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  She sighed and said, “Listen I heard something through the grapevine and I am going to preface this by saying, I don’t like my employees moonlighting.”

  I sat up. What was she talking about?

  “There is someone who is looking for a person to assist them on the weekends,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said, nodding.

  “I just hate this,” she said. “I don’t want you to do this, but it might be a good option. Bottom line: Sven Aslin is looking for an assistant. Just for the weekends. I heard about it over lunch the other day.”

  “Sven Aslin?” I asked, mouth agape. He was, like, one of the biggest big shots in the city. He was, like, rich. He was very well respected by his peers but to others he was a real asshole. I’d seen his pictures in the papers, always with a big-boobed blonde hanging on his arm. If that was any indicator of what he was like, that meant he was narcissistic, and, apparently, very superficial.

  “Yes,” she said and wrote something down on a piece of paper. “His current assistant used to work for me a few years ago. She and I ran into each other at lunch, like I said.” She leaned over and handed me the piece of paper. “Here’s her number.”

  I took it and stared at it.

  “She just got married and can’t work on the weekends for him anymore,” she said. “Call her. It might be a good option for you until, perhaps, we can do something here.”

  I nodded. I didn’t like the idea of working on the weekends that was for sure. When would I do my laundry? Clean my apartment? Grocery shop? And what about working out? Those two days off were the only days I actually got to the gym. Fuck! Life was so hard sometimes. But I’d brought this on myself by getting some sex on the side. It was my fault and I should have not done it. Damn Ted anyway.

  “Thank you,” I said and stood. “I’ll call her on my lunch hour.”

  “Chloe,” she said before I left the room. “Be careful. I’ve heard quite a lot about Sven. He can be a handful.”

  I nodded. It wasn’t him I was worried about. I was worried about me.

  * * * * *

  His assistant set up an interview for eight o’clock that evening. Good thing, too, as I had to work late and his offices were within walking distance from my building. I grabbed a quick bite to eat on my way over, stuffing a slice of pepperoni pizza in my mouth and sipping on a soda. Of course, some of the grease from the pepperoni dripped onto my shirt, so I went into the bathroom in the lobby and tried to dab it off. The water only made it worse. Great. I looked a wreck. My hair was disheveled. My eyes were tired. My skirt was wrinkled and, now, my shirt was greasy. I should have just gone home and said to hell with it.

  Again, I should have just moved. I should have tried to find a way out of that apartment. But it was almost a matter of pride for me at that point. I had to do this. I had to make it work. I had to prove to myself that I could do this without a man. I couldn’t fail.

  His secretary, who was obviously pissed off that she had to work over for me, gave me a terse smile then showed me into his spacious office and then shut the door behind her. The room was empty and I had time to look around at the super-expensive Herman Miller desk and the Eames chairs and the modern, tufted leather sofa. I sat down in one of the two chairs in front of the desk and glanced around the room. Nice. Very, very nice. And the taste was exquisite, of course. There was very little clutter and the books and knickknacks on the shelves were placed just so. Typical OCD personality. I didn’t know if I was up for this or not.

  As I looked around the room, I began to wonder what kind of man was this guy, really? Was the mid-century décor and super-neat surroundings just a product of his decorator? Or was he really into this stuff? I didn’t know but I did appreciate it. The modern art on the walls, one of which looked like a real Warhol, really intrigued me. Really? Seriously? This guy had to have some major cash.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” someone said behind me.

  I turned to see him walking quickly and with purpose into the room with his hand extended towards me. I rose out of my chair and held out my hand. He gave me a hasty shake then went behind his desk, sat down and loosened his tie.

  “So,” he said. “You are Chloe?”

  “I am,” I said and sat back down.

  “Sven Aslin,” he said. “You know of me? Yes?”

  I stared at him. Did I detect a slight Swedish accent? I think I did. “Are you Swedish?” I asked. I mean, I knew he was. I just didn’t expect the slight accent. It was nice, though. I liked it.

