The Assistants (12 page)

I tried to think. What had I last told him? “It's going really well,” I said. “We're, um, getting a lot more organized. More focused.”

Kevin stirred the pot of chocolate with a wooden spoon, waiting for me to say more.

“We're focusing just on student-loan debt now,” I said. “Did I already tell you that?”

“No, you didn't.” He paused his stirring. “That's awesome. Can I get in on this? Law school left me about two hundred K in the hole.”

“Ha,” I said. “No. It's going to be just for women, I think. Women who are underpaid. Assistants, like.”

“Oh, that's understandable.” He nodded feministically. “You know, my mother would love this idea.”

“Please don't mention this to your mother, Kevin. Seriously.”

He resumed his stirring of the chocolate. “I won't. I'll wait to let you tell her about it yourself, when you meet her.”

I just let that one lie.

“So do you have a website up and running?” Kevin dipped his pinky into the pot for a taste.

“Yes, actually,” I said, and then, “No. Not publicly. Not like that you can see.”

“Still in the beta stages?” he asked.

“Yup,” I said, whatever that meant.

“But you've got a mission statement and everything?”

“Oh yeah, totally. We have a total mission statement.”

Kevin let go of his spoon, but he remained kneeling down catcher-style, hovering over the fondue. “Well, when you're ready to take it public,” he said, “I've got a few contacts I'd really like to introduce you to. Some friends who work for media companies that are a little more liberal than Titan. They'd be all over this.”

I had to put an end to this conversation immediately. The lie was becoming too detailed—but how did I stop it?

I leaned over and kissed him.

He pulled back, surprised. “You like that idea, huh?”

Jesus.

I shoved my tongue into his mouth, harder this time. New five-point plan:

Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking, stop talking, stop talking. (STSTSTSTST.)

I tried to get closer to him, to really go for it. I got down onto the floor, where he was, and wrapped my arms around him—this was going to work like a charm—but that damn fondue pot! It toppled over with a crash, splashing chocolate all over Kevin's parents' CB2 area rug.

“Oh my god,” I said.

“It's okay.” Kevin tried to take my hands, but they were busy covering my face. “Seriously, Tina, don't worry about it, I hate that fucking rug. Look.”

I did look, just as Kevin kicked the remaining setup of fruit he'd so meticulously prepared for our dessert square across the room.

His parents' chocolate-covered rug was now polka-dotted with
strawberries. Sliced banana stuck to the sides of their fawn-colored storage ottoman. He kissed me on the mouth before I could laugh.

I grabbed his face and kissed him back, pulling him in closer.

He directed me toward the bedroom, but we'd made it only as far as the bookcase when he pushed me up against the wall. I fiddled with his zipper and he pulled off my shirt. We were naked in seconds.

And that's how good I was at not having sex with Kevin at his Upper East Side apartment that night.

I
HAVE A CONFESSION
to make. No, not that one. It's that my favorite part of sex is after it's over. Which isn't to say I don't enjoy the act itself, because I do, very much—but what I really love is the holding afterward, the lounging, the supreme relaxation of
That went well
.

Sex with Kevin went mind-blowingly well, but it was our postcoital lazing that was the clincher for me. We spent all of Sunday sprawled in his bed in our underwear, laughing, watching videos on his computer, and occasionally having more sex. And the best part: we ordered from Seamless for every meal. Could I ask for anything more?

But before work on Monday morning, some of the anxiety was already creeping its way back in. To combat it, I bought Robert a honey-glazed doughnut from the Peter Pan bakery and placed it on his desk. Robert loved Peter Pan doughnuts. How in the
world did Robert Barlow ever eat a hand-rolled doughnut from a tiny Polish bakery in Greenpoint, Brooklyn? you might ask? Because I was stupid enough to bring him one once. I should have known such a mindless act of kindness would lead to weekly text messages at six a.m. and my having to leave my apartment a half hour early to get to Greenpoint before work in order to deliver him this one random doughnut.

Emily once told me a story about how she knew a guy had cheated on her when he surprised her with a pink-frosted cupcake from Crumbs. The Cupcake of Guilt, she called it. I figured now the least I could do was bring my victim a Doughnut of Guilt.

But Robert was having a good day. Something in the islands had gone well, giving him an extra jump to his step, and a political scandal involving a sext had broken overnight, which brought him great joy. This was how I liked Robert best, winning and un-scary, jetting around the office with the energy of a man half his age. (
Faster than a scalded cat. Busy as a hound in flea season.
) Just watching him work, you knew this was a man doing exactly what he was born to do. Robert loved the game. He loved the fight.

His wife called around noon, and even though he was in with Glen Wiles, I knew to interrupt him. The one piece of advice I'd received from Robert's previous assistant, a waif of a woman named Jeannie who lasted only three weeks, was: “Be really nice to Avery and, no matter what, always put her calls through.”

