Chapter 7
CHRISTINE WASN’T SURE what to expect for her first ‘meeting’ with Erik. He’d reached out over the weekend in an email—how had he found her personal email address?—and she’d reread it approximately twenty times, though she couldn’t quite say why.
Dear Christine,
Please forward the draft of your thesis slides and paper by Monday morning.
See you tomorrow at 5:30 p.m.
Erik
Impersonal. Short. It gave nothing away. Even his emails wore a mask. She did as he asked, though she labored over her response for over an hour. It was the end of September, more than seven months before her thesis due date. She hoped he didn’t expect too much. What did he know about MBA theses and their timelines? What was she thinking going through with this?
Because you don’t have any other options, do you?
Except she did. Rafe had reached out on Saturday, asking her to get coffee to catch up and review her work. That was another option. But there was something about Erik that commanded her presence. She wanted to see him again but couldn’t figure out why.
Maybe she felt bad for him. Indeed, there was a pity, a certain grotesque fascination with the scarred genius who possibly held her career’s future in his hands. She remembered seeing those hands, feeling them in the dark of the elevator when they ever-so-briefly intertwined with her own. Her face heated to think of what might’ve happened if the lights hadn’t broken the spell the dark had woven around them. What would his lips feel like? His fingers were long, and she wondered if he would play for her. He’d been a celebrated pianist in his youth, and that gorgeous black Fazioli piano was adjacent to the windows. Maybe if she asked, he would play something for her.
So it was with equal parts nervousness and longing that she approached Erik’s building on Monday evening for the second time. Cynthia made an obnoxious comment about Christine leaving the office at five, as though she didn’t regularly burn the midnight oil—even though it was strange for Cynthia to still be there at that time herself. Usually she found reasons to be out the door by 4 p.m. She ducked questions and headed out while Cynthia had her head turned, but it was reasonable for her to leave at closing time, and frankly, it was no one’s business but her own.
This time, Joe waved her in with a broad smile and nod.
“They’re waiting for you upstairs, Miss Derring.”
They?
She didn’t have long to ponder Joe’s remark before the elevator doors opened to Erik dressed in dark jeans and a forest-green sweater. He still wore the mask, and she wondered if he would ever voluntarily remove it in her presence.
“Christine, I’ve invited a guest to our first session today. I don’t want you to be too concerned, but since you claim to not be afraid of me, I need to better understand what we’re dealing with.”
Christine stared at him like a deer in headlights. “You did this without asking my permission?” Had they discussed sharing this information with other people? Christine was on alert, partially angry but mostly just terrified.
“Let’s not overreact. Our goal is to get you comfortable with being uncomfortable while on stage. You’ll have to accept that to achieve your goal.”
“But who is this person?”
“Garret Dixon. He is an important—consultant—for Gardner Industries. You’ll be presenting your thesis to him. I sent him the slides you emailed me so he’d be familiar with your presentation’s topic. He’s going to fill the role of your audience today.”
A fine mist of sweat started collecting on her forehead as she followed Erik into his mansion of an apartment. Looking around, she saw a slide clicker and her printed-out notes, along with her slide deck already showing on the large TV screen in his living room. Erik looked back at her, and she gave him a pleading look.
“Garret,” Erik called out to the kitchen. “Will you please join us?”
Christine swung around, and a man in his late fifties of medium height joined them. He was dressed in a well-fitting dark-blue suit. His hair was gray and close-cropped, like he had been in the military in his youth and decided the cut they gave him was as good as it was going to get. The look on his face was stoic, though wrinkles near his mouth proclaimed him as someone who smiled often. He wasn’t smiling now.
“Thank you again for helping us today, Garret.” Erik slapped a hand on his colleague’s back, completely at ease.
“A pleasure, Erik.” He looked Christine up and down, assessing her coolly. “Shall we begin?”
Christine looked from Erik to his colleague. She couldn’t quite make her mouth work. Her heart was racing, her breaths sharp and short. Both men seemed utterly oblivious to her growing distress as they made their way to the set of dark gray sofas in the ample living space. The sun was moving toward the west, and Erik had put on the screen to ensure the sun wasn’t in their eyes. Christine plodded along behind them, trying to calm herself down and failing.
Erik handed her a small remote control. “This will allow you to move through your slides. You have your notes—let me get you a glass of water.” He excused himself, leaving Christine alone with Garret, who said nothing, as if trying to be as intimidating as possible.
It was working.
When Erik returned, she gulped down a large drink of water and inelegantly wiped at her mouth with the sleeve of her cardigan.
“Ready whenever you are, Miss Derring,” Garret commanded from the couch. The bored look on his face suggested this was the largest possible waste of his time.
Christine’s fingers were pins and needles while she attempted to access her slide deck. She successfully moved to the agenda slide and tried to begin.
“I… I’m excited to speak with you today…”
She attempted to breathe, but it was unsatisfying. Her clothes were too tight. She tried to meet Garret’s eyes—he was sitting a few feet away, but he seemed oddly far off. The edges of her vision turned gray. Her heartbeat was fast and loud in her ears. Her palms were slick, and she rubbed them against the polyester fabric of her dress.
