Fade In (8 page)

Winnie and the girl exchange smiles and she's gone. By now, Neil is about to chew through the side of his cheek he's biting. He lands bony elbows on the table and brushes his meal out of the way. Then he motions for me to spill it.

“Well, not exactly. It was the new and improved Birthday Slut, I guess.” I prepare myself for the story with one more spicy tuna bite and a deep breath.”Okay, so Kurt was being sort of a dick on Friday. He went out with work people after he got off and sort of ruined my birthday dinner.”

Neil’s face scrunches as he looks to Winnie for confirmation. When she nods her head with a disappointed expression, he turns back to me with a pout.

I wave off his sympathy. “Anyway, he came by after he was finished and well...” There was not delicate way to tell the story. “I was giving him my special job—you know, the
real
special job—and then I just”—I gesture the motion of aiming a penis—”aimed it back to his face and let him shoot himself with, um, himself while I told him to get out and that we were over.”

I slump forward, breathless after rambling to get the last part out. I won't have to tell this story again. Thank God.

Smacking the table and sucking in air like a ninety-five-year-old asthmatic, he squeals in delight. “That is. The best. Breakup. Ever! Oh my God. It's brilliant. What did he do? Was he pissed?” I should have waited for Christmas to give Neil a gift like this story.

I look at Winnie warily, because she knows the rest of the story from breakfast Sunday morning, and maintain keeping that part minimal. Neil knows of my condition, but I don't need his pity. Better to let him think I'm a badass than the mess I am inside.

I vaguely go over the talk we had and that we parted as friends. Winnie's favorite part is still the booty-call loophole goodbye. In all honesty, I kind of like that part, too.

My phone buzzes from inside my new bag, and I reach in, looking at the screen that reads Dr. Evil.
Dr. Meade's office.
I let it go to voicemail, and the three of us keep talking and laughing over amazing sushi.

Neil apparently went on a date over the weekend, and the guy was nice, but he called him sugary. I had my suspicions that Neil liked the bear variety of homosexual. He always dismissed the “too sweet” or the “icky nice” men.

Winnie updates the both of us on the guest favors she ordered online and how Coop about shit a brick when he saw the total. It wasn't that much, but other than the fancy-schmansy car he drives, Coop is pretty frugal. She is under the impression that money is meant to be spent. My thinking lies somewhere in between.

“I called the driving services and asked for Ray like you said in the email, too,” he tells me as we start our walk back to the studio. “Cooper already called them, so they knew we were going to call. They sound pretty good. That Ray guy is their most popular driver.” He wags his eyebrows suggestively. “Do you want to use them a few times before making a commitment? They can start on Wednesday.” Neil asks, getting us back to my self-inflicted tasks for the week.

“Yeah, line it up. I doubt it will matter all that much. It's just a car service.”

Winnie can't hide her small twinge of jealousy, “Dammit, now I want a car. Okay, I've got it. What if we share? I mean, I can foot some of the bill and we can share your new PA, too. You're too boring to need one all to yourself.” She walks ahead of us and stops us with two hands to consider her idea.

“No,” I deadpan and push past her, grabbing her arm so she doesn't fall behind. “Whoever I hire will be too busy to mess around with a bitch like you.” I lay my head on her shoulder as we walk back into the building.

“Fine, but if their workload gets low, just tell me. I have errands all over the city with the wedding shit plaguing my days, and it would be nice to have someone to do my bidding.” I think she's probably serious. She'd love someone doing all of her dirty work.

“Yeah, okay. I'll just say, ‘Excuse me, assistant? Do you mind picking up some things for my best friend, Bridezilla?’” I say in the bitchiest voice I can find. It's a little too close to normal, and I laugh at myself before continuing. “Who do you think I am? An assistant pimp? Get your own.” And she could, too. She banks more than I do, getting star credit, writing, and performing at the show. Recently, she's even been approached for endorsements.

We finish out the day by sitting in my office, making fun of Chel-Ro, and thinking up costumes for the Southern duck hunters seg—you know, being professionals.

I listen to Dr. Meade's message. He just wanted to let me know that he'd emailed me some recommendations for a therapist. I delete it before it is all the way finished.

One step at a time.

True to his word, Neil shows up the next day just before eleven, kissing my cheek as he walks in with his hands full.

“You look ridiculous. It's almost eleven, Tatum. Pajamas still? Really?” He unloads his arms putting their contents onto the counter. “I brought you coffee, bagels, and schmear. You're welcome.”

God, I love the schmear. First of all, it's just plain old fun to say. And secondly, there's not much better than a lightly toasted cheese bagel with veggie schmear for breakfast.

Well, there’s dick. Dick would be nice, but I probably won't be enjoying that for breakfast anytime soon—if ever again.

Goodbye, morning sex.

“So, I have everything organized and I have some of the questions that I thought may interest you in a questionnaire, if you will,” Neil tells me, sounding quite involved.

“I'm sure you do, Neil. I would expect nothing less. So who's our first victim?”

“Ah, yes. Victim number one hails from NYU and is trying to get a leg into personal relations. She is smart and organized, and my friend at the agency said she was, and I quote, ‘classic Type A.’” He looks like he's a bit scared. I don't know if it's for her or me.

“Doesn't Type A stand for type asshole? What time is she supposed to be here?”

“In about thirty minutes. Eat up and get changed unless you plan on doing these interviews with a nod to 1999 slumber-party casual.”

We finish our breakfast, and I do as I was told, dressing out of my pink sweats and 'Eat Me' t-shirt and into a pair of skinny jeans and a flowing chevron-print top. Since I’m not going out, I just slip on a pair of flats and call it good enough. My hair is much easier to whip into shape with the new short ‘do I have going on.

Good move, Tatum.

