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Meg is taking surface streets, the late afternoon traffic making the freeway almost impassable, and the start and stop of the car as we move through Culver City and beyond adds to my queasiness. That and Ron’s cologne, which feels as if it’s seeping into my skin.
“I’m assuming all of this is covered by agent-client privilege, correct?” he says to Meg.
Her eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror and hold. “Of course,” she says, giving me the smallest of winks as she pulls up in front of an apartment building just off Normandie Avenue—a stretch of concrete, graffiti, and decay.
“Kat and I will wait out here and enjoy the sun,” Meg says. “I called ahead and had the manager open up Unit 4 for you.”
“Back in a flash.” He bounds up the front steps, his expensive suit in stark contrast with the cracked stucco, rusted hand railing, and trash gathered at the base of the building. When he’s gone, I say, “He’s awful. How can you stand spending so much time with him?”
Meg sighs and leans against her car. “Believe it or not, I’ve worked with worse.”
Who? When? What did you do, and are you doing it again?The questions dance inside of me, aching to be asked. “There’s no such thing as client privilege with real estate agents, is there?” I ask instead.
“Of course not. The only thing I’m not allowed to do is disclose his financials—assets, bank account information, routing number—to anyone outside the context of a deal.”
I search her face for a hint of what she might be thinking. Emptying his bank account? Making it vulnerable somehow? But her expression is unreadable as she tips her face toward the sun.
We stand in silence for a while, the sound of traffic and the distant crash of a trash truck somewhere behind us, before she says, “Were you okay back there, in the car? You looked like you were going to bolt at the next red light.”
She looks at me, waiting, and I wonder what she’d say if I told her about Nate. How she’d played a role in it, and whether she might want to make amends. She’d had no trouble tearing Cory Dempsey’s life apart, and it’s obvious she’s planning something similar with Ron. What might she do on my behalf? The question jolts through me, electric and raw. “Men like him make me feel boxed in,” I finally say. “Like I can’t think clearly enough to get away.”
“Did someone hurt you?”
I savor the warmth of the sun on my shoulders, glad to be out here instead of trapped inside somewhere with Ron. “Yes, but it was a long time ago, and I don’t like to talk about it.” I have to remind myself that I’m not here to confide in Meg. She hasn’t earned the privilege of my secrets, no matter how much I might want to tell her this particular one.
Meg’s expression softens into concern. “I never would have brought you along if I’d known.”
“Why did you?” I ask. “You certainly don’t need the help.” Meg isn’t someone who would do anything on a whim; there must be a reason for my presence here today.
“Appearances matter to a man like Ron. Hired help, personal chefs, valet parking, and assistants scurrying after him. It’s all part of the facade I have to build.”
I give her a sharp look. “For what purpose?”
She grins and says, “A big commission, of course.” When I don’t return her smile, she says, “You look disappointed.”
My cheeks flush. “No, I just hate people like him, sliding through life always getting what they want.”
She glances toward the corner of the building, where Ron emerges from a side walkway. She bumps her shoulder against mine. “Me too,” she says, pushing off the car and making her way around to the driver’s side.
It’s only later, when I’m home again, after the hot shower I took to wash off the clinging scent of Ron’s cologne, that I realize the entire outing felt like performance art, Meg serving Ron up to me on a platter, garnished with his most horrible traits, aligning me alongside her, despite my best intentions.
She claimed it was Ron who needed to see me working for her on his behalf. But maybe her true purpose was for me to see firsthand what kind of a person Ron is, so that when she’s done, I’ll understand.
Regardless of who her audience was, there’s no question that Meg’s performance was flawless.
***
But in the meantime, a woman like Meg still has to earn a living. I don’t see her selling any houses, just sending me on endless searches for buyers who always seem to vanish before they ever look at a single property, leaving me to wonder if they’d ever existed at all.
As promised, I spend a few hours every evening getting some writing work done. Tonight, while Scott’s watching a baseball game, I’m finishing up a story on menopause and belly fat for an online women’s health magazine that’s 90 percent paid advertisement and 10 percent shitty content.
When I’m done, I turn to the pile of mail Scott tossed there earlier. Several bills and a note from Scott—Your mother called my cell because you haven’t returned any of her calls or texts. Please let her know you’re still alive so she’ll stop bothering me.
I’ve been avoiding her for a couple weeks now. She’d come across a story I wrote—“No Time to Cook? No Problem!”—and her text had stung. Do you really think it’s a good idea to affiliate yourself with content like this? As if I had a choice.
I throw away a few pieces of junk mail and turn toward the bills. When Scott moved in, we’d decided to split them, Scott paying the gas and our cable/internet bill every month while I’d pay the water and power. We take turns paying the rent, and I’m relieved that this month is his turn.
But the arrival of the gas bill makes me realize what’s missing. I flip through the stack again, double-checking, then look in my drawer where I keep all my important paperwork filed, just to make sure I’m not mistaken.
