Strapped (5 page)

“Yes? Are you Mona? Help!”

She laughs and pulls the crumpled outfit out of my arms. “We’ll get this ironed for you. So...what do you think?”

“Oh my god, this is spectacular. I mean, I had no idea.”

“Taylor said you would be by his side a lot, and he said I should not spare a dollar in dressing you. I love when he tells me that.”

“I have to admit, I feel bad, accepting all of this.”

Mona looks to her left and right and then leans in. “Girl, take the clothes and don’t ask questions. He’s into appearances so don’t worry. The man has more money than he knows what to do with.”

“Have you dressed other employees?”

“He has recommended me to some other people and I have dressed some friends for him, but I probably shouldn’t get into details.”
I wonder if she has had to sign an NDA too.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I am just so shocked.”

“No worries, let’s get started.”

Mona and I spend about 45 minutes going through what works and what doesn’t.

“Alright Shyla, I have to meet a client across town. I’ll exchange some things and drop them off here for you. Sound good?”

“Yes, thank you so much!”

“Ms. Ball.” Harrison’s voice carries from the doorway. “Heather is here to see you.”

“Heather?” Is this another thing Mr. Holden failed to tell me?

“Yes, miss. The hair stylist.” Harrison looks amused by my bemusement. Now my hair is a problem too? I’ll admit, I am due for a haircut, but I am a little annoyed. What if I like my hair the way it is? I resolve that I will dictate to her what she can and cannot do. Today’s events are beyond bewildering. I came ready to hit the ground running, expecting to read reports and spreadsheets. I thought I was just going to have a quick meeting with the stylist. Instead, I am getting a makeover.

“Hi sweetie!” She sure is bubbly. Heather is tall, busty, has a lip ring, and her right arm is covered in tattoos. Her edgy haircut is completely engulfed in a baby pink hue. I tell her my parameters: It must be something low maintenance, even if she straightens it. I don’t like having to keep up with hair dyes, so please keep my hair color as-is. She seems totally understanding and gets to work. An hour later, she holds the mirror in front of me. My once curly hair is stick straight and glossy. I have blunt bangs across my forehead that lengthen at the sides. I am shocked at the difference the hair makes. I look more mature than I did just 60 minutes ago. I hunt around for the new clothes, all the while wondering where the hell Mr. Holden is. I run into Harrison in the great room. He leads me to what looks like a spare bedroom, my perfectly pressed clothing laid out on the bed. I slide into the outfit. The fabrics are luxurious and feel rich against my skin. I face the vanity and am stunned at how put together I look. I look expensive. It is amazing what some designer clothing and hair can do to a person. I can see why people spend so much money on this stuff. I use the new suite of MAC makeup the way Mona instructed me to, but with a much lighter hand.

I am eager to get on with my day as I am due for a little normalcy, if that is even possible anymore. My heels click loudly on the concrete floors as I leave the guest room, ruining my attempt at a discreet reveal. I feel flushed and nervous about turning the corner into the living area. Heather is still out there, and to my surprise, Mr. Holden is there as well, chatting on his cell phone.

“Oh, look at you! You look incredible. Just gorgeous!” I blush and make a swatting gesture at Heather’s compliments. I really don’t feel comfortable discussing my appearance in front of Mr. Holden. Mr. Holden looks up from pacing back and forth on his cell phone and pauses to see what all the clamor is about. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second as he takes me in, and he loses his train of thought with whomever he is speaking with on the phone. He quickly looks back down, sticking his finger in the ear opposite of the phone to drown out the commotion and heads to another room.

“I have to head out darling, but I just wanted to see the finished product. You made it easy. I was working with a beautiful canvas.” Heather is really sweet, maybe we could be friends if she comes around often enough. She grabs her belongings and gives me a huge hug and smiles as she walks towards the exit.

“Ms. Ball.” I whip around to see Mr. Holden back in the great room. He looks like perfection. His hair is slicked back, his face is fresh and clean shaven. His crystal eyes are gleaming and he is wearing yet another impeccably tailored suit. This one is a rich navy paired with a white shirt and a fun tie. It is plaid with various hues of silver and blue. It makes him look youthful and only serves to make his eyes pierce even more. “You look very...nice.”

“Thank you,” I blush, sensing that he wanted to say something else, but refrained.

“Shall, we go to headquarters?”

“Of course. I am really excited.”

When we step outside, Harrison is waiting for us by the Bentley. He opens the door and we slide into the back seat. Maybe fifteen seconds later, Holden’s cell phone rings. “Yes, we are heading over today. No...just for an hour or so...Yes, she is with me. I am going to show her around before we get started... I know, tell Marsha to have all the documents prepped on Shyla’s desk so I can have her take them back with her today.”