Jeannie apparently had not.

“He's in a meeting with Glen, but I'll get him out for you,” I told Avery Barlow. “I'm sure he'd rather be talking to you.”

She chuckled.

“I heard he took you in three straight sets last time you played,” I added.

She chuckled again. “He hasn't stopped bragging about that all week. I'll tell you it was worth it, losing to him so badly, just to have him in such a good mood for a change.”

“Hear hear,” I said. “Hang on just a moment, I'll get him.”

Some days I was so damn good at being an assistant.

Around a quarter to six, I disappeared to the fitness-center bathroom on the fourteenth floor to make the most of the free amenities: toothbrushes, toothpaste, dental floss, mouthwash—basically it was an oral hygienist's dream bathroom. There I encountered Hannah Paley, one of Titan's news desk assistants. We exchanged a nod, then an eye roll when the two women behind the stalls, both producers, began conversing about their fabulous weekends.

“Were you in the Hamptons?” one of them asked the other.

“No, we have a house in Cape Cod.”

“Really? I prefer Cape May.”

“Oh? Do you have a house there?”

“My parents do. But we have our own summer rental in Amagansett.”

Flush.

Flush.

Hannah Paley pretended to gag herself with her complimentary toothbrush.

What sweet validation.

At one time I would have rushed out of the bathroom before those two emerged, to avoid the inevitable questions about my
weekend. And if they caught me before I could escape, I would have put on mock airs, claiming that I needed this weekend to “just relax and do nothing for a change.” Like nothing was the new something. Or I would just make up something vague, like “I'm going to this great farmer's market in Williamsburg.” There's always a great farmer's market in Williamsburg to fall back on.

What was that about, anyway? Was I lying to allay
their
guilt? To make
them
not feel bad about the fact that I couldn't go away every summer Friday, that I could barely afford my Netflix subscription? Or was it to trick them into believing that I was someone better than I was, someone more like them?

“They don't have a fucking clue,” Hannah Paley said under her breath. Then she scooped up all the remaining boxes of sample-size Crest Whitestrips from the counter and dumped them into her bag.

It was a good day.

So I was caught completely off guard when I returned to my desk to find Robert waiting for me, skulking around my files.

“Do you need something, Robert?” I asked.

“Sit down,” he said.

I sat.

He brought one of his brogues up on top of my drawer stand and leaned in. This gesture made all the men in the office extremely uncomfortable since it effectively brought his ball sac in line with his subject's chin, but as a woman I was accustomed to this compromising position.

“You know how I feel about you, don't you, Tina?”

“I think so.”

“I've always felt comfortable with you. Since the first time you
walked through that door, I felt I could trust you. That's why I hired you.”

I heard myself gulp.

“Now, let me ask you something. Are you familiar with Margie Fischer from Accounting?”

I hesitated.

“Big lady,” he said. “Talks too loud.”

“Yes,” I said. “I know who you mean.”

“Has she been bullying you in any way?”

“Bullying me?” I swallowed down the acid making its way up my throat. “No.”

“No?”

“Uh-uh.” I shook my head like a toddler. “I hardly have any contact with her at all.” Though the Titan security-camera feed from the previous weeks would have reported otherwise.

“Good,” Robert said. “If she does start bothering you at all, asking you questions, anything like that . . .” Robert stared deep into my eyes, still with his leg up. “Because you know there are a lot of people out there who would like to see me hurt, so I can only surround myself with people I can trust.”

“I don't want anything to do with Margie Fischer,” I said. “I'll come to you immediately if she—”

“Good.” Robert stepped back and took his balls out of my face. “That's all I wanted to hear. Now go on home.” He turned toward his office.

Finally, I exhaled. What the hell was that about? I shut down my computer and prepared my escape from the building. At least it wasn't Emily he was asking about—or anything I'd done. But, still, whatever had prompted that could not be good for any of us.

I checked for my keys, wallet, phone; glanced one last time at Robert, whose eyes were glued to the many flashing flat-screens in his office; and headed for the elevators—and by the time I reached them, an idea had formed: Could I pin all this on Margie Fischer and get out unscathed? And even if I could . . .
could
I?

It was me and Dillinger heading down in elevator C, but all we did was nod at each other and then stare dead-eyed ahead. How much would I allow this situation to change me? I wondered. It seemed to have changed me already, but in many positive ways. I was becoming more assertive, figuring out how to be in charge of stuff—but was there a point of diminishing returns? Was I about to cross over into being a truly hardened criminal, a Tony Soprano, a Walter White, a Martha Stewart, willing to take out anyone in order to save myself?

The elevator door opened and Dillinger let me exit first. No man who worked for Robert would ever exit an elevator before a woman. It was both gallant and totally annoying.