  “I am,” he said. “From Sweden. But I have lived in America since I was a teenage boy. My mother is American. She and I came over here after my parents’ divorce.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “To cut to the chase,” he said and leaned back in his chair, staring at me. “I am looking for someone to work with me on the weekends. The job would involve some clerical duties, some light shopping, perhaps, and accompanying me on business trips to tend to my needs. How are you on the computer?”

  “Fine,” I said. “I know the basics, of course. PowerPoint, Word, Excel, things like that.”

  He nodded. “Good, that is all I require, really.” He sighed. “I am not an easy man to work for, Chloe. I demand quite a lot out of my assistants. I will require a lot out of you. If you fuck up on me, I will fire you on the spot. If you do not do as I request, I will fire you.”

  My face burned a little with his words. He was a hard-ass. I hadn’t expected that of him. He was handsome with dark blonde hair that was cut short. Oh, God, he was very handsome. His eyes were a light blue and his skin looked fresh and tanned, as if he’d just come back from a Bahamas beach vacation. I liked him well enough. Well as far as looks went anyway but I could tell this man didn’t pull any punches and he certainly didn’t take any shit.

  “My assistant refused to work for me on the weekends anymore,” he said. “She threatened to quit. But she just got married and I like her. Good assistants are hard to find so I could not fire her. I decided to compromise instead.”

  I supposed that was nice of him. I didn’t really know for sure because she might have been the only person who could stand to work with him. I could tell he was going to be very, very demanding.

  “So,” I said. “You have an assistant and a secretary?”

  “Yes,” he said. “My secretary handles a lot of things that happen here in this office and my assistant handles things that happen out of the office and helps also on a more personal level. I need a lot of help,” he added with a slight chuckle.

  You could say that, I thought sarcastically to myself. But I kept my mouth shut. I needed this job. I couldn’t fuck it up. I could put up with him. I could do what he wanted, collect my pay and go on with my life. And probably still end up moving to another, cheaper apartment. Why didn’t I just go ahead and give in and save myself the trouble? And I knew that Sven was going to be trouble. A lot of trouble.

  “I can’t stand it anymore,” he said suddenly. “What the fuck is that on your shirt?”

  I jerked a little at his words then looked down at the grease stain and said, “Pizza. Sorry. I didn’t have time to change before I came over.”

  “Are you working late every day?” he asked, staring at the stain.

  I shook my head. “No, not every day. Just a few times a month. Sales meetings, mostly, with foreign clients.”

  He nodded that he understood. “I can’t have that. It’s bothering me. I can’t stand untidiness or uncleanness. I am a little OCD that way. You will have to change shirts.”

  “Right now?” I asked, my eyes nearly popping out of my skull.

  He nodded quickly, looking around. Then he got up, went to a door I hadn’t noticed and pulled out a freshly dry-cleaned shirt from the closet. He tore the plastic off, pulled it off the rack and handed it to me. “Go into the bathroom and change into that.”

  I stared at him, then at the shirt. He was kidding, right? I
looked more closely at him. He was not kidding. Fuck! He was going to be such an asshole! I was in for it, all because I had to have an affair with the best looking Englishman around. It was my fault but it was still painful.

  “Fine,” I said and got up and went into the bathroom, took off my glasses and threw them on the sink then changed into the shirt. Sven was a big man so the shirt completely dwarfed my petite frame. I groaned and stared at myself in the mirror. Due to reduced circumstances, I had stopped coloring my hair the nice, honey-blonde it had been and the roots were coming out to the natural brunette it was. Soon, I’d be totally brunette again. It wasn’t a bad change, though. The darker hair contrasted well with my dark blue eyes. My face was pretty; I’d even been told I was beautiful on occasion, but I looked tired, like I needed a long vacation. I thought about my happy place, the Cayman Islands, and went there in my mind for a minute, imagining myself on the beach staring at the pretty waves of the ocean.

  I opened my eyes and stared at my glasses on the sink and then back at myself in the mirror. What was I doing? Could I do this? It was going to be such a pain in the ass. I stood there for a moment or two contemplating what I was going to do. I was this close to putting my shirt back on and walking out. But I couldn’t.