My ears feel so virgin to the sound of my first name coming from his mouth. He hasn’t said it since we introduced ourselves in his car. Hearing that I will have documents waiting for me makes my stomach churn.
What will I be reading today? Will this all be over my head? Is he just going to throw this on my lap or give me instructions on how to handle this new job?
He rests the phone against his chest and looks at me. “Did you bring your passport as I asked?” I nod. “Yes, she did, we will need the visas expedited for St. Petersburg...Ok.” He hangs up the phone without saying goodbye and I wonder if that is a universal thing that CEOs do. I break up the subsequent silence in the car. “Mr. Holden, I just wanted to thank you for all of this, you really didn’t have to.” He gives me that look again, as if I am speaking another language.

“It’s nothing, really. Just business.” His brevity makes me feel a little sheepish. He probably did this for Emily too. This is nothing personal. As his assistant, I am a reflection of him and he is simply making sure I reflect H.I. to his standards.

Chapter Four

We arrive at the tall, gleaming glass tower that is Holden Industries. As I step out of the vehicle, my cell phone buzzes. I slyly look down at it and see it is a call from Rick. I don’t have time to chat so I reject the call, resolving to check it later when I have some alone time. Mr. Holden walks with a stride of confidence towards the glass doors. His handkerchief makes another appearance as he pushes the revolving door and I recall that he also used a handkerchief on the door at the diner yesterday. I note the behavior, but am too busy trying to keep up with his 6 foot-something stride to think too hard about it. There is a security guard at the front desk. Behind him are huge letters in gleaming brushed nickel:

HOLDEN INDUSTRIES, INC.

It reminds me I am with someone of great importance. Everyone who passes by us addresses him.

“Mr. Holden.”

“Good morning, Mr. Holden.”

“A pleasure to see you Mr. Holden.”

He simply nods and smiles at each person, keeping his pace. I get the sense that if he stops to address them further, he will never arrive to his destination. When we get to the express elevator someone in front of us presses the “up” button and it pings open almost immediately. We are swept up, almost too quickly, to the 45th floor and we bust out of the elevator.
Why the hell are we walking so fast?
We charge through the glass double doors and a very petite redhead comes running up alongside him, I can see her little feet racing to keep up with him. How does he expect us to dress like this and keep up? This is a freaking workout.

“Mr. Holden, here is the briefing from this morning’s meeting. Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, and one for Ms. Ball as well. Thank you Marsha.” That’s
Marsha!

“Nice to meet you Marsha,” I say giving her the
I get it
look. Mr.Holden opens the tall cherry wood doors that lead into his enormous office. Behind his desk is a breathtaking view of the cityscape. It is impeccably decorated with abstract paintings.
There is no way that is a Kandinsky on his wall.
I dare not ask. As soon as we walk in, the intercom on his desk buzzes.

“Yes, Marsha.”

“Mr. Milan is here to see you.”

“Let him in.”

Seconds later, a medium-height slender man, also young for what his position likely is in the company, walks in. He has dirty blonde hair tied back into a short messy ponytail and big light brown eyes. His face registers surprise to see me when he walks through the door.

“Taylor! Fancy seeing you here!” he exclaims as if seeing a dear old friend. I take it that Mr. Holden works from home way more often than he does in the office. The blonde pats him hard on the shoulder.

“How’s it going, Henry?” Mr. Holden sounds warm. Henry looks at me, as if waiting to be introduced.

“This is my new assistant. Ms. Shyla Ball.”

Henry turns to shake my hand. “So nice to meet you Shyla. We should schedule a lunch, so I can show you the ropes.” He holds my gaze and my hand a few more seconds than necessary and gives me a sly grin. I have shared gazes with Mr. Holden, but they were nuanced, toting the line between something in my imagination and an absolute reality. Henry Milan here is deliberately giving me the look. I know that look. Mr. Holden looks at Henry sternly as if he knows what he is up to.

“Taylor, I was wondering if I could have a quick word with you.” Mr. Holden looks in my direction. “Ms. Ball, could you give us a moment? Why don’t you have Marsha show you your office?” I nod, containing my excitement. I tell Henry it was nice meeting him, although I am not sure I truly feel this way. As the door closes behind me, I think I hear Henry say in a low voice: “Damn that’s a nice piece of ass you just hired there.”

“Henry, cut the shit.” Taylor hisses and then the door closes so that I can no longer hear the conversation. While I am not thrilled with Henry Milan’s 1950s office sensibilities, I am somewhat enveloped with a feeling of warmth from hearing Mr. Holden shut down his callous behavior. I head over to Marsha’s desk. I notice Marsha gets to be Marsha and Henry gets to be Henry. Everyone else here seems to go by their first name except me. I understand this is something I may need to earn over time, but when we first met he was so casual and so the current formality feels forced.

