Some Like It Perfect (A Temporary Engagement) (2 page)

Delia said, “Does your mother redecorate your office just to get you out of it?”

He opened his eyes and said, “The ceiling will take less time if you actually start.”

She turned back to the roller, filling it with light ochre, and muttered, “Gee, why didn’t I think of that?”

“The ceiling will take less time if you don’t speak.”

She said over her shoulder, “Do you think so? I’ll have to try that.”

She rolled the base coat across the ceiling, finishing half of her half before she couldn’t stand it anymore and turned back to him.

“You don’t care at all what I paint on your ceiling, do you?”

He didn’t look up from his work. “No.”

“So I could paint Lucifer’s brothel up here and you wouldn’t say a peep?”

“Don’t paint Lucifer’s brothel on my ceiling.”

“You just said. . .” She trailed off when he raised his head and looked at her. It wasn’t a mean look, a mad look. It was just his attention was focused on her.

He stared at her and she stared back, not thinking, until he finally said, “Just what exactly does Lucifer’s brothel look like?”

Delia shook her hair and turned back to the roller. “Now you’ll never know.”

“And that truly is a shame.”

She finished the half of his ceiling she had access to without talking to him again and started cleaning up for the day. When her paints were stored, when she’d cleaned her roller in the bathroom down the hall because she wasn’t allowed to use his, she turned to find him watching her.

He said, “Done already?”

“It needs to dry. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”

He nodded. “You’ve signed the confidentiality agreement? You know anything you see or hear doesn’t leave this room.”

She’d signed the confidentiality agreement. She wasn’t a lawyer, hadn’t even had it checked by one, but she was pretty sure it had said that if she blabbed about anything regarding Mr. Cabot or his company that he would own her. Her, her children, her children’s children.

She said, “Would I be here if I hadn’t?”

His eyes sharpened as he looked at her and she said, “Believe me, I don’t care what it is you do here.”

His eyes ran up to her hair, then down to her bootie-covered boots. He said, “I believe you. Do you even know what we make?”

Her face blanked as she thought about it. She said slowly, “You make something? Here?”

His lips twitched. “We don’t make it here, we just run the business from here.”

“What is it you make?”

“Paper.”

She turned away. “Yeah, I don’t care.”

She took her booties off, checking her boots for paint carefully.

When she turned back around, his lips were still twitching.

She shoved her arms through her coat and waved at him like a demented cheerleader. “See you tomorrow!”

He said, “I. Can’t. Wait.”

Delia went straight to the bank, opened a new bank account and deposited her check. Three months’ salary that needed to last six.

Not the worst place she’d ever been, actually.

And, okay, she was going to have to work adjacent to Mr. Chipper there but the money was going to come in handy when Justine finally kicked her out.

And, okay, he was at least a little bit funny. If you thought perfect assholes were funny.

And, okay, she’d never seen a man as beautiful as him in real life. She might have to do a few sketches of him.

She actually was feeling better and better about painting this ceiling.

Or, at least she didn’t want to jump in front of a bus anymore.

Progress.

She met Justine at the bar after work. They sat on bar stools and drank light beer and ate peanuts.

Justine raised her glass. “To a paying job.”

Delia clinked her glass. “To money in the bank.”

“To clients with money.”

Delia took a drink, holding it her mouth and tasting it, then saying, “You have gone too far, sir. Too far.”

“You are going to have to get over this aversion you have to money. Money pays for beer.”

“Eh. I could live without light beer.”

Justine said, “Money pays for paint.”

“I know I have a thing about money. But isn’t there a point where more money is just pointless?”

“I don’t think you’ve reached that point yet.”

Delia laughed and took another slow taste of beer. “I know. And I know that most people don’t start buying paintings, or want to paint their ceilings in bad taste, until money is pointless. I should get over it.”

“A painted ceiling is not necessarily in bad taste.”

“I think I can do something with it. I’ve decided I’ve been given carte blanche since Mr. Chipper doesn’t care. I’ll just paint whatever I want.”

Justine said, “You would have done that anyway. You just would have hid it. And Mr. Chipper?”

Delia laughed and closed her eyes, picturing him sitting as his desk. Typing with no expression on his face, no emotion. Except maybe disgust that his ceiling was getting painted. Disgust and resignation.

“He’s beautiful, Justine. You’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as he is. Way beyond pretty. Beyond good-looking or even hot. Beautiful. I stopped thinking when I saw him.”

Justine said, “I know what’s coming next.”

They nodded in unison and said, “An asshole.”

Delia said, “You can’t be that beautiful and not be an asshole. It messes with you.”

“And he has money.”

“I know! If you’re rich, you should be butt-ugly. Even things out.”

“Just don’t get fired, okay? Ignore his beauty, get over his money, don’t taunt him. Don’t get fired.”

Delia sighed. It was long and heartfelt and she said, “I could have a lot of fun with him.”

Justine shook her head, draining her glass.

Delia said, “He wants his ceiling painted as much as I want to do it. I don’t think he could fire me.” She thought about it a little more. “He could probably fire me. There are probably other starving artists who would paint a ceiling in return for signing a confidentiality agreement and not using his bathroom.”

“Probably. Why does he want/not want his ceiling painted?”

“Apparently
Mother
wanted his ceiling painted. He looked like Mother frequently wants things that annoy and inconvenience him. And of course he does it.”

