Hard Limits

4. The Assistant

CHAPTER 4

THE ASSISTANT

“This is cold.”

I’d gotten to work at a quarter to eleven. Braxton Vale had shown up at ten past. By then, his coffee had cooled to 135 degrees, and of course he noticed.

“Sorry, Mr. Vale. I’ll reheat it.”

He pulled a face. “No, make it again.”

If he hadn’t been paying me so well, he would have ended up wearing it.

“Right away, Mr. Vale.”

Even my father didn’t complain about microwaved coffee.

“And pick me up a croissant. And the new shoes I ordered from Lewis Jefferson. Plus I need more moisturiser.”

Moisturiser? Well, he did have a smooth complexion. “Uh, which brand?”

“Make a dinner reservation—a table for six—on Thursday evening at the place I like on North Cannon Drive. I forget the name… The one with the blue sign outside. A private table, nothing near the window. Send a bouquet to my mother, and get Herve Weisberger on the phone.”

“How do you spell—”

“And find me strawberries. I fancy having strawberries. Don’t forget to ensure they’re organic.”

Croissant, shoes, moisturiser… Crap, what was the fourth thing? This was like one of those game shows where you had to memorise the items on the conveyor, except I wouldn’t be going home with any prizes at the end of the day. If I was lucky—or perhaps unlucky, depending on how you looked at it—I’d manage to keep my job. I should have brought a notepad and pen with me. Or better yet, recorded my new boss, although that would probably be in contravention of the NDA I’d signed.

“Could you just—”

Mr. Vale turned his chair away from me. “That’s all, Meena.”

“Actually, it’s Meera.”

He didn’t bother to answer, and I stood there like a fool until I finally realised I’d been dismissed and ran for the door. Not the heavy set of double doors I’d come in yesterday, but the regular door to the left of Mr. Vale’s giant desk—another sign of tiny-d**k syndrome. My own workstation was in a smaller anteroom that came with a luxurious couch, a kitchenette, and a large closet. According to the manual, I should put Mr. Vale’s dry cleaning and any new clothes he purchased into the closet, and he’d take them upstairs later. Apparently, he lived on the fourth floor, but I wasn’t to enter his apartment unless specifically requested. That suited me just fine. He’d probably modelled his penthouse on a dungeon, and it wouldn’t have surprised me if he had a refrigerator full of blood bags and slept in a coffin.

A notepad, I needed a notepad. And a pen. My desk was a smaller version of Mr. Vale’s, an ornate thing carved from dark wood, and I pulled open the top drawer. It was empty except for a greeting card decorated with a shiny four-leaf clover. Curiosity got the better of me.

To his new PA,

Good luck—you’ll need it.

Monique (#26)

Was the message meant for me? Was Monique my predecessor? What did the number twenty-six mean? Was I the twenty-seventh assistant? Surely not—Mr. Vale couldn’t have been more than thirty, and even my father had only gotten through nine assistants in the last decade. I knew that because I’d spent more time talking with them than I had with him. He, on the other hand, barely remembered their names—when I’d tried to include them all on my wedding guest list, he’d asked who they were and then vetoed that plan.

I opened the second drawer and hit pay dirt—a brand-new Moleskine notebook and an expensive-looking silver pen nestled in a velvet-lined box. I turned to the first page and began scribbling frantically.

Croissant.

Shoes.

Moisturiser.

Dinner.

Bouquet.

Had he asked for strawberries or raspberries? And bhains ki aankh, who was that person he’d wanted me to call?

I thumbed through the manual, looking for key words. Where should I buy the croissant from? Did it matter? Mr. Vale had a favourite brand for everything, it seemed—what about pastries? The “food” section gave me my answer. Pastries came from the kitchen downstairs or the patisserie half a mile along the road. Guess I’d better get used to walking. At least the exercise might help me to shift the six pounds I’d gained during my time at Clifton Packaging. Boredom had given me a cookie habit.

Since I didn’t know how to call the kitchen, I took twenty dollars from the petty cash box (located in bottom desk drawer, keep receipts, email spreadsheet to finance department monthly detailing expenditure) and headed to Bakeology. Croissants came plain, garnished with almonds, or filled with ham and Gruyère. I sucked in a calming breath. Just ask for one of each, Indi. If Mr. Vale had a problem with that, then he should have been more specific, shouldn’t he?

A grocery store nearby sold organic fruit, so I bought strawberries and raspberries to cover all bases. Back in the office, I arranged three croissants on a china plate I found in the kitchenette, put the fruit in a matching bowl, and knocked on the connecting door.

“Come in.”

“Here’s your breakfast.”

Should I have added a “sir” at the end? The manual didn’t specify.

“Put it on the desk. Why haven’t I spoken with Herve Weisberger yet?”

Herve Weisberger. That was the name I’d forgotten.

“I’ll get right onto that. Would you like more coffee?”

“No, but I’ll have water.”

