The one thing her string of habitually distracted bosses could not help but notice was that Jane was supremely competent and organized, her desk immaculate, everything in its proper place. She was undeniably expert at compartmentalizing. When one insufferable boss asked Jane for help organizing her home, she discovered the work suited her. She enjoyed creating order out of chaos, and she liked the window into all these people’s worlds, even if she was often startled by what she saw.
Jane trepidatiously considered changing careers to “professional organizer.” It was her boyfriend, Teddy, who encouraged her to give it a go. What did she have to lose? She was young; she should try new things; she could always go back to the entertainment industry. He even offered to help design her website. His encouragement was both very welcome and very alien, for Jane had never gotten much from her parents, or from herself, for that matter. Teddy’s belief in her had made her feel uncharacteristically light and free and ready to try new things. So with jumbled feelings of regret and relief, of sadness and elation, Jane quit showbiz and started her own organizing business.
Now, more than a year in, it was still strangely intimate to sort through other people’s belongings, things endowed with meaning, as if all aspirations—beauty, wealth, health, intelligence, purpose—could be manifested by owning the right stuff. Jane was fascinated by individual preferences and predilections.There was no accounting for taste, she’d think, but then:yes, there is, and I’m keeping a ledger. By this point, she could look over someone’s closet and compile a dossier worthy of the CIA.
Word of mouth spread, Jane’s clientele grew, and one day she was approached by an Instagram-famous firm about joining their staff. After some deliberation, she decided to accept the offer because it would relieve her of tasks she disliked, namely client recruitment and billing. The company was owned by two women, shrewd marketers and deft Instagrammers, who had assembled a small army of women—the employees were all women—whom they dispatched to various jobs.
She was decisive and brisk. Clients saw her as a sort of bad-ass British nanny, the hip Mary Poppins of organizers. She always made an effort to dress smartly, to look elegant, formidableeven, to remind people that she was a professional and a woman of good taste. Because the clients were often feckless, bored, and profoundly insecure, they respected a stylish person who could impose some structure onto their ridiculously messy lives.
Jane was seated on a stool at the kitchen counter, eating her lunch out of an austere bento box, when Kelsey shuffled in and announced, “Oh my god, I have the wooooorst migraine. I would take a Fiorinal but then I’ll be in bed the rest of the day, and I have so much to do.” She leaned in to look at Jane’s lunch. “Oh my god that is so cute! And also, like, brilliant for portion control. Is it an organizing thing?”
“Well, it’s a Japanese thing....”
“So Marie Kondo, right?”
“Not really. It’s a bento box. They’ve been used for centuries in Japan. I think they’re both practical and beautiful.”
“Like you!”
Jane blushed. She had a hard time accepting compliments and reflexively vetted all of them, even insincere ones like Kelsey’s. So now Jane went over her mental checklist of the things she had going for her—thick hair, unblemished skin, lithe physique—but calling her beautiful seemed disingenuous. Jane found it hard to believe anything too good about herself: Wouldn’t that lead to complacency and lassitude? So, actually, her hair was a rat’s nest, her skin was pallid, and she suffered from that newly minted affliction, skinny fat.
Kelsey, understandably, sought to ingratiate herself, an actress-y tic driven by the desire to be liked. Jane tried to think of a rejoinder, a way to return the compliment, but Kelsey pressed on.
“Where can I get a bento box?” she asked.
Kelsey’s helplessness was astounding.
“I got mine on Amazon.”
“That food looks so good—did you make it yourself?”
Jane glanced down at her plate to remind herself what she was eating. When at work, her culinary tastes were ascetic: steamed broccoli florets on brown rice, sliced turkey breast for protein, a Pixie tangerine for dessert.
She nodded and bit into a broccoli floret. “Do you want some?”
“Oh, that is so sweet, but I’m on this meal plan and can’t have carbs or anything white.”
Nothing white.People liked to adhere to simple, often arbitrary rules.
“I hope you like what I’ve done. I made a small corner for Betty in Mr. Cuddles’s closet and went through your food pantry. I discarded a lot of expired items, and I’ll need you to approve what I want to throw away.”
“I’ll get around to them later.”
Jane had heard that before. “I recommend doing it while I’m here, because I can police you.”
“I’d love that, but I don’t want to waste too much of your time. I only have you for today, right? I’m on a budget and you were a gift from my mother.”
“I know, she was very eager to make this happen.”
Kelsey bristled. “She is so passive-aggressive. Her gifts are all about her and always with strings. She already called to see how we’re doing. I shouldn’t have picked up, because—well, now I have this raging migraine. She is such a cunt.”
Jane winced. “I’m sorry, but that word is really offensive.”
“I’m sorry too, but it’s like the only word that accurately describes my mother.”
Jane understood how parents, and especially mothers, couldwreak lasting damage. In her own family, criticism was the way love and affection were expressed. It demonstrated that someone was paying attention. Reflecting, Jane wondered if what she had foolishly hoped was a kind of love may have just been exasperated tolerance.
“All right then, let’s try to be efficient with the time we have left.”