Her thesis analyzed organizational attempts to create revenue streams by internalizing large-scale cost creators. Basically, she was studying how companies could make more money. She examined several case studies to find common trends that lead to success in these endeavors and the industries where this was most likely to gain traction. She’d been researching the topic for the last twelve months and was well-versed in examples in several sectors. She could talk about this topic in her sleep if she were so inclined.
Instead, she fainted.
“Well, that could have gone better.” Garret stood above as Erik knelt on the ground by Christine’s crumpled form. Erik gave him an exasperated glare and gently lifted Christine onto the couch. “Should I call 911?” he asked in a chastened tone.
Erik had two fingers on her pulse and paused, then breathed a sigh of relief. “No, she just fainted. Get me a wet hand towel and make yourself scarce. You scared the shit out of her.”
“That’s what you asked me to do!” Garret muttered, but he did as Erik asked.
The cool cloth did its job. Erik watched Christine return to consciousness, letting out a pitiful groan when her eyes met Erik’s.
“What happened? Why is there a wet rag on my head?”
“You fainted. It was…quite impressive.”
“God, that’s going to go over great with your consultant. Way to tank my professional reputation.” She threw an arm over her eyes in a gesture that would’ve been borderline melodramatic if Erik thought she lacked sincerity.
“First, you need not take everything quite so seriously. I knew you were struggling with stage fright, though I evidently underestimated how badly it affects you. Second, Garret was putting on a show for your sake. He’s not a consultant. He’s my personal assistant and chauffeur. He agreed to this ruse so I could understand the extent of your struggles.”
Christine bolted upright at this news. “You tricked me!”
“I did. If I’m going to help you, and I intend to, you needed to feel legitimately afraid. Since you don’t fear me for some reason, I had to provide an alternative.”
“That’s such incredible arrogance. I passed out. I could’ve gotten hurt.”
“Yes, well, I apologize for that. It wasn’t my intention that you should risk a concussion, though you appear to be fine.”
“And smart enough to know I should never have agreed to this arrangement in the first place! What was I thinking? You’re crazy.”
Erik was unimpressed with her loss of temper. “I understand. I’d be furious as well.”
“Well, I’m glad you haven’t lost all of your interpersonal skills.” Christine swung her feet around to the edge of the couch. She paused, blinking several times, revealing that the motion made her woozy.
“Slowly, now.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Can you do me a favor before you storm out? I don’t want you to leave so soon after fainting. Can you please stay for another half hour so that I know you can make it home? I’ll give you a tour. I’m sure you must be curious about what lies beyond the main room.”
He watched as she gritted her teeth. Erik suspected Christine was curious, and he was willing to bet good money she’d want to see his domain. He knew he was manipulating her, and that was wrong, but he justified doing so, in that he was doing it in her best interests.
“Fine. I’m still angry at you, though.”
“Don’t blame you.” He stood and offered his arm, and she stared at it like some alien appendage. “Indulge me. The last thing I need is for you to pass out again.” She looked torn before putting a hand on his forearm and standing gingerly. Erik tried and failed to ignore the sensation her touch sparked. Her fingers curled in, and the muscle in his forearm tensed instinctually. When it was clear she could stand on her own, he released her arm and signaled she should follow him.
“How long have you lived here?” she asked.
“I bought this apartment when the building was constructed ten years ago. I wanted it created to my specifications.” Erik was proud of his home. He’d gotten deeply involved with the design process, and the resulting structure was soothing and inviting without being too fussy.
“What were your ‘specifications’?”
“High ceilings. Open spaces. I wanted a place where I could breathe. And I needed an office, a library, a recording studio… That last one needed special soundproofing.”
“Recording studio?” Christine stopped short, and he had to walk back to her. He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder as they continued down the first hallway.
“Yes, you know I play, and occasionally, I compose. I like to record some of my work or when I master a particularly difficult piece.” He paused. “This wing of the apartment houses those spaces.” He called attention to the library, which featured a single armchair, an ottoman, and a wide collection of books. A hodgepodge of titles in all shapes and sizes stood on a side table. Christine saw books by noted businessmen mixed in with the biography of Alexander Hamilton and a sensational title by Dan Brown.
“You like to read?”
“Yes, I force myself to do so an hour daily.”
“Force yourself?” She looked at him skeptically. “Why force yourself?”
“It keeps me on a schedule.” He shrugged. He didn’t want to admit to her that if he didn’t have activities planned throughout the day, the loneliness of his existence would have killed him long ago. His eyes met hers, and her brow furrowed. He sensed she understood his logic without him spelling it out.
“Moving on.” He opened the door to his recording studio. It was more than the average in-home studio kit. On one side was a smaller upright piano, although he also owned a Yamaha keyboard for when the situation required it. Across was a computer setup with the necessary gadgetry to edit, record, and store his compositions and covers.
“Will you play me something you’ve recorded?” she asked, her eyes eager, her anger temporarily forgotten. How could he possibly refuse?
