“Well I think it’s pretty obvious what we get every day here,” she says, stopping as Sprocket sniffs along a bike rack. “Rain.”
“Look at us,” I tell her, feeling strangely pleased. “We’re standing here, talking about the weather. It’s like we never left Vancouver to begin with.”
She gives me a small smile and looks off. I probably sound like a tool.
“Anyway,” I continue smoothly, “I have to say I prefer the sunshine to the doom and gloom.”
“So why did you move?”
I eye her carefully. Surely Alyssa told her, probably along with my social security number.
But she’s staring at me with an open expression, sucking her lower lip in such a manner that a thread of heat works its way into my chest. I wish she wouldn’t do that, and yet I can’t seem to look away.
I clear my throat. “Sasha and I, I’m not sure if you remember her, we got divorced. I tried to tough it out but, you know we worked together and it was either she went or I went. And she wasn’t going anywhere.”
She nods. “So you’re not really here by choice.”
“No,” I say slowly, pulling Joanie’s head away from a pile of shit on the sidewalk. “It was my choice. Not necessarily one I wanted to make . . .”
Fuck. What am I doing? This sort of personal business probably shouldn’t be discussed with my assistant. What we should be discussing is just what the hell she’s supposed to do for me.
I can think of a few things.
The thought flashes across my mind and I wince internally, hating myself for thinking it. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong.
I need to behave.
Luckily I have the gentleman thing down pat.
I clear my throat again. She probably thinks I’ve got a cold at this point.
“So, I think the best place for us to start is to find out what your father told you about the job. What you know about Mad Men Studios. What we do.”
She tucks a strand of loose hair behind her ear, and I didn’t realize until now that my fingers were itching to do it for her. “Well, honestly, I don’t know much. My father and I weren’t exactly close over the last seven years or so. When I moved up north, I, uh . . .it’s complicated.”
I can see that it is. And the last thing I want to do is pry.
“That’s fine, you don’t have to explain. Let me just start from the top then. As you know, I joined your father about ten years ago. Before that he had Phillips Films. When I came on board it turned into Mad Men Studios. Because I had a background in animation, or at least a pipe dream.” Her eyes spark at this but I keep going, least I dwell too much on said pipe dream. “Sasha, my ex, she is American and it was her idea to expand down in LA. She became the general manager there. Fast forward over the next ten years and we decide to make the Vancouver office the animation one, LA concentrating on visual effects. That’s why there’s some growing pains over here right now. A lot of turnover as we change.”
“And that’s where I come in,” she says. Her eyes look impossibly bright in this dull, grey light. “I’m here to help with your growing pains.”
“Right. Well the truth is, it’s been a bit of an adjustment for me here. The office runs a lot differently from the LA one.”
“Bunch of stoners?”
I grin at her. “You’ve got that right. But that’s on par with animation.”
“And you used to do animation?” She pauses, a devilish look coming over her. “I called them cartoons earlier and I thought Alyssa was going to have my head.”
Now I’m laughing. “Oh god. Yeah. Cartoons. They won’t let you forget that one. But honestly, it’s sometimes what I think of them. I quit drawing back in my early twenties. Went to Vancouver Film School, but just didn’t have what it took. So I stuck to being a production assistant and it’s eventually where I met your father, on set.”
She watches me carefully, like she’s inspecting every line on my face. It’s almost unnerving. “How old are you?”
“How old are you?” I fire back. Can’t help myself.
“I’m twenty-five.”
“I am not twenty-five.”
She stares at me expectantly.
“Forty-one,” I tell her, and I immediately hate how old I sound. Honestly, I know forty-one isn’t old and I have to say I’ve never felt old, except when I’m playing ice hockey these days on the pick-up team.
“That’s a good age,” she says. “Gregory Peck was forty-one when he made On the Beach.”
I cock my brow. This one is full of surprises. “Kid, I’m not sure if I should be flattered that you’ve compared me to Mr. Peck, or concerned considering that’s one of the most depressing and scary films you’ll ever see.”
