That change does not apply to business.
“That’s ridiculous!”
Her frown deepens. She grabs the pad and scribbles again.
I have never addressed you so informally. It’s improper.
I start to respond. Her frown becomes a glare. I roll my eyes and write furiously on the pad.
Improper? This is the year 2017. And have you ever noticed that EVERYONE else in this place calls me Matt???
It’s Bailey’s turn. She spins the pad towards her, writes something, then spins the pad back towards me.
You told me to call you Matthew.
She’s right. I did.
Why would I call you Matthew, she writes, when everyone else calls you Matt?
It’s a good question. I could tell her I was wrong, that she should call me Matt. But I don’t want her calling me Matt. I don’t want her calling me what everyone else calls me, and I’ll be damned if I know the reason.
I open my mouth, then shut it. Bailey flashes me an I-told-you-so smile.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” she says.
I have a quick image of me saying yes, yes there will be something else, and then getting up from my desk, slamming shut the office door, grabbing my PA, stripping her out of today’s suit choice—a particularly sexless dark gray with narrow white pinstripes—bending her over my desk and fucking her until she’s incapable of saying anything except Matthew, Matthew, Matthew over and over and over…
“Not a thing,” I say, very calmly, and I look at my computer monitor and start hitting the letters on my keyboard, and I don’t dare look up again until I know Bailey’s left my office.
Then I stop punching keys, grab my coffee and take a long swallow.
Maybe this plan of mine to help her take on Vicious Violet wasn’t so smart.
For reasons beyond me to comprehend, it’s not going quite the way it should.
* * *
We get through the morning.
I have a lunch appointment with the couple determined to build the wrong house on the right property. When I leave, Bailey is at her desk eating something that looks like granola and yogurt from a plastic cup.
“I’ll be back by two,” I say.
“Very good, Mr. O’Malley.”
I start down the hall. Then I stop and walk back to her desk.
“What is that stuff?” I ask.
“Granola,” she says. “And yogurt.”
I nod and make a mental note to my growing list of Things I Know About Bailey. Despite last night’s foray into a United Nations assortment of food, she is a health nut. Or maybe not. Maybe she prefers what any civilized American would call real food, but she figures it’s improper to indulge in it.
Propriety seems to be a big thing for my PA.
Which makes me wonder how she’d react if she knew there’s a tiny drop of yogurt on her upper lip. I’m sure she’d deem it improper.
Meaning, I have three choices.