Chapter 6
T he morning of their first date, the DNF held a war conference to decide how Gertrude should dress. After a harried shopping trip that ended at a thrift store, they settled on a black dress that, to Gertrude anyway, looked like she was slipping into a black tube pencil grip, but they all oohed and ahhed when she stepped into the break room wearing it, her shoulders bare and chilly (“That’s so he can give you his jacket!" Rebecca exclaimed) her hair slathered with product to keep it curly, bouncy and far from its usual flat, limp shape. They told her not to wear anything with the dress, but it was cold out so she opted for black leggings under the skirt and boots she found at the thrift store that she would have liked anyway date or no date.
“I’d marry her,” Olivia said, looking at Gertrude.
“Oh I’d bang her for sure,” Ariana added.
“I’d ghost you on the apps because I was intimidated,” Nora said.
“I’d divorce a third husband for you,”
“Thank you, Rebecca,” Gertrude said. She didn’t want to show it, but she was quite pleased with herself. For once, she’d glanced in the mirror and felt like one of those women. The kind that don’t flinch when a camera is out, the kind that go to the beach without worrying that someone will smirk at her skeletal body. The type of women that exist with ease; even if it is all an elaborate production put on for the world of eyes. Gertrude quite liked having her own production; it was a certain power. It helped that she got Morticia Addams vibes from the dress, and that Olivia had provided a gorgeous necklace with a bloodred gem in the center of it.
“I know you like vampires,” she had said, clasping it around her neck. “Figured it would go with your outfit.”
They all waited for Barret to pick her up. If he found it odd that she requested to be picked up from the bookstore, he didn’t say.
“This feels like prom,” Nora said.
“I didn’t go to prom.”
“It’s kind of like this. Lots of prep. Two hours with a weird boy you don’t want to see again.”
“Thank Nora. Now I’m really looking forward to this date.”
“Just be yourself, if he does anything weird, call me and I’ll come get you,” Olivia said. She was pacing back and forth throughout the store, her grey work attire making her seem like a rogue special agent on the prowl for a criminal.
“Yeah, text us if you go anywhere other than the restaurant,” Ariana said. “Which restaurant is it again?”
“Bateman’s. I think it’s near Boston.”
“It’s impossible to get a reservation there,” Olivia said.
When they all looked at her, she added: “What? I used to have money. Then I bought a bookstore.”
“And we love you for it,” Rebecca said. “Anyway, how is she going to convince this guy to love her in a few dates?”
“Well, she shows up dressed like that, she won’t have to do much convincing,” Nora said.
Which was all fine and good, but their research showed that Woodrow Barret dated models, aristocrats, Olympic swimmers, and social media darlings in strappy gowns as they struck smiling peace signs in front of stunning vistas.
Gertrude was in a seventeen-dollar dress and was a month behind on her electric bill. She didn’t go to the dentist unless her teeth actively hurt because simply entering a dentist office felt like it cost two hundred dollars. This list of deficiencies wanted desperately to pile in her mind until she shut down and refused to go—retreating back to the solitude and safety of her quiet, contained misery.
She swallowed the anxiety like a mouthful of toothpaste, bracing her nerves.
“He’s here!” Ariana cried out. “Nice car, too.”
They all hugged her and wished her luck. As though she were going to war.
She clomped outside, her boots loud and clunky on the sidewalk. A black car that was one of the fancier foreign brands rolled quietly to a stop in front of her. A man in a dark driver's uniform bustled out, greeted her good evening, and opened the door.
Her phone buzzed.
“I’ve got his license plate,” Ariana had texted.
She put the phone back in her purse and got into the car next to Woodrow Barret.
***
He’d been talking for a few minutes as streets whipped by the tinted windows.
She tried to listen.
She really did.
“I’m glad you decided to join me.”
“I had to stop you from sending stuff.” She meant it lightly, as a joke, but he frowned and briskly moved on.
“I should tell you about myself.”
He sat comfortably in a blue suit that looked a bit too baggy, one leg crossed over his knee. He had a tendency to tug on his foot, as if he were steering a boat and the polished loafer was the rudder. He said her name after every pause, and sought her face for repeated, harassing eye contact. If he asked a question, he repeated her answer and praised its value.
It was like talking to a self-help book.
“I own several companies, most of which are branches of my company. Outside of the hedge funds, there’s also a string of cobalt mines, a fast-food franchise that you’ve probably eaten at, Gertrude.”
“Like, a burger place?”
“Chicken, actually. I was the youngest CEO of Younger Food Corporation, do you know what that is?”
“Sounds like one of those companies that have a football stadium named after them.”
“That’s right Gertrude! We have one outside of Atlanta."
The pedantic way he said it made her cringe, her entire form crinkling on itself. As she moved, the skirt rode up her thighs and he sneaked a glance. She caught it, and realized, with a measure of triumph, that it was working.
It probably didn’t matter what she said.
He went on, listing things he owned. It was an endless list, stacks of businesses, umbrella corporations, real estate developments. A government contract and a telecommunications company. Every time he listed off another shadowy million-dollar enterprise, Gertrude pictured his penis growing a centimeter. Growing longer, longer, drooping over with its own weight like an elephant’s trunk, unfurling from its foreskin as it slid down his leg, a Pinocchio-nose of dick, growing with each billionaire boast.
They hit traffic, snarled outside of Boston.
She’d been in the car with Barret for forty-five minutes and hadn’t been asked a single question about herself.
He droned on. In desperation, she shot a text to the DNF group chat.
“He’s just talking about himself, what do I do???”
“Compliment his ego.”—Nora
“Ooh and ahh at everything he says. Pretend every word is turning a sprinkler on in your crotch” —Ariana
“Sit on his face that should shut him up”—Rebecca
“If you don’t like him at all you don’t have to do this” —Olivia
No, no she wasn’t giving up that easily. She could do this; she just had to act like not-Gertrude. Close off the sullen, sarcastic woman she tended to be at any given time and be someone lighter. More fuckable. She pictured sitting on his lap and letting her tongue ooze out of her mouth like a black serpent, snaking around his throat before diving into his ear, licking the inside of his skull and wrapping tightly around the little grey slime he called a brain.
She would control him.
She would own him.
At least long enough to save the store.