Malaika smiles. “Thank you.”
“Should we go?” He gestures with his thumb towards the arched doors.
The Uber is waiting for them on 42nd Street. Malaika studies the driver’s stiff posture, certain that he can see through her. Andy had suggested she think of this as a date, but that would only make it worse. Her limited dating experience has left her geared for survival, not romance.
“You speak French, right?” Simon asks, tapping his hand on his knee.
“French and German,” Malaika replies.
“Sweet. There will be a guy at this party, a real douche, his name is Marcus Dawson. When I introduce you to him, say something in French. He’ll be impressed.”
“He is French?”
“Marcus? Nah, he’s from Chicago.”
Malaika is about to ask why it would make sense for her to start speaking in a foreign language to a Midwestern American of all people when Simon’s phone rings. He barks a hello and seconds later is yelling at whoever is on the other end of the line. Something about numbers on a spreadsheet not making any sense. She is reminded of the businessmen she had met working at the front desk of the Euler during the summer. They all seemed uneasy at first, almost shy—she is used to having this effect on the opposite sex—but as soon as they answered a work call, they’d morph into confident, demanding men. The kind of men who made passes at her. It makes her wonder if Simon will expect more from her later. She makes a mental note to bring pepper spray with her next time and then she panics because she is already thinking of a next time.
“Sorry about that,” Simon says, putting his phone away.
“No problem.”
“Where were we?” He taps his knee. “Right, there’s something else you should know.”
Malaika feels her stomach do a flip-flop. This is it. He is going to tell her that he has paid extra for the right to grab her ass. Or he’ll ask her to go down on him. How much? she pictures him saying. She’ll slap him across the face—no, she’ll punch him in the nuts. Or gouge his eyes. The driver will pull over and she’ll find her way home. A horrifying thought strikes her: what if the man behind the wheel isn’t a real Uber driver?
“I want people to think that we’ve been dating for six months.”
Oh. She is flooded with relief. “Where are we going?” she asks, now curious.
“My high school’s reunion. I went to Deerfield?” A beat. He seems to be waiting for her to react, to be impressed. “Anyway, it’s our fifteenth reunion and this jackass is hosting.”
“Marcus?”
“Different jackass. William Hatfield III. If you ask me, anyone who has the third in his name is a real pompous asshole. Anyway, six months. We met in April. Don’t worry about the details, I’m not really that close with anyone. I was back in the day, I actually dated all through school, Allison was her name. She’s going to be there. She’s married with two kids now.” Simon’s eyes brighten. “Man, she’ll flip when she sees you.”
Malaika wonders why someone who received such a top-notch education—he’d said Deerfield like he was saying Harvard—speaks like a teenager. Calan is more eloquent and he’s not even fifteen—though, to be fair, Calan is mature for his age.
“Anything else? Do I have a different name or do something specific for a living?”
“Nah, we can use your real name and story if that’s OK.”
“It’s not much of a story,” she says.
“I’m sure someone who looks like you has an interesting background. You said you’re from Germany?”
“Switzerland.”
“See, that’s interesting already.” He grins. Clearly, he has a low bar for what constitutes interesting. “We’ll just go with the real you: Verena, from Switzerland. What’s your day job?”
Malaika hesitates. She doesn’t want to tell him about being an au pair—what if he reports her to the agency?
“Private, got it. Well, you should pick your job then.”
“What if I’m a student?” Malaika says.
“Are you?”
“No.”
Simon makes a sour face. “Too risky. We’d have to mention a school and someone there may know someone else who goes there. We’ll just say you’re traveling the world and you’re in New York for a change. How’s that?”
Malaika agrees. It sounds like a flimsy background story to her, but it’s his friends and, more importantly, his money.
“We’re here.” Simon gets out of the car without thanking the driver.
Malaika takes a deep breath, willing herself to stay calm. There is no reason to be scared. No need to freak out. The situation is less than ideal, but she is in control.
All she has to do is get through the night and she’ll be four hundred dollars closer to her goal.
Interview with Justin Wade
Alma Boots employee (factory)
It was early October when we found out there’d been a data breach at Alma Boots. It wasn’t speculation, either. A hotshot firm called The Morrigan had been hired to investigate the allegations made against Bobby and they found conclusive evidence that the July 10th email, the one that was leaked, wasn’t sent by Bobby at all. It was planted. There was an official statement about it and everything. Alma Boots released it to the public. I’m guessing you saw it?
After that, social media was teeming with headlines like ALMA BOOTS HACK DISPROVES BLOW JOB EMAIL and BLOW JOB EMAIL A FAKE.
Crass, I know. I don’t like to use that kind of language myself. But that’s how the media was framing it.
The entire town was scandalized, but also a little vindicated. Most people thought Eva had planted the email to frame Bobby, to get a bigger payout,