Sparkling, three ice cubes—I knew that already.

“I’ll bring it in a moment.”

“Meena, why do I have raspberries?”

“Because they looked nice, and it’s important to eat healthily.”

I hurried out before he could complain, although I felt his gaze searing into me as I closed the door. The raspberries were sweet and delicious—I’d tried one—so maybe they’d take the edge off his sourness.

Or maybe I’d get a lecture later.

Herve Weisberger’s number was in the contact list on the computer, and he had an assistant too. She promised to have Herve call Mr. Vale as soon as he finished his meeting. I figured I should probably inform Mr. Vale of that, but the raspberries hadn’t had time to work their magic yet, so I sent him an email instead. My email address was BValeOffice@dunnvalecorp rather than my actual name, which was yet another indication of the transient nature of Mr. Vale’s assistants.

Joyfully, I crossed three items off my to-do list. What was next? Shoes?

Shoes were easy as the file contained the address of Lewis Jefferson, a high-end shoe boutique in Beverly Hills. I could head there after lunch. Moisturiser? What type of moisturiser did he use? I scanned the “personal grooming” section three times, but all it listed was shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, and beard balm. He didn’t even have a beard.

Why couldn’t men just say what they meant?

My father was the same—he’d give a vague instruction, then grow upset if it was interpreted incorrectly. Moisturiser… Okay, Mr. Vale had a private bathroom attached to his office, so the manual said. All I needed to do was sneak in and take a look at the products he used, then update the manual so the next poor schmuck who ended up with this job didn’t have to go through the same process. Mr. Vale’s schedule was computerised, and I studied the entries. Lunch was scheduled for two thirty today, so maybe he’d leave the office then? Or was I expected to bring him lunch? The “food” section didn’t specify, although I did find three restaurants located on North Cannon Drive listed as “favourites.” Should I call each one and ask if they had a blue sign? Wait, wait… Google was my friend here. I typed in the first address and switched to street view. No blue sign on that one, but I found it on the third attempt. Mr. Vale wanted to go to Aperitivo for Italian cuisine with a twist.

What time did he want the table? Of course he hadn’t said. I checked his schedule, and he was free from six, so I booked the table for seven and blocked the extra hour out as travel time. LA traffic was a nightmare.

Once the booking was confirmed, I breathed a sigh of relief. Four tasks complete, three to go.

I flipped to the “family” section of the manual, which seemed thinner than the others. Mr. Vale’s mother was listed on the first page, Leonora Vale, with an address in Virginia. The Cardinal Center. What was that? It didn’t sound like a private residence. So I googled—I had a feeling that in this job, Dr. Google and I were about to become the best of friends—and oh my gosh. She lived in a psychiatric facility? The Cardinal Center offers the highest standards of care in a luxurious and private setting. Five-star service from an internationally renowned team of doctors. One of my predecessors had added a note—Leonora likes freesias, lilies, and carnations. Avoid roses.

The numbers of three local florists followed, and one of them had an asterisk. What did that mean? Use it or don’t use it? This was the most frustrating job I’d ever had. At least Lance Clifton had been straightforward in his vulgarity.

Out of curiosity, I flipped the page, and my jaw dropped. Mr. Vale was married? But…but…who would marry a man like him? Had her parents made the decision for her? Or had she tied the knot voluntarily? A gold digger, perhaps? Marrying for money, I could understand—it was a valid choice, just not one I would make—and she sure couldn’t have chosen him for his sparkling personality.

Carissa Dunn. She’d kept her own surname, and now I understood where the name of the company came from. Dunnvale Holdings. Had the marriage been an extension of a business arrangement? She lived in New York, on the Upper East Side. A handwritten note said not to call her under ANY circumstances, underlined in triplicate.

This job got stranger and stranger.

A message popped up from Mr. Vale. Where is lunch?

Oh, crap. What time was it? Two thirty-one, and I didn’t even know what to bring him.

What would you like to eat?

His reply was almost instant. Was it weird, emailing each other when he was in the next room? Yes, but also preferable.

The chef makes lunch. You have to collect it.

Collect it from where? Downstairs?

Gingerly, I exited my office and headed along the hallway. Rhonda had given me a whistle-stop tour this morning (finance, facilities, operations, legal, oh here’s your office, good luck) before she abandoned me to the big bad wolf. The finance department was closest, and I poked my head around the door. The theme for this room seemed to be silver and turquoise with plenty of fan palms. They didn’t have filing cabinets; they had padded ottomans.

“Excuse me?”

The four people working there all turned to stare. Two more desks were empty.

A petite blonde my age spoke first. “Are you lost?”

In every way possible.

“I’m looking for the chef.”

“You’re on the wrong floor. Are you Brax’s new assistant?”

Unfortunately. “That’s right.”

Two women sitting behind her exchanged a look. Pity mixed with “Boy, she’s an idiot.”

“Good luck.”