  I shook myself out of my contemplation, grabbed my glasses, put them back on and turned to the door, drawing in my breath and preparing myself. I opened the door and went back out. I exhaled loudly, hating that I’d been forced into this situation. But I had no other alternative. I needed the money and if that meant I had to put up with Sven, then that’s what it meant.

  He nodded with approval, and what seemed like a little relief, at the shirt and said, “I have checked all your references and you come highly recommended. Can you start this Saturday?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Wonderful,” he said and wrote something down on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “That is my home address.”

  I glanced at the paper and checked out his address. He had an apartment in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the city. Of course. Why wouldn’t he?

  He said, “We will meet there and sometimes we will meet here. It depends on what I have going on during the week. Be punctual, never late. If you are late, I will fire you on the spot.”

  I didn’t respond but I did take note.

  “Also, we will work through our lunches,” he said and moved the pencil holder on his desk slightly to the left. As he did so, he said, “And I expect perfection. I know that you will not always be able to achieve it but you must make the effort. I don’t like incompetence.” He stared at the pencil holder, ascertained that it was in the correct position, then slightly moved his keyboard to the left. “If you are not nearly perfect, you will be fired on the spot. We must work together, as a team. If we don’t get along well enough, you will be fired. Understood?”

  Hard. Ass. Control. Freak. This was the main reason why I disliked working for super-rich, super-successful people. To get to their level, they had to be a little off their rocker and totally egomaniacal. It didn’t work any other way. And he was very much an egomaniac and a little off, too. I mean, he was taking time to work out the exact placement of his pencil holder and keyboard. I realized the office was all his. He’d probably designed it down to the last detail and arranged everything just so. I’d be willing to bet the cleaning lady got her ass chewed if he found anything out of place.

  Poor woman. Poor me.

  “So, Saturday,” he said and clapped his hands together. “Welcome onboard, Chloe. We will spend many hours working.”

  Oh. Joy.

  * * * * *

  Well, at least the pay was excellent. That was one good thing. It would, basically, pay for the rent on my apartment and leave me some left over for the little luxuries in life like soap and coffee. I almost rolled my eyes. I never knew it would be this hard for a single woman to make it in the city.

  Maybe I should have just moved. No, I should have just moved, told my landlord I didn’t have any money and said goodbye. I could have sublet the apartment or at least have gotten a roommate. But that wasn’t an option yet, just not yet. I was holding on, praying I could do this on my own. This job was the only option I had.

  Yes, Sven drove me crazy. The job was tough and it took almost every spare hour I had on the weekends. I’d get up at seven and either meet him at his totally fabulous and jealousy-inducing penthouse apartment or at his offices. From there, it was non-stop work and he was always hovering around me, checking everything I did to see if I misspelled something on a proposal or to see if I’d put in the right numbers on a spreadsheet. He’d ask a thousand times if I’d gotten in touch with this business associate or that one. He’d ask over and over if I remembered his dry cleaning if his maid was out of town. He really needed that particular shirt or that particular suit. Did I get it? Was it cleaned? Was it cleaned properly? Be sure to place them in the closet properly, otherwise it would get wrinkled. He couldn’t have it wrinkled. Wrinkles would drive him crazy.

  But not as crazy as he drove me.

  He’d ask if I could make sure to schedule his dinner reservations at eight and then he’d ask me to confirm this. Then he’d remind me a thousand times to be sure I had made the reservations in the first place. Then he’d make me call the restaurant to make sure they had not screwed up his dinner reservations. They’re at eight, right? Eight on the nose. Eight? Right? At eight? Tell me, are they at eight? Have they been scheduled? At eight?

  It was more than a bit maddening.

  He had to have me around at all times, too. I even had to go with him while he played tennis and stand to the side just in case he wanted to dictate some correspondence. “Text that asshole Balder! Tell him that we have to meet Monday morning or it’s off! At eight!” he’d yell out of the blue and I’d text like crazy as he and his tennis instructor fought it out on the court: “Balder, Mon@8orOff!”

