“For ten thousand dollars a bottle, it had better be very good,” I answer.
They do not flinch at the number. Of course not. Today they are a rich boy of the highest caliber. Family homes in the Caribbean, Mediterranean, in the south of France, even a ranch on the pampas of Argentina. They are used to absurdly expensive goods, watches, liquors, cars, private jets. A ten-thousand-dollar bottle of scotch is de rigueur.
This does not, however, mean they are possessed of a refined palate or discerning taste.
Or manners.
Of course not.
I struggle to remember the name from the dossier; this is their first appointment.
Clint? Flint? Something like that. Bland. Like them. Tall, but not too tall. Flat brown eyes. Average brown hair, albeit expensively cut and coiffured. High, sharp cheekbones, at least. Not too well muscled or defined, no extravagant amounts of time in the gym for them, it would seem. A kind of throaty voice, as if they speak through a bubble of phlegm. It is maddening, actually.
Clint. That’s their name.
“So, Madame X.” Doc Martens rest on my coffee table, rudely, barbarically. “How’s this work, exactly?”
I inhale sharply, for patience and for effect. “First, Clint, you remove your feet from my furniture. Then, you tell me whether you read the pamphlet and the contract.”
“I skimmed the pamphlet. Sounds like a modern version of Emily Post etiquette lessons for men, except you charge a grand an hour.” A sip of the scotch. “And yeah, I read the contract. I mean, no shit. Who doesn’t read a contract like that before signing it? It’s not like online terms and conditions or whatever. So I get it. No touching you, no hitting on you. Whatever. I’ve got a girlfriend, and I don’t cheat, so that’s not a problem. I just want to get this bullshit over with, to be honest.”
“Why are you here, Clint?”
“’Cause Daddy holds the purse strings for now, and Daddy says I need my edges smoothed out.” This is said with extreme sarcasm, virulent bitterness.
“And you disagree?”
A shrug. “No shit. I mean, I don’t see the point. What are you gonna do, tell me to stop swearing and teach me which fork to use at black-tie dinners? Fuck that.”
I am very tired of this whole ruse, suddenly.
“That’s precisely what I’m supposed to do. Tell you to clean up your language. Tell you to keep your stupid, dirty boots off other people’s furniture when you’re in their home. And yes, I’m supposed to smooth out your edges, teach you how to behave in polite society as if you have a single well-mannered bone in your entire uncouth, barbaric body.” I let out a breath, rub the bridge of my nose. “But, honestly, Clint, I don’t see the point. You are probably irredeemable.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you are a grotesque barbarian with no manners whatsoever. It means that you have no charm. No poise. It means, furthermore, that I don’t really believe you even have the potential to learn any of that. It means, Clint, that you are a waste of my time.”
“Well Jesus, you’re a real bitch, you know that?” They stand up, brown eyes blazing with hate. “Fuck you. I don’t have to take this from you.”
“Indeed you do not.” I gesture at the door. “How does that phrase go? Oh yes: don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
They leave, and I am relieved.
I really don’t know how much longer I can do this.
Pretend that what I do is “work.” That it holds any value. That I like it. That it means anything whatsoever. To me, to the clients, to Caleb. To anyone. It’s just . . . emptiness. Time wasted. A game. All of us playing pretend.
I can’t do it anymore.
I am suddenly overwhelmed, overcome. Anxious. Restless.
Angry.
I have this feeling inside me that defies description. A yawning chasm, a metaphysical hunger. A need to go somewhere, to do something, but I don’t know where, or what. A need for an intangible something. The need borders on panic, a feeling that if I don’t leave this condo, leave this building right now I might explode, might devolve into arm-flapping, screaming, gibbering insanity.
I stand up suddenly, try to force a measure of calm into myself by smoothing my white Valentino Crepe Couture dress over my hips. Wiggle my foot in my lavender Manolo Blahnik sandals. As if such physical gestures could soothe the disquiet within me.
I’m in the elevator, suddenly, and the ding of the car arriving drags with it a host of memories. I have the key now. Or a copy of it, at least. I can insert the key myself, turn it to whichever floor I want. The doors slide open and I’m shaking as I step into the elevator car. Fighting hyperventilation.
I need to go.
I need out.
I need to breathe.
I cannot.
Cannot.