No. I came into this a halfway-decent person, and that's how I'd leave it. Margie Fischer didn't mean much to me, and she did harass Emily and me that day at Michael's, and she'd told Lily about us, and there was that one time she scolded me for sniffing the cafeteria half-and-half, but I couldn't just throw her to the dogs. She was doing the best she could, like everyone else. She meant well, just like me. I meant well, didn't I?

On the way down the escalator to the main doors, I tried to calculate how many more weeks we had before I'd shut everything down. A complicated equation filled my mind: 3 of us contributing (me + Ginger + Wendi) + 1 signing/approving (Emily) + 2
who it was safe to assume would keep their mouths shut from here on out (Margie + Lily) = X.

The sun and heat of the outside struck my face.

X = Approximately four weeks. Also known as one month.

One month, thirty days, the amount of time it takes for the moon to complete its lunar cycle; for rent to be due again; to form a new habit (according to
The
Oprah
Magazine
). But I wouldn't let it be enough time to turn me into a sociopathic, amoral misfit. I had no interest in becoming an antihero—or a villain, for that matter. Even if Martha Stewart had somehow managed to find her way back.

S
OMEHOW
,
SUMMER FINALLY
began giving itself over to the fall. A drop in the temperature, oranges and browns where there had been green, a light jacket added to my V-neck sweater and button-down. I'd never made it to the beach, I realized, probably because I was too busy worrying all the time—I'd worried Ginger's debt all the way down to four figures, which as far as I was concerned was way better than ending the summer with a suntan and a brag-worthy vitamin D count. Sure, Kevin had tried for a trip out to Southampton, and then Montauk, and then Fire Island, but on account of not owning a bathing suit that wasn't part T-shirt, I always talked him into al fresco tacos and frozen margaritas instead.

Today, Kevin had big plans for us that would not be deterred by any talk of guacamole. In the full spirit of the change in season, he'd thrown on a shawl-collared sweater, rented a car, and driven us an hour upstate to an apple orchard.

“It's McIntosh season,” he explained as we waited in line to purchase empty plastic satchels and pay the entry fee. “The quintessential New York apple. Later we can bake a pie.”

Is this what Kennedy-like families did to ring in autumn? They picked apples and baked pies instead of taking down air conditioners and installing storm windows?

I'd never been apple picking before. It was unclear to me how we would reach the apples. Weren't trees tall? Would we have to climb? But I kept quiet, and soon we were riding on the back of a flatbed truck out to the fields. We were surrounded by children—a group of fourth- or fifth-graders on a school trip—at least half of whom were shorter than I am, so I assumed some system for reaching the apples had been worked out in advance.

When the truck came to a halt, Kevin and I jumped down and made an effort to move in the opposite direction of the children. The dirt beneath the rubber soles of my Converse felt soft, almost powdery. And the fruit on the trees hung low. The air smelled sweet, like a lollipop. (
Sweet as stolen honey
, Robert would have said.) We were only about sixty miles out of Manhattan, but we may as well have been in . . . what state was known for its apples? Washington? Or was New York known for its apples? Is that why we were the Big Apple? I always thought that was a nickname that had something to do with prostitution.

Kevin unfolded the two plastic satchels he'd bought when we arrived. “Let's hit the trees,” he said with such gusto I feared that at any moment he might embark on a monologue from Dr. Seuss's
The Lorax
.

“So all of these trees have the same kind of apple?” I asked.

“McIntosh,” he said.

Right, right, the quintessential New York apple, I remembered. So, basically, I could fill this bag in about two minutes and be done with it, head home with a satchel full of McIntoshes, and cue up Netflix, but I observed that's not how it worked.

Kevin inched toward one tree like he was sneaking up on it. He felt and rejected two or three identical McIntoshes before plucking one from its branch.

I did as he did. The subtle, almost meditative nature of this process reminded me a little bit of how people talked about yoga. Yoga is pretty much just a lot of standing around in dumb poses if you're not focused on your form, right? The nearly imperceptible details? Apple picking contained the same mystery for me.

“Look at this one.” Kevin held what he considered to be the perfect specimen in the palm of his hand.

“That's a good apple,” I said.

“I want you to have it.” He held it out to me with both hands.

This must have been what Adam felt like in Eden.

“Thank you. I'll cherish it,” I said, adding it to the pile in my bag.

“Hey.” Kevin got a funny look on his face. “Let's go sit on that wooden bench over there.”

I followed him toward the bench, diminutive and rickety-looking as it was, like something a gnome might have built in woodworking class—but before we could reach it, a small herd of screaming kids piled onto it like it was a jungle gym.

“On second thought,” I said, turning around, “let's continue standing.”

