The Job by Claire Adams Page B

them handle the store for ten
minutes, all the while assuring her that ‘mommy will be back soon.’ There’s
nothing condescending about that at all.”
    “You
just don’t get it,” she says, shaking her head. “This is the way I work—it’s
the way I’ve always worked.”
    “I
can tell,” he says.
    “What
is that supposed to mean?” she asks.
    “Well,
that’s a gray hair, isn’t it?” I ask. “You’re what? Twenty-seven,
twenty-eight?”
    “I’m
thirty,” she says. “And how exactly did you manage to insult me for being too
young and too old in the same breath?”
    I
grin. She looks like she’s in her early twenties. Not a single wrinkle and I
can tell because her face isn’t plastered with makeup. Thank God. This way I
know what I’ll be waking up to in the morning once I fuck her.
    “I’m
not saying you’re either too young or too old,” I tell her. “I think that
you’re too stressed out, and it really shows in the way you deal with your
employees and your customers.”
    “How
does it show to my customers?” she asks. “I have a spectacular game face.”

 
    “You
really don’t,” I tell her. “Remember last week when that woman came in looking
for a new handbag? She made some stupid pun and you terrified pretty much
everyone within range of your too-long, too-loud, wide-eyed laughter. You kind
of looked like that kid in school who’s extra nice to
everyone because she doesn’t know how to relate to people.”
    “You
know,” she says, “if you just brought me here to insult me, I really don’t see
the point in continuing.”
    “Before
you use what I’m saying as a pretext to go lord over your staff and make
everyone, especially customers, nervous, why don’t you just take a minute to
have a bit of the onion rings?” I ask. “They’re pretty tasty and you haven’t so
much as looked at your food because you’ve been too worried about what may or
may not be going on at the store.”
    She
closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. When she opens them again, she hails a
passing waiter and orders a double shot of whiskey.
    As
the waiter’s walking away, Jessica leans forward and says, “Look, I know I come
off as overbearing, but I guess I just don’t trust that things would get done
if I’m not there to oversee it.”
    Oh
shit.
    Is
there any way the woman I’ve been texting could be Jessica? I can’t imagine
that would be possible.
    That
response, as I recall, is almost verbatim to what that woman told me last night
during a similar discussion though. I decide to test the theory.
    “Your
staff seems like they’re all perfectly capable women doing a great job for you.
You’re acting like they don’t know Prada from Donna Karan and would just as
soon kill and eat your customers as give them good service,” I tell her.
    “Do you know Prada from Donna Karan?” she
asks.
    “Not
even remotely. Really, I’m just proud of myself for remembering the names,” I
answer.
    She
tries to hide it, but I can see that brief flicker of a smile come over her
lips.
    “They’re
a good staff—great, really. Without them, I don’t know if I’d even have a
store. They just don’t have that—oh, what’s the word?” she asks.
    “Inside
experience?” I ask.
    She
cocks her head a little and eyes me.
    “That’s
what most control freaks use as their justification for their control freakery ,” I cover.
    It’s
her. It’s got to be her.
    The
wording’s different, but the idea is exactly the same. Add to that the knowing
look she gave when I used the phrase “inside experience,” and I’m almost
certain that I’m talking to the woman who’s been giving me something to look
forward to after work for the last while.
    “That’s
a good way to put it,” she says.
    “Then
why don’t you train them so they’re less dependent on your being there to solve
every problem? You’re not superwoman.”
    “It’s
not that easy,” she says, but doesn’t have anything to back up