Worst. Person. Ever(7)
She smiled at me—the Look! The Look! She was giving me the Look! “And you’ll be getting American union rates, which, after two months—”
Good God. “What? Two fucking months in the middle of nowhere?”
“But it’ll be so beautiful, and if it works out, it could be a long-running gig. Fiona worked very hard to get you this slot.”
“She did, did she?” Not a good sign.
“It’s not my place to discuss this, Raymond, but I think she might still be sweet on you.”
Dear God. Discussing an ex with a potential conquest? I was seeing my potential shag putting on little wings and flying out the window—no, more like putting on a little noose and attaching it to the rafters.
“Ray?” She was gathering up her things.
Now or never. I edged closer to her on the sofa. “Tabs, stay a bit longer. Finish your lager.”
“Umm. Well. Okay.”
“I know Fi can be a handful, Tabs.”
Her body language was neutral. “Fi’s a pretty good boss. She knows what she wants.”
That plus-sized Toby mug I once called my wife? “I’m sure she does.” I edged in one breath closer.
“Raymond …”
“Yes, Tabs?”
“We need to discuss your personal assistant. Billy told you that you get one, right?”
Ah, yes, my slave assistant. At this point, I, Raymond Gunt, mentally vacated the room, transported into the air by those magic words—my own personal assistant out in the middle of nowhere, free of any meaningful legal jurisdictions. I formed my own mental montage: clanking manacles, cracking whips and the sound of a key without mercy locking a cage.
“Ray? Ray? You there?”
“Sorry, luv. I was lost in thought. How do I choose my assistant?”
“It’s your call. You have …” she checked her cellphone, “… twenty-three hours to find one. The flight is at six o’clock tomorrow. All they need is a valid passport, and as Kiribati has no union restrictions, it’s easy-peasy. If you can’t find someone, one will be appointed to you.”
“Well, I don’t want that.” I scanned my mental Rolodex for potential assistants. A friend? None. Drinking buddies? Manifold but untrustworthy. Female anyone? Not fucking likely. Family members? Don’t ask. Passing acquaintances? Few.
“Ray, you’ll be flying business class to Honolulu via Los Angeles, and from there you’ll be on a corporate jet.”
“Would my personal assistant have to be in business class, too?”
“I suppose if you asked for it.”
Not fucking likely. Any assistant of mine would have to be the rearmost seat, right beside the lav and the puking Australians.
My mind was caught in a rare but wonderful joy loop. Fucking brilliant! Someone to legally beat with a stick! And then, in a burst of dazzling white light, I realized I had just the candidate.
Suddenly Tabs stood up and headed for the door.
“Tabs, wait!”
“I have spin class, Raymond. I have to go. Enjoy your trip.”
“Tabs …”
She stopped in her tracks and turned back to me, expectantly.
“I—I can’t help but think there’s maybe something special between us …”
“You noticed?” Tabs breathed.
“Well, yes—a man can’t avoid being aware of the needs of a beautiful young girl like yourself.” I came closer.
“Raymond, it’s … It’s …”
“Yes?” Zooming in for the kill.
“Well … you look so much like my father.”
“Oh?” Okay, not a total setback. Some birds have major father issues.
“It’s been so long since I’ve seen him.”
“Really, luv? How long?”
“Eleven years now.”
“I’m sorry. How did he … pass1?”
“Oh. He didn’t die. He’s in prison.”
That was a plot twist. “I’m sorry to hear that. What … what was his, um, situation?”
“He was a serial molester. The Tinsdale Fondler. Made the cover of the Daily Mail.”
“Right.”
“I’d best be going now, Raymond.”
“Yes, Tabs. Thank you for everything. Good night.”
Fucking hell.
Deprived of coitus, I daydreamed of slave ownership and got as shitfaced as I possibly could on a bottle of single malt I’d stolen from the bar at a Stella McCartney fragrance launch.
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