  He just never stopped working. He never took any time off. Never. I repeat: Never. How he kept from having a major coronary was beyond me. I went to the ladies room one afternoon and was freshening up my makeup when he had the fucking nerve to pound on the door, asking me what I was doing, telling me if I wasn’t sick that it was time to get back to work! I didn’t see how he kept anyone working for him. He worked me like a dog. I was paid well but I earned every last cent. I now knew why he was so reluctant to lose his assistant and that’s because he’d never be able to get another one.

  Not only that, my clothing, hair and nails had to be immaculate at all times. I had assumed that because we were working on the weekends I could dress down. Not so. The first day I showed up in jeans and wedges, he sent me right back home to change into business attire.

  Of course, he dressed more casually on the weekends. Well, at least as casually as someone like him could. He’d occasionally wear his tennis whites or some khakis what were so starched they looked almost wooden. Sometimes he’d wear some black slacks with a blue silk button down shirt and no tie. (This was causal to him.) But me? No. It was skirts and heels. Not only did I get to dress up for my job during the week, I got to dress up on the weekends. Actually, I had to dress more nicely for my weekend job than I did for my normal job. Yea! And I had to stay neat as a pin, too, all fresh and clean. No stains, either. If I spilled anything on myself, it was back home to change. So, whenever I ate lunch, I began to hold the food away from me so I wouldn’t spill anything on my clothes because, if I did, I had to take a trip home to change. After a while, I stopped ordering anything that might drip or spill. And I always sipped my drinks through a straw. Heaven forbid if I splashed soda on my skirt!

  The only saving grace was my baggy sweats and oversized t-shirts I’d fall into once I got home at night.

  By Sunday night, I would be so exhausted I usually fell asleep on my couch. I’d dream of my happy place, the beach, and pray to win the lottery. But I never played the lottery, mostly because I was so tired I
would forgot to pick a ticket up.

  It was maddening. Sven was so obsessive compulsive I wondered how he even functioned. He was always checking and making sure things on his desk were in perfect alignment. Not a minute passed by that he wasn’t on his computer or on the phone, always, always conducting some sort of business.

  If we weren’t at his apartment or at his offices, we were in his chauffeur driven car traveling across the city. And, even then, it was about work. I was either on my phone making calls or checking emails or I was on the computer typing something all while listening him yammer on his phone in Swedish.

  Needless to say, I took a lot of aspirin during that time. He got on my nerves so badly, it took everything I had not to tell him to fuck off.

  This went on for six months. By that time, I had begun to look for cheaper apartments. I didn’t care about the stainless steel appliances or the subway tiles in the bath or the perfectly worn wood floors anymore. Yes, my apartment was fantastic but it was not worth this. Nothing was.

  One Saturday night we were, as usual, burning the midnight oil at his office. He’d poured us each a glass of red wine as a treat for working late. One thing about him, he loved his wine and he only drank the best, which was fine by me. I liked wine, too, though I wasn’t quite as enthusiastic about it as he was. So, I sipped mine as I pounded out a letter to someone as he dictated. He walked the floor behind me, sprouting off what needed to be said and sipped his wine as he did so.

  As I typed, I’d pick up my glass, take a sip then set it back down close to the edge of the table each time so I could reach it more easily. This, of course, drove him crazy and he’d take the glass and move it more in the center of the table. He did stuff like this all the time and I didn’t even realize he was doing it as I’d been so accustomed to putting up with it.

  But after about the third time, it suddenly dawned on me what he was doing. I glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that it was close to eleven at night. This pissed me off. Here I was typing my brains out and he was pulling his usual OCD shit with me. A flash of anger spread through my body. I lit up with it and felt my heart start to beat rapidly. I had had it. This was it. I should be home, sleeping or at least watching some TV. But, no, I was there with this lunatic. I decided then and there that no apartment was worth this torment and that I was moving. I was done.