This “M” sounded like a robot, and not even the kind of robot that made the slightest attempt to sound human. In just the handful of emails I briefly skimmed through, there was more work than a whole legal team could whip up in a month. I was somehow expected to have all this on his desk the moment I brought him back from the airport later today. And not a “please” or “thank you” in sight.
"Z," I shouted when I heard nothing but silence from her bedroom across the narrow hall from mine. "Zara, you have to get up, baby."
I dragged a hand over my eyes, already feeling tired as the emails kept coming and coming, and forced myself to fling back the covers. I slid out of bed before I was tempted to slip back under the warm sheets and pushed my hair out of my face as I padded across the hall, still browsing through M's list of demands with sleepy eyes.
"Zara, I'm serious," I said, pushing open her door. "It's time to—"
I frowned when inside my daughter's room I found not just an empty bed, but a made bed. I checked around the room.
"Z?" I called. "Z?"
In the living room, the two glasses and the empty bottle of wine still remained from Friday night, and in the kitchen was my daughter, in an apron five sizes too big, standing on a step stool from the bathroom, cleaning dishes at the sink.
"I made a frittata," Zara said without turning toward me. "My book on the Grand Canyon is due back to the library today, so I need to finish the last few chapters."
I sank into a chair at the kitchen table in front of a slice of vegetable frittata.
"Um, okay, baby," I said, glancing around for a fork.
Zara dried her hands on a kitchen towel, hopped off her stool, and brought me a fork before disappearing out of the kitchen, past the living room, and back toward the little desk in her room where it seemed her bassinette had been just weeks ago. I sat staring at the fork in my limp fingers.
This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. I was supposed to be taking care of her: getting up early to cook, keeping track of the library due dates for her books, reading to her together on the couch before school. I didn't know who I was, what my role was if it wasn't taking care of Zara, living for Zara and her needs.
I barely tasted the frittata as I chewed it in the dead silence of the kitchen, which felt cold and empty. I picked up my phone mostly to distract myself from the oppressive lack of noise, laughter, joking, talking. I wasn't really reading, mostly just letting my eyes go through the motions.
That was until a particular email jumped out.
I dropped my fork and it clattered off the table. I shoved my chair back, leaving half my frittata untouched as I darted to my bedroom.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck."
"What's that, Mom?" Zara called from her desk.
"Nothing, baby," I shouted. "Just fun. Having fun. Fun, fun, fun."
My fingers fumbled with my cell phone as I tore through my unorganised closet. This shirt needed to be ironed, these pants needed to be hemmed. The matching jacket for that skirt was still at the dry cleaners and there was still a coffee stain on that blouse. I growled as I flipped through hanger after hanger.
Sandra finally answered and I exhaled a sigh of relief. "Girl, I told you not to worry," she said. "I'll be there on time to get Zara."
"No, Sandra, I—"
"I mean, what is your blood pressure these days? Have you had it checked?"
"Listen, San—"
"It can't be healthy with your levels of stress," she said.
"Sandra, that's—"
"You know what's scientifically proven to help with high blood pressure?"
I reached the end of my closet without success. I resorted to grabbing two hangers at random; so much for a good first impression with Mr Robot.
"Sandra, I—"
"Sex! Sex, Abbi," Sandra said. "Getting laid is scientifically proven to lower cholesterol."
I frowned, pausing bent over with one leg in my pants. I hoped to keep my balance.
"I'm not sure that's true," I started to say before shaking my head. "But that's not the—"
"Cheerios, schmeerios," Sandra interrupted. "Sex, Abbi. You need sex. Dirty, nasty, 'not like your mama did it' kind of sex. Down and dirty, animal-like, 'make your poor grandma turn in her grave’ kind of sex. Nasty, dirty…"
I put the call on speaker phone and tossed my cell phone onto the bed as Sandra continued so I could tug whatever blouse I grabbed at random over my head.
"Sandra," I shouted, interrupting her 'sexy scientific findings'. "Sandra, Sandra, I need you here earlier."
"Huh?"
I grabbed my purse and swept the makeup spread across the top of my dresser into it; what were red lights for if not the rushed smearing on of mascara?
"My new boss," I told her. "My new boss got on an earlier flight, Sandra. He's going to be here in thirty minutes."
"Abbi, you're forty-five minutes from the airport."
I dropped to my knees, sweeping my hand beneath my bed to snatch two heels, only pausing long enough to make sure they were the same colour, if not completely matching.
"Can you be
