.
I scroll through my past texts to her.
Salinger: I don’t think this is working
Salinger: I think we should see other people
Salinger: I’m breaking up with you
But it’s like I never said the words, sent the messages, wrote the letter.
I’m getting too old to be sleeping my way to a contract.
In my defense, I have curtailed my ambition. I swore to myself that after Alma, I would go out on a five-billion-dollar high note, then I was done.
I am a billionaire, a CEO. I don’t need to climb the ladder anymore. My reputation speaks for itself. But the starving child in me wants more, wants the surety that I’m going to win, that I’m not leaving anything on the table.
However, I need to acknowledge that I’m at the point where I’m officially too old for this shit. It’s just creepy.
Fitz: I thought you broke up with Alma?
Whitman: Another one bites the dust.
Salinger: Trying to…
Hawthorne: So that’s why she keeps calling me.
Salinger: Ignore her.
McCarthy: But she wuvs you so much she wants to give you eight children, all boys.
Salinger: Hard pass.
Faulkner: Damn, no wedding cake?
Salinger: All of you, fuck off.
Picking up the fork on the tray, I dig it into the casserole. Because that’s what this is. What the hell is Mandy thinking? When has she ever seen me eat a casserole? And is that pasta in there?
Seriously, what the—
“ Fuuuck. ” The groan comes out before I can stop it.
Immediately, I stuff another bite into my mouth. “Why is this so good?”
Usually I eat for energy, for health, for a balanced diet—not for anything as pedestrian as pleasure.
Mandy did it on purpose. There is no other explanation. She’s fucking with me.
Mandy’s corgi presses its face up against the glass, panting and drooling. I make eye contact with it as I eat the last bite of the casserole .
The last bite? Dammit. Must be from one of those fancy places that don’t give you enough food. I could easily eat three times that amount. In an act of incredible self-control, I do not lick the plate.
It takes an even greater amount of willpower to push the plate aside and reach for the Greek salad with chunks of feta cheese, different from the kale salad Mandy normally gets me. Even that, though, tastes amazing.
I open up an email and skim it, though most of my brainpower is focused on how to acquire the name of the restaurant from Mandy without tipping her off as to what I’m doing. I check the credit card activity. Nothing. She must have paid cash.
The glass door to my office slides open softly.
“And he even works through lunch, though after that little display today, I’m not surprised.” Scarlett. One of the interns.
People are betting good money that she’ll be the top dog by the end of this semester’s internship season. She’s certainly dressed like she wants to be a top investor.
Scarlett’s heels click on the heavy-timber floor as she makes her way to my desk. “I just wanted to introduce myself—”
“Not interested,” I reply, turning back to my salad.
“Not like that,” Scarlett practically purrs.
I’m unmoved. She’s cartoonishly obvious.
“I just wanted to compare notes on our network,” she adds.
My assistant rushes into the room. “You are not supposed to be in here.” Mandy’s mouth is turned down. “Sorry, Salinger. I was getting coffee. Scarlett, out. You cannot just walk into the CEO’s office without an appointment. ”
Smirking, I note Mandy’s irritation, the tension in her arms held stiffly by her side, the disarray of her hair.
“You’re not being as nice to her as you were to donut boy.” I lock eyes with Mandy. “I wonder why…”
Scarlett’s mouth twitches into a smile.
Two spots of color appear on Mandy’s cheeks.
“Next time, I’ll bring donuts,” Scarlet says in that same flirty tone.
“Not on my account.” I spear another lettuce leaf, a salty olive, and some of the feta cheese. Somehow, it’s the best goddamn salad I’ve ever eaten.
“I don’t think you brought him enough food, Mandy,” Scarlett says sweetly. “The poor man is starving.”
“She’s right,” I add, just to needle Mandy.
The skin on my assistant’s nose goes tight.
“This really wasn’t enough,” I say. The salad disappears too soon.
Mandy crosses her arms. “I’ll make a note for next time.”
“I haven’t been an assistant or personal chef or anything,” Scarlett continues in that breathy tone, “but I had no idea it was that difficult to buy a meal for a man. I’m already learning so much on this internship.”
“Don’t bother Mr. Svensson unless you’re bringing him a contract.” Mandy shoos the girl to the door.
Scarlett isn’t dissuaded. “Like I was saying, I came here to compare notes and see if some of my contacts could help him on any high-priority project.”
Wiping my mouth, I say, “Mandy, put her on my calendar.”
Scarlett beams.
Mandy’s lips become a thin line of annoyance.
“Oh, Sal?” Scarlett asks .
“Mr. Svensson,” Mandy corrects.
“This is the West Coast, Mandy, not the East Coast. You don’t have to use honorifics here, Scarlett.”
The intern poses in the doorway. “Just want to know what my bonus will be if I do help you land a contract.”