Kevin set his plastic satchel down carefully at his feet and wiped the dust off his hands. He was still wearing his funny face,
and for a split second I was overcome by a wave of panic. Was he going to drop onto a knee and propose to me right here in the apple orchard? I hadn't even put on eyeliner today.

“Don't be mad,” he said. “I know you hate surprises, but I sort of have a surprise for you.”

“Okay.” I fully prepared to become enraged at whatever this surprise was. I figured if it were an engagement ring, he wouldn't have prefaced the moment with a request for me not to get angry, so I really had no idea what was coming.

“Last week,” he said, “when I was hanging out with my friend Tim, I mentioned your project. And he totally flipped out over the idea.”

Tim was an editor at BuzzFeed.

“He just so happened to be working on this list of young New Yorkers who are trying to make the world better, and he was short on names and running out of time, so when I told him about you and your website . . .”

I couldn't move and it wasn't because the bag of apples in my left hand was cutting off the circulation to my fingers. That pain was far more manageable than the horror that was now running through my mind.

“You look mad,” Kevin said. “I didn't mean to do it. But I was bragging about you, and then it just slipped out. I know how private you are about it, but I just couldn't help it—I knew you'd be perfect for Tim's list.”

“You shouldn't have said anything.” I let my bag of apples drop to the ground.

Kevin's eyes shot to where they fell, seemingly concerned for their structural dignity.

“You'll have to tell Tim to forget it,” I said. “I can't be a part of any buzz list.”

“Tina.” Kevin reached for me. “Don't you think you're overreacting just a bit?”

“No, I don't.” I pulled back to avoid Kevin's touch, just as my phone got a text.

“I'm really sorry you feel that way.” Kevin searched his pockets for his phone.

I immediately got another text, which apparently Kevin thought was his phone going off, because he was still searching for his phone, which made the same text sound as mine, neither of us willing to be the one to change what was obviously the most appropriate sound to indicate a text message.

“It's fine,” I said, retrieving my phone from my pocket. “Just undo it.”

“No, I mean I'm really sorry Tina, but Tim already—”

Another text.

“Jesus, what the hell?” I looked at my phone. I had three messages from Emily, two from Wendi, and one from Ginger.

Kevin was thumbing furiously at his phone and then turned it around to show me its face. “You should read this,” he said.

“
Twenty-Five Dog Selfies That Changed the World
? Why are you showing this to me?”

“Oh wait, hang on.” Kevin thumbed at his phone some more and then turned it around again.

The headline read:
Twenty-Five New Yorkers Who Are Doing Something About It.

Ohmygod.

Kevin kicked at a rotten apple at his feet. “I thought you'd be happy, once you saw it.”

Ohmygod. I frantically scrolled down the list to number twenty-five, “
Tina Fontana's New Nonprofit Will Take on Student Debt
,” hardly able to believe what I was reading. The short paragraph referred to a “rumored, yet-to-launch website” and employed the terms
inequality
and
consciousness raising
, which tipped me off that Kevin must have had a hand in writing some of the content himself. It didn't contain much detail because how could it? It was framed more like a leak—a sort of
we heard about this cool thing before anyone else and even though we don't know anything useful about it, here we are with the scoop!
But it did state in no uncertain terms that my mission was to help underpaid women pay off their student-loan debt.

Mission.
I bet Kevin chose that exact word. I remembered how over fondue he'd asked me that specifically, if we had a mission statement. And like an idiot I was all,
oh yeah, totally, a mission statement
.

“I don't really understand why you're so upset,” Kevin said, hands stuffed deep into his jeans pockets now.

I checked myself then. More than anything, I wanted to peg Kevin dodgeball style with an overripe McIntosh to the mouth, but I needed to chill the fuck out.

I forced myself to take a breath. “I'm just a little shocked, that's all,” I said. “I wasn't ready for this. This kind of exposure.”

Kevin blinked his big brown eyes at me. “I really thought I was doing a good thing. I thought it was just the little push you needed to take the site to the next level.”

Yeah. I'd say this was definitely a whole new level.

“I appreciate the sentiment.” I silenced my phone and forced an unnatural calm into my voice. “And you're probably right.” I picked up my bag of apples. “Come on, it's a beautiful day. Let's enjoy it and forget about all this for now.”

“Are you sure?” Kevin picked up his satchel hesitantly, hopefully. “You're not mad at me?”

Of course I was mad at him. He'd outed me! Now I understood how George Michael felt, how Queen Latifah felt, how Ryan Seacrest felt—he is out, right? Regardless, there is no going back in once you are out, so what the hell was I going to do?

“I'm not mad at you,” I said, taking Kevin by the hand.

With my free hand, I sent a text to Emily, Wendi, and Ginger:
Don't worry, I'll handle it.

Now all I had to do was figure out how.