“How about you don’t call me kid. It’s just Jackie.”
“All right, Just Jackie.”
If she was annoyed at all about the kid comment, it’s melted away into something softer. “I’ll keep calling you Mr. McAlister . . .”
I shrug, pretending not to care. “Fine with me kid, it gives me an air of authority that’s sorely needed around here.”
She sighs and starts walking off with Sprocket. I pull on Joanie’s leash and hurry up alongside her, waiting at the light to cross the street.
It’s then that I notice the top button on her blouse has popped open, showcasing some gorgeous cleavage. Fuck. Her skin looks like cream.
She looks up at me and I avert my eyes just in the nick of time.
“I guess I shouldn’t complain,” she says.
“About what?” Don’t look down her shirt, Will. Don’t be that boss.
“I’ll take whatever name I can get. I’ve been just mom for so long. Not that I’m complaining at all, but it just feels like I’m two people. There’s mom. Or Ty’s mother. And then there’s Jackie. Or Just Jackie, or kid, or whatever else people want to call me. It’s just weird to be split like that sometimes.” She pauses giving me a quick smile. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be unloading this on you.”
Are you kidding me? I think. I want nothing more than for her to keep talking about herself. Unload all of it.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her as we start crossing the busy street, navigating around the pedestrians. “The more I know about you, the better we’ll work together. We’re a team, you got that? You’re a fish out of water, so am I. That’s probably why your father put us together. We’ll both figure it out at the same time.”
She starts laughing, so fucking adorable.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. It’s just I was reminded of the first day of school, you know, or camp, where you get assigned a buddy.”
“That can work,” I tell her, coming to a stop by a bush that I know Joanie and Sprocket love to spend hours sniffing. It’s the dog equivalent of the water cooler.
I hold out my hand. “Buddies?”
She chews on her pink lower lip for a second, almost shyly, before sticking her hand out. “Buddies.”
I grasp her hand, giving it a good shake, knowing I should let go sooner rather than later. But, no, of course I’m holding on a bit longer than I should.
“Just don’t forget I can fire you,” I quickly add, letting go of her hand.
“I’ll try not to,” she says, flashing those dimples my way again.
I wait until she’s turned and walking away with Sprocket before I breathe in deep through my nose and try to compose myself.
Having an assistant might be a lot harder than I thought.
3
Jackie
“Well, well, well,” Tiffany says to me as I shrug on my jacket, about to leave the office.
“What?” I ask, looking myself over. It’s been a long-ass, busy day. I wouldn’t be surprised if I had coffee all over me or put my jacket on inside out.
“You survived your first week at work,” she says. “That’s no small feat.”
“Do I get a medal?”
“You get a pat on the back. That’s the best
I can do.”
“Hell, I’ll take it.”
Somehow the week flew by. Maybe it’s because Mr. McAlister—I mean Will—is still reluctant to hand work off to me so I’ve got a pretty easy gig so far, or maybe it’s because everyone here has been really nice and welcoming, but Friday got here before I knew it.
Of course, it doesn’t really feel like a Friday to me.
Probably because Mr. . . . Will, is coming over for dinner tonight.
I’m waiting for Tiffany to say something about it. Maybe she doesn’t know. It’s better that way. Obviously there’s nothing abnormal about Will having dinner at his business partner’s house—from what mom said, it used to be quite the regular thing—but it just feels weird now that I’m his executive assistant. I mean normally your boss doesn’t come over for dinner after the first week of work.
Naturally, I’m nervous. My interactions with Will this week have been sporadic, usually him emailing me about something, though sometimes he’ll hover around my desk uncertainly, like he wants to ask me to do something but isn’t sure what. But with my dad being away all week, I have no idea what our dynamic is going to be like when we’re all together in the same room.
I’m about to tell Tiffany to have a good weekend and head out the door to catch my bus, when Alyssa comes scurrying into the reception area.
