20. Jake
JAKE
“ N o.” I spin in my leather office chair, turning to admire the view of Lake Ontario sparkling in the sunshine.
It’s a perfect day and even in my office near the top of the office tower in Toronto’s downtown core, I imagine I can feel the crisp wind from the west. I earned this office, worked my butt off for this view, and the corner office with twice the windows is next.
I watch a few distant sails, wishing for leisure time I never have.
One day…one day, I’ll buy that sailboat, join that club, enjoy life. One day, I’ll have enough money, enough success, enough of everything to just savor my accomplishments.
One day, but not yet.
I need more.
I always need more.
I frown, aware that my brother is repeating his argument again from the beginning. “No, Mike. I said no.”
“But I need you to do this.”
“You can’t afford me.”
Mike’s voice drops and I close my eyes, knowing my brother will beg. I still love when he breaks right in front of me. “Don’t you care about anything other than your new car and your bank balance, Jake?”
“My money’s not in the bank, actually.”
“You know what I mean.”
“And it is a really nice car.”
Mike growls in frustration and I smile. “Don’t you care about the family business?”
“That’s a hard no.”
“I need you,” he says with heat. “I need your help with this.”
“Oh, well. Too bad for you.”
“For fuck’s sake, Jake, I’m not asking for a kidney,” Mike says, so vehement that he catches my attention.
My brother is the most serene guy I know.
I sit up, wondering what’s really the matter.
He continues, his voice hard. “I’m asking you to attend a champagne reception, in Toronto, on behalf of Cavendish Enterprises.
It’s not like signing you up for waterboarding. ”
I am interested in this response. What could make Mike use a word that never crosses his lips? “You never know,” I say, mostly to be provocative. “It could be awful. Those receptions often are.” I’ve already decided to go, on the basis of that one word, but Mike doesn’t need to know it yet.
“Jake, I’m begging you.”
“Now, you sound desperate.”
He loses it big-time and I wish I had popcorn.
“I am desperate!” Mike roars, then lowers his voice with obvious effort. His frustration comes through the line in waves. “I’ve just been sick for the better part of a week, Dad is making trouble about everything imaginable, I never get a day off and the tomatoes…”
“The tomatoes,” I agree, understanding all too well.
God, I hate tomatoes. Three summers of picking those suckers for twelve hours a day in a sweltering greenhouse only made me run as far away from Empire as quickly as I could – and stay away.
I still remove them from my salad. It’s a question of principle.
Maybe I should have gone to Australia instead of Toronto.
“You’re probably sitting there in a five-thousand-dollar suit?—”
“Ten,” I interject calmly, admiring the quality of the wool.
“—looking out the window of your fancy office trying to choose which yacht you’ll buy this weekend or which gorgeous blonde you’ll do first.”
Which blonde will I do first? It’s a good question. I spin in my chair, entertained.
“Plus, I’ve got Augustine Rhodes lighting fires around the perimeter, and Dad meeting him more than halfway,” Mike says. “Did you know that Luke is back? And, and – well, never mind that.”
Ooo, what was that about? Does Mike have a love interest?
“But you,” he fumes. “ You can’t even spend two hours at a black-tie event, all expenses covered, to save me eight hours of driving to Toronto and back.” He takes a deep breath for his big finish, and concludes with gusto. “Screw you, Jake.”
I want to give him a round of applause, but he might take it the wrong way. In my view, it’s about time Mike lost it.
Past time.
“I’ll go,” I say softly before he can end the call.
There’s a beat of silence, no doubt as he seethes at me. This is not unlike tricking him out of his Popsicle when we were kids. He’s glaring at his phone, almost certainly, too pissed off to say anything more. Mike, the man of few words, can be rendered silent by anger.
I, on the other hand, become breathtakingly articulate when I’m mad. Furious, I will spontaneously compose and deliver a doctoral thesis. (It’s a gift.)
I make a joke to break the ice, just like old times. “But all expenses aren’t covered, unless you’re going to pay my billing rate.”