“Hi Marsha.” I feel instantly comfortable with her presence as I come upon her eating a sandwich at her desk. She doesn’t have the same robotic appearance as many of the others here. Her jittery, nervous behavior endears me to her.

She looks up from her thick, black-rimmed glasses with wide, embarrassed eyes. “Oh! Hi Ms. Ball!” She hastily chews her mouthful of sandwich and wipes her hands to give me her full attention.

“Please, call me Shyla and take your time. I don’t mean to disturb your lunch. Henry and Mr. Holden were having a private conversation and Mr. Holden suggested I ask you to show me my office. You should relax and finish up. I can wait.” That’s not Marsha’s style. She won’t be able to relax and eat until I have been situated, and she makes this very clear to me. I apologetically allow her to take me. She leads me back down the corridor past Mr. Holden’s office through a smaller dark cherry door and flicks on the lights.

“All yours!” she says cheerfully.
Oh my.
While the room is a fraction of the size of Mr. Holden’s, I too have magnificent views of the cityscape! There is a large glass desk and a beautiful white leather executive chair. Two crimson suede tulip chairs face my desk, for visitors I will never have, and there is a white leather loveseat on the wall I share with Mr. Holden. “I stocked the office with supplies, but if you need any more, the supply closet is that door right across the hall.” I stare around in awe of the fantastic setup, but wonder how much time I will really spend in this building given his reputation for reclusiveness.

“Mr. Holden asked that I provide you with copies of the documents related to the trip to St. Petersburg. In those folders on your desk are the schedules outlined for each day, profiles on the various people you will be meeting and some figures you will need to have a grasp on regarding the project we are bidding on.” The mountain of neatly stacked paper is daunting. I hear a throat clearing from the doorway.
It’s him
. I wonder if Marsha notices how beautiful he is. I can’t be the only one who starts to feel like a giddy fourth grader around him.

“Ms. Ball, I realize you haven’t eaten since this morning. Please go take a late lunch break and we will reconvene in 45 minutes to an hour.”

“Sounds like a plan. Marsha would you like to come with? That is, if that’s okay?” She barely touched her sandwich and I need to talk to someone about Mr.Holden. Keeping every last detail to myself is maddening. Mr. Holden has an amused look on his face. Marsha looks terrified. I have a hunch that mousy Marsha may not have many friends in the office and probably never goes out to lunch.

“Sure. See you in an hour.” He quietly glides away like a cat into his office.

“Come on Marsha. My treat.” The excited look on her face warms me. It is often the quiet people like Marsha who know the most and I hope she can fill me in on the mystery of Mr. Holden.

We settle on a diner just a couple of blocks from the office. “So Marsha, how long have you been working for Mr. Holden?”

“Five years as of last week.” Her glasses slide down her nose as she replies.

“What’s he like to work for?”

“Well, you may have already noticed, he is fast-paced and can be very serious. He is really kind though and generous.” Generous, that I know already. I try to dig deeper, Marsha is the kind of person I feel I can cut to the chase with. It feels great to take the lead in a conversation again. “So, what’s his deal?” Marsha has a puzzled look on her face.

“His deal? What do you mean?” She starts to look uncomfortable, maybe even skittish. I decide to approach the topic from another angle.

“Well, like you said, I find him to be very serious.”

“Yes, you’ll get used to it. He is really a nice guy.” She pauses to think. “If I tell you something, do you promise to keep it a secret? He asked me to do so, but I think it is something people should know.”

“Of course, your secret is safe with me.”

“Well, my husband died in a car accident just after I was hired.”

“Oh my god, I am so sorry.”

“Thank you. My son was just two years old at the time and it was really hard with the new job and the loss of income. Even with his life insurance, because of the medical costs of trying to keep him alive...” Her voice breaks. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I am still so touched by what Taylor did. He started a trust for my son to pay for his college education and his schooling until then, including preschool.”

“Wow, that is amazing.”

“I know. So while he may seem stern, he really has a kind soul.”

The revelation makes me feel a lot less anxious, knowing the kind of person he really is.

Our food arrives at the table and I try to change the somber mood.

“So how did you get a job at the prestigious Holden Industries?” I wonder if her recruitment was as unconventional as mine.

“My father is friends with someone in accounting. He connected me and I was hired. What about you?”

“Taylor and I get coffee at the same coffee shop and we got to talking.” I don’t want to give any more details away about how I was hired. “What about your clothes?” Marsha responds with a quizzical look.

“What about them?”

“Did you get new clothes when you started the job?”

“Ummm, well, yes, when I found out, I went shopping.” She has no idea what I am talking about. Should I tell her? Shit, the NDA!

“Did you know Emily?” Marsha pauses for a fraction of a second, starts to choke on a the food she is eating and has to down a glass of water to quiet the incessant coughing. It takes maybe a minute or two before she can talk again.