“Jackie,” she says in a hush, her eyes dancing, her low-cut shirt showing off ample amounts of boob. “You didn’t tell me that Mr. Hung was coming over to your house for dinner.”
“What?” Tiffany exclaims, staring at me accusingly.
“Mr. Hung?” I repeat.
They exchange a knowing look. “Yes,” Alyssa says. “One of our many nicknames for him. Along with Mr. Right.”
I blink at her.
“The two are related,” Tiffany says matter-of-factly, flashing a fake smile at Bob Cantu, the head accountant, as he walks past and out the door.
Alyssa places a hand on my arm and leans in conspiratorially. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed he hangs to the right.”
I don’t have to ask her to clarify what and who we’re talking about. My cheeks flame and I look away. Because, yes, I have noticed. I noticed it at the end of the first day, and I’ve noticed it every time I’ve seen him since. Will doesn’t even wear tight pants, it’s just—that dick print of his is always there. It doesn’t help that he’s apparently hung like a horse, so if your eyes ever travel south of his belt, it’s all you can focus on. It’s like staring at the sun though. If you stare too long, you will get burned.
I glance at her. “Is it wrong that I want to order him some briefs just so I can get some work done?”
The two of them erupt into laughter, giggling like schoolgirls.
“In time you’ll welcome the distraction,” Alyssa says, wiping a tear away. “Especially on the really boring days. Though it’s extra frustrating when you’re single.”
“I’m not even single I still find it frustrating,” Tiffany says with a dreamy look in her eyes. “I love my boyfriend, but damn. That man is packing a lot of heat. If you know what I mean.”
“Yeah we know what you mean,” I tell her. Then I shake my head, trying to get back on track. “It doesn’t matter. He’s my boss. I can’t talk about him this way, and I definitely can’t think about him this way.”
“Why not?” Alyssa says with a shrug. “I’m sure he says the same about us.”
“He thinks we have penises?” Tiffany asks, taking a sip out of a Stranger Things mug.
Alyssa and I give her a dry look in unison. “No,” I tell her and then look to Alyssa. “And I highly doubt that. Will is nothing if not professional.”
And charming. And easy to talk to. And ridiculously handsome.
“You’re right,” she says after a beat. She sighs. “He’s too . . . I don’t know. Old school for that.”
“He’s totally old school,” Tiffany interjects. “Like those classic movie stars. Or George Clooney.”
“Back when men knew how to dress, how to act, and how to treat a lady,” Alyssa adds.
“Bet he’s wild in the bedroom though,” Tiffany says with a faraway look in her eyes. I can practically see her glasses getting steamy. “He cleans up good. He probably gets dirty just as well.”
“Oh god yes. I bet that dick never goes to waste.”
“You guys,” I say quickly, raising my palm. “Please. You’re not his EA. I am. And I have to have dinner with him and my parents tonight, so all talk about his dick needs to stop ASAP.”
“You girls seem up to no good,” Will says from the doorway.
All three of us yelp and jump, turning to see him staring at us with a bemused look on his face.
Oh my god. Oh my god. Please don’t let him have heard what I just said. Please Lord All Mighty!
“We’re always up to no good,” Tiffany says dryly without missing a beat. “It wouldn’t be a very fun office otherwise.”
Will grabs his umbrella from the stand and points it at me. “Keep in mind that Just Jackie is mine. I will not have her corrupted.”
I know he’s just being glib, but holy hell. Just Jackie is mine? That does something to me, something entirely inappropriate. Especially after what we were just discussing. An image of him shedding his suit, getting wild, rough, and dirty enters my mind for long enough to make me blush even more.
And now he’s smiling at me, white teeth against tanned skin, that sexy jaw and stubble, and I can’t think of a single good thing to say in response.
Luckily Alyssa keeps talking. “No promises,” She says in a teasing voice, making gaga eyes at him.
“Right,” he says. He heads toward the door. “I’ll see you ladies on Monday.” Then he glances over his shoulder at me. “And I’ll see you in a few hours, kid.”