“You’re not the first person to say that. Which floor is the kitchen on?”

“The first floor. Want me to show you?”

At that tiny kindness, my eyes began to prickle. My emotions had been all over the place since I left Massachusetts.

“If you have the time, I’d be grateful.”

“Follow me. I’m Charlotte, by the way.”

“Meera.” I rolled my eyes. “Or Meena, according to Mr. Vale.”

Charlotte giggled. “Oh, he always gets his assistants’ names wrong. He called Terri ‘Kerri’ for a whole month.”

“And then he started getting it right?”

“No, then she quit. Come on, I’ll show you where to find the chef.”

Charlotte led me to the stairs rather than the elevator, and we headed down to the kitchen. I’d expected something far more modest, but the expanse of stainless steel and industrial appliances wouldn’t have looked out of place on one of those TV chef shows. It was quieter, though. People talked rather than shouting over the whirr of a mixer, the hum of an oven, and the hiss of food frying.

I counted four staff—three men, one woman—all wearing white tunics and blue-and-white checked pants. Charlotte pointed out the tallest of the men.

“That’s Fabien.”

“He’s the chef?”

“Yes, and his food is divine.”

She waved, but he didn’t smile, just put down the bowl he was holding and strode over.

“This is the new assistant? She’s late.”

“Give her a break. It’s her first day.”

“The caramelised onions are dry,” Fabien grumbled. “The dish has been sitting on the pass for ten minutes.”

“Just stir them or whatever.”

Muttering ensued, in French, not English. Stirring clearly wasn’t an acceptable suggestion.

“Je suis vraiment désolé, je suis toujours en train de trouver mon chemin,” I said.

When in doubt, apologise.

Fabien stopped dead. “Vouz parlez français?”

“Oui, un petit peu.”

When I was fifteen, I’d been offered the chance to join a French exchange program, and I’d taken the blessed opportunity to get away from my parents for a while. In Paris, I’d learned how life could be if your father acted like a dad instead of CEO of his own family and if your mother wasn’t a little mouse who never stood up to him. Celeste, my French sister from another mister, was the only person apart from Meera who knew how to contact me in an emergency. And like Meera, she’d been sworn to secrecy about my current circumstances.

Now Fabien beamed at me. “C’est merveilleux! I will fix the onions.”

A minute later, he handed me a tray with two plated caramelised onion tarts served with vegetables, plus two crème brûlées. Either Mr. Vale had a big appetite, or I was missing something.

“Who is the second portion for?”

And, more importantly, where did I find them?

“For you. You need to eat, non? If you have allergies, you should tell me so we avoid those foods.”

I could get lunch at work? On a scale of one to a hundred, with a hundred being head of the ER and one being head toilet unblocker (bare hands only, no gloves), I’d rated this job as a solid six. But with the addition of five-star food, it might just inch up to a seven. French cuisine certainly beat the leftover pasta I’d planned to microwave.

Upstairs, Mr. Vale barely acknowledged me when I placed the tray on his desk, but the instant I returned to my own workstation, an email arrived. A dinner party? I had to organise a dinner party? In the middle of March, for nine people, which was a weird number. I also needed to procure him a bow tie for a charity gala being held on behalf of the Finlay Foundation this Friday. Something “fun.” Really? Mr. Vale didn’t strike me as a man who knew how to have fun. Oh, and Floss’s birthday was next week—I had to buy her a gift (budget three hundred bucks) and send it care of the San Francisco office. Who was Floss? There were no clues, and Dunnvale Holdings didn’t have a staff directory, at least not one that I’d managed to find. Floss could have been a seven-year-old child or a seventy-year-old woman or anything in between. Or even a pet?

Mr. Vale’s Porsche needed a service (and possibly a new side mirror), plus his dishwasher was leaving streaks on the flatware. The tree in his living room had yellowing leaves—why? A man named Joe Fulton was coming in for a preliminary meeting, and I should book a room and arrange refreshments. Senator Gold’s wife had passed away, so I needed to find out the details of the funeral, schedule Mr. Vale to attend if he was free, and send flowers and a sympathy card if not.

Okay.

Okay, I could do this.

For years, I’d watched my mother catering to my father’s unreasonable demands, so I understood the strategy. Stay out of the way whenever possible, smile and say very little when crossing paths was unavoidable. Don’t antagonise him. No more outbursts like the one outside the coffee bar. I still couldn’t believe Mr. Vale had hired me after that.

In one month, maybe two, I could quit and find a less stressful job. Yes, leaving three positions within a year would look bad on my résumé, but if I had a nervous breakdown, that would look worse. I just needed to get through the next year or three. In time, Karam would marry somebody else, and I’d slip off my father’s radar.

Short-term, survival was my only goal. As time stretched, I hoped for financial stability and possibly companionship, but right now, they seemed so far out of reach. And as for the happiness I craved, I was beginning to think it wasn’t a part of my destiny.