“Sorry about that. Where were we?”

“Emily, his last assistant. Were you friends?”

“Oh, I don’t know much about her. She kept to herself. She was with H.I. for a little over a year before she moved away.” It seems like Marsha is either hiding something, or Mr. Holden is equally mysterious to everyone who works for him. I go for the lowest common denominator to simply satisfy my teenage-like impulses for some boy talk.

“Can we talk about the elephant in the room? Do the women swoon over him in the office?” Her cheeks flush bright red underneath her freckles. She giggles. “I shouldn’t say this, but he is one of the most handsome men I have ever seen. It makes my job a lot easier. I don’t think it’s just women, maybe even a few guys too.” It’s the most rebellious thing I have ever heard her say so far.
Naughty Marsha!

When we arrive back to the 45th floor, I go straight to Mr. Holden’s office. I haven’t done much of anything today besides get a makeover, eat and gossip. I can’t believe I am getting paid to do this. His door is open, so I tap on it. He looks up and invites me to take a seat.

“Did you see the briefings on your desk?”

“Yes, I was hoping we could go over what it is exactly you would like me to do with the materials.”

“That was next on the agenda, but I have had enough of this place. Let’s head back to the home office and work there.”

As we exit the building, I feel my phone buzzing. It’s a text from Rick.

Rick:

How’s the new job?

Shyla:

It’s good. Busy. ttyl.

I feel guilty about the express texts, but I don’t have time for small talk right now. I look at the clock. It’s already past three.

Once we arrive at his house, we head straight into the office. “Ms. Ball, I believe Marsha briefed you on the contents of the folders. Our entire itinerary for St. Petersburg is in there. We also have profiles of all the major influencers. I want you to research them and find out as much as you can. We want to engage with them on a personal level and make them like us. It’s all about coaxing egos at this level.” I feel like a spy, like we are on a covert mission. “You will deliver these snippets of information to me as we meet these people so I know good topics of conversation that will appeal to each individual. I hate these things and honestly I want this information spoon fed to me so I have something to say to them. You will also be by my side much of the night and engage them in conversation with me. I want you to use your charm on them as well.” I have to hold in laughter as I would never use that word to describe myself.

“Have you always done this?”

“In some form or another. People like to be flattered and remembered, so I do it.” He delivers this like a robot reciting information about human interaction.

Before I can even respond to his assignment, his demeanor changes. He looks down and adjusts his seating position as he takes an audible breath. He looks uncomfortable in his own skin for the first time, and it makes me nervous.

“There is something else we need to discuss,” he says, clearly perplexed. I wonder where this sudden moment of weakness is coming from. He looks stripped and his eyes appear vulnerable, like bluish pools of sadness. I lean in and I feel like for the first time today, I can relate to him as Shyla, the girl that he pulled out of the rain not too long ago.

“What is it?” I ask, leaning on the edge of my seat.

“You may have noticed, or you may not have. I have become very good at adapting my behavior and hiding my rituals.”

He looks away as he confesses to me. “I have anxiety issues, Shyla.”
He called me Shyla.
Images of hoarders and hermits come to mind. “In my case, I have issues about touching people and certain things. For example, door handles in public places make me anxious. I don’t like people touching me or hugging me, or shaking my hand. I do not like being handed anything directly by people I do not know.” Oh no, Taylor. Is this why you live in your giant fortress in the hills? I sense the embarrassment in his voice. “One of the reasons I will have you around is to help me as a buffer in social situations. Galas, fundraisers, and those sorts of things make my anxiety more intense. You have no idea how much touching and exchanging of items occur at these events when you have no issue with it. I will rely on you to help me hide these issues. For example, handing me a glass of champagne off of a tray instead of me grabbing it for myself.” I feel the ache of sorrow for this lonely man. His perfect looks, his beautiful house, his wealth all now seem like a cocoon for him, not a manifestation of success.

“Is it about germs?” I ask, genuinely trying to understand.

“Not really. I have always had these issues to some degree and I can’t really say what they stem from. It’s not germaphobia in the conventional sense. I mean, there are many things I touch on any given day that are exposed to the normal amount of germs. It’s something else, a tension or discomfort that needs to be relieved. The anxiety is distracting and makes me hate the mingling aspect of these events even more. I guess the best way to describe it is that I prefer to keep an invisible wall between me and the greater world. These habits help me with that. There are just certain rules I have always had for as long as I can remember and to break them gives me great anxiety. I have found ways to hide it, but certain situations bring the behaviors to the surface. I have a terrible feeling of dread if I don’t do things in conjunction with my rules. As the CEO of one of the largest companies in the US, I do my best to keep this under wraps. I don’t want to attract attention to my issues or tie them into the company. I have worked too hard to look like some freak.” His voice trails off. The NDA makes perfect sense now.