Ms. Type A is punctual and basically reciting her answers like a pro. She says all the right things and very politely lets us know that she thinks of this job as a leg up in the industry. Even though she isn't going to be assisting me in my professional life, she knows that the events I attend would be very beneficial to her Rolodex.

Her personality is also about as dry as a popcorn fart and she sort of gets on my nerves. She’s dressed in a gray tweed business ensemble, and worst of all, she wore dark hose. Not my thing. Type A earns a maybe-we-will-see sort of score.

Neil preps me for the next batter up, who is more of a free spirit. What Jamie lacks in organizational skills, she makes up for in fashion and her own connections. Turns out her family lives on the Upper East Side and she's quite the debutante. Her motivation for employment is more to make her family happy and less about beginning a career.

Her pros are knowing my area like the back of her hand and that I could definitely send her out for clothes. She wore a darling cowl-neck top and an asymmetric mini with this season’s Louboutins.

Mama like.

Jamie's perky and easy to talk to, but my life can be a bit chaotic and I'm not sure I want Business Barbie handling my day-to-day affairs.

The next interview is fine, but the back-to-business stay-at-home mom doesn't really clinch my attention. Though the scrunchie was a nice touch, the vomit on her shoulder indicates that she'll be a mess.

We have the majority of them out of the way and it is almost three. Neil and I only have one more who could make it and that's this evening. With a few hours to burn, and since by now I'm in serious need of a stiff cocktail, I suggest one. But Neil negotiates me down to mere iced teas and sandwiches from the corner deli.

He's only been gone for about five minutes when I hear a knock at the door.

Earlier I alerted the door man, Phil, that we were holding interviews today. So he made sure that when my perspective assistants arrived he showed them the way up to my condo.

He knows Neil and never really bothers to buzz for him anymore. So it's odd that someone is knocking with more than three hours before our next potential PA is supposed to show up. Besides, Neil can't possibly be back this fast. The deli is more than three blocks away.

“Did you forget your wallet, dumbass?” I ask as I open the door. I barely look up. I fling the door open and turn to walk back into my kitchen, where I have my laptop open so I can watch last week's show again.

“No. I have my wallet,” says a man I don't know. I look back towards my oversized mahogany front door and there stands a vision of pure...well, man. He is wearing dark gray slacks, a fitted black shirt, and a smile that has something wicked in it. His green eyes sweep over me like he's assessing me, too. But he doesn't look at me like I'm a stranger. It's weird having people recognize you when you don't know them.

Sure, a female personal assistant would be a little more comfortable, but this tall, blond Adonis would be so rewarding to look at every day.

“Oh, excuse me. You must be early. Or maybe Neil got the time wrong. My other assistant just ran out for sandwiches.”

“Oh, well I suppose I'm late then.” There's a fleck of sarcasm dotting his words.

“Late? I beg your pardon?” In this moment, I feel dumbstruck. What time is it? Who is this guy? Why does he think he's late? How in the hell do I get his shirt off?

“Yes. I was going to grab a bite to eat before I came here and decided better of it. I suppose if I were a little earlier, I could have sent an order with your assistant.”

“Now wouldn't that be a great first impression?” I laugh in earnest. “Showing up to a job interview for a personal assistant's position and ordering a turkey on rye.” It is kind of funny. And then again, he also seems presumptuous. And confident. And playful. And hot as fuck.

“How are the interviews going then? Sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you.” His face shows something that I can't put my finger on. Something about the way he squinted when he reached for the word interviews catches me off kilter.

“I like surprises. Don't worry about it. Do you want to come in or are you going to stand in my doorway the whole time?” I slowly walk back in his direction. Slowly, for one, to make sure I don't run into anything that I obviously am not paying attention to—because I can't break his laser gaze. And slowly, two, because as weird as this strange man in my threshold is, I don't want to scare him away.

His curious green eyes look from side to side before he takes the few measured steps the rest of the way in. In witnessing only about three sentences and two strides from him, I find myself fascinated by this guy. He's so graceful and calm.

“Thank you. So how are they?” His eyebrow arches and he grins. “Have you found who you're looking for?”

Was there ever a more loaded fucking question? Well, as far as personal assistants go, not so much; but as far as a contender for later tonight's fantasy finger friend, I have a clear dead ringer—this man with the dark blond hair and verde eyes.

I walk back to the kitchen and he slowly follows behind. “Neil, my other assistant, has certainly found some great possibilities, but I probably won't know until I have interviewed everyone.” I tap my fingers across the work surface of the counter. Pinky to index, index to pinky as I talk to him. “Hiring a personal personal assistant is different. I always thought that having one would be pretentious, but I don't really have a great alternative plan right now. So I suppose it's going well.”

I'm rambling, but he's engaged and doesn't seem to mind.

“Have you done this sort of work before? Of course, you don't have to answer that if you'd rather just wait for Neil and we can go through your interview a bit more formally.”

“No need to wait for him,” he chimes in as he takes a seat at the bar across from where I'm standing. “I don't mind answering your questions. No, I've never been a personal assistant, but I have a lot of experience with helping people. So it couldn't be much more complicated than that, right?”

“Yeah, I guess. But my life is a bit unorthodox. I work about sixty hours a week from the office, sometimes more from home. Sometimes I have multiple social events and meetings to attend in a week’s time, sometimes with no notice.” I think about how that was true at one time, but not so much lately. “I have an active social life and like to be out and about. Well, I did. That may all be slowing down in the near future.”

“Sounds fascinating. What kind of work do you do?” He listens, and I can tell he's paying close attention just by the way he looks at my eyes as I speak.

“Oh, I thought you knew. I write for and produce Just Kidding.” Feeling pride and a sense of confidence, I hold my head a bit higher, summon my business posture, and say, “I'm Tatum Elliot.”