“It’s vintage. Got it resale. Total bargain.”
“God, I always look like such a slob next to you.”
Jane searched for something to say that was truthful but not insulting.
“Hey, what you’re wearing is so much more practical.”
Just then, a willowy young woman opened the door and waved them in with the impersonal friendliness of the gorgeous.
“Hi, guys, I’m Trista. Let me show you where you’ll be working today.”
Trista was probably an aspiring model/actress who slummed part-time as Curt’s assistant. Curt would be flexible and let her go out on auditions when the occasion arose. Jane wondered if apart from being eye candy, Trista’s duties might also entail giving Curt a little sugar whenever he had a sweet tooth.
Men loved having stunning women around as accessories. It was irksome. What did Curt need an assistant for, anyway? He had sold his startup—something to do with customizing animojis and then developing memes using them—to Facebook a few years ago for hundreds of millions of dollars. The inanities that could mint billionaires these days! But even an idle billionaire apparently required an assistant. He might be incubating innovative social media ideas to pitch to venture capital—“Let’s saddle up and ride a unicorn!” His kind always were.
Jane and Lindsey followed Trista into the interior of the house, which bore no relationship whatsoever to its frenetic exterior: it was spare and modern, decorated almost entirely in black and white. The colorless palette had the effect of foregrounding the monumental art pieces hung throughout the cavernous rooms. Most were amorphous color field paintings, ersatz Rothko, with a sprinkling of Basquiat-influenced pieces that would not be out of place on the side of a freeway overpass. Jane tried to find one painting she liked.
Lindsey paused by one of the graffiti paintings that depicted a giant horny bunny. You knew it was horny because of what it was doing with a carrot.
“So cuuuute!” she uttered, somewhere between a squeal and a coo. She had range.
“Yeah, it’s a Markus Wellenberg, I think,” Trista said offhandedly.
Lindsey shrugged—this name meant nothing to her. Jane didn’t know who he was, either, but clearly, he was a fraud.
They filed into Curt’s bedroom. This felt like a trespass. An organizer typically would only enter an inner sanctum like this when the person to whom it belonged had invited them in.
“So do you guys want anything to drink? We have, like, whatever you want—Monsters, Red Bulls, kombucha, Nespresso, pressed juice, water....” Enumerating the beverage options seemed to fatigue Trista.
Jane pulled a bottle of water out of her bag. “Brought my own.” Lindsey, on the other hand, requested a kombucha and a water and asked if she could get a Nespresso later on.
“Of course, whatever you need.”
“Thanks so much, Trista!”
“No problem.”
Ugh.No problem—with its tinge of recrimination from the implication that there could even be a problem—had replacedyou’re welcome.
“Excuse me, Trista—do you know what Curt wants us to do?”
“Um, not specifically. I think just organize?”
Trista had an implacable calm, a nonchalance that bordered on hostility.
“And he’s okay with us going through all of this personal stuff without him in the room?”
“Oh, I don’t think he cares. I mean, you know, he’s not really a stuff person. And he’s hardly ever here; he likes the place in Malibu much more.”
Jane persisted. She did not want to fly blind.
“Did he give you an indication of any problem areas?”
“No. I mean, honestly? His girlfriend is the one that hired you, and I think she wants some of her own space in his space, if you know what I mean?”
Jane knew very well. Oh boy. They were standing in a minefield.
Curt’s closets weren’t disastrous, just disorganized. Like most men, he wore the same few articles of clothing over and over; lots of stuff looked brand-new. As they emptied his closets, Lindsey prattled on about her latest boy trouble. She had just downed her third demitasse of rocket fuel, which she said she needed because she hadn’t slept well and was hungover. Now all that caffeine was coursing through her, unleashing endorphins and torrents of verbiage.
