The simple act of sifting through all this stuff made Jane unexpectedly sad. Even, perhaps, sad for Kim, who was still on the phone. She was being whiny, then plaintive, then strident—an atonal symphony of aggravation, the perfect soundtrack for the ninth circle of hell.
“Okay, Tom, listen—I’m really upset. I have put a lot of my time into this project and if Sally thinks I’m a bitch, well... no, I don’t want to take her to lunch. She needs to figure out how toaddress these notes. I am on her side! Please let her know that. I don’t love being the messenger, but—someone has to! Okay, do what you need to do. Thanks, sweetie, bye.”
Kim went briefly into the kitchen, then emerged holding a bowl of green grapes. She took a bite of one, then put the other half back in the bowl.
“How’s it going? Oh god, all those papers.”
She was so thin. Too thin. Jane waffled between worry and jealousy.
“Do you ever freeze them?”
“Huh?” Kim seemed startled by the question. Was it impertinent? Too personal? Jane was only trying to be friendly.
“My mom used to freeze grapes and eat them as like, you know, diet food.”
“Oh, no, I don’t need to diet because I’m not an eater. But are you hungry? Would you like something?”
This sounded somewhere between a challenge and an accusation.
“No, I’m good, thank you,” Jane said. Time to change the subject. “So, your papers. I sorted them—scripts, notes, legal, bills, miscellany—and organized by date when possible.”
Kim eyed the stack warily.
“So you didn’t organize them by project?”
“This is just the first step.”
“But did you do any culling?”
Jane suppressed an urge to bolt. “Well, probably better we do that together.”
Kim scowled, defying all the neurotoxins that had been injected into her forehead.
“You can’t do that for me?”
“I’d be happy to do it myself.” Indeed, she would have been; itwas preferable to spending any more time with this woman. “But I might mistakenly toss something of importance.”
“So you can’t discern what’s important and what’s irrelevant?”
Her questions were minefields. Jane struggled to find a way to respond that would not sound defensive or patronizing and couldn’t. Which was fine, because Kim kept talking.
“I mean, that was the problem with my assistant: she had no idea what to prioritize. I can’t even tell you.”
Jane felt her cheeks burning.
“I am not sure you understand the parameters, Kim. I am not an assistant. Or a secretary. I am an organizer. You have to be willing to explain what your needs are so I can try to meet them.”
She didn’t bother revealing she’d once been an assistant in the entertainment business. People like Kim were the reason she got out of it.
“Whatever, I really don’t have time to tell you how to do your job.”
Jane felt a chill down her spine. This constant undercurrent of recrimination was reminding her of her mother. When she’d returned home for Christmas break during her freshman year of college, her mother had given her a cursory hug, asking, “What did you do to your hair?” Jane had a new short haircut with curtain bangs, which she had thought looked edgy and adult. What should she say?
Her father came to her rescue. “Leave her alone.”
“I’m only trying to understand. Her long hair was an asset, and a girl needs every advantage she can get.” Jane did like it longer, but now it was—and would forever be—tied to her mother’s opinion, and she didn’t want her mother to be right.
Yes, Kim and Jane’s mother brought the same note of disapproval to every declaration and gesture. It was a disturbinglegacy to have gotten from a parent—and so unpleasant, besides. Jane wondered what Kim’s mother must be like, and then an even more disturbing thought surfaced: What if Jane was actually like her own mother, projecting a default disapproval of everything? The thought was so unnerving. Jane felt trapped and vertiginous. She needed to get out.
