Page 5 of One Little Favor
She sets the phone down on its base on her desk and looks up at her friend with wide eyes. Her friend opens her mouth to say something, but I am too impatient to wait for them to debrief that conversation. I don’t care what they have to say to each other, I only care about two things. Making sure Avery is okay, and making sure she can help me deal with my family obligations.
“Oh, good,” I say, my voice is perhaps louder than necessary. “So you don’t need your vacation time next week, after all?”
“Why is that good?” Her jaw is clenched so hard it’s practically vibrating and I’m not even sure how she gets the words out.
“I need your help with something,” I tell her, working hard to keep my voice kinder than before. My eyes are locked on Avery’s, and hers on me, in that way that often happens—but we have to ignore because she’s my employee. Then I realize that her friend isstillstanding there, so I turn to her. “Did you need something from Avery?”
She shakes her head no, then backs around the corner and, if the speed of her footsteps is any indication, practically runs down the hallway away from us.
“Can I see you in my office?” I ask Avery. I turn, knowing she’ll follow me like she always does.Because it’s her job, you asshole,I remind myself.Not because she wants to be closed in a room with you.
* * *
“I don’t know how all that could possibly be accomplished in two days,” she says after I explain that I need to convert my office from a plain white box into a corner office better than any of the other partners’ offices—all in 48 hours. “You won’t even be able to find painters to do it on such short notice.”
“We’regoing to do this.”
“Tom,” she says, her voice breathy, “what do you meanweare going to do this?”
“You did your office area out there,” I say, pointing in the general vicinity of my door.
“Yeah, but I spent a month planning for it, buying everything, pre-assembling furniture ... and it still took me all weekend. It’s about one-tenth the size of your space.” She glances around my office.
“Given the windows, there are only two walls that need to be painted,” I remind her.
“Yeah,” she says, and points to the space above my windows. “See that narrow slice of wall there between the windows and the ceiling? That all has to be cut in by hand. That, in and of itself will take forever.”
“No, it won’t. I’m a great painter.”
She eyes me and my Brioni suit with an appropriate amount of skepticism.
“I really am,” I assure her. “I spent several summers in college working in construction. I did my fair share of painting.”
“Not interning at some fancy law firm?” she teases. And then she looks almost startled, because we don’t do that. We don’t tease each other, or talk about our personal lives, or go even remotely near the very clearly drawn line of our professional boundary.
I’ve always felt like she stayed on her side of that line because she saw me only as her boss and had no desire to know me personally or joke around with me. But that startled look of realization has me seeing that maybe she has to remind herself to keep it professional, just like I do.
“I did do that in law school,” I tell her. “But during undergrad, I stayed here in New York every summer and worked for my uncle’s construction company.” He owns one of the largest and most successful building companies in New York City. But he started me at the very bottom and made me work my way up, just like I asked him to.
She looks at me thoughtfully. “Your parents let you stay in New York during the summers? Didn’t they miss you?”
I try not to let my laugh sound bitter. There are so many ways I could blow that question off, but she’s asked it so earnestly. “No, I don’t actually think they did.”
The “hmm” rattles around in her throat, but she doesn’t push me for more details. It feels almost like she’s cataloging the information for later, and it makes me wonder if she does this on a day-to-day basis. Maybe it’s part of what makes her such a good admin. Unlike my previous ones, Avery is great with timing and seems very in tune with my moods. I’m not a moody guy outside of the office, but I definitely am when I’m working.
“So ... will you help me with this project?” I ask.
She presses her lips between her teeth and readjusts her tortoise-framed glasses, which are partially covering the smattering of freckles across her nose and under her eyes. I can tell she’s holding something in.
“What is it that you’re not saying?” I ask.
“I’m just wondering what’s in it for me. Aside from getting to work the entire weekend before Christmas,” she says with a playful roll of her eyes.
“I was thinking overtime,” I say, even though I know that will be coming out of my own pocket because there’s no way I’m having her charge that time to the firm. Office redecorating is definitely not a billable item.
She glances out the windows. Even though there’s snow on all the sills, the overcast skies make it a dreary view. There’s little light to reflect off the surrounding buildings, and even the view of the Empire State Building and the Hudson in the distance is underwhelming.
“All right,” she says, sounding surprisingly nervous. “Let’s talk details.”