Mike exhales hard and makes a choking sound that could be a laugh. “There are moments when I think you can’t be more of a dick, then you prove me wrong.” His tone has changed, despite his words. He sounds his usual amiable self.
“Thank you.” I put my feet up on my desk, content that my work is done.
These are beautiful shoes, no doubt about it. Italian. And perfectly polished, too.
“You’d already decided to come, hadn’t you?”
“Yup.”
“Asshole.” There’s no heat in the word, just an acknowledgement of a simple truth.
“Yup.” The way I see it, if you’re going to be an asshole, you have to go for it.
You have to make it a consistent behavioural choice.
You have to be more of an asshole than anyone expects anyone to be at any given time.
In short, you have to own it. I am an asshole mostly – and don’t tell anyone this little secret – because it works.
It keeps all the losers and their expectations away.
You want to live your own life, make your own choices, do it your way: be an asshole.
Unconvinced? Play some compare and contrast with me here: Mike is not an asshole. He could never be an asshole some of the time or even at occasional intervals. He is the most honest, decent and helpful guy that you’ll ever meet. So, Dad walks all over him, every damn day.
Not me. The old bastard barely has the balls to talk to me at Christmas and he sure doesn’t call me up with assorted demands.
Being an asshole pays big dividends. Give it a try.
“Next Friday,” Mike says, then names the shiniest new hotel in town.
“That’s the thirteenth.”
“So?”
“Might be unlucky.”
“I doubt it. Free drinks and snacks. Women in evening wear.”
“The things I suffer for your sake,” I say with forbearance and he scoffs.
“Starts at nine and you should be out of there by midnight. If you can just show up, shake some hands, be our presence, that would be great.”
“It’s an award ceremony, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Black tie?”
“Yes.”
Good. I’m envisioning blondes in low-cut gowns already.
Mike heaves a sigh. “An initiative from the province to celebrate local producers. We’re in the market produce category.”
“Are we going to win?”
“I don’t know. The honour is in making the list, I’m told. And there might be connections to be made. We’re one of the biggest greenhouse operations in the country. We can’t not be there.”
I spin in my chair, biting back a reply. Is there any point in playing the game if you aren’t going to win? I’m thinking not. I’ve always thought not. But if I say as much, I could be drawn into something I don’t want to mess with.
Because Mike and I are close, despite appearances to the contrary.
We know each other better than anybody. Just like I know how to infuriate him then get him past it, he knows how to sucker me into doing something I don’t want to do.
He’s burdened by ethics, though – that’s why he didn’t challenge me to prove him wrong on this disagreement.
Or he’s saving his ammo for something bigger.
I suspect he’s waiting for a chance to challenge me to come back to Cavendish Enterprises and make everything better. Maybe because Dad is prodding him to do that.
I’m not going to give either of them the bait for that hook.
Ever.
Maybe I should check out opportunities down under.
“Okay,” I say. “Next Friday at nine. Is the champagne going to be good, or is it going to be that cheap junk that burns a hole right down to your shoe leather?”
Mike laughs. “Take an antacid before you go and bill me for it.”
“Deal.” I smile and he’s gone, leaving me with my spectacular view.
The truth is that I have no commitments for this next Friday night or any Friday nights in the near future.
I don’t miss Chelsea much, but I do miss how she always planned our weekends to the last detail.
I thought she was kidding the first time I saw ‘sex’ in an assigned time block on the weekend schedule she emailed me each Friday afternoon before four.
(She had a template in Excel. Yes, she did.)
But she wasn’t kidding. Right on time, she pulled me into the bedroom and peeled off her panties. Chelsea really did plan everything, probably even the timing of her orgasms.
Maybe that’s why I don’t miss her much. Our relationship lacked a certain spontaneity. I always knew what I was supposed to do next.
That last time, when I was supposed to propose, I just didn’t do it .
Even though it was on the schedule and everything.
My bad.
“Asshole,” she said and she wasn’t wrong. The only thing I hate more than being nice is being predictable. Both give people ideas.
Mike is right about my affection for blondes. I hope there are a few at this reception, or maybe just one stunner to make the evening worthwhile.
If we aren’t going to win, who will even know if I cut out early?