Then he’s gone, off strolling down the street.
I can’t even be annoyed at the kid thing. I look at the girls with wide eyes.
“Please tell me he didn’t hear any of that. Any of it.”
Alyssa shrugs. “Well, even if he did you weren’t the one saying anything. And I’m pretty sure he knows by now how Tiffany and I feel.”
“It’s his fault for not wearing underwear,” Tiffany says, starting to shut things down at her computer.
“This is so wrong,” I tell them, heading toward the door. “Any other office and the two of you would be slapped with sexual harassment suits.”
“If he’s doing the slapping with his penis, I honestly don’t care,” Tiffany says.
“Okay, that’s it. I’m going to leave on that note. See you on Monday,” I tell them, needing to get out of there before it gets worse. Will was right, they will corrupt me and I’m easily corruptible.
The truth is, I’ve been fighting all week not to think about Will that way. In any way, really, other than my boss. It’s even been hard to forget that he’s the man who came to visit during the holidays with his wife. Every time I think about the dinner tonight, my mind is brought back to those times.
It’s kind of amazing how the span of one week has shifted things. How a person can exist in your past and your future as two separate people. I feel like there’s the Will I knew when I was younger, my father’s friend, someone I never much thought about. The Will that I know now, older, dashing, somehow even more handsome, is someone else entirely.
I try and push that all aside and out of my brain as I walk up to Granville St. to catch my bus. Vancouver isn’t a huge city, maybe a million or so people in the greater area, but compared to where I was before, a town of less than 20,000, it feels like New York to me. There’s this hustle and flow here, all these people, so many of them my age, trying to make it. Rent is astronomically high, the job market is competitive, and yet every single day people are stubbornly trying to live their dream. The ambition is contagious.
There already seems to be a change within me, at least on a superficial level. I’m feeling reenergized. April is approaching, spring is in the air a
nd in my step, and I’m starting to feel like anything is possible. There’s hope where there wasn’t hope before.
It’s a nice feeling, even if it’s a foreign one. Sometimes hope is like wearing someone else’s coat. You know it can shield and protect you, just as it did them, but it still doesn’t feel right. You’re just not used to it.
Being up north whittled my life down to just one thing: Tyson. I did everything I could to ensure there was enough food on the table, that the rent was paid, that he was happy. Did everything I could to protect him from the horrors that surrounded us.
I did everything I could until I couldn’t anymore.
And when that day happened, we got out of there.
It still feels like yesterday, because it practically was yesterday.
Less than a month ago I was calling 911, my blood dripping onto the phone.
Don’t focus on the past, I remind myself while I get in line with the rest of the commuters at the bus stop. Now that I’ve done one week at the new job, survived the commute, survived the awkwardness and pitfalls that come with the territory, I’m starting to feel more free. I try not to berate myself for not doing it earlier, although that guilt remains.
By the time I get back home—yes, I’m finally calling it home, even if it’s just temporary—an hour of commuting and switching buses has gone by and Tyson is running toward me with open arms across the broad sweep of immaculate grass that makes up the front lawn.
“Mummy!” he cries out, a big goofy smile on his face, his bowl-haircut flapping as he runs. I feel every single worry melt away as I scoop him up in my arms, even though it takes a little more effort than normal. I swear he’s gained a few pounds this week, and it’s his grandma’s baking to blame.
“Hey Ty-Ty, how was your day?” I ask him.
“Grandma showed me how to use her magic. Now it’s my magic,” he says excitedly, his blue eyes dancing.
“Is that so?”
“Today Tyson met Taffy,” my mother says to me as she steps out of the front door. I don’t know how she manages to always look so immaculate, whether in the kitchen or flying over fences on a horse. While I got the short curvy body from some long lost relative (and a love of all things beer), she’s tall, skinny elegance. Right now she’s in her jodhpurs, ankle riding boots, a green dress shirt and a cream scarf around her neck. Grace Kelly reincarnated.