Justine ate one peanut, brushing the shell carefully onto a napkin. “Don’t knock keeping mother happy too hard. It’s paying for this beer.”

“Yeah. But don’t make me pay for Paul’s when he gets here. He can afford his own.”

“Paul’s not coming.”

“Why? He loves to drink expensive microbrews that cost three times as much as a regular ol’ Bud.”

When Justine shrugged unhappily, Delia said, “Are you fighting?”

Justine wobbled her head. “No, but he’s being weird. I know he’s busy but. . .”

“Is it weird like let’s take a step back or weird like this just isn’t going to work? Or weird like he’s just tired and working too hard?”

“It’s weird like. . .weird. Like things were going so well and now they’re not.” Justine’s head hit the bar softly and she mumbled, “I’m thirty-six. I don’t have time for weirdness.”

Delia nodded. Thirty-six. The big 4-0 was staring them in the face. That big bitch of a 4-0 with one front tooth missing, a homemade shank in her left hand, her right hand beckoning you into the utilitarian shower behind her.

The thing was you couldn’t get away from her. She was coming. She was coming and she was going to enjoy it.

And maybe it was possible for you to enjoy it as well but from here it didn’t seem likely. Or even healthy.

Justine’s head came back up and she flung her arms into the air. “I only have four years left! Four years to find someone I like enough, who likes me enough, then to move in together, then get married, then pop two kids out. Four years.”

Delia motioned to the bartender. “We’re going to need another one over here.”

She pulled Justine’s arms back down and rubbed soothingly. “Do you like him enough?”

“I don’t know! Do I? Or am I settling? Am I getting desperate? Oh, God. He can smell it. I’m getting desperate and he can smell it and it’s freaking him out.”

Justine was freaking Delia out so that was entirely possible.

But friends did not say that out loud. Ever.

Friends said, “Oh, please. Like any man is sophisticated enough for that. All they think about is food and sex. Maybe he was hungry. Maybe that was the weirdness.”

Delia glared at the man sitting two stools down staring wide-eyed at Justine and flicked her fingers at him to look away.

Justine turned in her seat toward Delia. “You think the weirdness is he’s hungry? That’s the best you can come up with?”

“I’m just saying. You have no idea what the weirdness is. But he’s a man. My guess is low blood sugar. Or blue balls. You know how grumpy they get when they’re backed up.”

That finally made Justine laugh and she closed her eyes.

Delia said, “He’s been busy, right? Too busy to make some snuggly time with you?”

Justine sighed. “Yes.”

“So either he’s cheating on you–”

Justine’s eyes popped open and Delia said, “In which case I will hold him down and you will wield the knife. Or he’s just busy and cranky. In which case you will bring him an extra-large pizza and make sure you’re not wearing underwear when you do it.”

Justine thought about it while she gulped down her beer.

Delia ate the peanuts. They were free.

Justine put her glass down and nodded. “Yes. That sounds like a plan.”

She slid off the stool and nodded again. “That sounds like a pretty good plan. I’ll take a pizza to his office, and he’d better be there alone and hungry.”

Delia said, “Right now?”

Justine nodded and Delia eyed her, mentally calculating how drunk she could be after two beers.

Seemed like just drunk enough. “Want me to come with you?”

“No. You okay to get back home?”

“I know the way. Call me if you need to make bail. I can actually pay it now.”

Justine gripped Delia’s hands. “Do you think he’s cheating on me?”

“I have no idea. Do you think he is?”

Justine closed her eyes, holding tight. She finally shook her head. “No. He’s just being weird.”

“Ask him about it. After the pizza.”

Justine sighed. “That’s a good plan, too.”

“Why is it good plans are never fun?”

“Good plans are usually work.”

“
That’s
why I’ve never had one. Going with the flow is a lot less work.”

Delia watched Justine leave and grabbed another handful of peanuts. She nursed her beer until the bar filled up and the bartender started sending her dirty looks, and then she left, huddling in her coat against the light wind, and hoping Justine was warm inside with Paul. Hoping the weirdness wasn’t the end.

Justine wanted it all. She always had. Wanted a house with two kids playing in the front yard, a husband mowing the lawn. Wanted to be inside typing with one hand and baking cookies with the other.

Delia wished with all her heart that Justine would get it. She just wasn’t sure it existed, that it could exist. But if it did, Justine would get it. Hopefully.

Delia didn’t want a lawn and she’d already had a husband.

She hated typing and couldn’t bake.

But she knew what she wanted now. She wanted enough.

Her mom and G.K. Chesterton would say there were two ways to get enough. Make more or want less.

She’d wanted less for a long time now. She was starting to think it was time to make more.

And that’s why she would paint Mr. Chipper’s ceiling and not get fired.

She would
not get fired
.

The scary efficient secretary held her hand up when she saw Delia the next day and said, “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Delia sat and twiddled her thumbs. She watched people walking back and forth, talking on their phones, tapping on their tablets. She was just starting to think about picking up the Harvard Business Review, she was that bored, when the woman nodded at her.

“You can go in now.”

Delia breathed in and told herself she would not get fired. She was thinking about making a plan sometime in the near future and getting fired wouldn’t help with that. She’d never made a plan before but she was pretty sure getting fired was never on it.