“I love the confidence. Come to me with your best offer.”
Mandy points Scarlett to the elevator, then she’s back, storming around as she collects the plates. Her annoyance creates a cloud around my desk.
I lean back in my chair. “Jealous?”
“You’re gross. She’s barely twenty-one.”
I stroke my chin. “And yet she already has a business mind to rival that of a forty-year-old corporate mercenary.”
For a second, it seems like Mandy’s going to bash the dirty plate over my head.
“Does she?” Mandy asks. “Or is she just mimicking it enough to lull you into a false sense of complacency, softening you up so she can become the next Mrs. Svensson?”
“You’re mad because she’s a better, younger, smarter version of you. No judgment from me. Just admit it, and we can clear the air.”
She’s silent for a moment. “You’re a horrible human being.” The words are a quiet, final observation.
“And you can’t in good conscience work for me anymore?” I ask hopefully.
Another pause. “I’ll make sure to order you a bigger lunch tomorrow.”
“Same place.”
That look again, the one that says a face full of broken glass and porcelain is in my near future. “Of course, Salinger.”
At eleven forty-seven that evening, I make the rounds to see which of my employees still remain at the office.
It’s quiet.
The cleaners have come and gone. None of the interns are still in the office, though several teams are still working.
Mandy’s dog is snoring loudly at her feet as she drafts email responses for me, writes memos, and assembles research. Her fingers with their chipped polish fly over the keys, the soft clicks mixing with the ubiquitous rain patter on the windows.
Whatever she’s trying to prove isn’t going to impress me.
My assistant clenches her jaw when I pass by her. “You’re so full of crap,” she says. Her typing speed doesn’t slow. “You aren’t staying here late to work—you just want to flirt with that girl.”
“Screw you. You don’t know what I’m doing.” Wishing I had a door to slam, I storm into my office and resist the urge to throw my chair through the wall.
On the other side of the glass wall, the corgi rolls over, and the snoring grows louder. Mandy shifts in her seat.
Leave. I beam silent thought waves at her. Just leave.
The numbers on the digital clock creep past midnight then into the early hours of the morning. Still, Mandy sits at her desk, typing at that unrelenting speed. She’s changed her shoes and is wearing oversize Crocs.
I make another round of the now-completely empty office.
We have a big meeting tomorrow—well, today. I need to shower, shave, change my clothes.
Mandy doesn’t even seem tired. What can she possibly have been typing for the last six hours? And how much longer is she staying ?
Until I leave. The obvious answer.
Making a big show of collecting my briefcase and jacket then patting my pocket for my wallet and keys, I flick off the light switch to my office and slide the glass door closed.
Mandy continues to type. Her dog wakes up with a snort.
“Leaving already?” she calls as I head to the elevator.
“Meeting tomorrow.”
I hit the button for the elevator but don’t get in. Instead, I quietly ease open the stairwell door and gently shut it behind me.
The stairwell is flooded with the bright almost-blue LED lights. After being in the office for so long, it feels good to stretch my legs, and I take the stairs down two at a time.
On the sixth-floor landing, I pause. Far above me, a door slams. Rubber footsteps fall on the concrete stair treads.
Pressing back against the doorway, I wait.
The footsteps come closer, the dull bumps echoing and the bags she carries bouncing against her knees, as she slowly makes her way down the stairs. Why did she take the stairs with all that stuff and a dog who refuses to walk on its own?
She’s talking to the stupid dog, telling it, “It’s okay if you don’t feel up to the stairs, Pepper. I know it’s late and—”
“Gotcha!” My voice booms through the stairwell as I step out from the doorway.
A few steps above me, Mandy screams like she’s about to be murdered, clutching the dog to her chest, eyes wide with panic.
“Mandy, what the hell?”
“No, that’s my line.” The words come out in choked gasps. “What the hell is wrong with you, Salinger? ”
“I knew it.” Stepping up in front of her, I take in her shapeless clothes, the makeup smudged around her eyes, and the panting dog. The whites of the corgi’s large eyes make it look crazy. “I know you’re just trying to fuck with me. I’m onto your little games. Grow up, Mandy.”
“I was working.” Her voice catches at the end.
I step onto the first step of the run of stairs, putting her head a few inches above mine.
Perfect kissing height.
Not that I would ever.
“You were just trying to fuck with me—you were just waiting until I left.”
“No, I wasn’t.” But the words aren’t defiant. Instead, they’re small, plaintive.
She’s on the defensive. I should go for the kill.
But she just seems so… frightened. Her big brown eyes are swimming with tears.
What’s wrong? I almost ask. Almost.
Instead, I leave it, turning my body so she can scurry past me.
It is unlike me to let her just walk away, but I don’t do it because I feel at all protective of her. I just don’t think it’s sporting to kick her while she’s down.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say. “Don’t use this as an excuse to be late.”