Love Like That. Amanda Hill

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СКАЧАТЬ is the kind of man who holds doors open for women and never says tit or snatch and most definitely wouldn’t ever think of calling a woman a whore. He adores and worships his father.

      Jeremy hates his father. They do not speak. He refers to his father as a bastard and a prick.

      I decided to put him on hold for a while. I wanted to spend some time alone.

      I wanted to cut my hair short. I wanted to spend a lot of money. I wanted to get high.

      Instead, I went to a McDonald’s drive-thru and ordered some fries.

      Chapter 3

      I turned my calendar at work to August on the first of the month. I drew a little continent of Africa on the square and put a little stick man in it to represent Roman.

      My boss came into my office and folded her arms at me. “If you’re bored, Doll, I’m sure I can find plenty for you to do. As it is, I gave you a whole list of things to take care of before the day is over.” She gave me a meaningful look.

      “Oh, what?” I asked innocently. The list was long and uninteresting. “I was just, uh…keeping my calendar up to date.”

      “Uh-huh,” she said, not convinced. “Now, listen. I’m going into a meeting with the rest of the partners and then I’m leaving straight for my lunch appointment. Can you try to remember to call on my cell if anything comes up?”

      I nodded dutifully.

      She looked at my finger with interest. “That’s not an engagement ring, is it?”

      I hid my hand. I was actually surprised it had taken her so long to notice, but then again, Karen is very self-absorbed. “Oh, what? Yes.”

      “Let me see it.” She took my hand and gave the ring a critical once-over. “Excellent clarity. From Tiffany?”

      As if there is no other jewelry store in the entire fucking galaxy. But yes, it was from Tiffany. I still thought it was presumptuous of her to ask.

      She nodded with approval as she let go of my hand. “This is the guy who lives back east, right? Not that other clown I see you with?”

      “It’s the one back east. But he’s not there now. He had to leave the country for six months.”

      She raised her eyebrows. “What exactly does he do again?”

      The woman is fucking oblivious. “He’s with the relief organization. Remember? We did their fund-raising gala two years ago? You and I?”

      “I remember now. Congratulations, then. That’s very exciting. We’ll have to take a lunch one day to lay out some ideas for your wedding.”

      “Yes, we certainly will.”

      She left me alone after that. I swiveled around to the window and stared out at the city. When I am way up high in this Century City skyscraper I pretend I’m somewhere else, like Chicago or Dallas or Atlanta. I thought my boss was probably having her period. When she’s on her period I keep my office door closed. Usually we get along okay, even though I think she’s an ass.

      The dossier on Karen is this: Karen Brazington, executive partner of Charisma and guru of the event-planning industry in Los Angeles. Thirty-six years old. Once married to her UCLA sweetheart, a heart surgeon at Cedars-Sinai whom she left when he became married to his career, now divorced and not speaking except through their lawyers. Currently engaged to a William Morris talent agent named Sal Lefkowitz whom she met when he contacted her, by referral, to put together his niece’s bat mitzvah. Has lived in seriously high-rent Westside property all of her adult life and drives a new C-Class Mercedes in a fetching metallic silver. Wears her hair in a shaggy, uneven cut that she gets trimmed and highlighted every six weeks with nearly religious fanaticism. Drinks flavored martinis, listens to Sting and Norah Jones, coughs reflexively when exposed to cigarette smoke and watches all reality TV shows courtesy of TiVo.

      Please don’t ever let this happen to me.

      My job at Charisma is to be Karen’s personal and administrative assistant. On my résumé it says Event Coordinator. Karen gets to do all the fun work and the big planning. She gets to have the power lunches and wear the killer suits. I get to wear the killer suits, too, but only for show. My only real purpose there is to do everything Karen doesn’t want to do. My friends say I have a glamorous job. And in some ways it is a glamorous job. It is so glamorous that sometimes I want to jump out the window.

      I started at Charisma right out of college. I walked into an employment agency with big plans to walk out with a corner office and a fancy title and sixty thou’ annually right off. Instead I walked out with a new job as the assistant to the office manager at Charisma. I think that literally translates to “slave” because all I did then was put away supplies in the copy room, wash the dishes in the kitchen and run errands for people. Karen noticed me and made me her assistant after four months of that mindless crap. She liked me. She said I was sharp. I think what it was really all about was that she liked the way I dressed. When I first started with her, she sat me down and said, “You and me, from now on, are a team. We need to look like a team, think like a team, take care of each other like team members. So far you’ve got the first part down.”

      There are some perks. I get to go to premieres and their after parties. I get to talk to famous names on the phone. I get to go to the Emmys, the Golden Globes and the Academy Awards. But since I’m not really into all that shit, sometimes it’s really just like a whole lot of unpaid overtime.

      There are also some quirks. Such as the long, endless days of trying to keep myself sane. Luckily you learn pretty early on that to keep yourself sane in the life as somebody’s assistant, the trick is to waste as much time as possible when the boss isn’t looking. So I wandered out into the hallway to see if anyone was doing anything. The head-honcho meeting was in full swing in the conference room. Lots of free time until they got out.

      There was a deep discussion going on among my fellow minions about how everyone had lost their virginity. I joined in.

      It happened when I was fifteen with the neighbor boy Charlie Porter. He was cute in an ugly sort of way, with coarse dark hair like a rottweiler and knowing eyes the color of desert sand. He was popular because he acted like a jerk and he didn’t care, and kids respected that quality. He was the kind of boy who talked back to teachers and wasn’t afraid of the consequences. When his parents were gone he had parties and people had sex in his parents’ bed and no one washed the sheets afterward. He was forever sucking on an orange Tootsie Pop so his breath always smelled like oranges. He wore Drakkar Noir cologne and forest-green Vans and listened to Jane’s Addiction and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Total dream.

      Charlie lived up the street from me, at the top of the hill, and the water from the hose when he washed his dad’s car would run down in the gutter past my house with soap bubbles and leaves. We played together when were little kids. But somewhere around the start of middle school, boys become boys and girls become girls. That’s when Charlie started calling me fatty and porky and piggy and his friends did the same and laughed while they rode their skateboards past my house and I hid beneath the front window and watched, ashamed. Then I would go upstairs and watch Stayin’ Alive and wish I were some sexy dancing queen on the Manhattan show scene instead of a fleshy preteen eating Oreos and dreading the fact that my P.E. class had access to a swimming pool.

      On the first day of school sophomore year he passed by me at my locker and stuck a little pink flower СКАЧАТЬ