“If you like.” He turned on the equipment, a hundred lights flickering on instantaneously. “I know you admire Billy Joel.” He sat in his chair and offered Christine the bench, grateful he had a place for her to sit. He opened the software and pressed on a file, and the sounds of a piano playing a staccato melody filled the room.
“It’s ‘Prelude/Angry Young Man’!” Christine looked at Erik, excited. “I remember my dad playing this one for me. What made you pick this song?”
Erik shook his head. He couldn’t tell her the truth—that her father had taught him this song months after his accident. He hadn’t played it since Gus’s death.
“I was interested in mastering the rhythm. It’s a challenging piece to get right. It demands a level of technical finesse you don’t typically see in rock music. If you ever see Joel play it live, his fingers move so fast they blur across the keys… He brings so much energy to the instrument.”
“You’re reminding me of my father right now. He used to talk about musicians the way you do.”
Erik subtly pressed his lips together, the urge to share everything with her burning to burst free. He willed himself into silence, praying she didn’t notice his discomfort. She engaged with the music, her eyes closing in enjoyment.
They sat and listened through the lengthy prelude, and Christine’s eyes opened in surprise when Erik’s voice rang through the speakers.
“You can sing!” She smacked his shoulder lightly with her hand.
“It’s Billy Joel, not Puccini.” He waved off the compliment as his voice floated around them. The recording turned out well, and he was pleased to be able to share it with Christine. After a few minutes, he turned off the equipment. “Come on, let me show you some more.”
He took her to his spacious gym next. He was proud of his setup. He’d transformed a large space on one of the balconies into a covered lap pool with an infinity edge. On the other side was the more standard exercise equipment—weights, a treadmill, a Peloton, and other workout machines.
“You have a pool…and a hot tub? I never thought I’d see anything like this in a Manhattan apartment.” He watched her wide eyes take in the luxury that was also his private oasis.
“Well, if I’m going to be secluded from society, I might as well have all the amenities.”
Christine gave him a look that could be best described as sadly bemused.
“Do you ever leave?” she asked. “I mean, apart from the gala.”
He thought about her question. “A lot of what I need to do can be done here. I have a private physician who visits when I need him. I can join any work meetings via Zoom. I have reliable staff in Joe. Garret sees to my needs and errands.”
“So that’s a no?”
“I leave occasionally. I have a country home in New Jersey I visit in the summers when I want more space and the city starts to smell. In the winter, I go jogging on the West Side Highway. I wear one of those winterized masks.”
“I suppose I understand, though I’m sure it scares some female joggers who might think you’re a villain chasing them. Those full masks always remind me of bank robbers in movies.”
“Much less scary than what lies beneath.”
“What lies beneath isn’t so scary. Your temper, on the other hand…”
“It got you a presentation tutor, didn’t it?”
Christine made a noise of amusement through her nose and appeared to fight off the urge to smile. She was getting comfortable again, her anger at the earlier hoax abated. Erik invited her to sit on the edge of the pool. They looked out at the sun setting over the Hudson River.
“It was unkind of me to fool you earlier. I read through the draft of your paper. I enjoyed your points about how companies can determine when to shift their efforts internally.”
She smiled but continued watching the sunset, mesmerized by the sky’s orange, gold, and pink. “It’s a hard formula to figure out. When does it become a waste of infrastructure, and when is it a missed opportunity?” She gave him a youthful grin. “Do you want to know how I came up with the idea?”
“I do.”
“I waitressed at the Cupcake Mill in college. As you might imagine, they’re famous for their cupcakes. Still, if you ever serve at their restaurants, you’ll find that even more than the cupcakes, the most popular item isn’t on the menu. It’s the brown bread they give to patrons when they sit down. Bread and butter. Classic free item in most restaurants.”
“I’ve never been to a Cupcake Mill, but now you’re making me curious.”
“They’re a wonder of operations. I’ll send you a great study about them. Anyway, this bread is addictive. I’m pretty sure it’s the carbohydrate equivalent of crystal meth. But they give it away for free. So it’s a cost to them even while it helps draw in customers.” She paused. “So what do you do if you are Cupcake Mill? You give away the bread, but maybe the customers don’t buy appetizers or aren’t hungry for dessert. How do you turn this to your advantage?”
“You sell them more bread after they hit one basket?” Erik suggested.
“A reasonable idea, but that would affect customer experience. No, what they did was start selling the bread in stores. It took a cost center and became a profit generator that brought the brand into the consumer marketplace. It was brilliant!” She laughed and turned to Erik, who watched her beneath his mask, his blue eyes taking in her every move. “What?”
“Christine, you just spent the last ten minutes defending your thesis while talking about bread.”
“And?” Her face fell, concern etched into her furrowed brows.
“You clearly know your content. Tonight, my goal was to find out if your struggles around presenting your thesis were happening here,” Erik pointed to his forehead, “or in here.” He pointed to his chest. “You obviously know the material, but something in your body is getting in the way of conveying it properly. Knowing what I know now, I believe I can help you overcome your stage fright, if you let me help you.” He held her eyes, unwilling to let her gaze go. Her lips parted, but there was a smile on her face, and he knew what she would say before she said it.
“Let’s do it.”